Chapter Text

Los Angeles: Greyhound Bus Station, 1987

It only took a few days filled with incessant pleading and the clichéd younger sister’s brattiness to convince Duff to let her spend her first summer vacation as a graduate with him in California. In typical Duff fashion, he hesitantly hemmed and hawed about the idea. He wasn’t very keen about exposing his seventeen-year-old, eager, and bright-eyed sister to the dark underbelly that LA had to offer. He had already been out there for a few years and had seen and experienced his fair share of living rough. Regardless, she dug her heels in and pulled out the big guns, using that whiny little tone that made him cave every time, not to mention their mother, forever trying to keep the peace, thought it was a great idea for him to gradually show her the ropes around the city, rather than her going out there blind. So, he begrudgingly agreed. As soon as the plans were set in stone, she hung the landline back on the receiver, grabbed an old suitcase shoved in the back of the closet adorned with peeling leather and a myriad of dents, and threw in every article of clothing that fit.

She thought she was having delusions of grandeur when graciously accepted into SPIN Magazine’s internship position—­she mailed out the application to the cutting-edge music magazine situated in Downtown LA from her suburbia paradise in Washington State for shits and giggles, the posted advertisement in the newspaper emboldened with big letters HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATES ENCOURAGED TO APPLY! So, tucking the paper under her arm, she frantically conjured up every menial writing accomplishment and extracurricular activity under her belt on the school’s library typewriter that she may or may not have had to haggle with Ms. Lewis about using.

She mentally bargained with herself.

A few Saturdays' worth of helping the old, crotchety librarian organize books for a chance to start a career as a music journalist seems like a fair trade, so why not? 

But, on another forfeited weekend, as she sorted through what felt like the hundredth pile of science textbooks that seemed to have an inch-thick layer of dust, her fleeting sense of bravado finally started to waver. That is, until she strolled into the house one afternoon after school, and her mother nonchalantly threw some words over her shoulder—

“Oh, someone called for you earlier…something about an internship? They’d like for you to give them a callback.”

Tripping over a few steps on the stairs, haphazardly throwing her backpack into the corner, and knocking over a few tchotchkes sitting on a bookshelf, she flopped onto the bed and dialed SPIN's number. After a few moments of hesitation and repeatedly putting the phone to her ear and then back on the receiver again, she decided to buck up and just go through with the damned thing. This is what she wanted, no? An opportunity to begin the career that she'd dreamt of since she read her first band interview in Rolling Stone?

She huffed under her breath, chin pointed towards the ceiling, shoulders going slack. "Fuck it..." Might as well rip the band-aid off. The worst they can say is no...right? 

She finally spun the rotary one last time and listened to the dial tone ring like a church bell tolling. After practically chewing her nailbeds down to the cuticle, the call connected, and a perky-sounding receptionist answered.

“SPIN Magazine, how can I help you?”

Her stomach bottomed out. “U-Uh…I was told to give you a call back about the internship opportunity?” She hated the quiver of uncertainty in her voice, but to her credit, she really didn’t think anything would come out of sending an application all the way from Seattle.

“Oh, Ms. McKagan, yes, I have very exciting news for you!”

—

Which is what led her to this: sitting on a Greyhound bus that’s Los Angeles-bound. The transition happened incredibly fast, almost too fast for her to wrap her brain around everything. They told her the internship started as soon as she graduated, and summer break began. It was supposed to be a crash course for aspiring future journalists to help transition from high school into the real world. Unpaid, of course, what's being a young adult in the workforce all about other than exploited labor? Duff was proud of her for chasing her dreams, much like he did at her age, but less than thrilled about her wading through the waters of a city that has a habit of chewing young girls up like flavorless gum and spitting them out on the blackened pavement. It’s really the only reason he agreed to let her stay at his shabby little one-bedroom apartment for the duration of the program. He’d rather keep a watchful eye on her than throw her to the wolves, but that also meant she'd finally be privy to the kind of lifestyle he’d become accustomed to since leaving home.

She was only fourteen when her big, gawky older brother decided he was going to jump ship in Seattle and make his Odyssey to the big city to pave a name for himself. Growing tired of his dead-end, hometown punk bands that never seemed to fulfill his expectations, and too many of his friends falling into the abyss of opioids, he sought out LA as a new beginning with fertile soil, ripe and fruitful for planting. She missed his presence around the house, of course. Being the youngest sibling at the bottom of the pecking order in their large, Irish-Catholic household had its perks, but it also meant she was left with an eerily quiet abode when Duff took off. No more late-night drives to get Dairy Queen, no more arguing over who lost or cracked a vinyl, and her favorite sibling pastime that she never realized she'd miss so much; no more talking about music until the sun came up.

There would be times when Duff would call home in the wee hours of the morning, a familiar vodka-like slur and heaviness to his voice. “I m-miss ya, kiddo…it’s real cool out here,”

She'd placate him and live vicariously through his tales of debauchery—the ones he was comfortable sharing with his teenage sister, that is—with a new group of guys that he had fallen in line next to and formed a kismet, musical connection with. His aptly named band, Guns N' Roses, consisted of a group of Los Angeles drifters in their mid-twenties who all seemed to co-mingle throughout the scene and double-dip into each other’s musical groups and friend circles. It only seemed natural that when they all finally convened and started writing together, things just felt correct.

She loved hearing about it all. She yearned for experiences like Duff was having. But back in her little secluded bubble, she struggled to find her place. She was always content with checking off the personality boxes of being the avant-garde, shy kid who had her nose buried in some classic book or music periodical. Forever the person who was ‘coincidentally’ not invited to the homecoming parties or standing alone and awkwardly at the school dances, looming in the corner like a pubescent Nosferatu.

That’s when she knew the second she saw the internship ad placed in the music section of the local paper, that this was her shot to leave her hometown in the rearview mirror, fully embracing and taking on the identity of a complete unknown, à la Bob Dylan. Finally able to go to a place where no one knew her, no one had misconceptions or prejudice, not to mention, California had sunshine. No longer were the days of living under a perpetual cloud of gloominess and Pacific Northwestern overcast; now she'd get to spend her free time lounging on a beach somewhere and hopefully getting some vitamin D.

—

It rained the day her bus finally rolled into LA.

A cruel twist of irony that only her presence could manifest. Duff always boasted that summers in LA are sunny and 70°—but of course, the day she decided to plant her feet in a new state for a fresh reset of life, it was a monsoon like back home.

When she steps off the bus, she's hit with the smell of smog and wet pavement. 

“You brought the shitty weather with you!” Duff playfully jabs with a smile, helping load her bags into the trunk of his beat-up sedan, the front bumper hanging on by duct tape and prayers.

She gives him a tight-lipped, deadpan smile through cold strands of hair. “Very funny. Nice to see you again, too.”

She chucks what little belongings she brought into the backseat and plops down up front. It's been a couple of months since Duff's last visit to Washington, his weekend trips back to the ‘burbs becoming fewer and far between due to whatever business he has with the band starting to get more solidified. He looks the same for the most part; his bleached, wiry hair was getting longer and bouncing off the shoulder pads of his leather jacket, but he still sported his usual fresh-faced charm.

He drives slowly through the rain to his apartment, weaving through traffic, fat droplets making rapid pitter-pattering noises against the windshield. “How was the ride? Told you I could've driven you down here.” He says with squinted eyes as he tries to see through the storm.

“Nah, didn’t want you to waste the gas…it was fine, just a little cramped.”

The small talk commences as it normally does, futile questions like Are you hungry? Or do you wanna do anything? Only answered with small shrugs or subtle shakes of her head. His car, a dreadful, dented little thing running purely on fumes and overdue oil, smells like a sickeningly sweet slap of nostalgia, Marlboro's and patchouli, the heel of her right foot repeatedly crinkling an old McDonald’s bag carelessly discarded in the footwell of the car.

“I’m just kinda tired. Think I wanna sleep for a little bit.” She says through a half-yawn, eyelids drooping since Fresno.

Duff nods silently in response, continuing to drive through the backed-up traffic, the waning storm lessening the closer he gets to home.

He puts the clunky shifter into park, but she stays rooted in her seat, blinking at the building before her.

When he would call her at 3 am and go on his usual intoxicated ramblings about how he’s in a ‘legitimate’ band now and they’re all going to be rock stars, a small, naive part of her wanted to put stock in that notion. He would send her magazine clippings and bootleg cassette tapes of shows, and to the untrained eye and ear, they looked and sounded like fucking rockstars. The idea that they’d get snatched up by a record label and immediately funneled with cash didn’t seem so far-fetched, that is, until she was standing in front of a dilapidated apartment building with chipping paint and iron bars over the windows, that she decided that maybe Duff's tangents were spoken through heavier beer goggles than she had previously realized. But growing up in a big family that wasn’t exactly well-off, she learned to bite her tongue and be grateful no matter what the circumstances were. Duff's letting her stay at his place rent-free for the entire summer, so she should be appreciative—but she's only been standing outside for five seconds and seen at least three engorged rats and a couple of discarded needles in an alleyway bordering the Section eight housing.

A large hand claps her shoulder. “Home sweet home!” 

She gives him a meek smile and pushes down whatever uppity misconceptions she had about his living conditions. 

After wiggling his key in the lock and forcing the dirt-stained door open with his right shoulder, she's greeted with a slightly less apocalyptic sight. His apartment's small, but tidy in the way that a twenty-three-year-old boy is able to uphold. Aside from piles of laundry and dirty dishes, there’s an old polyester pull-out couch with abstract cigarette burns, which was her soon-to-be bed, a small TV propped on a wooden table that looks like Duff snatched it from the side of the road, and a kitchenette set that she'd recognized their Mom gifting him when he first came to LA as a housewarming token. Definitely not a flashy, boisterous, millionaire mansion—but it’s a roof over her head and that’s enough.

She discards her bags by the sofa and kicks her old, worn-out Converse by the door. Plopping down on the couch with a huff, the springs creak under her weight as she sinks into the thin cushions. She looks over at Duff, who’s already cracking open the tab of a beer with a small smile.

“Your place is nice,” She says with as much sincerity as she can muster in her exhausted state. Greyhounds aren’t renowned for their comfort or amazing sleeping arrangements, so she's been awake for the better part of 18 hours, running on adrenaline and gas station coffee. For the majority of the ride, she had a switchblade that Duff gifted her for her sixteenth birthday clutched tightly in her jacket pocket.

He throws words over his shoulder, disappearing into his room at the back of the unit. “‘Course…take a nap, we can order pizza or something later.” 

She sighs, deflating her lungs, and scrubs her face. She leans over on the couch and curls into a ball, too tired to pull the bed out; she resorts to just stuffing her face into the beer-sodden fabric and letting the heaviness of her eyelids give way.

—

She didn’t know how long she'd been asleep, but she could tell it was dark out, and swore she could hear Duff's voice chatting back and forth with another person through the fog of drowsiness. The replies to his questions aren’t as loud, a soft-spoken tone that’s barely audible with a slight rasp to its cadence. The faint smell of cigarette smoke wafts into her nostrils. She grumbles groggily, stirring awake.

“Yeah, just give me a sec, man. Let me take a piss, then I’ll go with you.” Duff murmurs in a hushed voice, the heel of his black cowboy boots clicking down the hallway.

She flutters her eyes open in curiosity, pupils struggling to adjust to the darkness. A faint figure stands by the kitchen counter, the orange glow of a cigarette ember flaring with each drag. After a few harsh blinks and a good rub of her eyelids, she makes out a tall, lean frame shrouded in the dim, yellow-toned light. Black stringy hair clings to sharp cheekbones; his gaunt face looks pale enough to blend with the walls. A silver nose ring hugs his left nostril, and small, hooped earrings dangle from either earlobe. His leather jacket creaks softly as he shifts his weight, the only sound in the otherwise still room.

She sits up slightly, propping herself on both elbows, and squints at the man she assumes is one of Duff's friends—or bandmates. He gave her a slight nod of acknowledgment, a motion so minimal she almost missed it. No greeting. No smile.

Duff emerges from the bathroom, shrugging on a denim jacket and running a hand through his hair. “Oh, yeah,” he said, jerking his head toward the man by the counter. “That’s Izzy.”

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff’s Apartment 1987

Duff throws out the nonchalant greeting, tilting his head slightly to the other’s presence. He’s a brooding creature, dressed in all dark garments, an aura that screams, I’m a tortured artist!

She offers a polite smile, murmuring a scratchy, “Hi.”

Izzy doesn't reply, just holds her gaze for a second too long before looking away, expression unreadable and indifferent.

“Weird dude,” she thought to herself. There was something oddly familiar about his face, though she couldn’t place it. Maybe she'd seen him before.

When Duff would send her clippings and amateur photoshoot prints of the band, she'd study them for what felt like hours. Fawning over the five young men like the stereotypical teenage girl, she desperately tried to convince herself she wasn't. She'd never admit that, of course—Duff would never let her live it down. It was easier to tease him, calling GNR a cheap Aerosmith knockoff in second-store denim and pleather rather than gush.

“We’re gonna head down to our rehearsal space to jam for a bit,” Duff says casually, grabbing his keys from a bowl. “Left some cash on the counter if you wanna order takeout, I’ll be back later, alright?”

He reassures her like she's five years old still. In a way, he still sees her like that, all wide-eyed and clueless, thrown into an unforgiving world, and as her big brother, it’s his obligatory duty to watch her back.

It’s endearing, but agitating, nonetheless.

“Yeah, s’fine,” she mumbles, shrugging like it doesn't matter. And it doesn't, except it kinda does. Deep down, she's a little disappointed that he didn’t even think to invite her. She's never met the guys, and some part of her knows Duff doesn't want her starting to orbit the crowd. Overprotective as ever, keeping her at arm’s length from the chaos he didn’t think she could handle. As said previously, endearing, but incredibly agitating.

“Why doesn’t she come with us?” Izzy's mild, gravelly tone croaks out, the first words he’s directed at her.

She raises an eyebrow of uncertainty; he’s barely noticed or shown any interest in her existence, so why the hell would he be so concerned about her feeling included?

Duff's eyes flicker between both of them, a bigger look of precariousness on his face. He shifts his weight awkwardly. “Ah, I dunno know, Iz. You know it can get a little crazy, she’s only been here for a couple hours.”

His attempt at chivalry and being an elder-sibling buffer only adds fuel to her fire. In her mind, she's on her way to becoming an adult, so what if she's surrounded by a little chaos? Surely she could manage.

She pulls a face, “Jesus, m'not ten, Duff.” She petulantly sneers out. “Besides, shouldn’t you finally introduce me to the band?” 

Checkmate. He always fell for the guilt trips—a very manipulative and effective tactic that she'd learned to use to her advantage ever since she was old enough to whine to their mother that he wasn’t sharing the TV or hogging the bathroom in the morning. It reminds her of the times Mom threatened not to let Duff borrow the car unless he allowed her to hang out with his friends, too—same situation, different circumstances. Time seems to be a flat circle.

He lets out a soft groan under his breath, his eyes still flickering between the curiously cocked eyebrow on Izzy's face and her arms stubbornly crossed over her chest. He seems to be at a stalemate. “Fine, whatever.” He concedes with arms thrown up in resignation, very obviously not thrilled with the prospect of introducing her to his questionable peers.

She peels herself off the couch with a small, self-satisfied smirk and laces her sneakers back on her feet. Duff and Izzy share a private conversation in the confines of the kitchen, low whispers and hushed warnings spoken between them.

She swears she hears him say “Just don’t let anyone fuck with her…” but she shrugs off the patronizing comment, not having the energy to argue about semantics.

Dressed in her usual tomboyish attire—a faded band shirt, ripped jeans, and dirt-stained shoes—she fits the bill of a musician herself. She peeks around the corner of the kitchen, and Duff stops whatever little caucus he and Izzy are having. Izzy crushes what appears to be his second cigarette in five minutes into the ashtray on the counter, blowing one last plume of smoke upwards toward the ceiling.

“Be in the car.” He says flatly, brushing past her with little concern, his scent of tobacco and cheap cologne wafting after him like a cloud.

The atmosphere physically lightens the second he steps out of the apartment, like his presence alone has a looming ambiance that sucks whatever's in proximity down with it. She gives Duff a curious look. “He a part of the band?” She asks incredulously, not really impressed or intimidated by his standoffish persona.

“Yeah, rhythm guitar. Don’t mind him, he’s always quiet. But I wanna talk to you about something before we go…”

She instinctively rolls her eyes and lets out an exasperated groan. She can feel the impending lecture she's about to get, like she's back in a Just Say No presentation at school.

Duff pushes her shoulder gently, scolding with a smirk. "Don’t be a brat, I’m serious.” 

He means well, and she knows he does; she just wishes he would stop hovering at times and let her make her own bad decisions. She never got to partake in the cliche high school parties that people who peaked like to rehash until they’re in their thirties, so a big part of her came to LA with the hopes of experiencing a lot of firsts. She looks up at him sheepishly through some wisps of hair, waiting for the unavoidable.

“The guys…they’re friendly and all, but just don’t get too comfortable with them, alright? You’re young, and they can be...well, a lot. Just keep your guard up, okay?” Duff warns as he uncomfortably fidgets on either foot.

She feels an immediate flush of embarrassment rush into her cheeks like she's having the birds and the bees talk again. “Uh, it’s cool. M'just curious about seeing you actually play with them.” It’s bullshit. Complete and utter, and she's lying through her teeth, but she's gotten quite good at that, unfortunately. To say she's pent-up and touch-starved is an understatement. She's sure that if a guy in a band even lingered his gaze on her for too long, her knees would buckle—but again, Duff doesn’t need to know that.

He gives her a weak nod of affirmation, still not fully convinced this is a good idea, and leads her out of the dimly lit apartment and down towards the car, which Izzy has already claimed the front seat of. She hops in the back as he drives to the rehearsal space with the windows down and the local radio station blasting so loudly that the speakers crackle.

For a Thursday night, the strip is packed and bustling with activity. She stares out in awe at the people smooshed shoulder-to-shoulder in a queue outside every club. All the girls prance around half-naked in Lycra skirts with hair that reaches the stratosphere, teetering on stilettos that are one twisted ankle away from disaster. Every guy looks like a carbon copy of leather jackets, black boots, and questionable morals, unsuccessfully vying for female attention. The neon bar signs reflect off the puddles in dirty gutters, creating a kaleidoscope of colors, and there seems to be a continuous haze of hairspray, cigarette smoke, and the thud of basslines leaking from club doors.

“Lot different from back home, ain't it?” Duff says with a smirk, peering at her astonished face through the rearview mirror.

“Yeah…lot of people,” She mutters quietly, mouth dry, eyes still glued to every walk of life that’s polluting Sunset. The sidewalks are littered with crumpled and half-trampled flyers promising the next big thing, the marquees advertising a different band performing every hour. It’s almost overwhelming. For a multitude of reasons. The main one being she feels like she's about to be thrust into a tsunami of people who are all trying to make a name for themselves. Singers, musicians, artists, writers…journalists. The dawning horror of the amount of competition and the inescapable feeling of proving her worth she'll eventually face starts to wash dread over her like a tidal wave.

Izzy clears his throat, finally speaking in a subdued drawl. “Gets easier. I was the same way.” 

Her eyes find his face through the side mirror of the car, a much clearer view of his features that are less obstructed by a mass of unkempt hair. For a person who seems to have a perpetual cloud of moroseness for the little time she's been around him, that was somewhat of a sweet gesture. She doesn't reply, just stores the small tidbit of reassurance in the back of her mind for safekeeping.

After an otherwise awkward and silent car ride, Duff pulls up to an abandoned-looking building tucked away on a side street. For a rehearsal space, it gives off the same vibes as a desolate roadside shack, but once again, she bites her tongue and is grateful that she was even invited to hang. As she steps out of the car into the muggy post-rain dew, she hears the familiar sounds of cymbals crashing, guitar strings being plucked and picked, and screeching, dog-whistle vocals. She timidly trails behind the two lanky men, unsure and unprepared for whatever scene she's about to intrude on—but a little excited regardless.

She's hit with the immediate thick scent of booze, smoke, and obnoxiously floral perfume that makes her eyes water. The cacophony of distorted sound stops the second Izzy and Duff saunter into the space, and the rest of the people occupying the room give them both a lazy greeting. Izzy splits off and makes a beeline for a guitar case, which leaves her unshielded and in full view of the room full of people.

As if on cue, all eyes seem to land on her presence, which makes her instinctively shrink into herself.

“This is my sister; she’s visiting for the summer. Don’t freak her out too much.” Duff introduces with a lackluster tone as he drapes his white P-Bass over his torso.

She gives everyone an awkward half-smile and a wave. Her eyes don’t know who to land on first. She recognizes the strawberry blonde singer, his appearance and palpable charisma hard to ignore, and she also recognizes the guitarist, who seems to hide his olive-toned face behind a curtain of black hair. She knows their drummer by name—Steven. Mostly because it was the easiest and most common to remember, the others—she isn't so confident.

The pictures she's seen don’t really do the group justice. They seem so much more real in person, as stupid and obvious as that sounds. Maybe it’s because she's never hung out with a real rock band before. Yes, she'd make acquaintances with the guys in Duff's ever-changing punk bands, but these guys were in Hit Parader and Creem, they were headlining gigs at The Roxy. In her naive brain, that made things different, more established.

Steven gives her a beaming smile from behind his big blue drum kit that could easily light up the entire universe, and it makes her feel more welcome in a way. The singer, much like Izzy, doesn’t seem to acknowledge her presence much and goes back to furiously scribbling some things down in a spiral notebook. The guitarist, she can’t even really tell if his eyes were hanging on her or if he was staring right through her like a ghost. Thick, ebony ringlets cover his face down to his nose, and the only sign that he’s even cognizant enough to be aware that a new person is in the room is the small smile his full lips curl up into in her direction.

Not exactly the hero’s welcome she had envisioned, but she met her brother's band now, at least.

It doesn't take long to find the source of the overwhelmingly floral and fruity perfume scent, a group of girls sitting on a beat-up loveseat in the corner, all watching the band like hyenas eyeing unsuspecting gazelles. Naturally, as the only other girl in the room, she gravitates towards them with the hopes that the unspoken rule of sisterhood applies in this situation. Come to find out, apparently, in Los Angeles, it doesn’t. They all give her uncertain and judging side glances, their rouge-painted cheeks and glittery eyeshadow scream Hustler photoshoot, while her fresh-faced, street-clothes appearance sticks out like a sore thumb.

"Uh, hey," She interjects herself into the conversation, attempting to acclimate.

One of the girls, a peroxide blonde with tits spilling out of a sheer halter top, giggles and whispers something to her friend. "Hi," she rasps out, valley accent and vocal fry thick. 

She leans against the wall, posture guarded and awkward. "Are you guys friends with the band?" She asks, hoping this segues into a conversation less uncomfortable.

She chitters something under her breath to the other girls again, purple eyeshadow glinting under cheap fluorescents. "Kinda. They come visit me at work a lot."

"Oh, do you work in the industry?" 

"I'm a dancer."

She cocks her head to the side, naivety clear. "Like...a professional one? That's cool." Makes sense, dance is art. Artists always mingle. 

The blonde flattens her brows, face screwing up meanly when the girls around her all snort and laugh. "I'm a stripper, honey." She spits, flipping thin hair over her shoulder and angling herself away.

Great first impression. She retreats from the conversation when the rest of them shove her out. 

She awkwardly loiters by the side of the couch, eavesdropping on the other girls' conversation about which latest musician they’ve hooked up with and what bartending shift they’re picking up next.

This scene seems familiar, an eerily recognizable feeling brewing in the pit of her gut. Ah, yes, that’s it. The same ostracizing she suffered throughout school. Always the outcast who never had anything in common with the popular girls at the top of the food chain. Forever the cumbersome existence that was only included out of pity. Very typical. She kicks around a few stray cigarette butts, trying her hardest to shrink into herself and avoid the feeling of being a voyeur.

Right as her self-wallowing is about to reach its peak, a red solo cup is shoved into her hand, filled with a mysterious yellow liquid she's hoping is beer. She looks up at the sender, and staring back at her is a pretty brunette girl with square-shaped glasses.

“You look like you needed it.” She says in a light tone, offering a smile.

Her blue eyes pierce through her, perfectly volumized hair swinging down her back, a face that looks like she could be on the cover of Vogue. Yeah, no wonder she’s friends with the band.

She gives her a small smile and a head nod of gratitude, taking a small sip of the lukewarm beer that’s surely been sitting in a keg all day.

“Thanks.” She clumsily replies, keeping her words clipped lest she make an ass of herself again. 

She sidles up next to her, leaning against the wall. “Didn’t know Duff had a younger sister…you’re new in town?” She asks, voice close to her ear so she's able to hear over the racket the boys are making.

She scoffs self-deprecatingly, “That obvious, huh?” Her eyes fall to the sticky, concrete floor. She hadn’t stopped to think about how out of place she probably looks within the confines of the dingy, paraphernalia-laden rehearsal space.

She gives her a soft, disarming giggle and a sympathetic shrug. “A little. You kinda got the deer-in-headlights thing goin’ on.” She adds, or at least she thinks that’s what she says. She can’t really make out a goddamn word over the noise.

They’re good, which she didn’t need much convincing about. Ever since she listened to the demo tapes, she'd been obsessed with their sound. She was never a fan of all the bubblegum, homogenized bands that all seemed to be ripping each other off and producing the same manicured, radio-friendly songs. Guns had an edge to them that she fed off of, fueled by the punk roots that she and Duff had been steeped in since childhood.

She strains her voice over a pinched guitar squeal. “Sorry, my first day here. Still trying to get familiar.” She takes another big gulp of the stale, flat beer that’s not exactly refreshing, but has enough liquid courage to bring her out of her shell.

“Don’t apologize, we all go through it. You’ll be a regular socialite in no time.” She reassures.

She returns the gesture with a warm one of her own, grateful that at least one person in the room was willing to talk.

Her eyes skate over to the bitch pack on the sofa, then land back on her. “You don’t have to try so hard. Half these girls aren’t as cool as they look. It’s all smoke and mirrors.”

She wasn't sure if she meant it as encouragement or a subtle jab, but she appreciated the honesty nonetheless.

The two of them become fast friends the more the night progresses. Nicole—she introduces herself as—tells her that she’s a disc jockey at the local college radio station, and helps the guys get some airplay. She briefly gives her the rundown on the posse: Axl—Rash and unpredictable singer, a quickly changing temperament, and an even quicker ability to rip a head off with his voice. Slash—Shy, inevitably drunk, but the best axe player since Page. Steven—Kiddish positivity, beats the hell out of the skins. Izzy—Withdrawn. Fluid. 

The later the hours get, the sloppier everybody seems to become. ‘Rehearsal’ has subsequently turned into a kickback with the guys poorly charming their way into the rest of the female company’s pants, Duff included. Not that they needed a lot of persuasion; one girl was practically halfway down Steven's pants the second he stopped playing, fishing around in search of something to play with, and another was draping herself over Slash's lap like a Persian cat.

Her cheeks instinctively redden at the sight. Nicole chuckles at her seemingly evident innocence.

“You get used to it. You’ll come to find out the girls here are not shy.” She says in a low, knowing tone as they both guzzle through another beer.

“Yeah, I can see that.” She scoffs. She tries to avert her gaze from her older brother shamelessly flirting with a lascivious-looking young woman with cleavage deep enough to see down her shirt. Her eyes fall on Izzy, who's sulking alone in a corner as he noodles around on his black Gibson.

Strange. There’s a gaggle of women who’d drop their panties without hesitation if he said the word, and he’s choosing to sit alone with a cigarette hanging loosely from the side of his mouth.

Nicole catches her staring and follows her line of sight. “He’s always like that. He’s witty when you get to know him, but he just kinda keeps to himself.”

Her blush deepens when she realizes she's been caught ogling one of the guys. It wasn’t on purpose; Izzy just has this radiating vibration—like no one’s good enough for his time or energy. Kinda off-putting, kinda intriguing. She shakes her head and chuckles. “They're all quite the characters, I’m realizing. Not that it’s surprising…Duff's told me everyone in this town is a character.”

Nicole nods and chucks her empty solo cup into an overflowing trash bin. “They’re all nice guys, your brother too. When you get to know them, all that bullshit in the press about them being junkies seems ridiculous.”

She quirks an eyebrow at that. Junkies? Duff used to volunteer at their mom’s job at the VA on the weekends, and she vividly remembers him telling her that Slash was an animal lover, and Steven still spends most of his free time playing arcade games. That doesn’t sound like pill-popping, needle-pushing deviancy to her…

“What do you mean?” She questions Nicole curiously.

Right as she opens her mouth to delve further into the topic, Duff stumbles over with a lopsided grin and an audible slur.

“H-Hey, s’getting late, we should head back.” He mumbles out, swaying on his feet.

She gives Nicole a polite, lopsided smile, excusing herself. Before they leave, she scribbles down her number on a loose napkin and tells her to call her anytime to hang out and get accustomed to LA.

As she guides Duff's bumbling form through the door, she can feel heavy eyes burning through the back of her head, like someone’s watching intently. She sneaks a glance over her shoulder as she digs through Duff's pocket for his keys. She finds a pair of light-brown irises through scraggly black bangs across the room.

He's always silently surveying. It creeps her out. She ignores it, dryly swallowing down a lump in her throat, coming to discover that being the center of the quiet man’s undivided attention is a bit unnerving.

Finally, after wrestling with an increasingly fussy and drunk Duff, she feels a set of brass keys under her fingers. She practically shoves him into the passenger seat and climbs behind the wheel, adjusting the seat position that's pushed a mile away from the dash to accommodate his giraffe-like frame.

She slowly reverses out of the parking lot, but a black silhouette lingers in the threshold of the rehearsal space, chain-smoking, and watching them drive away.

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff’s Apartment, 1987

A Few Days Later

She seems to awaken with a new crick in her neck or lower back every single morning. Duff's pull-out couch is far from a California King, and the box-spring frame has about all the comfort as a slab of concrete. It gets her through the night, most of the time, but then there are mornings like today when she wakes up at the crack of dawn, the apartment under the soft orange of dawn, and quiet enough to hear the mice eating through the drywall.

It’s her first day of the internship. Half of her is ecstatic and confident that things'll go great; however, the more realistic and cynical side is already starting to revel in the lovely feeling of dread and anxiety.

Things have been pretty quiet ever since she attended the impromptu rehearsal session, or as quiet as things normally are in the city. Duff took her sightseeing to the usual touristy spots: The Hollywood sign, the egregiously huge houses in Beverly Hills, Griffith Observatory—but no place was more intriguing than The Whisky a Go-Go. Growing up, The Whisky was like Mecca for all music lovers, and she would read articles and interviews and try to learn every nuance of information about the history of the small club that hosted the likes of The Doors and Alice Cooper.

Duff only took her there during the day, of course. Same with bars like The Rainbow, The Troubadour, and even Canter's Deli, which is the guy’s main hangout after gigs to grab a free meal courtesy of the owner’s son, who supposedly went to school with Slash. She's learned the scene in the city tends to be a bit incestuous.

It still irks her beyond belief that he doesn’t trust her enough to let her participate in the debaucherous LA nightlife, but in his words, “It’s not you I don’t trust…it’s the other people.”

A few petty arguments and a lot of puppy-dog eyes later, he finally allowed her to tag along with him and Slash to The Rainbow one night under the condition that she lied and said she was 21 to the bouncer. Not that her real age would probably matter, the guys get away with murder around the Strip, and it would be far from their first time sneaking a girl into a club.

However, it only took about half an hour of being shoved into a sticky booth, listening to Slash drunkenly ramble about his seemingly endless collection of snakes, and the jarring sight of some girl doing blow off a toilet seat in the graffiti-covered bathroom to decide that she'd had enough, and she'd like to catch a cab home.

A little too much, a little too fast. 

And now she's here: Waking up at 6 am and almost certain Duff just went to bed. She stretches, joints popping, and tiptoes her way around the beige linoleum kitchen in search of coffee. As hard as she tries, she can’t stop the downward spiral of thoughts as she watches the brown liquid slowly start to drip its way into the foggy glass. She's been daydreaming about this moment for the better part of her entire adolescence. Starting her first day at a potential career opportunity, in theory, sounds fantastic. In reality, it’s nerve-wracking and makes her want to dry heave over a toilet bowl until her stomach muscles grow taut. The uncertainty of it all kills her. The shrill beeping of the coffee maker breaks her from the trance.

For the shoebox that Duff lives in, it came with a small balcony that overlooks the city, which she quickly made her designated safe space. Watching the slow-creeping sunrise cresting over the horizon gives her a brief reprieve from the onslaught of worst-case-scenario thoughts swirling around in her muddled head. LA has a lot to offer, and the warmth is a welcome change rather than the everlasting doom and gloom of back home. But still, the sheer volume of hungry and ambitious twenty-something-year-olds that seem to crawl around at night is daunting. She's insecure and painfully self-aware about it—most of all her abilities. It’s only an internship, it’s not permanent, and it doesn’t count for anything other than a good mark on her resume, but it’s still her first taste of the real world outside of the comically small bubble of high school.

She lets the minutes bleed together as she stews on the balcony, milling about in her thoughts. She's planted out there long enough to gulp through two cups of coffee and for the sun to be fully beating down on her face. Peering at the clock, it's nearly 7:45.

Enough time to shower and have a panic attack. And that’s exactly what she does.

Throwing on her best ‘grown-up’ clothes, a pair of black slacks, and a plain cotton T-shirt, she silently waits on the sofa, posture stiff enough to balance a book on her head with a rapidly beating heart and shaky hands. The mounted wall clock ticks at a decibel that nearly hurts her ears. The bus stops a block away from the magazine HQ and comes every half hour. She begins to mentally calculate; the internship starts at 9, the bus ride is 20 minutes on a day when traffic isn’t ridiculous, which leaves her 15 minutes to blow-dry her hair and quietly have a nervous breakdown within the confines of the shared bathroom. It’s ridiculous, and she knows it is; she's completely blowing her nerves out of proportion and penciling in her scheduled fits of panic, but anxiety is a lovely quirk that runs in the family, and she's had no choice but to find her own coping mechanisms through trial and error.

Taking steady breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth, she's able to slow down her heart rate a bit lest she keels over on the bathroom tile with the hair dryer on full blast. Her eyes keep compulsively flickering to the face of her scratched Casio every two minutes to make sure she's still on time. Duff always told her it's best to occupy herself when she feels a panic attack coming on; he’d always been the only other person who truly understood how grim the all-encompassing feeling of anxiety tends to be. So, she does.

She distracts herself with the little time she has left by washing the mug she used for coffee, tidying up the pull-out couch, and even going as far as to apply some mascara to her face so she doesn’t look like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

By the time 8:30 hits, she's already standing at the bus stop, waiting at full attention. The ride is pretty painless, despite the lingering gazes of presumably homeless people and junkies, but she arrives outside the magazine office at 8:50 am sharp. Early is on time, her mother would always say—hard-working proverbs and attributes drilled into her head from an early age have seemed to stick with her throughout life.

She loiters outside the main entrance for a moment, quietly taking a moment to survey the building that might just change the trajectory of her life whenever she decides to cross the threshold. Timidly pushing the giant glass doors open and heading to the receptionist's desk, she immediately feels daunted. The office's enormous open floor plan, filled with a bullpen of journalists, writers, editors, and interviewers, makes her feel like an impotent guppy in the Pacific.

A bouncy-looking blonde, popping her chewing gum behind the oval-shaped desk, gives her a polite smile. “How can I help you?”

The timbre of her voice sounds familiar. It’s the same receptionist she talked to when she first got accepted into the program.

She clears her throat. “Hi, um," She trips over her words, nerves already on fire, "Good morning, I’m here for the internship program?” She says through a wavering voice, trying to steady herself with all the faux confidence.

“Ms. McKagan, yeah? Great. Mr. Owen is expecting you…please follow me.” She tweets with a gentle smile, her matching pink pencil skirt and blouse swishing with every twist of her hips.

She apprehensively trails behind her and tries not to gawk at all the young adult professionals in the office. In a perfect world, that would be her one day. Studiously writing her next piece on the latest chart-topping album, scathingly honest and full of raw opinions. But it’s not a perfect world, and she's only an unpaid intern, probably bound to file old documents and fetch coffee orders.

She's escorted to a private office that has floor-to-ceiling glass windows and a silver-plated nameplate on the door.

Frank Owen

Chief Publisher

She swallows down a lump of something thick in her throat, timidly entering the office with poorly leveled shoulders. She smiles weakly at a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and crow's feet. Presumably, Mr. Owen.

He gives her a disarming smile and dismisses the receptionist. “Ms. McKagan, so good to finally meet you!” He says with an outstretched hand, grin wide.

She returns the greeting with a forced smile of her own and a firm handshake. He motions for her to sit opposite his large mahogany desk and takes a swig of coffee from a mug embossed with, World’s Best Boss. She tries to hide a smile at that.

He leans back in his creaky rolling chair, adjusting his houndstooth-patterned tie. “We spoke briefly on the phone when you first got accepted into the program, but I’ll give you a description one more time—”

Mr. Owen proceeds to go on an outstretched tangent about the history of SPIN Magazine, its employees, and the job opportunities it offers. She attempts to stay engaged despite the lingering nervousness in her gut, but with how often Frank gets sidetracked in the middle of his own monologue, her attention's already waning.

She's lost in space, staring at the Newton's Cradle on the ledge of his desk, Mr. Owen's voice a droning hum in the background. 

"But what you'll mostly be doing—"

Her ears finally tune back in. 

“You'll get the opportunity to work alongside some of the top music journalists in the field. Of course, you’ll have clerical days where you assist with documents and editing, but for the most part, you’ll get an in-depth look at how our articles are written.”

This shoots a wave of adrenaline through her. She'll take a year’s worth of filing corporate documents and sending faxes if it means she gets one chance to work with an actual music journalist. She gives Mr. Owen a genuine smile for the first time all morning.

“I appreciate it, Mr. Owen. I’m really excited to start.” She sounds like a total rube, but she can't conceal the eagerness anymore.

The morning progresses simultaneously at a glacial speed but also moves in fast forward. Mr. Owen gives her a tour of the office, introducing her to some employees she'll be collaborating with, and finally drops her off in the middle of the bullpen at a desk of a young man with chestnut hair and green eyes hidden behind thick glasses.

“This is Brent. He’s one of our top writers; you’ll be working with him the most.” Mr. Owen motions to him, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

Brent looks up from his giant word processor, swiveling in his chair, and gives her a shy smile. Very obviously older, very obviously attractive. His angular cheekbones and cleft chin accentuate his face, a slightly wrinkled button-up hugging the curves and contours of his lean torso; it almost takes her back for a second, but she tries to redirect her adolescent hormonal thoughts and focus on the task at hand.

“Nice to meet you, welcome to SPIN,” Brent says, charm thick, an outstretched hand thrust in her direction.

She shakes his warm hand firmly, but Brent’s fingers linger a moment longer.

A flurry of butterflies swirls around low in her stomach. God, she's so deprived of human contact that it’s nearly pathetic.

As Mr. Owen retreats to his office, she takes a seat next to Brent’s desk in a rickety folding chair that squeaks with every shift of her body. He gives her a brief explanation of his day-to-day operations and even lets her steal a glance at the latest story he’s writing. 

Brent’s nice, a little awkward, a little nerdy, but polite, nonetheless. They both fall into a natural conversation about music, books, why she chose SPIN, and the usual small talk that people do when they first meet.

She spends the majority of the afternoon trying to familiarize herself and doing tasks she assumed would fall under her weedy jurisdiction: sending faxes for people, making coffee, and helping organize Brent’s massive collection of backlogged articles. Even though the monotony would probably kill people like Duff—people who were born to run free and break every confined societal standard—she finds herself flourishing in it. Under the uninformed eye, it looks like a 9-5 grind that slowly wears a person down, but to her, it's an opportunity to explore uncharted waters and an untapped well of creativity that every writer revels in.

Before she even realizes, it’s 5, and all the suits are starting to shuffle out to the parking lot. As she's collecting her newly acquired stack of old SPIN mags that she snatched from a throw-away pile, Brent catches her before he leaves.

He pushes up his glasses with his knuckle, stuttering slightly. “Oh, hey, I wanted to uh, give you my number. Maybe we could grab lunch and talk some more about the punk bands your brother was in?” He says with the smallest hint of a blush on his concave cheeks.

She has to do a double-take to make sure she heard him right. Did…he just ask her on a date?

“U-Um, sure. Sounds good.” She flushes. She scribbles his number down in a loose-leaf notebook, and he shoots her a chivalrous smirk before exiting.

Goddamn. Her first day on the job, and she already managed to snag a cute guy’s number. If she weren’t so preoccupied with having an internal freakout, she might just give herself a pat on the back.

She shleps all her stuff back to the apartment, and by the time she's collapsing onto the sofa, Duff's just rising from his catacomb of a room. His bleach-fried hair sticks in all sorts of directions, and black eyeliner has left trails of smudges under his waterline. He staggers to the kitchen and pours himself a cup of the cold coffee that’s been sitting in the pot for nine hours.

“How was your first day?” He asks raspily, not sounding very interested. If she had to guess, it’s probably due to the jackhammer occupying his head right now.

She kicks off her shoes, deflating into the couch. “Was good…lot of stuff to learn, but the people seem nice enough,” 

Duff collapses beside her with a soft groan, shielding his bleary eyes from the small sliver of sunlight peeking through the curtains. She can smell the booze sweating out of him.

She smirks knowingly. “Have fun with Slash last night?”

He only grumbles in response, sinking further into the cushions and clutching his coffee mug to his chest. She gives a playful nudge to his shoulder with her own and shuffles into the kitchen to make something easy, assuming that if she chooses not to cook, they won’t eat at all.

Before she arrived, his apartment was lacking in the food department, to say the least. The majority of the cabinets filled with either cheap liquor bottles or cartons of cigarettes. She begged Duff to throw her some spending money to at least get some boxes of Kraft.

Soon after, she presents a rather green-looking Duff with a small bowl of buttered noodles—not that he looks like he’s in much of a mood for anything. He pushes around the rigatoni in the bowl with a plastic fork, playing with his dinner like a toddler rather than eating it.

“I got a guy’s number.” She blurts out to fill the awkward silence with some kind of noise.

Duff peers at her from the corners of his vision with a skeptical look, forever the protective older brother.

She sucks her teeth. “Relax. Just a co-worker. Wanted to talk some more about music.” She lazily reassures, starting to grow a little peeved with the whole nobody touches my baby sister act.

Duff just gives her a slight nod of acknowledgment, hesitantly placing a bite of pasta in his mouth. “Just be careful. You’re smart,” is all he can muster.

They both eat in silence for a moment, save for the sounds of chewing and forks clattering.

The sharp ring of the landline fills the space, making Duff let out a low gripe of protest. 

Halfway through a bite, she sighs. “I got it.” She mumbles, deciding to spare mercy.

She pads her way over to the wall phone, putting it to her ear and answering quietly.

A beat.

“...Hey.” A familiar, soft-spoken, grainy voice replies.

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff’s Apartment, 1987

She isn't sure why, but every time she hears Izzy's drawl, it stirs something low inside of her. Maybe it’s because he’s said all of about five words to her in total that it’s almost a miracle he even opens his mouth at all.

“Hello?” He asks again.

She blinks, realizing she's just been standing silently like an idiot with the phone against the shell of her ear. “Oh, sorry. Uh, what’s up? You need to talk to Duff?”

Izzy huffs out a breath, picturing his stoic, annoyed appearance in her head, box-dye black hair hiding an unusually boyish face.

“Yeah, if he can talk for a minute,”

She looks over at Duff, who’s still slowly nursing his pounding hangover with pasta and stale coffee. One arm thrown over his eyes, the other hanging limply at his side like a corpse. She covers the speaker with one hand, keeping her tone light—he tends to get a bit snippy after a long night out.

“It’s Izzy—says he needs to talk to you.” She mutters, waving the phone in his direction.

He grumbles, not feeling particularly chatty at the moment, but outstretches a hand in her direction regardless.

She stretches the phone across the room, the coiled wire straining straight.

“Sup?” Duff croaks out, forearm still slung over his face to shield his eyes from the sunset.

She can faintly hear Izzy's voice on the other end, talking in rapid-fire bursts like he’s unloading some type of drama. Duff doesn’t reply right away, only short grunts of acknowledgment and weak, one-word answers.

She acts like she isn't eavesdropping, preoccupying herself by thumbing through the newly acquired collection of magazines, but it’s when Duff lets out a particularly exasperated groan that her eyes flit over to him.

“I mean…she already has the couch; you won’t have anywhere to sleep unless we share a bed or you two take turns.”

The hell is he on about? She hates that pull-out couch with a burning passion, but it’s her bed! She'll be damned if she gives it up to a grumpy, moody, off-putting person like Izzy.

She tends to get territorial with the fleeting occurrences of property she's gifted.

“Alright, man, yeah, s'fine. We’ll be here.” Duff says with little enthusiasm. He drops the landline carelessly, and it snaps back into place near the wall.

She hangs it back up and shoots him a curious look. “What was that about?” She questions, plopping back into place next to him.

He shifts slightly and rubs his eyes with the heel of his palms roughly. “He's havin' problems with his apartment, something about being late on rent, and the landlord’s pissed…needs to crash here for a few days until things blow over.” He says as he slowly rises from the sofa, one arm cradling his bowl of pasta, limping over to his room to hide away from the rest of the world.

It’s not a situation that calls for alarm bells, but it still raises a lot of questions in her mind and even makes a small twinge of apprehension run through her stomach.

Why can’t Izzy go to one of the other guys? Or shack up with some girl like most of them do? Where is he going to sleep? Will he just occupy the already cramped living room and watch her sleep all night?

She doesn’t know him very well; he’s the only member of the band who’s been somewhat removed from her presence—and in all honesty, he weirds her out a little bit. Not exactly a good recipe for a happy household.

Before Duff can collapse onto his bed and probably hide behind his eyelids again for the next eight hours, his voice travels from behind the door.

“He said he’d sleep on the floor, but if you wanna take rotations with him on the couch, you can sleep in here…just lemme know.” He says with little to no room for arguing, followed by the bed frame creaking under his weight and a soft oof.

Fantastic. So, she most likely will have to give up her slab of concrete for a few nights. Not that she has a problem sharing a bed with Duff, she used to sneak into his room when she had nightmares as a kid and hog most of his covers and mattress anyway, but it’s the principle of the situation. It’s her bed, not Izzy's.

She has half a mind to bitch back at Duff and use her professionally acquired skills of pouting and whining, but she can already hear him gurgling through a snore, and waking him just to complain is practically the same as painting a target on her forehead. So, she sits on the couch and just stirs in the frustration.

She continues to flip through some of the magazines Brent gave her and even sees some of his old annotations on the articles, which makes her smile. One positive thing to come out of this trip to LA so far is two new friends: Nicole and Brent. At least, she thinks they’re her friends; it wouldn’t be her first time confusing general niceness and the blurry lines of camaraderie.

She finally strips out of her stuffy work clothes and opts for more comfortable attire. Right when she's pulling a pajama shirt over her head, the front door swings open, and Izzy strolls in looking like a strung-out specter. She gasps in surprise, thankfully, her dignity covered by the time he notices her standing in the living room.

Fuck's sake. Does anyone knock anymore?

“Hey,” He says flatly, dropping an old-looking leather bag on the carpet.

He appears the same as he did the first time she saw him: black jeans so tight they almost look spray-painted onto his spindly legs, a black, wrinkled shirt that’s been washed so many times the logo's faded, worn-out boots, and stringy hair that curls slightly at the ends and sticks in all sorts of directions. He’s got dark glasses covering his eyes even though it’s nearly 7 at night, and he’s so skinny that she's almost sure a strong gust of wind would probably knock him onto his ass.

“Hey…” She mumbles, tidying up her discarded clothes on the floor and shoving them into a hamper.

Izzy makes himself comfortable on the couch without hesitation, not bothering to kick off his boots, just laying them on the cushions like he was raised in a barn. He flips on the TV and starts mindlessly scanning the channels.

So…what now?

He’s made it very clear he’s not one for small talk, and he’s already occupied her spot on the couch. Duff's passed out in his room, and she can’t hide in the bathroom all night…she's gridlocked here. She stands awkwardly by the sliding glass door, contemplating whether things would be easier if she just jumped off the third-story balcony.

Izzy shifts, lanky legs spread. “Duff asleep?” 

She can’t tell if he’s even looking at her or not because of the sunglasses. Another aspect of his strangely intriguing persona that makes her nervous—she can never really tell if he’s there or not, if he didn’t speak, she'd almost think he’s just a figment of her imagination. A tall, gangly, brooding figment of her colorful imagination.

“Yeah, him and Slash went out last night, so he’s kinda feelin’ it today.” She chuckles dryly, tugging on the bottom hem of her shirt.

Izzy seems to have finally received the unspoken message that if his legs are taking up most of the space on the couch, there’s nowhere else for her to park herself. He swaps his position to sit upright but doesn’t motion for her to sit down, almost like he’s letting her decide if she wants to be around him.

She does.

There’s a beat of silence between them, and she almost thinks that’s the end of the already uncomfortable interaction, but he starts questioning her again.

“You didn’t go out with them?” He asks curiously, fishing around in his front pocket for his pack.

She feels like she asks herself this anytime Izzy takes any sort of interest in her opinion: Why the hell does it matter?

She looks down into her lap and picks at the dead skin around her nails. “Ah, well…no, I did. I left before them. They took me to The Rainbow, but uh—I dunno,” She taperes off, nervously rubbing the back of her neck with a forced laugh.

Izzy finally takes off his sunglasses and chucks them on the end table with a soft clatter. He turns to her with a raised, falcon-wing brow, Go on…

Her gaze flickers over to him, vision now unobscured by dark lenses; he’s got the comeliest sienna irises, she notices. Almond-shaped eyes framed with thick, dark brown lashes.

“It was just kinda a lot, I guess. Decided to take a cab back here and let them have their fun.” It’s almost embarrassing to admit, for some reason, especially to Izzy. She gets the impression that he’s unpredictable—maybe a little reckless and scary. Chickening out of a night at a dive bar probably sounds like the squarest thing in the universe to him.

To her surprise, the smallest hint of a smile pulls at the corner of his pouty lips.

“Yeah, I get it. Walking into a bunch of shit like that for the first time can be…weird.” He smirks, popping a cigarette into the side of his mouth. He gestures to her with the pack, offering a smoke with a cocked eyebrow.

She hesitates before taking one, her eyes flitting over to Duff's room, the faint sounds of his snoring still audible. Without the judging looks and snide comments always coming from him when she decides to smoke or have a beer, she feels more natural as she plucks one out. She places it loosely between her lips, and Izzy pulls out a red Bic lighter. He lights his own, then leans over and flicks the flame at the end of her smoke. She inhales deeply, watching the cherry end alight. Her eyes follow his veiny hand dwarfing the lighter between his fingers, trailing up his arm, landing on his face. Pale and ghostly, smooth and even-toned besides the dark circles that shroud under his eyes, holding the silent verification that good sleep is a rare occurrence.

He holds her gaze, and the moment seems to stretch on forever, silently, frozen in time.

Izzy clears his throat and leans back, expertly puffing like second nature. She tries to mimic his pace but quickly finds out that at the rate he smokes, she'll be a choking and sputtering mess.

They both sit quietly, ashing cigs in tandem, the only sound being the TV playing something mindless in the background. It feels tense. His presence elicits a feeling of uneasiness. It’s not until he finally decides to speak again that she remembers he’s still there. He’s so still and quiet that if she leaves him long enough, he’s almost a silhouette.

“I’ll sleep on the floor, don’t worry about taking turns with the couch.” He says softly, stubbing out the butt.

Of course, her being the ever-polite pushover, obviously tries to refute his suggestion. “Nah, we can still swap some nights, s'alright. Be rude of me to take up the whole thing while you’re stuck on the carpet. Really, it’s okay.” She gently reassures.

Ironic, before he arrived, she was sure that she'd fight tooth and nail for the sofa without budging. Then she looked into those big brown eyes that seem like they belong on a white-tailed deer rather than a rockstar, and all caution went to the wind. She's spineless in that way.

Izzy gives her a small shrug and a lazy half-smile. “Alright—I’ll take the floor tonight, but we’ll figure something out.”

The rest of the hours are uneventful, despite the lingering awkward atmosphere between them. They don’t share any more words, just silent glances from the periphery. The slightest movements from each other on the opposite ends of the couch make her chest tighten, and the stupid movie playing on the TV that neither of them is really paying attention to just barely makes it tolerable. At one point, she curls up and leans her head on the cushioned armrest, trying to keep as much distance between her and Izzy so she can spare herself from the slightest uncomfortable brush of each other’s skin. She ends up nodding out, the full day of the internship finally nipping at her heels.

—

In the middle of the night, she awakens to the apartment covered in darkness with the light from the boxy TV casting shadows in the small living room.

She blearily looks around to catch her bearings. Izzy's curled up on the floor, fetal positioned and small. He’s using a leather jacket as a pillow; every few moments, his right hand twitches in his sleep. He looks...peaceful, almost.

Looking down at her outstretched body on the couch, she sees that she has the only other spare blanket from the linen closet covering her.

Weird.

She didn’t have it when she fell asleep, and Duff's been hiding in his room since before Izzy even arrived. Her eyes flit back over to Izzy, who’s sleeping with nothing covering him.

Oh. Oh.

He gave it to her instead.

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff’s Apartment, 1987

After realizing that Izzy had decided to forfeit the only other blanket in the house for her comfort, she fell back asleep on the couch with a slight softness for the aloof guitarist. He’s still a little disconcerting and makes her uncomfortable at times, but the vision of him draping the Afghan over her, tucking her in instead of keeping it for himself, is enough to make her heart a little mushy.

Best not to let her mind run amok, though, he’s still a bit curious in a lot of ways.

She rises at the usual time, 8:05 am on the dot. Both the boys are still asleep, Duff's bedroom door slightly ajar, the soft sounds of his stirring. And then there’s Izzy: curled up in the same position all night like a feral cat sleeping under a car. His lips slightly parted, brows furrowed, and the faint twitch of his eyes under the lids every few moments—he’s dreaming about something.

She silently tiptoes into the kitchen to brew a fresh pot of coffee. Not having to be back at work until the following day, she assumes she'll probably be stuck inside while Izzy and Duff go out galivanting.

She dumps out the stale brew that’s been sitting in the pot and pours in some fresh grounds. The low gurgling and bubbling almost echo off the sparsely decorated walls. It’s cute; the only photo he has hanging up is a family picture of all the siblings last summer in Seattle. It’s nearly impossible to get all the McKagans, ranging in ages, in one place at the same time, all of them having their own lives and families, not to mention that when everyone gets together, there's enough bodies to fill a platoon. But it was a family BBQ, back at the house in the middle of June, when everyone decided that it would be good to reconvene and catch up. She can almost feel the grass under her bare feet and the smell of charcoal and burgers. Duff was gushing about the new band he was forming, the four other friends he made, and the gut feeling he had that it was something special—he wasn’t wrong.

It was a blissfully innocent time when she had nothing else to worry about other than starting her senior year and whether Spencer McDowell from her creative writing class had a crush on her. But her little nostalgic daydream at the kitchen counter is interrupted when she suddenly gets a prickling awareness crawling up her spine. She whips her head around to see Izzy sitting up on his makeshift bed, hair all tousled, sleep clinging to the slits of his eyes.

She awkwardly clears her throat, the sound too loud in the stillness of the room. “Morning.”

He grunts something low and indistinct in response, bones creaking like old floorboards in protest as he rises. She busies herself with coffee, adding three scoops of sugar and nearly half the milk carton into hers while Izzy pours his black and gulps it all down in nearly one sip without a wince. She avoids his looming presence and stares down into her mug silently, feeling his eyes curiously survey her for a moment. With a sniff, he ghosts past her without a word and plops down on the couch, lighting his breakfast between his lips and relaxing back into the cushions like she isn't even there.

Desperate to avoid another awkward small-talk interaction with him, she makes her way out to the balcony with her notebook in hand to sit in the sun and enjoy the small sliver of quiet time. The fresh air feels like a relief brushing against her face as she settles into a plastic chair. She writes for the first time since coming to LA, just casual journaling that makes her feelings more digestible. Her pen scribbles in uneven bursts, divulging about the sticky bus ride, becoming acquainted with the band's entourage, and the way the city feels like it’s swallowing her whole. It’s her therapy in a way—she always found it easier to let the paper and pen be her confidant rather than a stranger who gets paid by the hour to pretend to listen and write her a prescription. She scrawls furiously until her wrist begins cramping, its word vomit, jumbled and unformatted—but the pressure in her chest lessens with every line.

She hears some muffled voices from behind the sliding glass door, and, peeking over her shoulder, she spots her brother and Izzy talking on the couch. By the time the sun gets a bit too hot on her cheeks and the coffee's long been finished, she reluctantly heads back inside. Duff gives her a small smile, and Izzy's sunglasses have returned to his eyes, shielding whatever little emotion he has.

“If I give you some cash, can you swing by the bakery down the block and pick up some breakfast?” Duff pouts with puppy dog eyes and a forced, sweet smile. He’s using the same tricks she does when she wants something.

She puffs out a breath—she isn't here to be their housekeeper or de facto Mom just because she has a uterus, but it gets her out of the confined space at least.

“Sure,” She shrugs, motioning grabby hands at Duff for the so-called money he’s providing. He rummages around in his wallet and slaps a $10 bill in her palm—if there’s anything about her brother, he’s always the responsible one. He can hold a steady day job, so he’s always got some spending money, which means he’s become her personal ATM if she's ever in a jam.

Speaking of steady jobs, Duff says that he picks up shifts at a French bakery occasionally when he can. Supposedly, the guys have been in and out of the studio recording some songs for a debut album, but the advance checks went to booze and new leather boots, so he had to make some more pocket change somehow. Very glamorous, the life of a struggling artist.

She quickly changes and happily makes her way outside to the charming bakery down the street.

It’s a beautiful summer day, and the breeze counters the hot sun, creating a comfortable temperature. The streets are already bustling, but it’s a different breed of people than the creatures that come out at night. Instead of party girls and musicians networking outside of bars, businessmen and housewives are scurrying down the block, either doing conferences over brunch or grocery shopping while the kids are at summer camp. If she weren’t already privy to the debauchery that happens after the sun goes down, she would almost think that LA is a nice suburban town filled with trophy wives and cheating husbands who drive sports cars.

The bakery's quaint, the wafting scent of pumpernickel and pastries filling her nose and making her stomach gurgle. She gets three plain bagels with cream cheese and even snags a jelly scone with some of the extra change. She made it through her first day at SPIN, so she figures she deserves a treat.

While she's on the way back to the apartment, paper bag cradled in the crook of her arm, she notices every lamp post and picket fence is decorated with band flyers advertising the latest show or album. The Xeroxed photos look almost identical despite the varying groups: big hair, poorly applied makeup, flashy clothes, and pouty faces. She thinks it looks stupid and manufactured—but different strokes for different folks, even if that stroke means glam.

She'll never let Duff live down the first GNR photo he ever showed her; they were all in sloppily smeared lipstick and teased hair so brittle with hairspray that it looked like it could splinter in half. She loves 'em, but admittedly, they looked ridiculous. She much prefers the toned-down and edgy style they have now; it’s more about the music than the boisterous theatrics.

She nudges open the front door with her hip, seeing Duff fiddling around with his bass on the couch, an open notebook with jotted lyrics and guitar chords scribbled in the margin lying beside him. The shower runs from behind the bathroom door, finally giving her a rare moment to talk to her brother alone.

“How long do y'think he'll be here?” She asks with a mouthful of everything bagel.

Duff glances up, licking a smear of cream cheese from his thumb. “Why? Something happen?” Concern creeps into his tone, brows knitting together.

Here he goes again, immediately putting his guard up and acting like he needs to march her down the aisle with a shotgun in hand.

“God, no dude, nothing happened, I was just asking.” She sasses, a little more bite to her tone than before.

Duff puts his palms up in mock surrender and widens his eyes. “Jeez, sorry. Just looking out for you…but, I dunno. He said only a couple days 'til he can scrape together enough for rent.”

Which triggers her next question: What the fuck does Izzy do for money? All the guys seem to have side hustles or stripper girlfriends with deep pockets to keep them afloat. Her curiosity flares.

“Does he work?”

Duff stiffens, coughing, nearly choking on his bagel. “Uh, yeah. He’s got somethin' going on,” he mumbles, focusing intently on tearing the bagel into small, uneven pieces. He doesn’t meet her eyes, discomfort clear.

Before she can press the issue further, the bathroom door swings open with a cloud of steam releasing like a vampire rising from a coffin. Izzy strolls out with wet hair dripping onto his freckled shoulders and a white towel slung real low on his narrow waist.

Jesus Christ.

She drops her gaze into her lap, cheeks blazing. From under heavy lashes, the appetizing sight of his skinny torso floats in front of her, ribs threatening to poke through his pale skin, two tattoos on either bicep that she refuses to hover her gaze on for too long. He nonchalantly snatches one of the bagels from the crinkled bag on the coffee table.

“Thanks,” He says flatly, one veiny hand gripping the towel so it doesn’t slip down. He’s got a small trail of dark hair stretching from his belly button down below the seam of the fluffy cotton hiding his modesty, smelling like her minty soap, the faint outline of his stomach muscles ripple beneath soft skin.

She really wishes she had her own room for moments like these—a locked bathroom door will have to suffice for now.

She clears her suddenly very dry throat, shaking her head from the vile thoughts clouding her vision. She's hoping to God that the warmth on her cheeks that’s definitely spreading down to her chest isn’t visible. She tells herself it’s nothing—just biology reacting to proximity. That’s all. But the way his damp hair curls against his neck, the faint undulation of his Adonis belt as he moves, pastel skin stretched taut over lean muscles…it’s distracting in a way she wishes it wasn’t.

“Do you guys have plans today?” She blurts out with a slightly trembling voice, desperate to distract herself.

Duff scarfs down the last of his breakfast and crumples up the paper, throwing it carelessly onto the floor. Looks like she will be assuming the role of housekeeper after all.

“Yeah, going to the studio to lay down some tracks. Probably gonna be gone all day.”

She nods in response. She wouldn’t mind having the apartment to herself for once; it’ll let her get some work done and maybe allow her to forget about the phantom-looking brute that’s occupying her thoughts at the moment.

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff’s Apartment, 1987

Thankfully, the boys disappear for most of the day to hang around the studio. She's missed peace and quiet and the comfort of solitude. She hated it when Duff left home, but the biggest perk about an empty nest was how satisfied and accustomed she became to being independent. She noticed how other people her age, and even ones who are older, are completely put off by the idea of being alone. It elicits a certain panic in them, like they’re scared to be left with nothing but their thoughts—she seems to thrive in it. She can be the complete and unadulterated version of herself. No impending anxiety about judging gazes and living without the fear of being written off for being weird or unconventional. It’s bliss. And if bliss means sitting crisscross on the pull-out couch in nothing but an oversized sweater and underwear with a carton of Häagen-Dazs, she's completely blissed with being alone.

After Izzy redressed himself earlier—thank God, she wasn't sure she could physically handle the thought of a young, naked man ten feet away anymore—he and Duff were off. That was around 10 this morning—now it’s nearly 10 at night and the phone hasn’t rung once, and there’s been no sign they’re returning anytime soon. She's been fairly productive, if you can call it that. She practiced writing mock album reviews, read some new articles in Rolling Stone, cleaned up the living room, and even made it halfway through discarding the spoiled food in the fridge that’s been sitting there since the turn of the century.

She decided to reward herself with chocolate ice cream as she watched a mind-numbing sitcom, sprawled out in scratchy sheets that thankfully smell a little bit better than when she first arrived. That was another petty argument with Duff, haggling over spending at least one more dollar on some nicer washing detergent for the laundry. She's quickly come to realize that, as mature and reliable as she sees Duff, he still lives like a teenage boy.

Bitching and moaning aside, she's made herself a happy and comfortable little space in his apartment. They've both fallen into a natural routine, almost like how it was when they were growing up together: She's an early riser, Duff sleeps in. She does the laundry; he does the dishes. He pays the rent; she gets to freeload and explore LA like a beatnik. Seems like a fair bargain.

When she's scratching the bottom of the pint of ice cream with her spoon, she decides that it’s time to call it a night. She clicks off the small end table lamp, the TV washing the living room in an analog glow. When she's tucking herself in, she notices the only blemished thing in the entire apartment—Izzy's chosen corner. His leather bag overflowing with unfolded clothes, toiletries, and other miscellaneous possessions. It irks her. She spent a good chunk of her free time making the apartment look livable, and the overgrown toddler who’s driven a wedge between the recently reestablished routine is making everything look cluttered, almost mocking her efforts to maintain some semblance of control.

She eyes the bag contemplatively. She shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t. It’s not her place, nor is it her stuff, but the bag sits there like an open secret, daring somebody to peek inside. After a moment of mental chess, with a huffed-out, Goddamnit…she pads over to his things. She swears to herself not to be nosy, just neatly fold his clothes and hide under the covers like nothing ever happened.

It’s a nice gesture—she thinks.

Which is how it starts, with good intentions.

It's all a bunch of black. Black jeans, black shirts, black scarves. Is the man allergic to color? However, a pair of bright pink socks makes an appearance, as well as a singular set of boxers with red kissy lips printed all over the fabric. Cute. 

After folding what she feels is Izzy's umpteenth dark garment, a small leather zip-up pouch comes spilling out of a balled-up pair of jeans.

Her hand instinctively hovers over it for a moment.

Don’t. Not yours.

She gulps.

She's unzipping it before she can even talk herself out of the idea. He’s so quiet and peculiar—a part of her just wants to peek under the veil and see what’s behind the curtain of the cavalier man to deduce if the whole distant and mysterious act is all bullshit.

Nothing wrong with it...just a glance.

Zip.

Oh. Oh, man.

Two syringes and a small balloon of brown powder. That’s what’s under the veil.

She feels her heart sink to the pit of her stomach. For Izzy and herself. She feels like she just unintentionally uncovered a dirty little secret and rummaged around a deeply personal aspect of someone's life. The kind of stuff someone only does in the dark when no one else is around. She would imagine it’s on the same level as someone reading her private journal; a line crossed, unfathomably.

She's never even seen this kind of thing in person. Heard about it, sure. She's smoked her fair share of skunk weed behind the bleachers at school and had the occasional drink or two, but smack? It’s a little beguiling.

Her curious fingers ghost over the glass needles, careful not to touch the covered ends lest she contract something unsavory. Then they traipse over to the baggie. It’s soft and pliable under the pad of her thumb, it squishes when she puts pressure on it, and the light brown granules smooth out evenly, gently glimmering in the small slivers of moonlight that peek through the curtains. She chews on the inside of her cheek with intrigue. At the bottom of his bag, there’s a wad of crumpled cash and a miniature notepad with chicken-scratch writing.

• Alex M.- 2 Bindles ($100)
• West A.- 1 Bindle ($150 **Still owes $100 from last pickup**)
• Adrianna S.- 1 Bindle ($75 **Give discount, Desi's friend**)

The slowly dawning realization creeps over her face like a white sheet being thrown over her head. Now she understands why Duff was so fidgety about asking what he does for work.

He’s a fucking junk dealer. Figures.

She suddenly hears the sound of a car approaching downstairs, which makes her scramble like a cockroach when someone turns on the kitchen light. She stuffs the black pouch and notepad back in his bag haphazardly and throws whatever folded clothes back on top. She launches herself onto the couch and pulls the blankets over her head to try and seem as inconspicuous as possible.

The car passes. Only a neighbor. She doesn't dare poke her head out again.

She's already squashed and squandered whatever type of boundary that’s been unspokenly set between her and Izzy, and probably Duff, too. That’s his friend. His bandmate. Guilty and sneaky is a good description of how she feels, and it’s not the good type of sneaky that one gets after you go to a party that you shouldn’t or get to second base with a boy in the back of your mom’s car—she just feels…dirty. She simmers in that feeling until dozing off.

—

Yelling. Angry yelling. Vitriolic and spat with animosity. That’s what she's awoken to at 4 am.

Duff stands a safe distance away from Izzy in the kitchen with a pointed, accusatory finger in his face. It’s disorienting and startling. She stirs in her sleep and groggily sits up.

“Yes, she fucking did!” Izzy berates sharply, skinny finger inching closer to Duff's face, flirting with the idea of putting a hand on him. “My shit wasn’t put away like that when we left, and now it's missing!”

Oh fuck, no, no, no…

“Iz, please…let’s just look again, it's gotta be here somewhere.” Duff's voice softens, trying to pacify him, tone desperate, but it only seems to feed Izzy's whip of rage.

She tries to lie back down and stick her head in the sand like an ostrich to wait for this to pass, but when she leans over, of course, the abysmal excuse for a couch creaks under her movement.

Both their heads snap in her direction simultaneously.

Deer in headlights.

Izzy crosses the room in two steps over to her huddled form.

“Did you touch my shit?” He accuses angrily, waving the familiar black leather pouch in her face as he towers over her.

Those same soft eyes she locked with when he lit her cigarette now clouded and glassy with rage.

“W-Wh…I-I…” She's a stuttering, anxiety-riddled disaster. She can barely hear his bone-rattling, raised voice over the sound of the blood rushing in her ears.

“Did. You. Touch my shit?” He repeats, purposefully enunciating every syllable like she's dumb. He crouches slightly to stare directly into her eyes and follow her avoidant gaze. He waves the unzipped pouch in her face rudely again.

Her eyes strain to scan the contents in the dark room. Everything looks the same, except for…oh shit. The little baggie of powder that was sitting neatly in the kit beforehand is now gone. It seems to have grown legs and ran away. Probably for the best if this is what it turns Izzy into.

Duff's on his tail with raised hackles the second he gets a bit too close for comfort. Pulling slightly at his shoulder with a silent notion. Back the fuck off, Izzy.

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, she sees something flicker in his eyes—fear, guilt, or maybe both.

She feels trapped, pushed into a corner, and like her tongue weighs a thousand pounds and every word will come out in a different language.

“I-I um…I just tidied up your bag…” She quietly admits, hating how weak she sounds.

Izzy throws his hands up in defeat and groans out an exasperated breath. “I told you! Fucking stupid…” He points his finger in Duff's face again, an infantile taunt that’s on the same level as sticking his tongue out and going nanny-nanny boo-boo.

Duff cocks the same accusatory and surprised eyebrow that Izzy has. He sighs out her name under his breath, almost sounding disappointed.

“I need you to be completely honest with me, okay? No bullshit.” Duff crouches down to face her at eye level with his hands on his knees as Izzy nervously paces around the living room, flipping over and looking under every item in sight. Her name being uttered in such a delicate voice by him makes the whites of her eyes begin to sizzle.

“Did you take anything out of Izzy's bag?”

He's using that tone. The one he does when he’s being patronizing, trying to squeeze information out of someone. But there’s also a sense of urgency to it, like he’s panicking too.

Then she feels it—the constricting of her throat, the stinging of her eyes, a blossom of pain in her chest, the all-encompassing rush of warmth to her face that feels like a chimney is swallowing her whole.

Her voice cracks unintentionally when she opens her mouth again.

“No! I just folded up his clothes, so they weren’t messy!” She blubbers out, the unavoidable dam breaking behind her eyes and sending a flood of hot tears down her flushed cheeks.

If her nervous system wasn’t in full flight-or-fight mode, she would feel so fucking pathetic. Sobbing like a baby in front of both of them, knowing that she isn’t even telling the truth. She did take something from Izzy's bag, inspected it, played with it. She feels like a fool, a naive, clueless fool.

She should stand up to them, dig her heels in, and hold her ground—be the strong, calm, and collected young woman she's fantasized herself being in her head. But no, here she is, curled up pitifully in the sheets, weeping like an infant the second a man raises his voice at her.

Duff drops his head between his shoulders with a deep sigh. The continuous clatter of Izzy destroying the apartment in search of his stash seems to push his buttons even further.

“She said she just folded your clothes, man, chill the fuck out!” He barks at a very frazzled-looking Izzy, who’s lifting the edge of the living room carpet.

“Fuck you!” Duff gets in return.

“No, fuck you!”

It’s like a schoolyard argument over who gets to use the swing set next.

“Fucks sake, stop! J-Just lemme help look, maybe it fell out when I was putting his stuff away.” She pleads between the two of them, just wanting the yelling—and more importantly—her very embarrassing tears to stop.

She scuttles off the couch on wobbly legs and crouches down near his bag, where she was definitely snooping earlier. She overturns some shirts and a couple of pairs of jeans, but to no avail; still, no balloon of smack. After lifting Izzy's bag for the third time with no luck of his little stash manifesting itself, she almost feels like she should just run away. Disappear without a trace and vanish into the night, maybe she won’t be such a complete fucking nuisance then.

Right when she's about to forfeit, she catches a glimpse of a cardboard box in the corner by the kitchen island. It was the box for the new VHS player Duff got from Axl when he worked his short stint at Tower Video before getting fired. Presumably for stealing a few tapes, and coincidentally, a VHS player.

She'd been meaning to take it down to the dumpster, but she hadn’t gotten the chance, always lazily walking past it and quietly saying in her head, Ah, I’ll just throw it out later.

Shuffling on her hands and knees, she sniffles and lifts the edge weakly.

Thank. Fucking. Christ.

Hello, little brown bindle, sitting prettily on the tile floor without a care in the world like the universe’s cruelest prize in the most twisted scavenger hunt.

She scoops it up gently and holds it out on a shaky hand to both men who are looming over her shoulders. She cradles it in her sweaty palm like it’s a Fabergé egg, deathly afraid of the contents inside and not even daring to think about how expensive it is. Duff has an expression of respite wash over his face, his shoulders sagging from their raised and tense position.

Izzy just scoffs out an annoyed breath and snatches it from her clammy hand coldly. He angrily collects his stuff and leaves the apartment without a word, slamming the door in his wake so hard that it echoes throughout the entire room and rattles the windows.

Silence follows—tense and eerie.

She's still folded on the floor, cold tile pressed against her bare legs, and anxious beads of sweat collecting under her arms. She looks up at Duff, who’s staring down at her incredulously, almost dumbfounded about what to do next.

She knows what to do, a perfect solution to make everything better—burst into tears again.

Her face scrunches, chin quivering. “I-I’m sorry, Duff!” She sputters out between sharp inhales and heaved sobs, airflow on the brink of hyperventilating.

Izzy's gone, but the relief feels hollow. Duff's demeanor softens, as does his tone.

“Hey…hey, c’mere…” He says delicately, outstretching his long arms to her, beckoning her in for a safe, warm space between his upper arms and chest.

She retreats instinctively, hiding her flushed face in the fabric of his shirt and weeping loudly. He softly smooths a hand over her hair and gives her a few faint shushes, slipping on the old hat of being a nurturer that he’s toted around for the last seventeen years. He guides her back over to the couch, and she collapses into a heap against his gangly form, not even bothering to fight the coddling—right now, she needs it.

After a few painful moments of wracked sobs and snotty sniffles, paired with Duff's gentle back pats and hushed words of affirmation, her tantrum dies down. All she has the energy to do is curl against him like a scared little kid. She's been here before, many times. When she first started getting panic attacks, she would get so scared, fully convinced that she was dying and that every short breath would be her last. Duff—caring and patient—would always hold her through it, feed her kind words, and bring up random topics of conversation to occupy her spiraling mind. It’s no different now.

“M’Sorry, he gets like that sometimes. He’s jonesing, it’s complicated stuff.” Duff whispers out into the darkness of the living room, tone still subdued. He’s no stranger to witnessing the first-hand effects of withdrawal; a nasty bout of opioid addiction swept through the PNW for the majority of his teenage years and took a lot of his friends in its wake.

She sniffles weakly and wipes the stray tears on her jawline with the sleeve of her sweater. She thought she was pretty educated about this kind of thing, always ahead of the curve and up to date on the latest drug fads and dubious pastimes—but seeing Izzy like that, she isn't so sure anymore.

He was almost the antithesis of himself. Granted, she doesn’t know him that well, but what she does know of him is that he’s observant, soft-spoken, and even a little sweet. He draped a blanket over her sleeping body rather than taking it for himself, which speaks a little to his character, right? But the guy she just saw ten minutes ago? He was seething, scared, frightening, and in pain. Heroin does that to a person, she supposes, turns them into a shadow of their habitual self and dredges up the deepest, most decrepit parts that everyone hides away.

She's also not unfamiliar with the fallout that addiction seems to proliferate; their father, Elmer McKagan, was a barely functioning alcoholic who had a habit of finding the bottom of a bottle of spiced rum. Their mother and father split when she was only six and Duff was twelve, his memories of the divorce process being a bit more acerbic and detailed. He did his best to be a barrier during that time between their parents’ never-ending theatrics and mundane domesticity, but there were distressing moments that seemed to slip through the cracks. The house was filled with a persistent, lingering tension, her mother always waiting for her father to reach the point in his drinking where he transformed from a fun-loving, goofy drunk into a bitter, unsatisfied slop who liked to raise his voice and throw Pyrex dishes.

She learned to pick up on the cues when the switch would happen; it was always after his fourth or fifth glass. His irises, the same ones that she has, would glaze over to a glassy veneer, and he’d become a man that she couldn’t recognize as sharing her blood. The arguments used to shake the walls in the house, she'd always warily skulk through the door into Duff's room, teddy bear clutched to her chest and faintly sniffling with a wet sheen of tears on her babyish cheeks. He’d let her hide under his covers, always putting on a Zeppelin or Sabbath vinyl to drown out the malevolent voices that seemed to forget they had two children right upstairs, listening to every awful and noxious insult being slung at each other.

She gives Duff a feeble shrug. “S'okay…shouldn’t have touched his things, just wanted to clean up the place.”

Duff gives a slight squeeze to her shoulder. “You were just being thoughtful—don’t let his bullshit get in the way of that. Matter of fact, don’t let anyone get in the way of how you care about things. You have so much potential, kiddo. I know that.”

That comment alone is enough to send her into the abyss of tears again. Duff always has a funny way of dropping random nuggets of wisdom and love at the strangest times. But she cracks a small smile at his encouragement instead, giving his scrawny torso a feeble hug.

“Thanks. Love you.” She whispers. It almost feels foreign on her tongue; she isn't used to expressing affection verbally with Duff. It’s always just been an unspoken thing between them.

“Love ya too, try and get some sleep.”

Chapter Text

10th Street: 4:32 am, 1987

He skulks out of Duff's apartment in a huff, the small plastic baggie shoved down in his front pocket. His leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder, the silver buckle digging into his clavicle, swishing uncomfortably. He stomps down the dark alleyway bordering his bandmates' apartment and Tenth Street, the congregation point for all the bums, junkies, and hookers to hang out in the shadows. He knows this block; he's sold and copped a few times around here.

He ignores every wayward straggler that tries to get his attention—brushing off each, Hey, you got any spare change? or You want some company, honey? like he’s deaf.

He starts talking to himself, agitation roiling. She shouldn’t have done that. Who the fuck does she think she is? Tidying up is horseshit. She was looking to score. She might get away with that dumb fuckin' puppy dog look with Duff, but he sees right past it—or, tries to see past it, at least.

He huffs under his breath, steps so measured and heavy his boots start skidding on loose gravel. “Stupid fuckin’ bitch…” It sounds mean, even coming from him. But in Izzy's currently cloudy mind, fueled by misplaced anger and the impending threat of withdrawal, that’s his shit, not hers to see—not anyone’s to see for that matter.

He stops at the empty intersection of Eighth Street and Willow, meandering to no place in particular, just roaming the murky boulevard, stewing in his own embarrassment and frustration. He compulsively pops his knuckles and spins the thin, silver rings on his fingers, staring into the inky black sky. He can’t even see the stars tonight with all the smog.

His internal voice of reason starts nagging him. He really didn’t want her to find that stuff. He really hated the way Duff looked at him so pleadingly. He really, really needs to cook up.

He sighs out a blunt exhale, beginning to go through his mental Rolodex of people he can stay with for the night. His apartment’s a no-go, shacking up with Axl and his on-again-off-again Erin situation sounds like a prison sentence, Slash is couch hopping too, and Steven's with his chick…fuck.

He runs his trembling fingers through tangled strands of hair, feeling the shakes already starting to rumble. It’s been about 12 hours and counting since his last fix, which means he’s got about a half hour before his stomach starts to churn and turns into a bottomless pit, trying to expunge every toxin swimming through his bloodstream. Puke, shit, sweat—whatever pore or orifice it can clean itself out of will soon be fair game if he doesn’t find a place fast. He thought he was past sleeping on park benches—when that first advance check from the record label was slid between his fingers, he felt like the king of the fucking world…then he spent it on dope and a new leather trench coat.

He feels a dull twinge of discomfort shift around in his lower gut, not enough to cause any real pain, but enough to make itself known that if he wants to play God with substances, he should get ready to suffer the consequences. The bench in King St. Public Park doesn’t seem so bad to him now.

He hawks a ball of mucus from the back of his throat, spitting it onto the pavement, fingers drumming against the side of his leg in thought. He spots a phone booth with fogged windows across the street, and he can feel enough spare change in his pocket for a few calls—if he had anyone to call.

One name comes to mind, which isn't an ideal person. He figures he’s already knee-deep in shit, he might as well keep drowning.

He hustles over, narrowly skirting past a few cars that honk angrily at his poorly executed jaywalking. He slots in a quarter and dials a familiar phone number with trembling fingers, palms beginning to get clammy with the looming threat of jonesing. The dial tone rings five times; he counts it.

A beat before the crackling line connects.

A sleepy, delicate voice answers. “Hello?” 

This should be good.

He screws his eyes tightly shut and braces himself for the impending bomb of guilt to drop. “Des…it’s me.”  

A weary sigh travels through the airwaves.

“It’s 4 in the morning, whatddaya want?” Her dulcet voice drops to an annoyed tone, like usual, when she realizes it’s him on the other end.

Although it's far from a drunken booty call this time, it’s an actual plea for help—something he’s not a fan of exhibiting. He chokes down the baseball-sized pill of destitution.

“Can I crash at your place, just for the night?” He can hear the wavering of his own voice.

The words hang in the air for a moment, then they’re followed by another disgruntled sigh and an extended pause. He doesn’t have the patience for this cat-and-mouse shit with her, yes or no.

The sheets rustle softly. “I dunno, Iz…usually that doesn’t end well.”

She’s right. Fucking or fighting, rarely any other outcome.

He purposefully purrs out his words and elongates his syllables, hoping to tug on those remaining heartstrings she has. “C’mon, Des, baby, no funny business, I swear. I…I just really need a place for the night…please.”

She doesn’t deserve to be thrown into his black hole of a life; he’s exhausting to be around, and he knows it. One of the reasons he broke things off with her, he’s always better off alone. But he also knows deep down she’s still got a sweet spot for him; that’s the only thing he’s falling back on right now.

She concedes with an exasperated sigh. “Fine. I’ll leave the front door unlocked; I got work in the morning, so don’t try any shit.” She’ll always spare mercy on him, even when she knows he only wants a bathroom with a lock on the door and a couch to nod off on. She’s done this song and dance with him many times before.

He doesn’t say thank you, only hangs up the payphone, hurriedly walking in the direction of her apartment a few blocks north. His shins and calves begin to burn in protest at how fast he walks, but he ignores it—Desi owes him anyway; he always lets her cook up for free, no matter how many times he tells himself he’ll charge her for the next re-up.

As promised, the front door’s unlatched. Her place still smells the same—vanilla, palo santo, and that fancy, sweet lotion she uses. It’s been a while since he came over to visit, but things always stay stagnant here—the last time, they got loaded together, screwed, and he left with the guys to go on the road for a few weeks, promising to come and see her when he got back. That was at least four months ago. A few angry phone calls and boozy makeup sex in bar bathrooms later, they came to a mutual agreement that they needed some space. Their relationship was never kosher; she was too erratic for him, and he was always too high to care. The band’s label, Geffen Records, said they needed to split for PR reasons, but he was looking for an out anyway. Keeping up with himself and the band was hard enough; a clingy runaway was the last thing on his mind. She’s nice, and they did get on well, at one point he thought he loved her—or was in love with her—but a twenty-five-year-old vagrant isn’t calculated to produce love, or what he thinks is love.

He walks on his heels, trying his best not to make any noise as he steps on the wooden floorboards he knows won’t creak loudly. He locks the deadbolt on the door, always remembering to jiggle it slowly so it fully closes. He was the one who installed it for her; she was always paranoid that somebody would break in at night. But as per usual, he didn’t follow the directions that came with the package, so it never fully functioned properly. He has a brief moment of self-reflection, the irony that he’s the intruder now not being lost on him.

He sniffs and shakes his head, no time to wallow, save that for after the fix when he’s too far gone to actually comprehend his feelings. He swipes a spoon from her kitchen drawer before making a beeline for the bathroom and rhythmically locking it twice behind him out of habit.

He slides down the wall and unzips his kit, digging through his pocket and retrieving his little granulated friend—his constant, his awful crutch. His hand lingers on it for a moment, subconscious finally starting to catch up with him. Her face flashes behind his eyelids when he blinks harshly. She looked so scared. The way her big eyes welled up with tears and her cheeks flushed scarlet, the smallest tremor in her shoulders as she flinched away from him. He feels like such a piece of shit, the guilt finally tackling him from the blindside and knocking the wind from his lungs. He’s resorted to scaring teenage girls like a coward, taking out his own self-loathing on someone who doesn’t deserve it—just because he’s the one who got caught slipping.

His eyes flicker back down to his kit, the calloused pad of his thumb tracing over the needles in trepidation. How he managed to slum it down to this level, he isn’t sure. At first, like every other junkie MO on the planet, it started as curiosity. He was a fresh-faced, corn-fed, Midwest transplant new in LA with stars in his eyes, trying his hardest to make sense of everything and keep his head above water. He left Indiana with a pipe dream and the shit he could fit in the cab of his truck and kept going until he hit the Pacific. He wasn’t an outsider to illicit substances, far from it, actually. By the time he was fifteen, he was hustling homemade water bottle bongs to all the kids in the neighborhood for petty cash and guzzling on his mom’s peppermint schnapps when she was away at work on the weekends. It wasn’t even about getting high—it was just a way to escape, a small rebellion, and a way to entertain himself in a dull, inescapable town. But then came the time when he was presented with his first tinfoil of H at a house party in the Valley, and weed and fermented fruit became a distant, bittersweet lover who got left in the vigil of his memory.

There’s another uncomfortable bubble and gurgle in his gut, a gruesome reminder that he better shit or get off the pot, literally.

It’s muscle memory at this point—dump the junk, light the spoon, watch it bubble, mix, suck it up the plunger, tie off his left arm. Blue vein. Poke. Push. Feel.

He lets out a small sound of pleasure, weak and feeble as he slumps against the junction between the door and the wall. He caught the dragon again, and it’s a fucking relief. The world folds in on itself, quieting down. His breath catches, and for a moment, it’s bliss—just silence, nothing more.

But then, at the end of the long, dark corridor of his consciousness, there’s a flicker of irises. Her eyes are there again. That fucking look—burning through him like an iron rod. He tries to push it out, but it’s already too late, her delicate features searing themselves into his synapses. There’s a part of him that’s trying to come up for air, but he doesn’t know how to float. It’s fleeting. He knows it’s fleeting. Just like the sickly warmth spreading through his veins, thickening the air around him. He tries to breathe, but it feels like swallowing syrup. Slow. Sticky. Stuck. He could almost hear her voice in the distance, but it’s just the slow pulse in his ears now, a sluggish drumbeat matching the rhythm of his heart, trying to remind him that he’s still here, still fucking up. The last thing he perceives before his eyelids inch closed is the dirty grout in the tile coming closer to his face.

Chapter Text

Downtown LA: Spin Magazine HQ, 1987

The next few days are interesting. She tries to wrap her brain around everything, recounting her steps as she quietly works alongside Brent, filing some documents. The next morning, after the debacle, she awoke to Duff still lying beside her protectively and a headache the size of a detonated atom bomb throbbing behind her eyes. Izzy's gone ghost and hasn’t been back to the apartment yet, which she's thankful for; she wouldn’t even know what to say if she ever saw him again. She assumes they'll probably never speak, and if they do, it’ll be awkward small talk and appalled side-eye glances. A part of her still feels guilty, rummaging through his belongings even though she tried to convince herself it was for a good reason. But the other part of her is still rightfully pissed at him. He blew up at her so insanely fast and then wouldn’t even hear her out when she tried to explain herself. Both of them were out of line, but she's still embarrassed at how quickly she regressed into a blubbering, tearful little girl the moment an older man raised his voice at her.

She's been avoiding Duff, too. Obviously, she's happy he stood up for her and tried to get Izzy off her case, but she feels like a total buffoon regardless. She's barely been in LA for a month, and one of Duff's bandmates already loathes her. If she had to guess, Izzy's probably already told the rest of the guys to watch their stash around her, lest the curious McKagan-mini-me tries to steal something. She likes to lie to herself and say she doesn’t care about what other people think, but she does, especially with the guys in the band. She wanted to make a good impression and be the cool little sister who hung around, but she already blew up that scenario. Now she's become content with just finishing out the internship and trying to stay out of Duff's friend group forever. Better that way.

“You alright?” Brent says softly, breaking her from the train of thought.

She didn’t even realize he'd been talking about something when she zoned out halfway through and started rethinking every life choice she'd made.

“Oh, yeah…sorry, just had a long night,” She says, forcing a chuckle.

Brent drops his pen and pushes his notebook away, leaning back in his office chair and giving her a small, half-smile. “Well, almost lunchtime, wanna grab a bite to eat and get outta here for a bit?” He offers almost sheepishly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his pointy nose with his knuckle.

She feels an impulsive flurry of butterflies in her stomach. She's made a comfortable platonic relationship with Brent, but truth be told, she's lacking in the physical department. Staying with Duff is fine and dandy and all, but the living room isn't exactly conducive to privacy and dealing with her pent-up frustration. The only alone time she gets is when he’s out at the studio or being a bedwarmer for a random girl he meets at a club.

So yeah, she'd love to go out to lunch.

“Sure.” She shrugs with faux casualness, trying to play the part of the cool, nonchalant girl.

She and Brent stroll down the sunny streets and end up at a small cafe a few blocks away from the office. The conversation flows easily, and she even finds herself finally forgetting about all the bullshit that’s happened recently.

Brent seems to perk up every time she mentions a common music interest, and in the few instances she lets him peek at her writing, he raves about its structure and syntax. It makes her feel appreciated for once to be recognized by a fellow academic.

After lunch turns into crumbs, and the discussion falls into a nice lull, Brent looks up at her with warm, wide-set eyes through a few thick strands of brown curls.

“Have you given any thought to what you might do when the internship’s over?”

Ah, yes. The question every college-aged young adult loves: What are you going to do with your life?

Ideally, she'd like to transition into a full-time position at SPIN, but she'll most likely be passed off to some other, less prestigious company with a pat on the back and a good letter of recommendation.

Her shoulders slump, and she gives him a shrug. “I dunno…I mean, I would love to be at SPIN full-time, but I know that’s kinda a lot to ask out of an internship. I guess we’ll see.” She mumbles with an air of false hope, picking at a few fries on her plate.

Brent gives her a light laugh and tips back the rest of his soda. “You’ll make it. You’re a talented writer, and you know a lot about music. Plus, your brother is in a fairly popular band around town, so a little nepotism wouldn’t hurt.”

She smiles in response, turning a little pink at the compliment. She leaves the cafe after playfully bickering over who's paying the bill with a newfound pep in her step and a little less self-doubt. Maybe things aren't all bad. 

Once again, he sends her home with an arsenal of new magazines to learn from, and he even lends her a copy of Edgar Allen Poe’s collection of poems. She'd read them already, in tenth-grade English class, to be exact, but when he presented her with the small black book as a token of affection with the sweetest smile, she couldn’t shoot that down. Each day, he seems to crack open her shell just a bit more.

By the time she gets back to the apartment, the sun is starting to set, and she spots a small Post-it note on the fridge door as she toes off her shoes.

At the studio. Pizza in the fridge, be back later.

She huffs out a sigh of half-relief. As much as she loves Duff's company, sometimes it’s nice to just be on her own.

A few hours pass of her lounging on the couch and not-so-sneakily swiping a few of his beers. Well past her bedtime, the landline rings, breaking her attention from the latest magazine issue.

“Hello?” She yawns out, a slight buzz going from the Budweiser.

“Hey, s'me…need a huge favor.” Duff slurs out.

Do they ever actually work at the studio, or just go there to party? She sags her shoulders and looks over at the microwave clock. Nearly midnight.

“Uh, sure…what’s up?”

“Can you swing by and bring my notebook? I left it in my room, and it’s got some music stuff in it, need it to record.”

She makes a small sound of protest, not particularly wanting to walk into whatever crime scene they’ve got going on there, but Duff rarely asks for anything, so it’d be bigoted to decline.

“Yeah, fine. Be there soon.”

“Ah, you’re the best, thanks.”

She makes another sarcastic sound that says, Yeah, whatever. You owe me, and hangs up the phone. Throwing on some jeans and a tee, she tiptoes around his room, which looks like a tornado swept through it on a good day. Clothes, shoes, and the occasional beer can cover the floor as she wades through the dimly lit area. His notebook sits on the left nightstand, adorned with an overflowing ashtray and a few wrinkled condom packages scattered across the top. Gross. She snatches it and tries to exit his crypt quickly.

He was nice enough to leave the car, so at least she wouldn’t have to clutch her switchblade on the bus. The freaks come out at night in LA, and she refuses to catch herself in a damsel-in-distress situation.

She cruises with the windows down over to the studio situated by the water, but it’s not until she's at the stoplight right before the turn into the plaza that it hits her.

Ah, shit—Izzy will probably be there.

She attempts to relax the immediate tenseness of her shoulders and the rush of anxiety that starts to race through her chest as she fidgets in the driver’s seat.

Just in and out. Drop off his book, then leave. She thinks to herself, hoping to quell the nauseous feeling that’s creeping up her throat. She really doesn’t want to see him. Ever, if possible.

She slowly rolls into the parking lot and exits the car cautiously. Making her way past the empty front desk and following the sound of wailing guitars and the steady thump of a kick drum, she stops outside a black door with a paper taped to the outside.

Fuck off, recording in progress!

She shyly peeks her head in and sees Duff, Slash, Steven, and, of course, Izzy in the big booth. They’re in the middle of a groove, laying down instrumental tracks that she recognizes from the rough demos she's heard. They’re a tight unit, not missing a beat and creating a rhythmic blues sound that feels like a B.B. King, Muddy Waters punch in the gut.

Duff does a double-take from his bass when he sees her from behind the glass. He motions for the guys to cease and lightly jogs over. She can feel the rest of the eyes in the room lingering, one set in particular that she refuses to pay attention to.

“Thanks, I owe ya,” Duff says as he takes the tattered spiral notebook from her hands. “Wanna hang out for a bit? Watch us record?”

If God could strike her down, now would be the time. He looks so proud and excited that the guys are finally putting their ideas to fruition, and he just wants her to experience that too, but the skinny, black-haired elephant in the room is making her feel incredibly anxious and like she wants to crawl out of her skin. She swallows her pride for once and decides to be the bigger person.

“Yeah, yeah, that’d be cool.”

Duff gets a giant smile and ruffles her hair playfully. She parks herself behind the mixing engineers on a leather couch and watches the guys tinker around. Slash's solos are fluid and expressive, peppered with colorful riffs and dirty-sounding licks. Steven and Duff are so locked into a groove that it’s nearly impossible not to tap her foot, and Izzy—he seems to be the secret backbone of the music. His flamboyant rhythms and surprisingly melodic backing vocals are a complementary element to the rough-sounding lead.

Thankfully, they’re too preoccupied to really pay her any mind, but Izzy flips his stringy bangs out of his eyes every so often, and his gaze catches her. Stubbornly, she pretends he’s not there and focuses her attention on the others. If he wants to be an aloof asshole, then she can play the same game—if not better.

After a while, she breaks off to head to the bathroom down the hall to give herself a reprieve from all the noise and cigarette smoke clouding the room. The whole atmosphere of the place is dark and moody, only being lit by candles and warm-toned lights; it feels like an opium den rather than a professional music studio. When she exits to head back, she's stopped short when she bumps into a bony chest and silver necklaces. Looking up to apologize, her tongue falls flat when her eyes meet the familiar light-brown irises that she's been narrowly avoiding for the last few days.

“Hey,” Izzy says flatly, awkwardly shifting his weight to either foot, thumb hooking through his belt loop.

She screws her face up into a grimace. What could he possibly want with her now? Maybe yell at her some more? Be extra patronizing and make her feel like a bigger idiot? Maybe pat her down if he thinks she stole more of his dope?

He shoves his hands inside his pockets, his eyes flickering to the floor like he’s ashamed to meet her vision. “I…uhm wanted to apologize—for the other night.” He says softly, almost sounding embarrassed.

Her brows furrow. She isn't sure if it’s genuine or if he’s just saying what he thinks will make her stop looking at him like she might throw a punch. It catches her off guard, though. But when has Izzy ever been predictable? She blinks a few times and offers a limp shrug.

“S'alright—shouldn’t have been messing with your shit anyway.” The voice in the back of her mind is yelling at her that she should tell him to go fuck himself. Jumping to conclusions, and acting like she'd want to take any of his stash anyway—but no, she's immediately the one apologizing and tucking her tail between her legs.

She hates how quickly she always regresses to saying sorry just to keep the peace, the way the words just slip from her mouth like it’s been drilled into her to make herself small when someone else fucks up. Her stomach churns whe she realizes she's doing it again—caving, conceding.

He shakes his head and pulls out two cigarettes, offering one to her and placing his between his lips. He lights hers first, probably his backward attempt at chivalry.

“Nah, don’t be sorry. Shouldn’t have gone off like that, was kind of a dick move, I wasn’t…feeling too great, if ya know what I mean.” He says through an exhale of smoke.

She nods in understanding at his lax explanation of withdrawal-triggered anger. She can’t quite tell if he’s being sincere or if Duff guilt-tripped him into apologizing. She takes a long drag and chews on the skin on the inside of her lip nervously as they linger in the hallway together. She can never anticipate his next move. One minute, he’s spewing venomous accusations, and the next, he’s staring at his feet as he apologizes like a little boy.

He motions to sit on a small ottoman in the lobby of the otherwise empty studio. They both smoke silently for a moment, neither knowing where to go from here. When she's almost down to the filter, he speaks again.

“How’s the uh, internship going?” Izzy asks with a cocked eyebrow, his bracelets jangling every time he raises his cigarette to his lips.

“Good, learning a lot—” She pauses. Confused. “How'd you know I was interning?”

He gives her a lazy half-smile in response, the filter hanging lifelessly at the side of his mouth.

“Duff and I talked about it. Was curious.” He says matter-of-factly like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh, well, it’s fun. I get to read and write all day, so I can’t really complain.”

“You like reading?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

Why does this small talk feel so normal all of a sudden? A few minutes ago, she thought he wouldn’t give her a glass of water if she were dying of thirst, and now he’s taking an interest in what she's up to. He’s a goddamn social chameleon.

“Not always. If you gave Stevie a copy of The Iliad, his head might explode, but he’s real good at looking at pictures.” He jokes, stubbing out both their cigarettes, their fingers brushing lightly as he takes it from her.

She snorts out a laugh and gives him a suspicious look. “You read Homer?” She asks in disbelief. Her mental perception of him being more interested in girls and drugs rather than Greek philosophy.

Izzy gives her a look of mock offense. “What? Just ‘cause I play guitar doesn’t mean I don’t like reading poetry. Goes hand-in-hand, tortured artist shit, ya know?” He teases again with a smile, a few charmingly crooked teeth poking through his lips.

She manages to muster out a genuine giggle at that. “Touché. Didn’t think you’d be the type.”

He motions at her, smug. “And I didn’t think you’d be the type to hang around music studios after midnight—but here we are,”

She rolls her eyes as he laughs huskily. 

Another silence comes between them—more comfortable this time.

She broaches timidly, fiddling with a loose fray on her jeans. “Are, uh, things okay with your apartment now?” Not sure if she's crossing another one of his confusing boundaries.

He shrugs weakly and rests his forearms on his knees. “Not really. Been couch hopping ‘cause I didn’t want to make you more uncomfortable, but I’ll figure something out…”

She pauses again, letting his words register. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable? Maybe he actually did feel bad about how he acted, and it wasn’t just Duff making him apologize. That takes her aback for a minute.

“I—wasn’t uncomfortable. Izzy, I really wasn’t snooping through your stuff; I just wanted to tidy things up for you. M’sorry if I crossed a line.” She reiterates in a sincere tone, trying to patch whatever holes she's made in her repartee with him.

His gaze flitters up to her with that same doe-eyed look. Before she can stop herself, she says something she might later regret.

“Ya know, you can come back if you want until things get settled at your place. The stuff that happened is water under the bridge, promise.”

Izzy's face softens, and a small smile pulls at the corner of his peach-toned lips. He gives her a silent nod.

“Yeah…I’ll uh, talk with Duff about it.” He says casually before standing with a stretch.

He shuffles back over to the recording room, which she takes as her cue to leave. Before he disappears inside, he calls her name, making her neck snap in his direction.

“Thanks for understanding and uh, keeping things lowkey.” He mutters bashfully, the words forcing themselves from his mouth, almost like being genuine is implausible to him.

She nods in response and squeaks out a small, “Of course.”

She's left alone in the lobby of the studio, feeling confused; that soft spot for him starting to rear its ugly head again.

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff's Apartment, 1987

She pushes open the front door of the apartment with her hip, one hand holding her backpack, the other gripping a half-eaten bag of McDonald’s. Things have been fairly normal for the most part— or, as normal as they usually are since she's been living out here. She's been to a few more of the band’s gigs and progressed at work swimmingly, finding herself in a small sense of normalcy and routine when it comes to everyday life. She's made some sort of amends with Izzy, even though she hasn’t seen much of him since their little pow-wow at the studio. Apparently, he scrounged up enough cash to cover his late fees for rent—the means by which that money was acquired most likely not being legal—so even though she stuck her neck out and showed an uncomfortable amount of vulnerability by asking him to come back, he politely declined. Another embarrassing moment added to her catalog.

Surprisingly, she's gotten quite friendly with Slash. Not in a weird way, or at least she hopes it’s not in a weird way. He’s been loitering around Duff's place lately while they tweak the songs they plan to record, which usually always ends with them drinking too much and keeping her awake all hours of the night with loud laughter and out-of-tune playing. One night in particular, she was keeping Slash company after Duff passed out early and took it upon himself to occupy her space on the couch. She's quickly come to learn that Slash gets quite chatty and less shy when he’s got a few Jack and Cokes in him.

She was sitting on the kitchen counter, watching him hilariously sway on his feet and trip over his words, his light-hearted tone droning on and on about how she should come over to meet his pet snakes and how cool he thinks it is that she wants to be a journalist. She humored him and listened intently, nodding along and giving the occasional hum of agreement, even though she knew for a fact he wouldn’t remember anything the next morning and return to his usual introverted and timorous self.

Per usual, Duff vigilantly cautioned her about any of the guy’s advances and that they weren’t being friendly, they just wanted to get her on her back. Personally, she thinks that's bullshit and he’s being over-zealous, but after hearing a horror story from Nicole over the phone one night about Axl graciously taking Steven's girlfriend and doing her for weeks behind his back without hesitation, she started to think that maybe she should keep them at arm’s length.

Tossing her keys into the bowl by the door, she sees Duff sprawled out on the couch in his usual position, beer in one hand and the other clasping a cigarette. He nods his head in greeting as she collapses beside him with a huff. She never realized how draining fulfilling everyone’s coffee orders could be at times. The normal chit-chat commences.

“How was work?”

“Good.”

“Learn anything?”

“Yeah. People won’t shut up about Michael Jackson’s new album.”

“He’s talented.”

“The Jackson 5 was better.”

It’s monotonous at this point. She's been going nowhere besides the apartment and work, and Duff's been stagnant at the studio, so they're both starting to itch for a little bit of excitement. However, they both seem to have vastly different definitions of entertainment, though. He thinks it’s fun to go whoop it up at the strip club, and she thinks it’s exhilarating to go thumb through vinyl at Tower Records for a few hours. Yin and yang. Still, she's bored.

She lulls her head on the cushion and gives Duff a pouty look. “M’bored. Can we go do something tonight?” She whines, twinkling her eyes, pouting, hoping to guilt him into taking her out.

He’s still apprehensive about letting her go out alone, so any time she wants to do anything, she's learned to plead with him and pray he doesn’t dig his heels in. He sighs out a cloud of smoke in her direction.

“Like what?”

“Dunno. Something. M'tired of TV dinners and listening to you yap to your girlfriends on the phone all night.”

“They aren’t my girlfriends.”

“Okay—your lady friends.”

He lets out a lazy chuckle, gray ribbons curling toward the ceiling.

She never assumed it’d be 24/7 debauchery living with him, but after a month of being confined to the same four walls and the brief instances of going to the studio or a live gig, she's starting to go a little stir-crazy.

Duff stubs out his smoke and sinks into the cushions with an exhale. “Could go see a movie or something.” He offers, shrugging.

Not exciting enough for her. “No, I mean like—let’s go out tonight…wanna go to a party or something.”

Duff immediately narrows his eyes, shooting her an annoyed look. Sometimes bartering with him is worse than convincing their mother to go out.

“No parties. You don’t belong at the parties I get invited to.” He grimaces the second the choice of words comes out of his mouth; her shoulders sag, and she can practically feel her ego crack in half. In his defense, he didn’t mean for it to come out as an insult.

“I didn’t mean it like that…I just mean, you’re too…” He makes a vague motion with his hands, not knowing how to put it into words.

“Young?” She finishes his sentence for him, tone slicing.

She's so tired of the excuses he keeps coming up with to shield her from his shady group of peers. For once, she just wants to go out and get drunk without having to worry about driving him home; she wants to be the one to let loose.

She seethes out a groan and rolls her eyes. “God, you’re such a hypocrite! You were hotwiring cars and going on the road when you were younger than me!” She snaps, arms folded over her chest.

“Exactly! I don’t want you to be around the shitty people I was hangin' around with at that age." He snips back, voice dipping into authority. "Look—these parties aren’t like the homecoming parties back home…a lot of shit inevitably ends up going down and it’s usually not pretty or fun.” Whatever fantasies she's construed about penthouse galas and designer drugs couldn't be farther from reality. Almost every kegger Duff's been to, at least one person ODs, some girl gets taken advantage of, and the cops always end up showing.

He won’t admit it, but he’s terrified of something bad happening to her, especially if it’s a situation he put her in. He’s well aware she can handle her own, but there are a few characters that revolve around the band that have less-than-ideal moral compasses.

She let out another grunt between clenched teeth. “They’re your friends, shouldn’t you know what to expect?”

Duff lets out a sarcastic sound; he wishes she knew just how much of an understatement that is.

“That’s the point. They’re all unpredictable. Hard no, we can do something else.” He says flatly, leaving little room for argument.

She doesn't have a bedroom to storm off to, so she resorts to immaturely throwing her hands up and stomping over to the bathroom, slamming the door in her wake. She doesn't mean to be insufferable like this; it just bugs her that he doesn’t trust her. He’ll reiterate time and time again that it’s not her he doesn’t trust, it’s other people—but by proxy, that means he doesn’t have faith in her to make the right choices.

She simmers in her frustration on the ledge of the bathtub, knowing she can’t stay in here all night, but she will if she must in order to make a point. Stubborn to a fault.

Fifteen minutes pass, and she finally hears footsteps approach the door and an annoyed sigh.

“Stop pouting. Come out, and we can go do something.”

Her brow furrows, she pouts harder. “Already told you what I wanna do.”

Another sigh.

“What's your fascination with going to parties, huh? If you wanna get smashed, we have booze here, I’d rather you do it at home.”

“You sound like Mom.”

She can go all night. If there’s one thing she and Duff match each other’s energy on, it’s pettiness.

He says her name in a low, calm tone like he’s holding on dearly to the last threads of patience he has for her immaturity. “If we go out…you gotta promise me something…” Finally, the cracks in his resolve start to splinter.

She doesn’t reply, only waits for whatever stipulations are about to follow.

“Don’t take anything. I don’t care if you drink, but I don’t trust any of the shit that gets passed around.”

Alright. Seems reasonable; she was never into drugs that much anyway.

“And…”

She knew there’d be another catch.

“I can’t stop you from doing anything with anyone…just...take precautions, if you catch my drift.”

She can hear the scowl on his face. The last conversation he anticipated today was telling his little sister to use condoms.

She snorts, glad that at least he isn’t stonewalling her anymore. She knew it would only take a little bit of a temper tantrum.

She pads over to the bathroom door and opens it to see Duff leaning against the frame, looking down at her with a weary gaze. She cracks an impish smirk.

“Deal.”

—

After making a few calls to some connections, Duff finally sniffs out a party happening in the Hills, hosted by some friend of a friend. He’s a little more relaxed knowing that it’s in a better part of town, rich parties mean higher-quality blow for him, and something other than bottom-shelf liquor for once. However, his tension soon resumed the second he saw her step out of the bathroom in a short skirt and a top that accentuated her assets a little too well. She's his baby sister for Christ’s sake…he doesn’t wanna see all that, but he doesn’t have the energy for another petulant fit, so he just swallows down his bile and slips on his cowboy boots.

The drive is quiet, besides the radio playing and his occasional dramatic sighs and uncomfortable shifting, his not-so-subtle way of saying, I have a bad feeling about this. She chooses to ignore it. She'd like to be the reckless young adult for once, not him.

He slowly pulls up to the house that’s situated on the side of a canyon overlooking all the glitz and glamor of LA, the pumping music loud enough to hear from inside the car. It's packed with bodies, so many in attendance that they’re literally pouring out of the house. She bristles.

Yeah, okay. Maybe Duff was right, these aren’t the same kind of parties as back home. She's too deep in it to back out now, and she's sure he'd have a meltdown if she made him turn around, so she put on her big girl pants, puff out her chest, and timidly trails behind Duff inside.

It’s raucous and sweaty, loud and unapologetic, skeevy and rich. It’s an entire house filled with unfamiliar faces, crushed and discarded solo cups littering the living room carpet, and enough paraphernalia scattered across table tops and kitchen islands to fill a DEA warehouse—totally the kind of place to make some regrettable decisions. Only if Duff would stop looming over her shoulder like a gargoyle. She makes herself a drink; he’s there. She goes to the bathroom; he’s waiting outside the door. She returns a smile to a guy from across the room; he’s mean-mugging them into submission. He’s so impossibly obtrusive sometimes, but whatever, she asked for this.

She's working on her second overly sweet cocktail from a punch bowl that she isn't entirely sure the contents of, when Duff finally splits off to catch up with a guy he recognizes from the local band scene. Now’s her chance. She takes a moment to wander around the house that looks like it’s straight out of a Home Improvement magazine; the hallways seemingly endless, the heel of her boots clacking loudly against the white marble floors. She finds herself meandering out towards the balcony to look at the glimmering city below when she hears a familiar voice call her name. Her head whips in the direction of the den it emits from, and her feet stop dead in their tracks.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Izzy says with a smirk, an unusually friendly tone.

He’s sandwiched between a buxom-looking blonde sitting on one side of the couch and a passed-out dude with his head lolled back on the other. Of course, he'd be here, in the one semi-quiet place in the entire house.

She slowly approaches with an awkward smile, suddenly feeling out of place and insecure in her choice of outfit when recognized.

“Oh, hey," she chuckles dryly, slugging down more of her drink to steel the nerves. "Didn’t know you’d be here tonight.” There are millions of people in Los Angeles, and she always manages to run into the same ones.

He gives her a slow, hazy once-over with his eyes, and another sly smirk spreads across his rose-tinted face.

“I c-could say the same for you.” He slurs out, hiccuping.

He’s shitfaced. That explains the unnervingly kind gesture he makes to her to join them. She takes a seat in a big leather chair next to him and nervously tugs her skirt down.

“Yeah, I know. I kept annoying Duff to take me out so…here I am, I guess.”

“Here you are.” He echoes with half-lidded eyes, a sloppy smile pulling sideways. The girl next to him giggles condescendingly, and she suddenly can’t help but get the vibe that she isn’t really welcome here—like she just intruded on something.

As if on cue, the blonde with sunken cheeks and a thousand-yard stare pulls out a small vial from her purse and taps some white powder out on the back of her hand, sniffing it up greedily. She uncomfortably clears her throat and averts her eyes, feeling like she just walked in on something akin to someone changing their clothes. She hears Izzy chuckle, and her gaze flickers up to him.

“Not used to seeing it yet?” He warbles, speech barely coherent.

“Not really. Still kinda getting used to everything that goes on here.” She says feebly with a sweep of her hand around the room.

The blonde nudges Izzy's shoulder, offering a bigger amount scooped up on a car key. He hesitates, eyes darting between the bump and her, silently weighing the options of something.

But whatever moment of contemplation he was having is rudely interrupted by the chick putting the key up to his nose and crassly instructing, “Snort. You said you wanted some,” in a nasally tone.

He pinches one nostril and takes a sharp whiff. His head reels back, wincing. Izzy's face scrunches, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. He lets out a small sound of discomfort and blinks his eyes harshly.

“The fuck was that?” He says in a pained voice, eyes bleary, pupils retracting into pinholes.

She gives him an indifferent shrug. “China white, duh.”

He blinks, lips parting.

She swears she sees Izzy turn green, like he knows he just fucked up royally. He shoots upright from the couch and hurriedly sprints over to the nearest bathroom down the hall.

Confused and concerned, she obviously follows him without hesitation.

Duff's probably noticed she's gone by now, and he’s panicking himself about her whereabouts, but at the moment, she thinks whatever’s happening with Izzy takes precedence. After accidentally opening two wrong doors and being greeted with the jarring sight of two people amid a quick screw, she finally knocks on the right one and softly calls out his name.

“Iz? You alright?” No response. She jiggles the handle only to find out it’s locked tight as a drum.

“M’Fine…” He strains; he doesn’t sound fine.

“I’m here with Duff; you want me to go get him?”

“N-No… just—” He cuts himself off by swinging the door open and motioning her inside.

She looks over her shoulder to check if there are any prying eyes—not that it would matter, everyone’s too fucked up to even remember their own name right now. She shuffles into the small guest bathroom and locks the door behind her.

He slumps against the tub and wipes some sweat from his brow, looking pale and ghostly, more than usual. She feels like she's having another deer-in-headlights moment with him, but this time, he isn’t yelling or dope sick; he just looks sick.

“Uhm…should I go get someone?” She chokes out, not exactly certain what a person looks like when ODing.

He shakes his head and lets out a deep, shaky breath.

“I’m alright, just need someone to talk to and keep me awake.”

And he picked her, of all people.

Alright…

“Oh, okay, ah…” She scrambles over her words as she slides down the wall beside him, pulling her knees to her chest and shrinking into herself.

“What’s China White?” She asks in a tone that comes out more innocent and clueless than intended.

“Persian smack. Strong stuff. Shouldn’t mix it with too much booze, s’why I need you to keep me company, 'case I start turnin’ blue. Thought it was coke.”

She blinks a few times. Why is he being so casual about this? Like it’s a daily occurrence? Well, maybe for Izzy, it is. She racks her brain trying to come up with more things to talk about to keep him cognizant.

“I’ve never really done stuff like that. Smoked weed and drank, but that’s about it.” She's a little more confident in admitting that, due to the fact that she's probably just a figment of his imagination right now.

He shifts lower, resting his head on the ledge of the tub and closing his eyes, the cool porcelain grounding on his blanched, clammy skin.

“Good. Keep it that way. This shit sucks.” He rasps out.

A lot like Duff, he leaves little room for argument.

He’s not giving her a suggestion—he’s telling her. She doesn’t stubbornly fight back this time, though, only nods silently and drops her gaze to her feet.

An intrusive thought flots up from the ether as she traces the grout lines in the lenolium. “Why do you do that stuff?” Risky question, she's probably crossing another line.

He doesn’t answer right away, but his eyes flutter open out of sync, staring directly into the fluorescent light above him. He chews on her words for a moment, the steady thumping of the music muffled on the other side of the bathroom door.

“Don’t know. Just do.” He deadpans—like she just asked a question that unlocked a part of his brain he isn’t fully ready to confront.

She figures that’s about all the information she'll get on that topic. Probably best to change it to something more light-hearted.

“You excited to finish recording the album?”

Finally, a small smile pulls at his lips, the first emotion other than panic he’s shown in the last ten minutes.

“Yeah. Gonna be good—” His eyes land on her, overcast and bloodshot. “Only be worth it if you write a good review in SPIN, though.”

She wishes her cheeks didn’t turn incriminatingly pink from that, but they do.

The unsuspecting party keeps raging just beyond the threshold of the 6x8 space, but it feels like they're in their own little world. His eyes fight to stay open, and his chest looks like it’s struggling to rise and fall. If he weren’t so far gone, Izzy would feel embarrassed. For whatever reason, maybe instinct, she hops to her feet and snatches the hand towel hanging by the sink, running some cool water over it. She crouches closer to him, pressing up against his side as she gently dabs his warm forehead with the cloth. He immediately leans into the touch, his heavy head resting against her shoulder. She can feel her heartbeat in her throat at the contact.

“You stayin’ with me, rockstar?” She chides playfully against his ear, trying to keep her tone soft and inviting despite the feeling of absolute dread in her chest.

“Mhm. Just…feels nice.” He murmurs sleepily, fading in and out of lucidity. He clings to consciousness by his fingertips, knowing that his respiratory system is only functioning by his manual command at this point. This isn’t his first close call. He keeps his lips moving, saying the first thing that comes to mind to keep himself up. “You look nice, by the way.” He warbles out the compliment, lifting his hand, which feels unusually heavy, and tugs on a frill of her blouse.

His touch is brief, but it sends a ripple of something undefinable through her chest—part flattery, part unease. She hates how easily his words rattle around in her brain like dice, warming her in places they shouldn’t

She glances down at him, face half-lit by the harsh light. She feels torn between being girlishly bashful from his attention and slightly alarmed. “Thanks…but, uh, think you should focus on staying awake.”

Izzy's lips twitch into a weak smile. “M’always awake. Just don’t always know if I’m really here,” he murmurs, voice slurred but oddly wistful. His head lolls against the tub, unfocused eyes wandering across her face like he’s trying to memorize the features.

She fidgets under his gaze, fingers twisting the hem of her skirt. “You’re here, you’re fine,” she says as much to convince herself as him. “You’re gonna be fine.”

A small chuckle escapes his throat, though it sounds more like a cough. “You’re better than all this shit, ya know?” He mumbles, gesturing weakly at their surroundings. His hand drops back into his lap with a plop. “Shouldn’t even be here.”

Her breath catches. She knows she shouldn’t take anything he says right now too seriously, but aren’t drunk words just sober thoughts? Does he really believe she's above the lifestyle that she's willingly walking into, if not running at full speed? She always held the opinion that the life in LA that Duff was living was so cool and fittingly punk rock—something to be envious of. This is the first time she's second-guessed her own opinion, propelled by watching one of her only acquaintances teeter on the fringe of life.

“Probably not. But that doesn’t mean I’m just gonna leave you like this.”

For a moment, silence fills the cramped bathroom. It’s stifling. Then, with a faint smirk, Izzy murmurs, “You’re stubborn like your brother.” Always trying to be clever, even in the face of his own mortality.

She smiles with a laugh pushed through her nostrils. “Shut up. You’re lucky I’m stubborn enough not to let you die.”

He doesn’t answer, his eyes half-lidded, breathing shallow. She isn’t sure if he’s fading into sleep or just unwilling to say more.

She hears some commotion coming from outside, soon followed by loud footsteps and the frantic call of her name from Duff.

“In here!” She replies, reaching up to flick the lock on the door.

He barges in like a bull in a China shop, and his eyes land on them both. His face softens to an accepted visage of disappointment when he sees Izzy's limp body leaning against her, her tender blotting with the towel to his face. But there’s something else there too—a flicker of guilt maybe, or frustration at her for putting herself in the middle of this mess.

He heaves out a sigh. “Goddamnit…he alright?”

“M’fine…just…can we get outta here?” Izzy answers for them both.

She's about ready to call it a night at this point, too. Duff slings one of his arms over his broad shoulders and supports his weight as they leave the party like the most disheveled three musketeers.

This was not how she envisioned the night to go.

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff’s Apartment, 1987

After the party

She hasn't closed her eyes for more than five seconds since the three of them got back to the apartment. Too scared to let Izzy out of her sight and too flustered to focus on anything else other than what it felt like to have his head resting on her shoulder and his lanky torso pressed against her side. He was more of an al dente noodle than a man when Duff threw him into the backseat when they left the party—miffed that she disappeared without saying anything, and even more agitated that he had to leave early before he even got a good buzz going.

Izzy's flimsy frame jostled with every little bump and turn the car hit, his physical body right next to her, but his mind somewhere far, far away. Her eyes surveyed him curiously, the way his movements became heavy, the garble of his cadence, the way he couldn’t even lift his head without acting like it weighed five hundred pounds; it made her think about what he said. Don’t know. Just do. What kind of person would intentionally inflict this kind of pain on themselves? What kind of secrets and skeletons must he have hiding in the cobwebs of his mind to want to numb himself to the point of almost being lobotomized? It almost makes her pity him. Almost.

Duff eyes them both from the rearview mirror the entire drive home. He’s unusually quiet and hasn’t even taken the opportunity to say I told you so, which means he’s most definitely pissed—who he’s pissed at more, she isn't sure.

He pulls into his parking space crooked but doesn’t even care to straighten the car out, yanking Iz from his comfy position curled by the door and nearly making him topple over when he rips it open. He rag dolls him around as he guides him up the iron stairs to the apartment—even though he isn’t that much smaller than Duff and probably only weighs 130 pounds soaking wet, he makes Duff look like the Hulk in comparison.

He doesn’t protest much, only the smallest mumbles and indecipherable sentences as he clings to Duff's side like a paraplegic. He throws him down on the couch like a sack of bricks, and she assumes Izzy's asleep before his head even hits the pillow. She lingers by the front door like a ghost as Duff stands over his body, silently judging. If she speaks first, he might snap. She's too stubborn to apologize, but he did warn her that a lot of bad shit happens at the parties he gets invited to. She hates it when he’s right.

He doesn’t even look at her, only speaking with his back turned as he trudges to his room. “Turn him on his side so he doesn’t choke on his puke. If anything happens, come and get me.” 

She's left with the lingering feeling of guilt and responsibility, and Izzy's dead weight occupying her bed. With a sigh, she kneels by the couch and tries to turn him over so he’s propped on his flank rather than flat on his back—if being a fan of drug-dependent rockstars has taught her anything, it’s always to make sure they sleep on their side.

He has that same peaceful look on his face, the one she saw when he was curled up on the floor, relaxed in his dreamy state. She just sits there and watches him for a suspended moment. She swears she isn't being creepy, it’s just to make sure he’s okay and not potentially asphyxiating, right? Totally not because the longer she looks at his blissed-out profile, the more she realizes he’s quite pretty. The downward slope of his curved nose, the slight furrow of his dark brows, his pouty lips wet from spit…he’s handsome. Striking. She shakes those thoughts from her head and starts peeling off her party clothes, fantasies for another time and place.

When she's slipping a sweater over her head, she hears him stir on the couch—she's back at his side in an instant.

“You doing okay, Iz?” She whispers into the darkness of the living room. She's about to place a gentle hand on his shoulder, but she hesitates and hovers over him instead, dropping her arm into her lap and trying to keep a comfortable distance.

He only gurgles in response, snuggling deeper into the couch cushions and leaving little space for anyone else. Which is fine, she doesn’t plan on getting much sleep tonight anyway.

Izzy lets out quiet, gravelly snores with a smooshed cheek against the pillow; he’s out cold, and she's sure a bullet train passing through the living room wouldn’t even wake him right now. She props herself up by the side of the couch and flips on the TV to pass some time and occupy her mind, which is currently stewing over the harsh reality that she's been introduced to. Her rose-tinted glasses about LA seem to be transitioning into magnifying bifocals that inspect and dissect the grittiness that occurs without much concern about who it disillusions.

By 2:30, her eyelids feel droopy, and by 3, she's seen the Living on a Prayer music video rerun on MTV so many times she thinks she's about to go postal. She passes out with her head lulled against the armrest in the middle of contemplating whether she wants to read a book or not.

—

She's awoken with a harsh stiffness in her neck and the sound of someone hurling violently in the bathroom.

She blearily blinks her eyes open to see Izzy's spot on the couch empty. Raising with a stifled groan of soreness, she hobbles over to the bathroom and knocks timidly.

“You okay?” She feels like she's asked that question a thousand times within the span of the last ten hours; she's even wearing herself out hearing it.

She's answered with another dry heave and the sound of vomit hitting the toilet bowl. Lovely. Instead of prodding, she decides it’s probably more proactive to get him a glass of water and some Tylenol. Now that he’s finally relinquished his space on the couch, she has the opportunity to pull it out and give each other some sitting room—figuring the only place he’s gonna have the wherewithal to move today is from the bed to the bathroom.

She lies on one side and waits for his return tentatively, not sure if she's still on overdose duty or not. This is probably Duff's version of discipline. If she wanted to go out and hang with the boys, she'd best be ready to nurse the consequences the next day. Izzy finally emerges from the commode looking like a cadaverous and haggard version of himself—matted hair, dark circles, and the slightest limp to his gait. She props herself up on her elbows and gives him a sympathetic gaze. He looks like he just got hit by a bus and probably feels even worse. He stands over the outstretched bed in hesitation, swaying on his feet lightly, silently asking for permission.

“S'okay. You can lie down; you look like you need it.” She chuckles softly, patting the space beside her.

He forces out a dry laugh and lowers himself onto the bed, a pained sigh leaving his lips the second his body relaxes into the cushions.

It’s awkward. Brutally so. They're both just lying on the bed, on top of the blankets, staring at the popcorn ceiling with two feet of space between their warm bodies. He’s the first to break the silence this time.

“You didn’t have to—" A pause, "last night, I mean..." Another stretch, "thanks.” His words, spliced by discomfort with weakness, tone strained and jagged like he has vocal cords singed by bile.

She shrugs. “Wasn’t gonna let you sweat it out alone in the bathroom.”

He turns his head ever so slightly, eyes landing on her exhausted profile. This is another moment that seems to get lost in time when they're both having an entire conversation with only their eyes.

He gulps down a lump, Adam's apple bobbing under the taut skin of his neck. He wants to apologize profusely. He wants to put into words how embarrassed he feels that he made her see him like that—another part of his behavior that he tries to keep under lock and key. He feels like every traumatic situation she's experienced since being in the city has somehow been propagated by his own doing. She's still so hopeful, so dead set on proving herself and breaking away from the limitations of her environment. He was like that once, starry-eyed and eager. He can’t recall the last time he felt hopeful about anything. His words fall flat. He sums up all those big feelings with a weak, ‘Thanks.’

She feels quite smothered, even though there’s some physical distance. Maybe it’s because he’s in her space, lying on her blankets, making her pillows and linens smell like him. The room feels smaller with him there, like his presence presses against the walls. Her fingers itch and twitch to reach out to him, only inches separating their upturned palms. It would be so easy—running the soft pads of her digits over his calloused skin and splintered fingernails, so inviting. 

He rolls over to face away before she can, his back blocking the sun beginning to stream through the slats in the blinds. She faces away, too, eyes burning holes into the tile floor of the kitchen in front of her.

She doesn’t know why, but before she can stop herself, she's calling his name. There’s a faint Hm? in response and the slightest turn of his head.

She doesn't even know what she wants to say, or if she has anything to say at all. Maybe she just wants to keep hearing his voice. She blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“What’s one place you wanna play when you guys go on tour?” She cringes right after she says it. He’s probably knocking on death’s door right now with a hangover so bad he’d rather be lifeless—the last thing he wants to talk about is stupid travel plans.

“Amsterdam.” He replies without missing a beat. “I like the old buildings and museums...not to mention hash is legal.”

She huffs, feeling the couch shake lightly with Izzy's laughter. A reprieve from the heaviness in the air. He’s still so hard to figure out—during the day he’s quiet, likes reading poetry, and talking about Dutch museums, but by night he’s a powder-sniffing guitar player that's got a floozy hanging off one arm and a Gibson slung on the other. He’s a walking paradox, and she hates that it keeps intriguing her.

“What about you? Where do you wanna go one day?” He asks, soft-spoken, like he’s nervously letting his guard down as he wades through the waters of discussion.

“France. I’ve always wanted to see The Louvre and the Hippodrome.” Once again, she's stumbled her way into the trenches of conversation about art and history with Izzy, seemingly impressed with his secret knowledge of 16th-century Baroque painters.

“Didn’t Queen do a gig at the Hippodrome not that long ago?”

“Yeah. Maybe you guys will play there one day.”

She gets a snorted, doubtful laugh in response.

“Don’t think we’ll ever get that big, but yeah, could be cool.”

Duff's bedroom door swinging open interrupts their little chat, and he instantly gets a perturbed look on his face when he sees both of them lying on the couch. Even though they're facing away from each other with enough distance to spare, it’s still too close for comfort for him.

She rises and heads to the kitchen before he has the chance to make any cynical comments. She's still got her tail between her legs about forcing him to take her out, which subsequently led to talking Izzy off a ledge on the bathroom floor. He’s still giving her the silent treatment, his tense shoulders speaking his mind for him as he makes a pot of coffee.

“You can say I told you so. I deserve it.” She offers in a hushed voice, trying not to disturb the dead a few feet away.

No reply. Only the harsh slam of the ceramic coffee mug against the countertop.

Fine. She'll pull out the naive and innocent card if she must.

“C’mon, Duff, m'sorry, alright? Just wanted to go out for once…I didn’t know it’d end like that.”

He turns to her with a raised brow. No shit, Sherlock. I fucking told you what usually goes down.

She puts her palms up in surrender and drops her head to the floor, starting to feel guilty that she didn’t heed his warnings. In retrospect, she kind of gets it now.

He takes a long sip of coffee and exhales deeply, swirling the liquid around in his mug in thought.

“Just listen to me next time. You get to baby him and do the dishes for the rest of the week as collateral.” He says with a faux smile, brushing past her back into his room.

She groans under her breath and rolls her eyes at Duff's attempt at grounding. She almost wishes he'd taken away her TV privileges like mom used to do instead.

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff’s Apartment, 1987

As expected, Izzy doesn’t move much from his lethargic spot on the couch. Shortly after their talk, he succumbed to sleep and ultimately let his body recuperate. She's left her with nothing to do other than tidy up the apartment and conquer the mountain of dishes left in the sink, courtesy of Duff, who seems to eat enough microwave dinners to feed a small army. After finishing her chores, by late afternoon, she finally has some downtime to relax for a minute, the hectic pace of the last few days finally catching up with her.

Duff stepped out, a shift opening at the bakery, and since the household funds were starting to grow a little thin, he jumped at the opportunity, leaving her alone once again with an ever-unpredictable Izzy. He’s still halfway into a coma. His poor decisions from last night’s party seeming to exhaust his already wavering resilience.

Treading past the sleeping bear who’s making indecipherable drowsy sounds between snores, she slides open the glass door and decompresses with a smoke. Sitting in a plastic folding chair on the balcony, she clasps a pen tightly in one hand, writing so vigorously in her notebook that her wrist starts to border on carpal tunnel.

She needed another therapy session with her diary, spewing all her scrambled thoughts and frazzled nerves into the margins. She catches herself in the middle of a sentence, writing about a certain young man with dark hair and a feline-esque saunter. Great. He’s even infiltrated her journal now, as if her subconscious and fantasies weren’t enough.

A voice appears from behind. “Whatcha writing?”

Her shoulders jump and she swivels her head around. Izzy leans against the doorway, slightly more color and animation on his face.

“Fuck, you’re good at sneaking up on people.” She breathes out, a hand placed over her rapidly beating heart.

He smiles weakly and snorts a laugh, joining her on the balcony, resting his forearms on the railing.

“Yeah, sorry. Force of habit.” He lights a cigarette, flicking a burned match over the railing.

She shoves her notebook into her backpack, pulling her knees to her chest. They silently overlook the sun beginning to tuck beneath the horizon.

“You writing a review?” He questions, cigarette bobbing between his lips.

She scrunches her nose and shakes her head; she hates talking about her writing…it feels too personal.

“Nah. I just like to journal sometimes.”

Izzy nods and chucks the filter over the balcony, taking a seat next to her in the adjoining chair. “I get it. Helps clear the mind, yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s easier, y'know? Just...getting it out without anyone chiming in."

He nods in agreement, the sunset beginning to wash over his ashen face. The warm, long ocher rays kiss his porcelain cheeks. He closes his eyes at the feeling, soaking up the glow like a flower.

Her eyes flick away from him before she gets caught staring. “How’re you feeling?” She probes timidly, testing the tepid waters of their friendship again.

He slowly flutters his eyes open and drops his head to the floor. She's noticed he has a habit of avoiding eye contact when he’s inching towards vulnerability.

“M’Alright. Still a little tired, but I’ll get over it.” He says with a shrug.

She's also noticed he’s quite good at downplaying his own suffering.

She hums and begins to nervously fiddle with her hands, that familiar feeling of clumsiness and tension starting to bubble between them again.

Duff did leave the car; she could offer to drive him back to his apartment if she wanted—then again, a small part of her that she declines to acknowledge doesn’t really want him to leave just yet. She's beginning to shamefully thrive on the feeling of uneasiness Izzy creates wherever he goes, a small taste of excitement that she can’t derive from anyone else. He carries a sense of rebellion and natural negligence that she's always yearned for. She wants to be able to function without worry, without making herself sick with concerns. She craves small instances of instability in all her vigilant, carefully planned life—Izzy's the embodiment of that feeling.

“You good? Need anything?” She asks, sounding like a concerned nurse, just to fill the silence.

He shrugs again and sinks lower into his chair, running loose knuckles through black bangs to push them out of his eyes. Her gaze slowly rakes down his lithe torso, really beginning to hate how inviting his narrow waist looks.

“Uhm, not really. Kinda hungry, but I know there ain't much here.”

Mentally, she chastises herself. The absolute irony about getting giddy at the thought of fixing him supper like a ’50s housewife when she likes to pride herself on the fact that she's always been independent isn’t lost on her. At least it gives her mind a reprieve to think about something other than how veiny his hands are. Tracks of blue and purple hues trail under thin skin and lead up through his arms, disappearing near the meat of his skinny biceps. In a passing, hormonal thought, she wonders how pretty his fingers would look wrapped around the column of her throat.

“I’ll make us something,” She says as she bolts upright from the chair, desperately trying to hide the growing flush on her cheeks.

My God, get a grip.

Izzy occupies himself with her magazine collection as she stares into a boiling pot of water, contemplating whether she would just be better off sticking her head into it rather than living through this fever dream that she thinks she's having. A few weeks ago, the two of them almost despised each other, and now she's twirling around the kitchen making him pasta—go figure.

Right when she's sprinkling shredded cheese over his bowl, the phone rings. She rests the handset in the crook of her neck as she passes the hot plate of food to him.

“Hello?”

“Hey! It’s Brent.”

Brent? It’s nearly 7 at night…

“Hey, s'goin' on?”

“I know it’s kinda late and this is a long shot, but uh…would you be able to come by the office and help out with a little project? I have a big deadline to finish, and I could really use your help editing some material.”

She freezes in the middle of the living room, eyes flickering over to Iz, who’s happily munching through dinner and flipping through pages of an article.

Brent or Izzy.

Who would she rather keep company? On one hand, Brent technically is her higher-up, and denying him could potentially affect her performance…on the other, it’s Izzy.

Goddamnit.

“Got some wine to make things go by quicker if that helps…” Brent adds with an airy chuckle.

Izzy looks up curiously at her lingering stance—if she studied his expression for too long, she'd almost think he looked a little disappointed that she hadn’t sat down to join him yet.

Fuck.

“Um, y-yeah. I can be there soon.” She chokes out apprehensively, not sounding very enthusiastic.

“Cool, see you then.”

The landline goes dead.

His brows knit. “Headed somewhere?” Izzy asks with a mouthful of pasta.

She heaves out a sigh and rubs the tense knot of muscles buried in her neck. “Yeah, gotta go to work and help with a project.”

She can see Izzy's eyes dart over to the clock on the wall, suspicion crinkling at the sides. “Want me to drive you? Bus gets a little sketchy around this time.”

He’s making it really fucking hard for her to want to leave all of a sudden.

“Sure. I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t wanna, but…um…" She shifts her weight to either foot, cheeks warm. "I’ll go get changed. Gimme a minute.” She embarrassingly stumbles over her words and grabs the first set of clean clothes she sees from the dryer, rushing into the bathroom and deflating against the door.

She swears she must’ve been a murderer or a criminal in a past life for the amount of karma she seems to always be reaping.

She quickly changes and brushes through her unkempt hair, sloppily applying some mascara and perfume to her neck so she doesn’t look like she' been playing house all day—she has.

She rejoins Izzy, who’s impatiently twirling Duff's car keys around his finger.

“M’Ready…” She mumbles, slinging her backpack over one shoulder.

Izzy focuses his vision and gives her a once-over with his eyes. Maybe the makeup and perfume gave it away that it’s probably not normal to be meeting a co-worker alone at night after hours. He keeps his comments to himself and rises from the couch with a grunt.

They both plop down in the sedan, and he flips on the radio to quell the awkward silence that seems to follow them like a plague. Wild Horses crackles to life over the stereo, and she hums along softly without even realizing it.

“You like the Stones?” He questions with one hand draped lazily on the wheel, the other hanging from the driver’s side window, his Marlboros ostensibly glued between his pointer and middle finger.

“Yeah, you?”

He nods. It should be pretty obvious, considering he has Keith’s swagger down to a T—heroin problem included. He cranks the volume knob and cruises down Wilshire with musical accompaniment from Sticky Fingers, hushed lyrics, and guitar melodies being traded in the air between them. When he pulls up outside the office, he turns his head, gaze flickering between the empty building shrouded in darkness and her in the passenger seat. He’s contemplating something.

She collects her things, finger-combing through wind-whipped hair. “Duff should be home by the time I’m done, so you don’t have to worry about picking me up. Thanks for the ride.”

Izzy's still quietly surveying the space with squinted eyes like he's sussing everything out.

“No problem…see you later.” He says tentatively, not pulling away until she enters the building and disappears inside.

It’s a ghost town besides Brent, hunched over his desk, typing furiously on his word processor. The harsh fluorescents have been flicked off, and the only illumination is a yellow-toned desk lamp switched on. He hears her footsteps and looks up with a lazy smile, eyes half-lidded and heavy. That bottle of wine he mentioned earlier already half-guzzled straight from the spigot.

“Hey, you, thanks for coming down so late.” He says with a lilted tone.

She doesn't think much of it; he’s working late and cramming for a deadline, so she'd probably get loaded too to make it less strenuous. She takes her usual seat by his side and begins helping him edit some documents for an upcoming piece.

Everything seems normal; she's learned to have a natural and fun repertoire with Brent that puts her in a good mood and always makes things less uncomfortable. She decides to push the envelope further and partake in polishing off the rest of the cheap wine, which makes her head feel a bit fuzzy and lowers her inhibitions. By the time it’s pushing 10, the editing’s taken a backseat, and she and Brent begin shooting the shit over a small silver flask of whiskey he had socked in his desk drawer.

“Ya know," He hiccups, head bobbling around his shoulders, "you’re a really great writer, you got a lotta of potential.” 

Her cheeks turn pinker and warmer than they already are. She scrunches up her nose, never knowing how to accept a compliment. “Aw, thanks. Means a lot coming from you.”

He scoots closer in his office chair, the legs scraping against the tile, and looks at her hazily from behind his thick-framed glasses. She can smell the booze coming off him. In a movement so quick she nearly misses it, he licks his lips and places a heavy hand a little too high up on her thigh, smiling crookedly.

“Could always give you some extra lessons if you wanted,” He whispers, voice sloppy, blinking slowly. His irises darken to a dangerous hue, voice lowering to the most conspicuously suggestive tone she's ever heard.

Her chest tightens, a cold fist clenching around her ribs. Her heart thuds painfully, each beat echoing in her ears like the ticking of a bomb. Her intuition tells her to raise hackles.

She clears her throat, shifting. “Oh, I–I, uh, yeah, maybe sometime…” She stutters.

Sure, she's always thought he was cute and nice, but she wasn’t expecting things to lead to this. And even if they did, she wasn't anticipating it to happen so fast without warning. She presumed he was just a cool mentor, and they got on well—she starts to feel the widening pit in her gut, realization that maybe she's more naive than she previously thought.

He tries to persuade, his hand inching closer to the inside seam of her jeans. “Nah, not sometime…why not right now? It’s just us here; the security cameras are defunct.” 

She shifts uncomfortably in the seat, stomach bottoming out. Trying to avoid his touch, she fidgets, but he grips harder on the meat of her thigh.

Panic starts to set in. “Brent, I—uh, don’t think this is a good idea. Can we just go back to working?” She pleads, voice small and trembling, desperately trying to find a way out of this horribly confusing situation.

Brent doesn’t appreciate the answer. His face twists into a grimace, casting a disapproving look down the bridge of his nose. He clicks his tongue and removes his hand.

“Well, you don’t have to." He sighs, shrugging. "But I’m sure Mr. Owen would be pretty disappointed to know you wouldn’t help your friend out, right?”

Motherfucker.

She feels her breath hitch higher in her throat. She starts to acknowledge that this is one of those situations she hears about on TV—young and clueless girl getting coerced into something by men in a higher position. Weaponized fear.

She pauses, blanching, heart beating so erratically, hands and feet beginning to tingle. All the while, Brent gives her a condescending smile and cocks his head to the side like he’s innocent.

“Can just be a casual thing…no strings attached, right?” He questions again, warm hand making its way back to her inner thigh, slowly massaging the skin between his fingers.

She can’t muster up enough strength to verbalize a response, only silently nods and mentally checks out to save her conscience from whatever is about to occur.

A wolfish grin stretches as he takes her clammy hand in his own, guiding her to her feet and positioning her so she's bent over his desk.

Hot tears start to brim in her waterline, every muscle becoming so taut and wound up that it hurts to relax.

She's bracing herself, pure survival instinct.

Brent patonizingly coos, “There, wasn’t so hard, babe, was it?” His hands paw at her bottom through the denim, clumsy fingers fiddling with the zipper to ruck them down mid-thigh.

He whistles low at the sheer cotton. A finger hooks through the waistband of her underwear and pulls tauntingly. "Shit, you been hiding all this from me?"

Bile creeps up the back of her throat. She freezes. Comatose.

This shouldn’t be happening. She's stronger than this. 

When she hears the metallic clack of a belt buckle, something inside of her snaps—all those times Duff showed her how to fight come to the forefront of her mind.

Never let a guy give you shit. If it happens, go right for the jugular. Kick, scream, spit…whatever you have to do.

She remembers him instructing in her bedroom back home. When she first started high school and took an interest in boys, he was the only person to give her a crash course on how to defend herself.

She's grateful for that now.

She snaps upright in a reflexed, blurred movement, shoving at his chest with both hands. He staggers but comes back stronger, gripping her wrists like iron clamps. She twists, yanking hard, but his weight bears down on her, pinning her in place. He manages to wind his arm all the way back and connect his big palm to her cheek in the middle of the tussle, an instant burning and stinging floods her face as she lets out a whimper, the resounding crack of his hand meeting her soft cheekbone echoing off the office walls. She kicks and flails, her knee butting directly into his crotch in a last-ditch effort to break free. He doubles over with a wince, she pulls her jeans back into place, and sprints down the dark hallways. Running to the first secluded cubicle she finds, she scrambles to hide under a desk, trying to stifle her fitful and frantic breaths with a hand over her mouth.

Her heartbeat thunders through every bone, drowning out everything but the slow, deliberate clomp of his footsteps up and down the aisles. Each step echoed closer to her foxhole, a predator closing in on its prey. She fastens both trembling hands over her mouth tighter, biting her lip to stifle the shaky breaths that threaten to give her away.

After what feels like an eternity, the steps cease. The desk lamp that was lighting up the entire office goes out, shortly followed by a curt Fuck it.

The big double doors slam behind him.

She slowly crawls on her hands and knees out from under the hiding place, looking over each shoulder to check if he’s still there. The silence that follows feels louder than the footsteps. She stays frozen, her body vibrating with primal fear. The bile in her throat burns, but she forces it down, clutching the edge of the desk like a lifeline. When she's sure he’s not leering around a corner, she scurries to the front desk and fumbles with the landline, her fingers shaking as she dials Duff's number.

The tone rings once. Twice. Each buzz sounds longer than the last, almost mocking. The call connects. It’s not the voice she's expecting.

“Hello?” Izzy answers.

Can this night get any worse?

“Iz?” She sniffles out in a feeble, frail voice, the remaining traces of her resolve shattering completely.

“Yeah—you okay?”

“Can—" She hiccups wetly. "Can somebody come pick me up? I don’t care if it’s you or Duff, I...I just need someone to come get me. Right now.”

A beat of silence.

“Stay where you are. I’m coming."

The call disconnects.

Her knees give out beneath her, the cold tiles biting into her skin as her body collapses into itself. Her chest heaves, each ragged breath clawing its way up her throat as if her gulping lungs can’t hold enough air to keep her alive.

Why her? Why is it always her who gets dealt this shit?

From her lonely childhood with latch-key parental figures and lousy excuses for stability, to moving to LA with high hopes, only to run into new trials and her worth being attributed to what’s between her legs, the hardships seem endless. What had she done to deserve this? She mentally berates herself as she hyperventilates on the office floor, clothes torn, body aching, heaving shoulders, and pained inhales being the only signs she's even alive.

Headlights blare through the glass, washing over someone curled in on herself, small and breakable.

Barely collecting herself, she hobbles on unsteady legs and staggers outside, shielding her bleary eyes from the headlights, hoping to God it’s Duff, Izzy, or anyone.

A silhouette appears from the driver’s side and approaches her with measured steps. She instinctively recoils with a shudder, wanting to run, but her legs can’t seem to carry her.

“It’s me…hey, look at me, it’s just me…” Izzy coos in an uncommonly soft voice. The delicate coaxing sounds bizarre coming from him, such a gentle and calming voice of security.

She looks up at him with wide, scared eyes, trails of mascara carving a path down her face like railroad tracks. He takes a step back at the sight, silently assessing her bruised wrists, unbuttoned jeans with stretched fabric, and the angry, blooming imprint of a hand on her cheek.

The pieces connect.

“Who did this to you?”

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: SPIN HQ, 1987

Izzy's voice comes out scarily calm. She can’t bring herself to look him in the eye, too embarrassed and ashamed to have to call out for help like a scared child.

Both of their silhouettes cast shadows in the beam of the headlights, his frame towering over hers.

He exhales her name under his breath. “Talk to me…what happened?”

His voice doesn’t even sound like his own, such a stark contrast to the usual monotone and blunt cadence he proudly carries.

She casts her gaze downward and tries to bite back the scorching lump that’s climbing up her throat. This is her second time being hysterical in front of him, and she couldn’t despise herself more.

Izzy raises his hand from his side, making her flinch instinctively, her nerves still beaten and raw. He hovers his touch for a moment, almost doubting if he should continue—he does.

He hooks a gentle finger under her chin and raises her head into the light, studying her battered appearance. His dark brows furrow, grazing the most delicate touch of his thumb over her bruised cheek.

She hisses out a wince. “Don’t wanna talk about it,” She whispers thinly.

Izzy swallows dryly and removes his hand, the lingering ghost of the contact still sizzling. They both stand there in silence for a moment.

Some fragments of life are so fragile that it feels as if a light gust of wind could make them shatter. This feels like one of those moments.

“Let’s get you home,” He says with a tilt of his head to the car, a large, warm hand placed on her lower back, guiding her to the passenger seat.

The quietness would probably be awkward if she weren’t trapped inside the concrete walls of her own mind right now, too lost in the subspace of consciousness to focus on anything other than what Brent’s smug expression looked like when he was unbuckling his belt. She assumes the constant droning hum in her ears is the engine rumbling beneath the seat, but she can’t be sure. She doesn’t even feel like she's in her body, almost watching herself from above as she floats aimlessly above her corporeal figure. Her eyes burn holes through the dash; the slight rise and fall of her chest is the only physical signal she's not a cadaver.

The whirring vibration stops, and when her eyes refocus, the car is parked in front of the apartment. She doesn’t lock eyes with Izzy, but she can tell he’s staring straight through her.

“Duff's still working; he picked up a double.” He says, still using that cautious and tentative tone, tiptoeing around her bubbling and bloated feelings to not upset her further.

She just nods wordlessly, unable to form thoughts.

He uncomfortably clears his throat and shifts in the driver’s seat. “Do…you want me to go?” He questions, a twinge of nervousness in his voice, brows upturned, the slightest pout on his lips.

Her eyes finally flit over to him, black smudges of mascara clouding her vision.

“No. Please stay.”

She can’t even stop the helplessness in her tone; at this point, she doesn't even give a shit. She just needs someone. 

He nods in quiet acceptance, guiding her upstairs and over to the couch. Not even bothering to kick off her shoes or get changed, all she has the power to do is collapse into a heap of limbs on the cushions.

Izzy lowers himself to the floor, back pressed against the couch as he settles beside her like a guard dog. His knees draw up, elbows resting on them as his fingers interlock in a tight grip. He isn’t used to this—being needed, being someone’s anchor or tether to reality. He’s a dealer; people come to him to escape reality. But as he glances at her trembling form, curled in on herself like a wounded animal, something in him refuses to move, refuses to leave her side. This scene seems familiar—only the roles have been reversed. She did the same for him after the party in the Hills.

She stirs with a breathless wince, the adrenaline finally subsiding, and the weight of trauma hits her like a freight train. Even though her back is turned, she can still feel the weight of Izzy's eyes on her. Amber irises searing through her spine and almost daring to touch, to feel, to care. 

She wets her cracked and dry lips with her tongue, every inhaled breath hurting her ribcage and lungs.

“Izzy?”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t tell Duff.”

A tense silence that stretches for a beat too long. He doesn’t want to be put in the middle of this.

“'Kay. I won’t.”

It’s a loose confirmation, but it gives her a shred of peace of mind. She's scared and confused enough; the last thing she needs is Duff trying to plant a bomb at SPIN HQ before she can make sense of everything. She curls into a ball, shrinking into herself like a flower crushed under someone’s boot. It burns to close her bloodshot eyes, salty tears making the lids puffy and heavy. The last thing she can comprehend before unconsciousness shrouds her in darkness is a soft warmth encompassing her body like a tender hug—it’s Izzy draping a blanket over her frail form yet again.

—

Waking the next morning, she thinks she's in a dream. Flashes and images appear behind her eyes every time she blinks—a haunting recollection of events that she can’t even run away from in her sleep. Still in last night’s clothes, her breath tastes like whiskey, and she feels like she has an ice pick in her forehead.

The apartment’s quiet; nothing’s out of place, the birds are chirping outside, the faint sounds of conversation of people downstairs, blissfully unaware of the earth-shattering trajectory of events that she landed herself in just a few hours prior. Izzy's gone too. He’s disappeared again without a trace, which has her wondering if she just hallucinated the entire night’s events.

Trudging to the bathroom, she strips her clothes, dirtied with dried tears and makeup stains, and sits on the shower floor under the hot stream of water. She traces the raised, yellowed scratch marks on her thighs.

What becomes of everything now?

She feels like damaged goods. She once again rolled over belly-up and bent to a man’s will. Subservient and weak-willed almost to a fault, and always cowering in the face of confrontation.

She can’t even bring herself to broach the subject of what will happen the next time she goes to work—if she even has a job anymore. She sits under the shower head until it runs cold, and after furiously scrubbing her skin until it nearly blisters, she reaches up to turn the knob off and climb out of the tub on wobbly legs. She takes a good look at herself in the mirror for the first time in hours. Staring at the stranger’s reflection, looking back at her with hollow eyes and an unflinching honesty. Dark circles paint her face, a palm-shaped brand on her left cheek, serving as a rigid reminder of the brutality. Her wrists are adorned with bruises; finger-shaped emblems clasped around the weak bones. She can still feel his grip, thrashing her around his desk.

A knock on the bathroom door makes her startle and gasp.

“Gotta piss, been in there forever,” Duff groggily mumbles from the other side.

“Sorry. Be out in a sec.” She towels off and tugs on a long-sleeved shirt to hide the wounds, blotting some powder on her cheek as well to avoid any invitations for questions.

She doesn’t want to talk about it yet—or ever. Especially with him. She's praying Izzy holds his end of the promise and keeps tight lips.

Duff brushes past her into the bathroom unsuspectingly, and she resumes her prone position on the couch. It’s a fittingly dreary day with scattered thunderstorms and the occasional lightning strike, only adding sorrowful fuel to her reclusive fire. When he finishes, Duff's about to head back to his room, but he double-takes at the sight of her curled under the blankets, coupled with her paltry expression.

“You alright?”

She shifts on the cushions and tries to force enough energy to bullshit her way through this conversation.

“Yeah. Got my period.” That’ll make him lay off. She holds eye contact long enough to sell the lie.

He nods understandingly and grabs a bag of chips off the kitchen island, disappearing back into his room without as much as a whiff of the real reason her body feels simultaneously as light as a feather and as heavy as an anvil.

Usually, around this time during the day, she would be brushing up on her writing and editing, or lollygagging around the apartment, but today, reaching over to the coffee table for a sip of water seems like a harrowing task. She sleeps through most of the afternoon, finding solace in the darkness behind her eyelids rather than living with her own thoughts. It’s not until Duff lightly shakes her shoulder to let her know he’s headed to the studio that she actually stays awake for more than ten minutes. She refuses to move much from her sedentary spot, flipping through TV channels mindlessly to occupy her brain and avoid any real distress that’s plaguing her memory.

Around 9 o’clock, there’s a knock at the door. Her chest immediately freezes, hands filling with pin needles. What if it’s Brent? What if he found out where she lives, and he’s back to finish her off? Duff doesn’t have a gun, but he has an old aluminum bat in his room from when he played baseball, which might be her only option. Right when she's about to sprint over and grab it, a voice comes from the other side of the door—a voice she's become somewhat fond of.

“Relax. It’s me.” Izzy says.

She breathes out a shaky, relieved sigh through her nostrils, the surge of anxiety slowly starting to dissipate. She shuffles over to the door and peeks her head through the sliver cracked open to look at him timidly.

He stares back through wisps of bangs, chewing the inside of his cheek sheepishly and rhythmically cracking his knuckles with his thumb.

Her eyes trail down his arms and land on his right hand, trembling lightly with bloody and split knuckles. He flexes and relaxes his fingers, hiding his fist behind his back.

“I took care of it.”

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff’s Apartment, 1987

He does a piss-poor job of hiding his obviously battered and bruised fist. He shifts his weight on either foot contemplatively as they both stare at each other in a stretch of silence.

She questions the sight, obviously piecing together what he means. What exactly are the implications of this? Beating the shit out of a transgressor as a token of affection? Using brute force and hostile solutions as a way to show love? Tenderness with hatred? Her head feels even cloudier.

She steps to the side and widens the door, ushering him in with a vague wave of her hand. She can feel the lingering buzz of adrenaline and anger simmering from his person like a stench, his knuckles still wet with clots and shredded skin. He’s expecting a hero’s welcome, for her to fall to her knees and kiss his feet like he’s the prodigal son. He defended her—his prodigal angel.

She'll do no such thing; this isn’t an act that warrants praise. Only her cracked and weary voice, bleating out a soft, “What did you do, Izzy?”

His eyes widen slightly, the little color that’s usually decorating his translucent face evaporating. His mouth opens and closes, scrambling to find the right words to say.

“Did what he deserved.” His voice hangs in the air, thick with hubris. He thought she'd be happy.

She feels the dull spark of anger beginning to alight in her chest, soon to grow into an inferno. He might've just cost her future. This isn't how you handle shit.   

She lowers her voice, dumbfounded. “How did you know it was him?”

Izzy casts his gaze to the carpeted floor, swallowing the large knot of shame and the tendrils of embarrassment in his windpipe.

“You doodled his name in your journal.”

"You read my journal?” It’s venomous and spiteful spilling from her mouth; her aloof facade being replaced with a glower with wide eyes and knit brows.

“No! Not purposefully…” He sputters out, backtracking. “You left it open, and I saw it.”

Her fingers curl and flex at her sides; she has half a mind to do to him whatever he did to Brent. Whatever it was, she's assuming it borders on a felony.

Her lack of gratitude seems to stir up a temper in him as well. “You’re welcome,” He mutters sarcastically under his breath, narrowing his downcast eyes.

She feels a downshifting of gears in her head. To hell with being placid and bashful, her humiliation about the assault rapidly evolving into a rage. Poor Izzy happens to be on the receiving end of it.

It spews from her lips before she can stop it. “I could’ve handled it myself! You probably just got me blacklisted, asshole!” She yells at a volume that reverberates off the windows.   

He sputters at her raised tone, caught off guard by the sudden and uncharacteristic outburst. He thought this was the most appropriate course of action. The idiot put his hands on her, so he dealt with it the best way he knew how. Was that not correct? Was he wrong? She's harmless. Kind. Soft. Nobody gets away with doing shit like that unscathed, not with her.

He flicks his tongue around his mouth, gnawing on the dead skin of his bottom lip in thought. They circle each other like prideful wolves, baring teeth and snarling, waiting for the other to jump first.

She exhales a soft, resigned breath, a bubble of air getting caught in the back of her throat, a traitorous tear slipping down her flushed face.

“He could get me fired—" She croaks, "he could ruin your deal with Geffen.” The last part slips from her lips like a whisper, a worry coming to the forefront of her mind that she tried to subdue.

Yes, she could always move to a different magazine, but what if Brent tarnished the band’s name? All at fault because she wouldn’t open her legs for him. Guilt eats at her heart like a maggot.

His eyes soften, exhaling a frail laugh. “He couldn’t do more damage than the guys do to themselves…you don’t gotta worry about that.”

That takes the wind out of her sails a bit. He’s right. The guys cause enough bad press with their antics—beating up a journalist seems like child’s play in comparison to drug dealing and stealing money out of unsuspecting groupies’ purses. Her migraine decides to make a sudden reappearance, her brain not nearly functioning at a capacity to process this. She sinks by the foot of the couch, pulling her knees to her chest and burying her face in both palms.

What a shit show.

She can feel his presence sitting beside her before she can register his proximity, his aura, and the Pavlov-trained sound of his wallet chain clinking, usually announcing his arrival. She rubs her eyes harshly before finally seeing his tattered fist up close. She studies his split knuckles, beginning to bruise with deep purple and blue hues, surprisingly complementing his porcelain skin. She reaches out hesitantly, gracefully inspecting his wounds with grazed touches. His silver rings are stained with dried crimson. She brushes a thumb over the metal wrapped around his finger, smudging the plasma. Her eyes flicker up to his face, watching every move intently.

“You didn’t have to do this for me.”

Izzy falters before replying, choosing his words carefully lest his tongue lands him at the end of the barrel of her verbal .45 again. He keeps her irises within the crosshairs of his gaze.

“I wanted to.” Deadpan, an air of pragmatism.

She couldn’t keep up with the number of questions she had swirling around her brain right now if she tried, one of them being more prevalent than the rest—

“Why?”

“Because he hurt you. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

His confession comes out unexpectedly soft, his tone dainty and sincere. It ruffles her feathers enough to strike a chord, head inching back slightly like the words physically push her. She feels a dull twist seeded deep in her chest. Even the mere mention of what happened unearths all the repressed feelings and flashbacks. She feels like she's past the point of hiding her sobs from him. Apart from her mother, she thinks he’s the one person who’s seen her blubber like a baby more than anyone else.

A slow, reluctant flow of tears edges from her eyes, her face scrunching up into a grimace as she drops his hand back into his lap.

Taking Izzy's insouciant personality into account, she would assume he’d awkwardly clear his throat and leave the room to give her a moment—he’s uncomfortable with his own vulnerability, let alone another person’s.

She wouldn’t expect him to open his wiry arms to her, pull her frame to his chest, and softly shush her sobs as her salted tears wet his shirt.

She wouldn’t expect that.

But he does.

He gently pets her head of tangled locks tied messily atop her skull, her face hidden in his wrinkled shirt that smells like cigarettes and musk. Wracked and pained wails clamor their way from her throat, the suppurated and raw emotion that she's been trying to evade finally running her cup over.

"I-I'm sorry, I..." Hiccup, gasp, snivel. "I just don't know what the fuck to do."

Izzy doesn’t pry, only the surprisingly sweet coos of his velvety voice, “Shh, you’re okay…”

She isn't sure how long they stay like that, almost cast and frozen in a Pieta-like embrace, but by the time her cries die down to weak whimpers and sniffles, he looks down at his watch with a sigh. She can take a hint; this is probably more than what he bargained for. She wipes her snotty nose with the sleeve of her shirt, detaching from Izzy's arms casually like she didn’t just almost bear her entire soul to him.

“You need to go?”

He nods with a slanted frown. “Told the guys I’d meet them at the studio.”

She nods understandingly, feeling physically drained but emotionally nimbler now that she allowed herself to actually feel something rather than burrowing it deep down to deal with at a later date. She casts another passing glance at his marred hand, the pliable, soft underbelly of her heart getting tugged on.

“Wait. Before you go,” Her voice tapers off as she shuffles into the kitchen, crouching down to rummage beneath the sink for the first aid kit.

He did do it for her, she rationalizes; the least she can do to repay him is tend to the open gashes decorating his fist.

She plops down beside him with a handful of bandages, gauze, and some alcohol wipes, blotting the dried blood and cleaning around the area. His hands are surprisingly soft for a person who uses them as a bludgeoning tool. She can feel the nimble joints and bones under his skin, his fingers coming to rest gracefully on her open palm.

Aside from her benevolently wiping the cold sweat from his brow when he was toeing the line between this world and the afterlife, this is the most physical contact she's felt with him. So tender, so real. 

Izzy can’t remember the last time somebody touched him with so much docility that wasn’t persuaded by some ulterior motive. She offers a small, shy smile as she wraps his hand gingerly.

“Can’t play guitar if you get gangrene.” She jokes, chuckling weakly to clear the heaviness in the air.

Izzy snorts out a laugh, smirking. “When I was a kid, I broke my wrist riding a dirt bike. The doctor told me to rest, but I still played drums with a giant cast—made the process a hell of a lot harder.”

She lets out a genuine giggle for the first time in what feels like days, melodic and lighthearted.

Izzy may be a lot of things, but stubbornness is most likely at the top of that list.

She tightens the small strip of gauze over his fist, tucking the loose ends of the fabric in a knot, and gives him another polite smile. A beat of quiet passes. As if someone flicks a light switch, that persistent awkward silence drives a wedge between them again. She was just a mess of heaving sobs clinging to his concave chest and shoulders, and now she feels like her cheeks were heating up because their legs were slightly touching on the floor.

“When do you have to go back to work?” He questions, fiddling with the bandages.

“Tomorrow.” It sounds more dreadful when she says it out loud.

“He won’t fuck with you anymore. Made sure of that.” Izzy's staid and no-nonsense demeanor makes a harsh reappearance, like he shed the skin of his sudden vulnerability and threw on the familiar suit of stoicism; it almost makes her shudder.

She hums with a nod in response.

“He probably won’t be there for the next couple days…give you some time to readjust—give you the chance to tell your boss, if you need to.”

She hadn’t even thought that far into the future yet. She doesn't want to stir the pot; the last thing she wants to be labeled as is the new, young shit-starter at the office. Then again, would she rather continue working alongside Brent with the persisting anxiety that he could try something again? Or worse, tell Mr. Owen a lie and get her fired before she can tell the truth first? It all seems too overwhelming to make a knee-jerk decision on the spot. Izzy created the opportunity for her to make her own decisions, albeit a bit uncouthly. For that, she's grateful.

“I’ll think about it. Thank you.”

Izzy shakes his head with a small, wistful smile.  “Call it even for saving my ass from the China White.”

“We should probably stop meeting over unfortunate circumstances.” It’s said as a half-joke, but a small part of her is serious. Damage and chaos always seem to be nigh on his heels.

“Yeah…” He breathes out a sigh, rising from his seated spot with a few joints popping in his knees along the way.

“I’ll see ya later, stay outta trouble.” He says with a pointed finger and a cocked eyebrow, a coy smile spreading across his lips.

She rolls her eyes and waves him off flippantly.

The last words being traded between them are a lilted tone, Goodnight.

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: SPIN HQ, 1987

Izzy was right. Brent isn’t at work the next day; a held exhale finally being released from her lungs when the seat at his desk was presumably empty. It took a biblical amount of strength and courage to get her to step onto the bus and walk through the big glass double doors of the office, the memory of scrambling on her hands and knees to cower under a desk still fresh in her mind. She can still feel the fibers of the carpet digging into the skin of her kneecaps, hands clamped tightly over her mouth to silence her shaky breaths, salty tears collecting on her fingers as his footsteps echoed through the hallways. The bruises and scratches have turned a deeper hue of yellowish-purple, still hidden under the cuff of her cardigan. A vigilant reminder every time she looks down that yes, indeed, that did happen.

She almost buckled at the waist when she stepped inside, but then she saw Marie, the vivacious receptionist’s smile. She gave her a cheery, Good morning! and a few other employees greeted her by name, and suddenly she felt the tension slowly start to slip away.

They aren’t all bad. They aren’t all beasts of prey.

She timidly sits at Brent’s desk, occupying his rolling office chair instead of the rusted folding one, and pushes his chicken-scratch papers away with her arm, not even wanting to come into physical contact with an extension of him. She put up a good front, replying to every cordial welcome with a warm smile and an echo of the greeting, but on the inside, she still feels like a sun-bleached, brittle piece of wood threatening to snap under the weight of her own thoughts. She knows she'll have to talk to Mr. Owen and eventually get to him before Brent does to circumvent any nasty rumors or lies.

Her eyes flicker over to his office, he’s engaged in a chummy-looking phone call with one leg resting over the side of his desk, his black loafer shining under the fluorescent lights from above. For a superior, she's only ever seen him laid-back and jovial, acting more like a middle-aged mentor than a higher-up. Just the thought of confrontation and having to fill out a formal-looking incident report makes the underarms of her blouse dampen with worry. Or, worst-case scenario, not be taken seriously. She can picture a brutal glance etching itself onto his face and a condescending question manifesting like, Well, were you giving him mixed signals? It sends an unnerving chill up her spine. Damned if she does, damned if she doesn't.

She spends nearly an hour milling over her repetitive thoughts, eyes burning holes into a Styrofoam coffee cup, tracing the swirls of milk disappearing into mocha. If today is her last day at SPIN, might as well go out with a bang.

Her feet feel like cinder blocks as she approaches his office, a dank pit in her gut that’s beginning to overflow. His eyes lock with hers through his glass windows, and he holds up a chubby finger, motioning her to hold on. When he finishes scribbling down something in his Rolodex, he waves her inside with a small smile.

“What’s up, McKagan?”

She lets out a weak, breathy little laugh at Mr. Owen's attempt at mixing professionalism with casualness. He has all the coolness of Mr. Rodgers, and the only reason he’s hip with the kids is because he works with a bunch of them. If he weren’t the chief publisher of a music magazine, she would assume he’d think Frankie Valli is still topping the charts.

She closes the door quietly behind her. “Do you have a second to talk?” The words feel heavy leaving her lips.

Mr. Owen furrows his bushy brows and gives her a concerned look, probably prompted by the wavering of her meek voice. “Of course… please, sit.”

His tender tone almost makes her throat tighten painfully. She levels her shoulders and squares her posture. No weakness. The leather cushion of the chair hisses when she sits down, but she can’t bring herself to hold eye contact with him for more than two seconds, finding relief in staring straight through the stack of legal papers sitting on the edge of the mahogany desk instead.

“Uhm…” Words get caught in her mouth, the rehearsed speech she had in her head evaporating the second she crossed into the threshold of his space.

“Something happened the other night—with Brent.” The atmosphere in his office thickens to a molasses texture; it’s almost palpable.

Mr. Owen shifts uncomfortably in his chair, leaning over his desk slightly to look at her with a puzzled expression.

“I’d rather not go into details, but—we were working after hours, and he made some…advances." Her sternum locks up, voice starting to tremble. "I said no—he said yes—it got ugly.” There’s a simultaneous weight lifted from her shoulders and a new, heavy feeling encompassing the cavity of her chest when she speaks those words. It makes it feel more existent in a way, like she's recognizing a pillar of reality, and it wasn’t just a twisted nightmare concocted in the watercolors of her mind. Timidly, she pulls up the sleeves of her cardigan and shows him the bruises. They look even uglier in this light. 

His eyes widen a fraction, letting out a deep exhale, scratching his stubbly beard in thought. He pinches the bridge of his nose and digs the pads of his fingers into his eyes, trying to conjure up an appropriate thing to say.

“Ms. McKagan, I—” Words seem to be failing him as well. “First of all, I’m sorry. SPIN has a strict no-nonsense policy, and harassment and discrimination are at the top of that list. That never should've happened.”

She gulps down the large lump of emotion in her throat that’s threatening to burst through her larynx at any moment. If she had to guess, he's probably scrambling about how to shimmy his way out of this situation without a lawsuit. In all honesty, she has no interest in that; she just wants to continue her learning without any more traumatic hiccups.

He lets out another exhale with puffed cheeks when he’s met with cold silence and her shell-shocked stare.

“On a personal level…I have a daughter around your age. If anything like that happened to her, I'd be devastated.”

She sucks in a sharp breath, teetering on the fringes of hopefulness.

His features soften. “You’ve been a studious intern, and everyone around the office enjoys your company and sees your potential. If it makes you more comfortable, you don’t have to worry about seeing Brent around here anymore.”

She releases another held exhale that was straining her lungs. “You—you believe me?” She questions, eyes wide, bottom lip starting to quiver.

Mr. Owen’s eyes turn with a look of pity, gazing at her like a poor girl who’s in way over her head. He sighs out her name knowingly. “We’re a business, we have security cameras. The alarm system was set off when Brent came here after hours." A beat of silence. "I believe you.”

So much for Brent’s empty threats about not having a security system, fucking idiot.

“Thank you, Mr. Owen…that’s all I want, really. I just don’t want to see him anymore.”

The painfully uncomfortable, but cathartic conversation eventually ends with her unfortunately not being able to avoid the formal incident reports and HR procedures, but it’s less excruciating than expected, and Mr. Owen restates his confidentiality about the entire fiasco. He offered if she'd like to go home early to decompress, but she politely declined and burrowed her head back into a pile of studies, figuring it’d be more productive to channel her emotions into writing reviews rather than sulking in bed.

When it’s quitting time and she's dragging her feet towards the exit to catch the bus, there’s a black truck parked by the entrance with a familiar, lithe-looking creature leaning against the hood, puffing on a cigarette.

Fancy seeing you here, guitar boy.

She stops dead in her tracks, eyes squinting against the setting sun and cocking her head to the side curiously. Izzy smiles back, and she can tell the sides of his eyes crinkle even from behind his dark glasses. He takes one final drag and crushes the butt of his smoke under the heel of his brown boot.

“What’re you doing here?” It sounds like a sharp question, but it comes from her mouth in a playful tone, it’s even coupled with a small smile.

He shrugs, feigning aloofness. “Somebody told me we should stop meeting over shitty situations…you hungry?” He asks, tilting his head to the truck.

It’s not every day she's presented with an opportunity to escape her normal routine; she's become accustomed to settling into an unvaried schedule. If she weren’t so shamefully eager to linger around Izzy again, she might second-guess her actions, but before she can weigh the pros and cons, she hastily prances over to the passenger side with Izzy already chivalrously holding the door open.

His ’78 Ford F150 is kept in surprisingly mint condition. A blue, woven dreamcatcher hangs from the rearview mirror and rides the breeze. He climbs in the driver’s seat and cruises down the road with the windows cracked halfway, the early summer air warming her pink cheeks and blowing the black strands of his hair around haphazardly.

“You like Italian food?” He grins lopsided, a glare reflecting off the circular black lenses covering his eyes.

He could ask if she wanted to eat dog kibble together, and she'd probably say yes.

“Yeah,” She replies indifferently, stomach growling in agreement.

He hums softly in response and takes a right down a small residential neighborhood, away from all the hustle and bustle of the main streets. It’s a relatively short ride with not a lot of small talk, par for the course by his standards, until he pulls into an antiquated little strip mall with a restaurant named Basilico’s placed in the middle. It’s not too fancy, but it also isn’t McDonald’s—it feels more like a date spot than a casual lunch, but she's learned that he’s a wild card, and there’s no use questioning his train of thought, or it might send her Type-A brain into a tizzy.

Settling into a corner booth by the window, they fall into a natural pocket of conversation.

“Anything new going on with the album?” She asks with a cheek full of white bread, washing it down with a gulp of soda.

Izzy slurps up a strand of linguine with a nod. “Recording’s done for the most part—after mixing and mastering, should be out by sometime in August.”

She beams a girlish smile at him, not concealing her excitement by proxy. “That’s great!”

She gets a subtle shrug and an unsatisfied meh in response.

“You not excited?”

“I am—just…anxious about reception, I guess.”

He’s cute when he decides to be earnest and timid for once.

She sets her fork down and wipes the sides of her mouth with a cloth napkin. “You already have a following around LA, m'sure a lot of other people will feel the same, and if they don’t…well—fuck ‘em.”

Her words are met with a smug smirk and prolonged eye contact; if she stared long enough, she might even detect the slightest twinge of pink on his cheeks.

“Yeah, fuck ‘em.”

The waitress eventually comes by with the bill, and they both reach for it at the same time, their hands brushing against each other gently in passing. The bandages she placed on his knuckles are now discarded, and his scabbed fist is on full, unapologetic display.

“Don’t,” He sternly states.

She tuts her tongue.

“I owe you.”

“You don’t.”

“I do. For dealing with Brent.”

His amber eyes dart to her face, and she swears she could shrink to a microscopic size under that gaze—so intent, so fixed.

“Wasn’t a favor. Don’t need one in return.” He murmurs as he thumbs through a wad of cash in his wallet. Drug money, if she isn't mistaken.

She yields with a roll of her eyes, and after the check gets squared away, they both walk back to the truck. Her hands shove deep in her cardigan pockets, and Izzy's boots mindlessly kick gravel chunks across the street.

They're still sitting in the dusky parking lot when he flips his wrist over to look at his watch, stumbling over his next words like he’s trying to find the right thing to say. “Do you, um—does Duff want you back at a certain time?”

She can hardly suppress the snort that comes out. What is he, fourteen? Trying to get her home before curfew? She'd be a little put off at his infantilizing if it wasn’t a smidge endearing. 

“He’s not my dad." She scoffs, "I can stay out past eight, I promise.” 

He yields with a nod, patting himself down in search of cigarettes. He pulls out two, always leaning over to light hers first now.

“Well, good, 'cause I wanna show you something.” His cigarette bobs between his peachy lips as he turns the key over, the truck engine grumbling to life.

“Show me what?” She exhales through a plume of smoke, ashing the end through the window.

“Be patient, you’ll see. We’re gonna go for a drive.”

The statement rolls around in her head for a moment like a marble. In normal circumstances, she'd immediately follow up with one million more questions—but in some incongruous way, she feels somewhat placated with not knowing what comes next for once.

Chapter Text

Los Angeles, Pacific Coast Highway; 1987

In hushed moments of self-reflection when reality hooks her neck in the crook of its cane, she never stops reminding herself about how strange things are currently.

First, her life gets completely turned upside down with one phone call. Then, she drops everything and moves every belonging she owns to a new state filled with a sea of unfamiliar faces. Of course, she gets thrust and tripped into an unforgiving environment under the loose authority of her brother, who’s about as good a parent as a teenager. And then, unfortunately, she gets to experience the brutality of male arrogance firsthand with her tear-stained cheek smooshed against a cool wooden desk.

But as if the trapdoor was opened from under her feet yet again, she's suddenly giggling like an idiot and singing along to an 8-track of Led Zeppelin II in the passenger seat of a truck with a man she was too afraid to look in the eye a month ago.

The blazing sun has now dipped behind the horizon, and the buttery moon reflects off the Pacific over her left shoulder. Izzy's going at least 75 through the winding canyons and hillsides, his hair being blown almost angelically by the cool wind floating through the truck cab. The air smells salty and light, the first notions and whispers of summer beginning to fill the ether.

This summer is going to be different.

She's said that to herself every season, they usually always end up being the same, staying up all hours of the night and puffing on shittily rolled joints as she writes poetry that doesn’t make much sense the next morning. But this summer does feel different. Partially due to her lanky counterpart in the driver's seat—one hand on the wheel and the other dangling through the window, cupping his hand and catching the wind in his palm.

He sneaks glances at her every few moments—she doesn't have to look at him to tell, she can feel his eyes. Resting her forearm on the windowsill and propping her chin in the crook of her elbow, she lets the rushing gusts of wind pushed by the ocean waves chill her face. She feels human again. Present.

She hasn't asked Izzy where they're headed—she doesn't really care, it just feels good to not be staring at the same four walls of Duff's apartment for the first time in days. With any other person, she'd probably be a little concerned about running off without telling anyone, anxious even, but she's built a strange rapport and trust with Izzy—she feels safe with him, as nonsensical as feeling secure with a smack-dealing guitarist sounds.

She can hear the crashing of the waves against the rocks over the rumbling of the truck engine, a cacophonous lullaby that makes her mind drift from all the bad things that have transpired over the last week. There’s no Brent out here, no SPIN, no insecurities or bad memories—just her, Izzy, the asphalt under the tires, and the ocean.

Taking a sharp right, the truck slowly rolls up to a small overlook that’s guarded only by a thin metal wire that separates a dirt patch from the cliff that leads to the roaring sea below. He puts it in park and gives her a subtle nod of his head, motioning her to, C’mon.

Trailing behind him, he stops to rest his arms on the wire, gazing at the hundreds of miles of open ocean reflecting the moon in front of him. It’s peaceful. Serene. It’s completely off the beaten path with no houses for miles—a place that only Izzy could stumble across.

He starts hesitantly with a deep intake of breath, “When I first moved out to LA, I didn’t know a lot of people…”

She can already tell by his tone of voice that he's about to peel back a layer of that calloused and guarded shell, bearing a part of himself only for her.

“Was weird, trying to fit in." He mumbles, nervously rolling sand under his boots. "I left Indiana ‘cause I didn’t fall into the status quo there, and then when I came out here I still struggled to find my place.” He purposefully forgoes the information about intermingling with groups of unsavory people that landed him in the jackpot of dealing and scamming.

She listens intently by his side, fiddling with the sleeves of her jacket between frigid fingers.

“I was barely eighteen, didn’t know shit. Sometimes I would just get in the car and drive. Nowhere in particular, just get the fuck outta dodge and away from everything." He casts a quick sidelong glance at her. "That’s how I found this place.” He motions to the Pacific. “Still come out here when I need a breather from everything…thought you could use one too.” He chews on the inside of his cheek bashfully as his words taper off, staring at the laces of his shoes, slowly retreating back into his fortified armor.

Internally, she's kicking her feet and squealing like a little kid, completely over the moon at feeling a connection with a somewhat kindred spirit—externally, her cheeks flush, and she playfully nudges Izzy's shoulder with her own.

“When'd you become such a softie? Jeez.” She quips, a side-snagged grin on her lips, attempting to make him feel a little less defenseless—something he’s clearly not comfortable exposing.

He snorts out a laugh and nudges her shoulder back, the contact through his denim jacket warm. “Yeah, yeah…whatever. You just bring it out of me, I guess.”

There’s a long stretch of silence before either of them voices another word. It’s become an unspoken thing between them, not having to fill the air with useless questions or noise anymore; they've both become comfortable with just each other’s presence—no words needed. Something that Izzy secretly appreciates about her, he’d much rather take the muteness over a tedious conversation that becomes a waste of breath.

He clears his throat and averts his eyes to some pillars of stone in the distance when he opens his mouth again. “How are you…feeling?” He questions timidly.

She's usually the one tiptoeing around his unpredictable emotions and attitude in conversation; now it’s his turn.

She exhales a little sigh, knowing it’s a fair query. How is she feeling? She hasn't allowed herself to stew on it much. “M'doin' okay, trying not to dwell on it.” She mumbles with a limp rise and fall of her shoulders. “Talked to my boss—”

Izzy's eyes flit over to her face with intrigue.

“He said I won’t have to see him anymore. They’re either firing him or just keeping us separate. Either way, that’s thanks to you, so…thank you.” She said in a lilted tone with a shy smile, finally connecting her mollified gaze with his.

Forever nonchalant and not knowing how to accept affection coming from a face that makes his knees traitorously weak, Izzy just waves her off with a flippant hand.

"Was nothing, really. Just glad you’re doing alright.” He swings his cocked hips from one foot to the other, balling his fists up so tightly in the pockets of his jacket that his knuckles turn white.

He’ll never admit it, not in a million fucking years—but she makes him nervous too. She's always hovering too close, too cluelessly endearing, too goddamn malleable. She doesn't know when to quit.

There’s a beat of quiet again, both of them transfixed by the waves and the tranquil ambiance. With a reticent swallow, Izzy looks over at her again through black wisps of his bangs, his head tilted down slightly to meet her eyes. She meets his gaze, and he can see the reflection of the moon in her irises. A gust of wind blows strands of hair over her face, and almost instinctively, Izzy tentatively reaches out to brush them from her eyes, gently tucking the stray locks behind her ear.

She has to cognitively stop herself from leaning into his palm like a cat. Her heart begins to gallop at the contact, breath getting hitched in her throat. There’s some sort of silent communication happening between them. One that she isn't sure she even understands.

His eyes say, I don’t know…but hers say, Please.

Time almost slows when he inches his head towards her. The cosmos being stretched indefinitely like taffy when his pink-toned lips part slightly and connect with hers in the most delicate way. She goes rigid at first. Catatonic. But when his large, warm palm cups her flushed cheek, she melts into him like butterscotch on hot concrete. Their lips slot together and intertwine like they were crafted just for the other person. Izzy traces the grooves and cracks with his tongue like he’s subconsciously committing the feeling to memory. But right when her tongue begins to wake up to prod at his keenly, he pulls back with wide eyes, his pallid face looking even more ghostly.

“I—I shouldn’t have done that…m’sorry.” He sputters out with a shake of his head, wiping his bottom lip with the back of his hand.

Before she can correct him and almost fall to her knees with a desperate plea of, No, please, more, he pulls the truck keys from his pocket and rakes his shaky fingers through the hair that frames his profile.

“Let’s get you home. S'late, and Duff's probably worried.” He murmurs lowly, plodding over to the truck and leaving her aghast in his wake.

Her first instinct is to want to cry out of mortification, but then common sense takes over and figures that if she turns into a blubbering, pitiful mess, he’ll probably leave her stranded.

She swallows down her shredded pride and walks back to the truck with her head pointed down and her face so engulfed in flames it feels like she's running a fever. Her lips still tingle and chase the feeling of his tongue.

She didn’t think a car ride could be more awkward after he drove her home from SPIN after the incident, but she stands corrected.

The stillness that fills the cab is excruciating, the only reprieve being the sound of the tires spinning against the road. Anytime she asks herself, Could things get worse? They always fucking do. It’s nearly comical. Izzy's apathetic and stiff the entire drive back—she can’t even hear his breathing. When she starts to recognize some of the street signs close to the apartment, she has half a mind just to open the door and tuck and roll—it would probably be less agonizing than sitting in the continuous silence and the tangible tension radiating from them both.

She didn’t think her self-esteem could hit a lower rock bottom.

When he approaches the complex, she doesn't even wait for him to pull into the parking space, opening the door and hopping out by the curb before he has the chance to say anything. With a harsh slam of the door, she stomps up the iron staircase without looking back.

She doesn't bother to peek out the window to check if he’s still there, silently making sure she safely gets inside. She kicks off her shoes in a huff and slams her bag down by the couch, movements jerky and aggressive. Duff's heavy footsteps coming from his bedroom alert her to his presence before his booming voice does.

“Jesus, where you been? It’s nearly 10, I was fuckin’ worried.” He says in that faux-stern tone that he uses when he’s trying to reprimand her.

If he knew any better, he’d stay out of her way right now—but he doesn’t.

“Was out.” She responds curtly, dumping herself on the couch and flipping on the TV to try and occupy her thoughts.

Her indifferent attitude sprinkled with passive aggression only grinds him more. In all fairness, she didn’t tell him she'd be home late, and he is responsible for her. She doesn't see it that way right now, though; the only thing she really does see is the rapid blinking of her eyelids to try and fight off the looming tears of embarrassment.

Duff raises his voice. “I don’t give a shit if you were out, you could’ve at least told me!” 

It seems like they've both had a pretty shitty day, considering he never pulls the rip cord of anger this quickly.

A large part of her doesn’t really have the energy to fight, but then again, the reptilian, angry, and primal part of her brain is prodding her in the ribs and whispering in her ear, Fight, motherfucker!

She narrows her gaze up at him, right eye twitching repeatedly. “Can you lay off? I was out, alright? I’m home now, aren’t I?” She bites back, venomous.

Duff looks taken aback by her abrasive nature for a moment, so unlike her usual passive and collected demeanor. He raises his brows in shock and even lets out a sarcastic puff. Her of all people should know that he can be just as petty.

“I would watch my tone if I were you. Or should I remind you that you’re staying at my place, rent-free? Could always call mom and send your ass straight back to Washington.”

It’s a low blow, and he knows it. Threatening to send her back home and ruin the potential beginnings of her career is a nasty bluff. Especially since he knows she's too hardheaded to listen. She'll sleep on Sunset and hitchhike to work before she gets sent back.

She whips her head in his direction, all the bottled-up emotion she's been quelling starting to froth.

“You’re a fucking asshole!” She seethes through gritted teeth, the wonderful, anger-induced tears starting to brim in her waterline.

He rolls his eyes and drops his head back dramatically when he sees her immature emotions starting to bubble.

They're both being childish, and they both know it.

He takes a deep, patient breath, knowing he’s supposed to be the adult here; he should at least try and act like it. “Just—tell me when you’re going out next time. Fuck’s sake…” He concedes in a low tone, heading back to his room with shuffling feet.

She pushes out a forceful huff of air through her nostrils, furrowing her brows and crossing her arms tightly over her chest in a petulant display of pouting.

It seems like she's out of the frying pan and into the fire with every man in her life.

Chapter Text

Los Angeles, Duff’s Apartment, 1987

She lets another blurry thought enter her brain as she stares above at the water-stained ceiling.

11:15 isn’t too early to start drinking, right? Totally not an early onset sign of alcoholism. Just a pastime to ease some of the painful memories of the night before. 

Her internal monologue sounds logical when she's halfway deep into a bottle of $4 Chardonnay on this overcast morning. As soon as Duff walked out of the apartment, still in a tizzy from the prior night’s argument, mumbling something about a big-wig meeting at the label office, she made a beeline to the fridge, swiped the wine jug, and began ripping straight from the bottle. Grapes mixed with morning breath were a bit rough at first, but after a few hearty swigs, her insides started to feel warm, and her head floated up to a fluffy, white cloud where everything felt a little less dire. Especially since her thoughts started to get a little too jumbled to remember the feeling of Izzy's pouty lips pressed tightly against hers, his wet tongue swiping against her bottom lip, and shyly brushing against her teeth.

Fuck.

Another gulp to barricade the feelings behind the iron bars of her mind.

If she keeps it up, she's sure by dinner time she'll black out and fully regret her decisions come tomorrow morning when she has to head back to the office. But that seems to be a problem for her tomorrow. Now, the chilled bottle clasped in her palm while she's face down on the couch seems sufficient enough. She can’t fully grasp what transpired the other night; she's either purposefully blocking it out or it all happened so fast that it turned into a blur.

One second, she's having a pleasant, introspective chat with her very attractive, very older friend; the next, he’s delicately cupping her cheek in his large hand and kissing her so gently that she dies a slow, painful death. He looked so bewildered when he pulled away, wide-eyed and shocked at his own actions. She never pictured Izzy to be a prudish tease. If his reputation has any grain of truth to it, he’s bedded half of LA already and made such an impression at the clinic that the nurses giving him gonorrhea meds knew him on a first-name basis. But then he goes and gets all guarded after a peck on the lips.

She physically shakes the thoughts from her dizzy head and takes another big swig. She flops over in the scratchy blankets and burrows her head deeper into the pillows with a grumble, inhaling the scent of stale laundry detergent and Duff's shampoo. It feels somewhat agreeable being drunk on an empty stomach with nothing to do all day, no wonder the guys are so loaded all the time—she kind of gets it now.

She takes one final sip of the now lukewarm wine that’s down to a ¼ of a bottle, her wrist feeling much heavier than before, and the last thing her weary eyes see before her eyelids refuse to stay open anymore is a white Fender bass leaning up against the wall in the living room.

—

Bang. Bang. Bang.

An echoing fist on the front door reverberates off the drywall.

It’s dark the next time she blinks open her eyes, the world tilting off-kilter. Still half-plastered and a lovely little migraine starting to work its way into her forehead—the last thing she wants to hear right now is a heavy hand slamming against the wooden frame. With a low, bellyached noise and a garbled, Hold on, she stumbles over to the front door with heavy limbs. Not having the wherewithal to look through the peephole, she flips the locks and rips the handle open in one swift motion, pleading to whatever God is listening to just stop the fucking knocking.  

“Christ, you alright?” A deep baritone voice asks from the other side of the door.

She can faintly make out the silhouette of Axl standing in the threshold with one of her eyes squeezed shut, his tattered, ripped jeans and snakeskin cowboy boots giving visual confirmation that she's not lucid dreaming.  

“Uh, yeah…long day.” She slurs back, swaying on her uneven feet lightly. She assumes she looks like a Category 5 disaster and is starting to feel even worse. Axl isn’t particularly the friendly face she has the desire to see right now.

She's had a few casual conversations with him at some of the guys’ gigs, most of them centering around his disdain for the press, how they always twist his words, and why the hell she'd ever want to do that professionally. She usually rebutted stubbornly with something along the lines of, Well, maybe stop saying stupid shit?

“Your brother here?”

She looks over her shoulder towards his room, not even sure if he’s returned.

She rubs her pounding temples. “No, said something about a meeting with the record company earlier?” She croaks, voice shot to hell.

“Yeah, thought he’d be back by now…maybe he went out afterward.”

“Nah, sorry. I’ll tell him to give you a call when he gets back.” She gives him a shrug, not knowing how else she can help.

He gives her a slight nod, but his emerald eyes linger on her sickly-looking form for a moment longer. He’s got the same looming presence as Izzy does, only worse—always a powder keg waiting to blow.

“You sure you’re okay?” His tone softens, showing an unusual display of tenderness from someone who’s always been described as violent in the scene.

She clears her throat, forcing a poker face. “Yeah, m’alright.”

With a brief pause, both of them linger in the doorway.

Axl's mouth twitches. “This is about Iz, isn’t it?” 

Her eyes go wide, immediately shaking her head. “What—no…there’s nothing—huh?” She stutters, trying to backtrack.

The arrogant and coy asshole that he is, Axl chuckles at her flustered appearance. “Chill, your secret’s safe with me. He blabbers a lot when he’s drunk.” He crosses his tattooed arms, looking down at her from the bridge of his nose like he’s got the upper hand in this discussion—he does.

She sighs and rests her head against the door, accepting defeat. She doesn't have the strength to go tit-for-tat right now. “Yeah. It’s about Iz.”

He smiles pensively and jerks his chin inside the apartment. “You wanna talk about it?”

No. Not really. But for some reason, Axl has this weird calming demeanor when he’s acting sane, a gentleness she didn’t think he could possess. Maybe she can chalk it up to the wine and her head still feeling fuzzy, but she nudges the door wider with her shoulder and allows him to trail behind her to the couch. Plopping down in resignation, she throws an arm over her eyes; she can feel the cushions depress with his weight.

“What do you know?” She rasps out.

A light huff of air comes from Axl. “That you’ve been hangin' out together.”

She waits for the inevitable bomb to drop.

“And that he nearly killed someone for you.”

There it is.

“I didn’t ask him to do that.”

“I know. He only does shit like that if he wants to.”

She groans, feeling endlessly torn.

“He’s being weird.”

“He’s always weird.”

“No—I know...but really weird.”

He takes a pause, and she lifts her arm from her eyes to check if he’s even still there. He’s still sitting at the foot of the couch, staring at her crumpled form curiously with an expression like he’s trying to figure out what the big fuckin’ deal is. 

He starts with a big intake of air. “Lemme tell you something—” 

She fears she might be in for what Duff calls a Never-ending-Axl-tangent.

“Izzy's always been…like that, even when we were kids. He runs away when he gets cornered. Especially with feelings and shit.”

She sits up and takes a moment to recalibrate the spinning in the room before she can form an answer. She doesn't know much about the intricacies of Axl and Izzy's past that well, but what she does know is that they grew up together in a place Duff likes to call, Bumfuck Nowhere. They came to LA within a year of each other, reconnected, and things fell into place naturally. They’ve become some sort of a package deal—Axl likes to be explosive and make the most foolhardy possible decisions regarding the band, and Izzy is usually left to be the level-headed voice of logic to pick up the pieces. Ironic that he can handle business dealings but not getting to second base.

“I dunno…” She sighs, defeated, playing with the frays of the blanket beneath her calves. “He keeps caring—then not caring. Being nice—and then...not nice.” She timidly admits the truth of the situation. It’s nerve-wracking to bring this part of her life to light. It’s not like she's done anything wrong with him, but it still feels strange talking about their relationship—or subsequent non-existent relationship.

Axl gives her an empathetic look with a slanted frown like he’s taking pity on a little kid. She's been on the receiving end of that look more times than she can count.

“He’s a professional at self-sabotage. He's got a habit of fucking a good thing up for himself.” He states blatantly, smoothing out the tangled threads of the ripped denim decorating his thighs.

She lets out a lackluster laugh, knowing that if anyone understands the inner workings of how Izzy operates, it’s probably him.

“Give ‘em some space and he’ll come around. He always does.”

Her eyes flit up to Axl, who’s giving a faint smile of sympathy. She gives him a wordless thanks as he rises from the couch.

“Tell your brother to give me a call when he gets a minute. See ya later.” He says over his shoulder as he waltzes out the door just as quickly as he appeared.

If she weren’t half-sober, she might’ve assumed that the entire conversation she just had was a hallucination.

Is everyone in this fucking band weird?

—

Downtown Los Angeles: SPIN Magazine HQ, 1987

Her pounding head hangs in her hands at the desk. She's fallen into a nasty routine of finding companionship in a bottle of cheap booze almost every night. Either Duff is too oblivious to notice, or he doesn’t think that much of it. In all honesty, she doesn’t either—sometimes it’s nice just to forget.

Now that Brent’s exited stage left, Mr. Owen assigned her to another writer named Marcy at the office. She’s friendlier, closer to her age, gets her obscure movie quote references—and more importantly—took one look at her when she staggered over to her desk this morning and decided to take pity.

She never thought she'd be so happy to hear the words, Just proofread some of these faxes for me. No rush.

She decided to heed Axl's advice and lay off the whole Izzy situation. It’s been absolute radio silence for at least four days. No random pop-ups at the apartment, no sleek black truck with a white pinstripe parked by the entrance of the office, and no late-night phone calls where she secretly confides about everything she's been up to. That’s the part she always ends up missing the most when he disappears—the company.

Duff mentioned in passing the guys heading to New York and maybe even England after the album drops, so she figures she might as well get over this whole guitarist-fling anyway. She's sure he won’t wait around, and she's also pretty certain she can’t compete with a Double-D backstage bunny who's willing and able for just about anything.

She spends the majority of the day moping and licking her wounds quietly at her desk, and she plans to continue that task when she gets back home. Maybe it’d be wise to lay off the fruity wine for a few nights and turn in early; she has half a mind to take the car for the weekend and disappear out in Joshua Tree somewhere. Izzy was kind of on to something when he made an offhand comment about the desert having healing properties.

Her Ray-Bans hug the bridge of her nose as she steps off the bus, one shoulder holding her bag, the other hand occupied with a hot travel cup of coffee to help limp through the rest of the evening. She notices Duff's car is still gone, probably at the bakery covering a double shift. The car that she does notice occupying his parking space makes her teeth grind together.

Black pickup truck. White pinstripe. Small dent in the rear bumper from when, I backed into somebody, I was drunk. Or, however Izzy maturely put it.

Her lip twitches upwards involuntarily in annoyance, but a small, decrepit part of her is a little giddy that he’s starting to show his face again. They aren’t even a thing, and they've already developed a toxic cycle of this tedious push-and-pull game. Normally, the chicks play hard to get, but in this instance, she's the meek little mouse, and he's the predatory black cat always chasing her tail and pawing at her face.

With a sigh, she reticently drags her feet up the staircase, her already sore muscles taut with tension. She pauses outside the front door, hand resting on the knob.

Stand your ground.

Stepping inside, she sees him sitting prettily on the couch, an acoustic draped over his lap, the setting sun coming through the slatted blinds in threads, painting his alabaster face golden.

Stand her ground? Yeah fucking right. Every time she makes eye contact with him, her knees go weak.

“Hey.” She softly acknowledges him.

The guys have made Duff's place a revolving door of occupancy, so she doesn’t even question how they get inside anymore. They probably have more copies of the front door key than she does.

“Hey.” Izzy echoes, fingers traipsing over the steel strings, making a folksy-sounding chord.

She turns a cold shoulder to him as she unlaces her shoes and goes about her usual routine when she gets home from work.

Wash hands. Get changed. Flip on the TV. Scrounge up some scraps for dinner.

She does it all while barely granting him recognition of his presence. She's proud of herself for maintaining a semblance of composure for once. Right when she's in the middle of opening a two-day-old Tupperware of chicken and rice, his mild tone pipes up again from behind her.

“You’re mad at me.” Not a question, just an observation.

She gives him a feeble shrug in response. Partly because she's tenacious and stubborn enough to keep up the whole silent treatment, but also because she isn’t sure what to say to him. Hey, why’d you kiss me then act like you made out with a dead fish? Cold shoulder it is—seems easier.

Her back's turned to the living room, but she hears him put the guitar aside and rise from the couch, crossing the room in two steps and hovering over her shoulder. His proximity alone makes her cheeks warm.

“Can we talk?” A timid broach of the subject.

“About what?” A bullheaded feign of ignorance.

He tempers out her name, and she can feel his hand floating over her shoulder, playing with the idea of laying it on her skin to get her attention. She swivels around to face him before he can, her usual bashful and tender eyes now filled with tenacity. Izzy's swagger falters at the sight.

“Why are you here?” She spits out with more rancor than intended.

“'Cause I wanted to see you.”

“Fuck you.”

He has the nerve to let out a raspy laugh at her frustration.

“C’mon, don’t be like that…” He says through an infuriating smirk that carves the side of his mouth like a crescent moon.

“Don’t be like that? What the fuck is your deal, Izzy? What’s your motive?”

“I don’t have a motive.”

He’s so calm and collected that it only stokes the fire in her belly.

“Obviously you do! You act all protective and friendly with me, then you make a move, and the entire script flips. I can’t keep up wi—”

Her gripe of displeasure is suddenly cut off by broad shoulders cornering her by the kitchen counter and a pair of soft lips connecting with hers hastily.

Fuck!

She instinctively squirms out of irritation, not yet done with airing her grievances. But he doesn’t pull away this time, only cards his dexterous fingers at the base of her neck and tugs gently at her hair to tilt her head back and deepen the kiss.

His slithering tongue snakes its way into her mouth zealously. Tasting like tobacco and waxy ChapStick, she laps it up without hesitation. The fight stops there—at least on her part. She accepts it. She accepts him. Greedily.

It could be seconds, minutes, hours, or eons of just chasing each other's tongues and her balling up her fist in his linen shirt, tugging on the thin fabric with subdued hums of approval. Finally, he pulls away with stunted exhales and looks down at her with blown-out pupils, the slightest twinge of pink on his cheeks. She stares back at him with half-lidded eyes and lungs that feel vacuum-sealed.

“Sorry. Didn’t know how else to shut you up.”

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff’s Apartment

He thinks he’s slick. Mr. Cool, Mr. Smooth Talker, Mr. Fuckin’ Brownstone. Not this time.

As much as the warmth in her stomach is beginning to broil and blaze its way up her spine, and the miniature devil on her left shoulder is whispering sweet nothings in her ear about jumping his bones right here and now, on the cold kitchen tile, he won’t get it. He doesn’t deserve it.

“Fuck you.” She echoes again, giving his bony shoulder a less-than-gentle shove.

Her emotions have been through the absolute wringer over the past few weeks, and Izzy just so happens to be holding the match over her doused-in-kerosene heart.

When he finally realizes she isn’t in much of a mood to be playful, and he can’t verbally dance his way around your big feelings like usual, he lets out a rueful exhale and stares at the dirty grout on the floor guiltily.

“Look, m'sorry, alright? Can we just—talk?” He offers lowly, coming across uncharacteristically bashful.

He may be a skillful musician and lyricist, but nobody said he was good at confrontation. Especially when it comes to dealing with problems he caused.

Much to her chagrin, the pouty look on his face makes her pathos turn to goo. Digging her fingernails into her palms, she swallows the pride and, more importantly, the anger.

“Fine. What do you want to talk about?”

His big, caramel-doe eyes flit up from the floor, and she swears she'd pounce on him and tear at his clothes if she didn’t feel like punching him right in his prettily curved nose first.

He anxiously fiddles with a lighter in his hand, turning it over in his palm and letting his thumb flick the spark wheel every so often. It must be almost out of juice because the flame never catches, only dull spits of light sputtering weakly from the hood.

There’s a thick silence between them, both struggling to find the right things to say. Rush hour traffic sings outside, a cacophony of impatient car horns beeping loudly, and the occasional tire screech to fill the void that’s gaping in the middle of the kitchen.

“I shouldn’t have reacted like that the other night. I just…it caught me off guard.”

She raises a sharp brow at him. “May I remind you that you were the one who kissed me?”

He raises a hand in silent, placated surrender. “I know—I know. Shouldn’t have done it.”

A more livid and confused expression crosses her face, like he didn’t just kiss her again a few moments prior.

He sputters and stumbles nervously over his words, pulling the metaphorical foot from his mouth.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that! Fuck, I—I’m not good at shit like this, I don’t know what I’m saying.” He says self-consciously, a rough hand rubbing the back of his flushed neck.

Axl was right—he does have a habit of fucking a good thing up for himself. She gives him a vague wave and brushes past him into the living room, not wanting to expend the little energy she has left on a pissing contest about regretful kisses. He follows on her heels like a puppy, but before she can bitterly collapse onto the couch, a warm hand encircles her wrist, tugging slightly in a kiddish display of desperation. He spins her so their chests are almost touching.

In a moment of stunned stillness, they both think the same thing simultaneously,

Goddamn, I could swim in those eyes.

“It’s not that I don’t want to. Believe me, I do.” His voice is huskier now—quieter—he’s always so quiet. It’s maddening in ways that she can’t wrap her head around.

“Why don’t you?”

He’s contemplating it. She can tell by the way his eyes flicker to her lips, then back up to meet her gaze. His head inches forward, a drape of raven strands falling from his shoulders and brushing against her jawline. His lips part, and a blush-toned tongue slithers out to wet them. She almost raises herself on tiptoes to close the gap, but he pulls away before she can taste him again.

He separates himself. “'Cause you’re a fuckin’ kid.” He says despondently, stepping back to give himself breathing room.

She feels that nasty serpent of anger tighten around her chest again, the singe of bile creeping up her throat and spewing from her mouth.

“I’m not a fucking kid!” She raises her voice in a way that she hasn’t in months, eyelid twitching in ire.

If she remembers correctly, the last time she yelled like this was when she got into a fight with Duff. It was over something frivolous, of course. It seemed dire and world-ending at the time, but now, it was such a stupid argument that she can’t even remember what it was about. Very juvenile. It only proves Izzy's point.

“All of you love to reduce me to some clueless little fuckin' girl who’s too stupid for her own good. You have no idea the bullshit I’ve gone through, Izzy! You know why? ‘Cause you haven’t bothered to ask! I’m acting more like an adult than the five of you combined!” She's foaming acrimony, panting through the fit, but he takes the verbal punches like a champ.

She's so unaccustomed to exploding like this that it even catches her off guard. It’s her own fault, though. Instead of talking openly about her conglomerate of issues to the numerous people who’ve always offered to be a shoulder to cry on, she swallows them down and chases them with bottom-shelf wine. It always decides to arise at the worst times; times like when she's staring right up at the boy who’s chosen to rent an uncomfortable amount of square footage in her head.

Izzy, forever smug and assuming he’s three steps ahead of everyone and everything, drops his head with a chuckle. Part of her is correct, and part of her is too fired up to realize how horrendously teenage-girl she sounds right now.

She sets her jaw and curls her fingers into a tighter fist, knuckles turning white with the pressure that digs into the meat of her palms. She wants him to fight back. Erupt just like she is. He’s so passively nonchalant and aloof that it makes her want to land the heel of her foot in his crotch just to elicit a reaction.

He steps closer again, crowding her personal bubble, and all her faux confidence vacillates. She may be tough and headstrong, but Izzy's been seventeen before, and she's never been twenty-five.

“Whatever you think is gonna happen between us—it shouldn’t.”

Ouch. His words are so icy that it feels like a bucket of freezing cold water gets dumped on her head, snatching her by the ankle and bringing her to a crashing reality.

“But you want it to.” Her voice comes out whispered now, sultrier than she thought possible.

Izzy visibly swallows, dithering. “Do you?”

A slender finger raises to trace an embroidered flower on the sleeve of her sweater. An instinctive shudder tickles her senses at the contact. She has an eerie feeling she'll regret the answer no matter what she says.

“Yes.”

He has a private moment of reflection inside his head. Weighing the benefits and drawbacks of the predicament that’s been churning between them since her pretty little head started to appear behind his eyelids when he tried to sleep at night. He trails his hand from her wrist, up the length of her arm, and brushes a calloused thumb over the delicate skin of her cheekbone.

She's become a bit exhausted of waiting for his calculated moves; it’s quite clear by the way she stands on her toes to meet his lips halfway. He stiffens at first, a little impressed by her brazenness, but still hesitant to lean into the feeling. When her tongue starts to curiously explore and prod at his, the animalistic and testosterone-driven part of his brain submits and commands his movements before his conscious can.

If the old adage Young, dumb, and full of cum could apply to any situation, it would probably be now.

His hand drops to the small of her back and cheekily inches downward, only grazing her ass. She's almost apprehensive to break the kiss—not even to breathe. She's scared that if she does, he’ll come to his senses and hightail it out of sight again. Letting out soft little breaths between spit-soaked kisses, she nips lightly at his lower lip. He releases a low groan from the back of his throat that reverberates through her whole body like a clap of thunder, walking her backward until her knees hit the couch, both of them falling into a heap of limbs on the cushions.

He pulls back a fraction, not a full separation, but enough to search her eyes for any apprehension. "This okay? Don't wanna..." he falters, trying to find the right way to say it without pressing on a bruise, "...force." 

A breath gets caught in her chest, part adrenaline, part affection. He still cares enough to check. Silently, she nods, leaning up to capture his ruddy lips again. 

It’s frantic and fevered, a mix of gluttonous touches and shameless mewls every time his fingers dip below the bottom hem of her sweater. She's a bit uncoordinated compared to him, but he happily takes the reins. He slots his jean-clad thigh between her legs, and it’s almost an impulse to rut against it lewdly. She's getting ahead of herself, and she's aware—but, fuck. She needs it. She needs him.

Izzy finally separates the contact when her fingers fumble with his leather belt buckle, hand coming to cover hers. He hovers above with blown-out, black pupils that swallow the color, making him look like he’s grasping at the threads of self-control. The setting sun peeks through the curtains and washes over the pale skin of his face like a halo. She reaches up to tenderly brush a lock of hair behind his ear. She wishes he’d show his face more; it’s quite easy on the eyes.

“Are you—” He trips over his words. “Have you done this before?” A very polite way of asking if he’s about to destroy her innocence.

She can’t help the incriminating blush that reddens her face. “Only with one person.” Truth. He’s got them basically dry-humping already, no reason to lie now.

It wasn’t very romantic or synchronized, but she clumsily fumbled her way through sex with one boyfriend—she uses that term loosely—in high school a few times. Bruce Sutton, a 5’8, dark-haired, art kid who was a little too into Frank Zappa and the Dead, who smelled like a perpetual mist of incense and Prell shampoo. She remembers staring up at the tie-dye tapestry hanging above his twin-sized mattress as he pumped ungracefully between her legs, patiently waiting for the part that was supposed to feel good. It’s not much experience to compare anything to, especially with Izzy, who probably beds one woman a day. 

Little does she know he hasn’t fallen face-first into some pussy in a while, too preoccupied with his own bullshit to set aside time to chase some tail.

He grows a bashful smile on his lips at her admission and pulls away. It’s not until now that she realizes that guiding an inept chick through the throes of passion isn’t very appealing, which probably only adds to his uncertainty about her being laid out beneath him. He rests on his haunches between her legs and traces small circles on her calves in quiet contemplation. Leaning up on her elbows, she gives him a look that almost says, What? You gonna leave me high and dry again?

“Let’s just go slow for now, alright?”

It’s not exactly what she wants to hear. She'd rather be clawing her blunt nails down the length of his spine rather than French kissing on the couch, but once again, she's getting an inch and taking a mile. She gives him a stubborn pout and deflates her shoulders, which Izzy humors with one hand cupping her chin to give a chaste kiss.

“Slow. Be patient.” He mumbles between wet kisses trailing from her lips to the crook of her neck, suckling gently at the thin skin under her ear.

It’s embarrassing, the desperate noises that fall from her open mouth, coupled with the eager roll of her hips against his torso. He dips his head lower and raises her sweater to her ribcage, exposing the soft skin of her sun-shy stomach. He peppers lips across the expanse of her sternum, agonizingly slow, leaving goosebumps in his wake. When he reaches the waistband of her pants, he looks up from behind dark strands.

God, what a sight.

“M’gonna make you feel good, that okay?”

Just when she thinks she's got him figured out, he proves time and time again that she, in fact, doesn’t. He acts silent and elusive in public and transforms into a pillow-talking professional between the sheets; she has half a mind to just shove his head down to give him confirmation that holy shit, yes, that is more than okay.

"Please." It’s spoken on the tail-end of a broken whisper, her fingers trembling to reach out and touch him.

Leaving a final kiss to her hip bone, Izzy goes to peel back the obstructive layer of clothing separating his mouth from more of her skin. He gets one quick glimpse of the baby blue panties shyly peeking up at him from behind her pants when a set of footsteps approaches the apartment suspiciously close.

They both simultaneously scramble away from each other in a jumble of appendages and frenzied movements. Izzy shoots over to the far end of the couch, and she curls up on the other, trying their best to seem inconspicuous.

She hears the familiar pattern of a brass key unlocking the front door, and Duff strides in casually.

His eyes land on her immediately.

“Oh, hey.”

Yeah…hey.

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff’s Apartment, 1987

He pulls a very visible face. “Whatcha guys up to?” Duff asks, cynicism thick, clearly put off by his little sister and bandmate all shacked up in his apartment—without supervision.

She gives a silent plea for backup in a side-eyed glance to Izzy on the other end of the sofa, wondering who’s going to summon up a lie first. With an awkward clearing of her throat, she sits knock-kneed like a Catholic schoolgirl in a pew.

“Uhm—nothin', just hangin' out.” She attempts to sound as unassuming as possible, but with crimson cheeks and squeezed-together thighs, it’s quite obvious that somebody was about to get their rocks off.

It doesn’t help that Izzy's avoiding Duff's eyes like Medusa, clutching a pillow over his lap, trying to hide a very stiff problem.

He gives them both a once-over as he pops open a beer from the fridge. He crosses over to the couch and sandwiches himself between her and Izzy, spreading his legs to take up as much room as possible on purpose. He smells like fresh bread and vanilla from the bakery, a usually welcome reminder of his presence, but at the current moment, she couldn’t want him further from home. The suspended silence is unbearable, and she's almost halfway wishing that she had listened to Izzy from the get-go and hadn’t tried to fool around.

Izzy forces words from his throat. “I’m uh, gonna get going. Just dropped by to say hi.” He discards the pillow and gives both her and Duff an oafish head-tilt goodbye.

She locks eyes with him as he makes a beeline for the door, glaring, not very happy about being left to deal with the radioactive aftermath he sparked. He couldn’t come up with a better excuse? Since when does Izzy ever drop by just to say Hi?’ She thought he was supposed to be a smooth-talking charmer—fucking hopeless.

It only takes five seconds of uncomfortable quiet after the dull hum of the front door shuts for Duff to slowly turn his head with a raised brow. Instinctively, she tightens her muscles and braces for impact.

He sips his beer, speaking worringly calm. “So…you guys seem to get along.”

“Yeah, guess so.” This isn’t the first time she's silently prayed to a higher power to get her out of a conversation as quickly as possible.

He gives her a small hum. He’s doing that thing where he stays as quiet and as passive-aggressive as possible to make her crack under the pressure.

With a sharp inhale, she timidly broaches the subject. “Duff, stop. I know what you’re thinking.”

He instantly raises a hand, motioning for her to stop. Her mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out, only the loud clicking of her jaw ringing between her ears. Everyone assumes Duff is this big, gentle giant, goofy, and timid. Most times, he is. But he’s got a nasty, mean streak in him, and he’s not afraid to show it if need be. Especially if he has the slightest inclination that his jailbait sister is rolling around a dirty mattress with his rhythm guitarist. A guy whom he knows for a fact has no qualms about running through girls like pairs of socks.

He takes a final gulp and pinches the sides of the empty can, crushing it in his palm. He tosses it on the coffee table, the aluminum making a quiet clang against the wood, followed by a glamorous belch. “You're not stupid— you know he doesn’t have the best track record with chicks. None of us do.” He says lowly, peering at her through greasy strings of dirty blonde.

To be fair, nothing has happened between her and Izzy besides a brief visit to second base nearly ten minutes ago—right where he’s sitting unbeknownst to Duff.

There are two avenues she could take here: be obstinate and deny until the cows come home, or, act like the so-called adult she's been desperately trying to convince everyone she is, and approach the situation with maturity and grace.

“We’re just friends.”

Truth.

“Nothing shady has happened.”

Lie.

Duff fingers his denim pockets and retrieves a slightly crumpled cigarette from his jeans. Taking a slow drag, he puffs out a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. He plays the fun-loving and tender role a lot better than the big, intimidating guy, but it’s still nerve-wracking, nonetheless.

“Don’t lie, you’re bad at it." He exhales a thick stream through his nostrils. "He’s been hangin' around here more than he ever has before, and you’ve been coincidentally going out at the same times he’s been doing something other than being at the studio." Duff gives her another sidelong glance. "LA may be big, but shit gets around fast.”

She harshly swallows a large lump lodged in her throat, nervously picking at the nail polish around her cuticles. She can waltz her way around a lot of situations, but unfortunately, she can’t out-bullshit a bullshitter. And Duff so happens to be a professional one.

Chewing large chunks of the inside of her cheek, she gives him a feeble-looking, doe-eyed glance. Maybe she'll be able to pull the innocent little sister card. Time to double down.

“We’re just friends, Duff. We talk about music and writing and just...hang out. It’s real casual—s'not like we’re dating or anything.”

He makes a visible grimace at that. He’s well aware that none of them have to be dating a girl to know what their insides feel like. Duff's guilty of it too; he spent the better part of his first year in LA conquering new ground, so to speak.

He snuffs out the butt of his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray and makes an unpleasant sound of discomfort. He’s in a difficult position, too. He can continue to baby her and try to shield her from the horrors that usually come with the territory of being a young woman in a big city—little does he know she's already experienced the majority of them—or, he can put a small sliver of trust into her. Izzy's a good dude—little unpredictable, but mostly harmless. It could always be worse; she could be screwing Axl.

He rubs his tired eyes roughly with the heel of his palms, burnt out from picking up so many doubles at the bakery and creatively stationary at the studio; he doesn’t have much energy to go back and forth with her about this. “Fine, whatever. You can be all chummy with him. Just don’t fucking fall in love.”

She fears it might be a little too late for that notion. She gives him a silent nod.

—

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff's Apartment, 1987

After an insufferably quiet dinner over the latest episode of Miami Vice, Duff retired to his room sullenly with the accompaniment of Smirnoff.

She stared at the ceiling in silence, outstretched on the pull-out couch, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the apartment enough to make out the small popcorn details above her. She meticulously replayed the day's earlier events. The feel of Izzy's hands gripping fistfuls of her tender flesh, his lips falling into perfect rhythm with his tongue, the demure look he gave her from between her legs. And those sounds, God, those sounds. The gruff and grainy groans he made every time she rolled her hips against his body with a little too much enthusiasm. The soft exhales and harmonious breaths he let out between fevered kisses. It makes the same heat start to pool in her lower stomach.

Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, she slips a hand beneath the blankets and tries to strip off her sweats as quietly as possible. If Duff made it even a quarter of the way through the booze, a bomb going off on his bedside table wouldn’t wake him. But still, skirting around the dating conversation was cumbersome enough; the last thing she needs is for him to overhear her getting off to the thought of his brother-in-arms.

Before the tips of her fingers dip below her delicates—much like how she was interrupted with Izzy—she's sidetracked by the landline ringing. It seems like every time she tries to get cosmically connected to him, the universe plays some cruel trick to halt things.

With a grumble and an annoyed huff, she snatches the wireless receiver off the side table and puts it to her ear, pinching the bridge of her nose with an exhale.

“Yeah?” She never knows what voice to expect on the other end anymore.

“Hi.”

Well, this one's always a welcome surprise.

“Thanks for leaving me in the dust earlier.” It sounds playful coming from her mouth, but there is a hint of sincerity in it.

“Yeah, sorry 'bout that. I figured I’d say something stupid and get you into deeper shit. He didn’t rib you too hard, did he?”

Flipping onto her stomach and hiding under the covers, she presses the handset closer to her face, keeping her voice to a whisper. She's literally giggling and sneaking phone calls at night with a boy. How disgustingly…adolescent.  

“We didn’t do anything; there’s nothing to rib me about.”

“If he showed up a minute later, this would be a different conversation. I told you it was a bad idea.”

She pulls a disgruntled face; she's sure Izzy can hear over the phone. “Yeah, well…you weren’t making much of an effort to stop it.”

A beat of silence.

Too far?

“Shut up.” Followed by a hoarse chuckle.

Not too far.

“What're you calling so late for?” She attempts to change the subject, not wanting to dwell on the could’ve beens.

“Late? S'only 10.”

She peeps the top of her face from under the blankets and strains her eyes to look at the microwave clock—sometimes she tends to forget that this is the hour the guys are usually starting their day, not ending it.

“Late for normal people, early for you.”

Another stretch of quiet aside from his breath fanning against the speaker.

“Couldn’t really sleep…wanted to talk to you.”

The sudden pleasantries make her feel grossly warm and fuzzy inside. She feels stupid when a giant grin spreads across her face.

“And what would you like to talk about?” Defaulting to sardonicism seems to be her coping mechanism.

“Dunno. Just like hearing your voice.”

Words so soft sound alien coming from him, a small part of her wishes and hopes that she's the only person who gets to hear them.

“We can talk about anything; I like hearing your voice, too. Just don’t ask me some stupid shit like What am I wearing?"

He gives her an airy laugh; she can practically picture his mellow, heavy-eyed expression.

“Alright, I’ll strike that one from the arsenal. How about what are you doing?”

“Lying in bed, talking to some guy.”

“Just some guy?"

“Yeah, some guy,” She says through an audible smile.

“Would you feel different if some guy played you some tunes over the phone?”

She's never gone skydiving, but she assumes it would be the same feeling her stomach is having right now: free-falling and flailing. Welcomed panic and accepted dread.

“Yeah. Maybe I would.”

She hears some shuffling over the receiver, the sounds of ruffling sheets and objects clattering. Then followed by fingers gliding over steel strings, echoing through the wooden body of an acoustic.

“Whaddya wanna hear?”

The mental image of Izzy trying to balance the phone in the crook of his neck, twisting and contorting so it reaches his mouth while simultaneously trying to form a barre chord, is quite entertaining.

“Hmm…something that makes you think of me.”

He fiddles around for a second, catching his bearings and shifting into a more comfortable position. All the while, she slips lower into the couch and waits with bated breath. It feels so cliche and coming-of-age, but she'd be lying if she said she wasn’t totally falling for it.

After a moment, she recognizes a familiar pattern of chords being strummed melodically: G, Am7, Bm, C, D, F, F.

Wild Horses.  

She listens to the decipherable song and even hears his quiet hums and occasional whispered lyrics, smiling like a buffoon every time his grainy voice cracks on a verse.

When he reaches the second chorus, her eyes feel heavy; by the third, she's almost in REM sleep. He’s playing her a lullaby.

When he’s done and the arpeggios fade out quietly, he calls her name. He gets a drowsy Hm? in response.

“Hope that didn’t sound too bad. I ain’t no Richards.”

“No. You’re better.” She tries to pry herself from the grip of slumber to flirt foolishly, but it’s no use; she's beat and half-dead.

“I’ll call you tomorrow. Get some sleep, sugar. G’Night.” He says gently, his tone almost like a warm, encompassing embrace.

“Night, Iz.”

Chapter Text

It feels as if her loosely defined relationship with Izzy has put its heavy foot on the pedal and slammed it to the floor. Redlining the dial and shooting the speedometer to 130 in the span of five seconds—or in this case, a few weeks.

They've gone from awkward side glances and mumbled small talk to consistent phone calls talking about her day. A once casual, How’s the mag? has now grossly evolved into, What did you work on today? Have you eaten? You wanna do something tonight, honey? The latter always manages to rear its prettily disguised head after he's had a few hefty glasses of that bitter-tasting wine he likes.

For all its worth, she and Izzy have done a pretty good job at keeping things low-key. She's not sure if it’s because he’s paranoid or he’s attempting to be a gentleman; the former being more likely. They've gone on a few dates—if she can call them that. She wouldn’t exactly consider hanging around the studio during the afternoon or creeping around the shopping district on both their free days, poking fun at all the hoity-toity rich assholes over a shared strawberry milkshake, the pinnacle of romance—but it’s quality time spent with him, and that’s usually enough to satiate them both.

Duff, on the other hand, for as blockheaded as he can be at times, has started to catch on. Ever since Izzy literally almost got caught with his pants down during the little tryst on the living room couch, he’s upped the ante as far as overprotectiveness goes. She's found herself trying to pencil in boy-time whenever Duff's preoccupied with things she's cleverly coined The Three P’s: Partying, Procuring Money, and Pussy.

She'd almost pat herself on the back for the sneaky system she's laid out all in the name of getting to play house with her not-exactly-but-kind-of-boyfriend.  

The structure is quite easy, really.

Partying: Duff likes to slink off to the band’s usual war zones, particularly on the weekends. He spends an embarrassing amount of time choosing an outfit from his overwhelmingly black collection of identical jeans and shirts, and he’s heading out the door by 9 o’clock—shooting a lazy Be back later over his shoulder. This gives her at least a six-hour window of allotted Izzy-time, which may seem like a steep assessment, but when she factors in two hours to get showered, dressed, and shamelessly dolled up, and the more pressing issue that he sometimes doesn’t even roll out of bed until the sun goes down—she's left with around four hours to see a movie with him, dodder around the strip (no PDA of course, can’t risk word spreading around town), or her personal favorite; invite him over to listen to records and just chill. If she's savvy, and she usually is, Izzy's giving her a goodbye peck on the lips and slipping out the fire escape just in time for a very blundering, heavy-footed, drunk Duff to stumble back home.

Procuring Money: On the rare occasion the guys get a well-paid gig, Duff doesn’t pick up many side gig shifts for some cash. But thanks to stingy club owners and splitting a $400 check five ways for a two-hour sweat-filled show, this doesn’t happen very often. If he’s at the bakery or doing some other minimum-wage hassle to make ends meet, this usually leaves time for something she likes to call daytime activities. Daytime activities include but are not limited to: lunch breaks (or subsequent make-out breaks) in the cab of Izzy's truck in the SPIN parking lot, walking around the record store, and watching Iz strum the same few blues chords on his acoustic Fender on the living room floor as she tries not to drool in girlish infatuation. On Izzy's end, procuring money comes out in different formats. He rarely vocalizes his avenue for squandering away cash, but he also isn’t oblivious; he knows she's aware of the scams and hustles he partakes in. He just purposefully keeps her separate from the aspect of his life, as well as his own dabbling in questionable substances, but there’s been more than one afternoon spent together where she's helped him count wrinkled and ripped bills and tie them off by the 100’s in rubber bands.

Pussy: This one is a bit self-explanatory. Duff may be her doting older brother—but he’s still a young man. With the band’s ever-growing popularity and the scuttlebutt around town about them dropping their first album, the quality and quantity of young ladies willing to go above and beyond (and sometimes under, sideways, or on all fours) is definitely on the upswing. Much like his nights bar-hopping, he’ll leave the apartment around dusk saying he’s hanging out with Slash or Steven—but unless Slash or Steven wears perfume or body glitter that seems to stick to his skin when he comes home the next morning, barging in with a stupid, laid-back grin and a bag of hot breakfast—she's sure he’s assuming the role of bedwarmer for the night. These rendezvous are most favorable because they usually leave the entire night for her and Izzy to hang out without the looming threat of the klutzy golden retriever ruining it.

The past few weeks have consisted mostly of these secret visits or day hangouts, and neither she nor Izzy is complaining. That is, not considering the giant 10,000-pound elephant that seems to be lurking in every corner of the room every time they see each other: Sex.

Ever since the couch incident and Izzy's impending paranoia about being caught, they haven’t gone all the way—or even halfway to be blunt. Sure, they'll twist their tongues together for a while, and he’ll grope and knead over her bra or shorts, but the second she tries to fiddle with his belt buckle, or she squeezes a little too forcefully over the crotch of his jeans, he’ll falter. Out of all the people in the world to drive her to sexual frustration, she wouldn’t expect Izzy, but here she is.

It always ends the same: they'll kiss, touch, curiously pet, grind, he’ll get a stiffy that could cut diamonds, and she resorts to squeezing her thighs together to get some relief—but as soon as she tugs on his waistband with a whine, he’s pulling away with flushed cheeks.

“Not yet.”

“Not here.”

“Let’s just go slow.” 

She thinks if they go any slower, they might as well not be fucking moving at all.

She's trying to be patient, she really is. But it wasn’t until after a particularly flustering night that she started to see just how ridiculous things were getting.

It was on an evening when Duff was out at The Rainbow, drunk as a skunk, she's sure. Things were going as they usually did when Izzy slinked into the apartment just a few minutes after her brother left. Originally, they began with some stupid action VHS and microwave popcorn. When the movie got boring and she started to get that familiar pulse between her legs that seems to have a mind of its own when he’s in proximity, it devolved into her straddling Izzy's narrow waist as he sat on the carpet, resting against the arm of the sofa.

The kissing was all slow and soft, soaked tongues, coy nips to each other’s bottom lip. Innocent, but fun.

Subconsciously, she started to rock against his hips. He rocked back. His worn denim made a deliciously rough friction against her core, and paired with his strained groans and large hands splayed over her sinewy waist, guiding her at a steady pace—she was almost halfway gone, and they were both fully clothed still.

In the thick of it—pun intended—Izzy made an odd, groaning noise, bordering on a half-growl, and his grip against her tightened momentarily. He let out a shaky exhale and dropped his damp forehead to her shoulder.

Instinctively, she blamed herself.

"What’s wrong? Did—did I do something?” She fussed self-consciously, assuming the worst.

Izzy blushingly pulled his face from the crook of her neck and ran his fingers through his shaggy bangs, exposing a particularly flushed and embarrassed-looking expression.

"No...I uh…just—” He stammered, fidgeting from beneath her and staring down into his lap with squinted eyes and a contorted face.

She curiously followed his trail of sight and lifted her hips from his lap, unearthing a dark, wet patch to the right of his zipper, reminiscent of a paint splatter.

Oh.

Needless to say, the night was a bit quiet after that.

—

She's in the middle of making herself a sandwich in the kitchen when the landline rings. She can barely hear it over the fuzzy, distorted sound of Duff's bass blaring through his mini amp in the living room as he tinkers around with licks and riffs. It’s been a slow-paced, lazy Saturday; she's had the day off from work, and both she and her brother have been doing nothing but lounging around.

Bringing the phone to one ear and plugging the other with her finger to hear, she answers with a loud, “Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“Oh, hey. What’s up?” She yells over the rumbling.

“Jesus, could you scream any louder in my ear?”

“Sorry. Duff got a new mini-amp; he’s in the process of getting us evicted right now. Can’t hear shit.”

Izzy raspily chuckles. “You wanna come over later?”

Oh, fuck. 

Out of all the times she and Izzy have hung out, she'd never gone to his place. She might be jumping the gun, but what else could a private and secluded spot with just her and him mean? If she had to guess, it probably wouldn’t be microwave popcorn and premature ejaculation.

“Ah…yeah. What should I tell you know who?”

A moment passes. He’s thinking of a good lie.

“Come up with something. You’re smart. I’ll see you around eight?”

She lets out a grumbled sigh. Izzy has a lovely way of giving backhanded compliments. “Yeah. I’ll think of something.”

The landline clicks off at the same time Duff stops plucking his strings. He flips off the amp and rises from the couch with a stretch, tossing his bass onto the cushions.

“You got any plans tonight?” He asks as he strides into the kitchen, stealing a potato chip from her abandoned sandwich on the counter.

She thinks quickly. “Maybe. A co-worker invited me over to her place for a girls’ night.” She could say a lot of bad things about herself, but she's sure fast on her feet to come up with a good fib.

“Oh, cool. When ya gonna leave?”

“Around eight. She lives in Glendale. Is it okay if I take the car?”

He thinks about it for a second as he pops another chip in his mouth. “Yeah, sure. If I go out, I’ll catch a ride with one of the guys.”

Perfect.

As soon as she thinks she's in the clear and she snatches her sandwich away from Duff, who’s continuously picking at it, he decides to pry.

“Just be safe. You know the spiel, no drugs, no crazy parties, blah blah blah.” He sounds like he even wears himself out with the act.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I promise.” She yields with a vague wave of her hand in his direction.

“Hey—”

His tone takes on an air of seriousness that makes her eyes flicker up towards his face.

“M'just glad you’re making friends, was worried you'd have a hard time in LA. Proud of you, kid.”

A sudden knot forms in her throat. He picks the worst times to get sentimental. She still hasn’t uttered a peep about Brent, and she doesn’t plan on it either—but it’s times like this when Duff shows her those big, green sympathetic eyes—the same ones their mother has—that she's ready to spill her guts.

Would he still be proud if she told him she just lied to his face to go get laid out by his bandmate? Probably not.

“Thanks,” Is all he gets in response with a small, forced smile.

—

She decides to go the modest route. Not that she had much of a choice, if she left the house in a bustier with a garter belt and stockings, it wouldn’t seem like much of a girl’s night. She settles on denim shorts and an old band tee with a sneaky matching pair of black underwear and bra hidden underneath.

Duff was half a case of beer deep by the time she left, and in his buzzed and lovey-dovey state, he even threw her a $10 bill for the road for snacks, or whatever girls do, as he so sensibly put it.

As strange as it is, even though she's never been to Izzy's place, she knows where it is. She's only privy because he shot her down immediately when she offered to go to his spot a while ago, when they were both bored with globetrotting around town during the day. He instantly got a sour look on his face, and the conversation ended abruptly with, No. I live in Huntington Park. Not a good neighborhood.

She supposes his reticence stems from his shoddy means of income, but she, being the placid and gushy fawn for anything Izzy does, brushed it off and moved on to the next thing. She's come to the realization that he has an unnervingly smooth way of evading her worries about his dealing and dabbling.

Driving into the sketchy town at night—she understands his hesitancy completely now. Ghoulish-looking men suspend themselves near bus stops and street corners, and scantily clad women lean on open car passenger windows. The majority of the glass on every apartment and house has iron bars and graffiti murals painting the worn-looking bricks. She's never been one to clutch her pearls, but she gets an eerie feeling every time she hears a siren in the distance or a suspicious boom that she can’t decipher between a firework or a gunshot.

Pulling up to a decrepit-looking complex, she's almost second-guessing her decisions. Drumming her fingers against the steering wheel in meditation, it’s not until a familiar black head of hair pops out from behind a gray door on the second floor that she lets a big, goofy grin spread on her lips. She snatches her purse from the passenger seat and walks up to meet him.

It’s akin to his persona, dialed to eleven. Everything smells like him. Resembles him. Reeks of him. Cigarettes, drug store cologne, and patchouli incense. It’s dark, moody, gypsy-esque, and so totally and completely steeped in Izzy's individuality. It’s barely furnished inside, besides a small couch with a TV propped atop a dresser that doesn’t match any other furniture. Much like Duff's place, it’s just a living room, kitchen, and one bedroom towards the back of the apartment. There’s a small cone of incense burning on a side table next to the couch, and the only light scattered across the dreary space is numerous candles and a salt rock lamp, giving the walls an amber glow. A tiny FM boombox plays quietly to fill the silence.

“This is nice,” She says politely, still frozen in place by the front door as he shuts it behind her.

He snorts. “Don’t lie.”

She lets her façade slip for a moment. She's come a long way from the nervousness around his presence, but it seems to resurface when thrust into a space that is so overwhelmingly him. Kicking off her shoes by the door, she lowers herself onto the couch that’s sunken in towards the middle. The springs creak beneath her weight, and the rough floral embroidery on the cushions rubs against the backs of her thighs.

“You want a glass of wine?” Izzy throws over his shoulder from the microscopic-sized galley kitchen.

“Uh, sure.” She still isn’t used to being offered grown-up drinks.

He returns with two filled glasses of red, handing one to her and settling in on the closest cushion. Taking a cautious sip, she attempts not to grimace at the abrasive taste. She isn't sure how Izzy does it—being a wino seems like a drag compared to fruity cocktails and hoppy beer. However, something about this seems so incredibly…adult. Drinking dry cab by candlelight while Hendrix plays at a low volume on the radio, for some reason, small talk almost seems like a waste at this point.

“Sorry about—this.” Izzy motions to his apartment. “It’s not as nice as Duff's.”

Slugging down a harsh mouthful, she shakes her head. “No, it’s nice. It’s very—you.”

“That supposed to be a compliment?” He smirks, accusatory brow arched high.

“Yes. It is.” She quips back, equally coquettish.

“You wanna do anything?”

She nearly chokes on her next sip.

Yeah. She can think of a few things she wants to do right now.

She shrugs. “Ah—I dunno, just sitting and talking with you is enough,” She says lightly, even batting her eyelashes for added effect. She's turned into quite the silver-tongued talker herself.

“Got some pot. Wanna smoke?”

Well, when he offers so politely, who is she to decline? Plus, it’ll probably help quell the anxiety she has swimming around in her loins about where exactly the night is headed.

Giving him a timid smirk, she nods and watches him disappear into his bedroom. In the little time she's granted solitude, she reminds herself to breathe.

Izzy returns with an impish grin and a small plastic baggie clutched in one hand. For as well-versed and cultured in the arts of substances as he is, he’s made it a point in his affiliation with her not to pressure her into anything too hardcore. Booze and weed are one thing, but he sees too much potential in her to open the door to the crypt of deception that smack reigns over. Bad business. Keep her at arm's length from all that.

He grabs a wayward book sitting on the side table and balances it on his knee. Dumping some already ground herb on the cover, he plucks out a rolling paper and rolls a joint like second nature—a very picturesque and pretty-looking joint, she notes. Every time she's tried to do it herself, they would come out crooked and bent like someone stepped on them.

After licking the paper closed and twisting the end, he holds it up with a proud smile and places it loosely between his ruddy lips. He lights up and takes a long drag, holding the thick smoke in his lungs and passing it over to her between pinched fingers. She tries to mimic his pacing without sputtering, but fails miserably. It ain’t her first rodeo, but sometimes she has to remind herself that she hangs around seasoned cowboys.

Izzy chuckles at her coughing fit as he takes another rip without a hiccup. “Easy, tiger. Don’t choke.”

She laughs through watered eyes and a constrained, burning throat. “Sorry. Been a while.” She chases away the sting with a gulp of wine.

“How’s the situation with Axl going?” She starts, hoping to initiate some form of dialogue as she drapes her legs over his lap in gentle invitation.

He takes a drag and rolls his eyes, his warm palm landing comfortably on her thigh. “The same. Trying to stay out of it.” He says through a halted breath before exhaling the sweet smoke.

He recently gave her the rundown on the latest band drama revolving around writing credits—or more appropriately—Axl's issue with not getting enough writing credits. She takes another hit on the half-burnt through joint and lets it rest between her fingers. Naively, a part of her always thought that a band meant that everyone was as close as brothers; sometimes, the stories she hears about Guns seem more like a business already.

“Was he always…like that?”

Another test of the buoyancy of Izzy's patience. He and Axl have a peculiar relationship, to say the least. He seems to be the only member of the group who has a remaining fiber of tolerance for Axl's antics, most likely being retained from knowing each other when they were both still bright-eyed, wet behind the ears, fourteen-year-olds.

“Yes. Gotten worse, though, since the band got more popular. It’s whatever…I just let him do his thing as long as it doesn’t fuck with me.” He says matter-of-factly, always blasé.

He lazily runs calloused fingertips over the plush skin of her thighs near the cutoff of her shorts, lighting a warmth in her belly not helped by the weed and wine. He plucks the joint from her fingers and takes a final drag, stubbing out the roach in an ashtray. The room falls under a comfortable silence despite the radio playing some cheesy 70’s ballad that she can’t quite make out through the static in her mind and the flickering airwaves. Her head feels mellow, and she could almost melt into the stained pillows behind her back. It feels natural.

“So, you wanna…I dunno, lay down or somethin'?” Izzy asks tersely, trying to ignore the fact that he feels like he’s sixteen again, poorly convincing his way into some girl’s pants.

The proposition cuts through the condensation in her brain as Izzy's hand kneads her calf. A bashful smile tugs at the corners of her lips, and she can feel the heat radiating from her cheeks.

He’s given a silent nod in response.

On wobbly and spindly legs, Izzy outstretches a docile hand and leads her to his room.

It’s equally as dark, and if things couldn’t get even more cliché, there’s a pink and purple lava lamp illuminating the mattress that sits on the carpeted floor without a bedframe.

Without hesitation, she throws herself down on his thin blankets and inhales deeply. Even the sheets smell like him. She can’t see much, but she can feel his weight depress the space beside her and the sound of his braided, silver necklaces gently twinkling by her head. A lanky arm drapes itself across her midriff, and his temple rests against her shoulder—a soft kiss placed on the cuff of her clavicle affirms just how close he really is.

Leaning over, she rests her forehead against his, nuzzling up to him like a cat looking for warmth.

“You wanna?” Izzy's croaky tone whispers through the darkness, inching closer to the metaphorical hurdle that’s been dividing their physicality.

A few more chaste, dry kisses pepper her neck. The heat in her gut spreads like an ardent fire.

“Yeah…only if you wanna.”

She can feel him smile against her skin.

“'Course I do. Just wanna make sure.”

His chivalry comes out in rare forms.

The kisses get more demanding—they trail from the skin beneath her jugular to her raw lips, and a warm hand curiously meanders under the hem of her shirt. Fumbling around in the dark, her hands land in his soft hair as Izzy wriggles his way atop, her legs instinctively bracketing his torso. Their tongues have become acquaintances—he already knows where to flick and lick to make her hips buck against him.

The shirts go first—two heated torsos pressed against each other as he pops the buttons of her shorts with one flick of his fingers.

Then the pants—his coarse leg hairs brush against her unblemished skin, and it’s a welcome friction.

His deft fingers make their way to the top of her panties, and he traces the satin bow with the pad of his thumb. Exploring. He teases over the clothed core with subtle pressure, and she can’t help but groan into his mouth at the long-awaited contact.

He grins wickedly into the kiss—smug asshole. 

Dipping two eager fingers under the fabric, he swipes over her slick, circling her clit with her own mess.

“God, you’re so wet.” He praises between sloppy kisses.

He wrenches down a bra cup with one hand, too voracious to deal with unclipping, and suctions onto a nipple. His hot tongue swirls around the hardening bud, and her back arches like a bow pulled taut between his arms. He provides a few lazy circles over her clit that's rhythmically thump-thumping with pressure, and teases her entrance with his fingers. She can feel a stiff and heavy weight bob against her thigh with each whimper she lets slip between her lips. It seems like they're both impatient and keen to skip foreplay. With the weeks of pining and wanting they've both laid out—she's inclined to agree.

“Izzy…please.” She manages to get out through breathy whines.

He doesn’t put up much of a fight and hooks a finger through the waistband of the remaining garment, finally stripping her bare under the soft glow of the lava lamp. He takes a moment to let his eyes rake over her form spread out beneath him, irises tracing each dip, curve, and contour that rides the hills of her body. She almost reaches for the blankets to cover herself, instinctively shrinking under a gaze so intent, but Izzy softens his posture and gives her hip a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“Sorry. Just…looking.”

He reaches over to dig for something in the bedside table, and a few objects clatter as he cusses under his breath. He rests on his heels between her spread legs and rolls a rubber down a long, veiny cock that looks like it’s begging to be inside something—preferably her.

He hovers for a moment, his chains dangling above her face in a to-and-fro rhythm that her eyes follow. In a sudden act of tenderness, he places a soft kiss on her lips as he aligns the reddened, already leaking crown.

With a silent, traded look of confirmation, he presses in slowly.

She digs her nails into his shoulder blade, sniveling softly against his collarbone. He lets out a choked noise as he leans in to the hilt—warm skin meeting warm skin.

“Fuck, you feel good.” He coos in her ear, dropping his heavy head to her shoulder as he lets her acclimate.

She scrambles for purchase against his languid back, holding on for dear life. Feeling so incredibly full like she's on the verge of bursting at the seams. He takes her high-pitched whine and the slight roll of her hips as a desperate plea to move, and he obeys her command without contest.

Pumping slowly and letting his room be filled with lewd sounds of slickness and uninhibited moans, it feels as if things have been progressing to this moment since the start—since she first made eye contact with him as he stood in Duff's kitchen all those moons ago. His hot breath in the junction of her neck, her legs wrapping around his narrow waist, beckoning him deeper, his arms snaking around her torso in an attempt to make them one being. Everything. For this.

“M’Gonna go faster. Okay?” It comes out as more of a desperate request than a question—she nods eagerly.

He snaps his hips with more force against her, eliciting a sharp mewl clogged in the back of her throat.

Again. Again.

He keeps doing it until there’s no pause, and she can’t hear her thoughts over the sounds of her own wanton whines. He drives her deeper into his flimsy mattress, hoisting her legs higher so she's nearly folded in half beneath him. His sheets stick to her damp back, and the rhythmic noise of skin against skin as the head of his cock brushes against something so deeply rooted and foreign inside of her has her teetering on the precipice of something magnificent.

“Izzy…fuck, Izzy…”

It’s a chant. A prayer. A silent cry that says, more, more, more. 

He happily accommodates.

He remains with a steady pace and connects his lips to hers as a hand clamps her hip tightly. He breaks the messy kiss to breathe shakily, lips brushing. 

“S'okay, c’mon…lemme see you cum…” He encourages tenderly, helping her crutch her way across the finish line.

Wrapping around his frame like ivy, she loses any remaining restraint she has. She threads her fingers through the thick hair at the base of his skull, tugging harshly as the taut wire in her stomach finally snaps. It’s brought on like a rip current, snatching her by the foot and dragging her deeper until she's nearly blue and convulsing. Izzy's hips stutter in their pattern, and he stills as a low groan is torn from deep in his chest.

She can hear a rapid heartbeat that matches hers, fluttering against her chest, and heaving lungs inhaling and exhaling next to her ear. Rigid limbs go limp, and they both collapse in a haze, still connected.

After a suspended silence and a regaining of consciousness, a clammy forehead rests against her own, followed by a modest peck to her lips.

With a hiss from Izzy and a wince from her, he removes himself and flops down with a self-satisfied huff. Feeling around blindly, she grabs the blankets that have been balled up by the foot of the mattress and drapes the scratchy fabric over herself. Almost on reflex, she curls into his side as he lights a post-coital smoke. He takes a few drags, then silently motions to her with it.

“You okay?” The first normal sentence finally uttered in the last twenty minutes. His tone is lilted now—relaxed.

She nods and passes the cigarette back, tugging the blanket over her shoulders and burrowing into his bony chest as she inhales deeply again, like she's fearful she'll lose such a fragile moment in time.

Izzy traces ambient shapes up and down her bare back as he smokes with his eyes closed. He almost looks like he’s savoring the feeling, too. After one final puff, he leans over to stub it out and lifts an arm to invite her back into her newly nominated spot nestled against his chest. With a kiss to the top of her head, he lets out a satiated, languid exhale.

“Was that…okay?” She squeaks self-consciously, not exactly being well-informed in the skill of pillow talk.

Izzy's chest shakes lightly with a laugh. “Yes, sugar,” He chuckles flatly, seemingly entertained by her constant need for assurance. “I enjoyed it.”

What he really wants to confess is that he hasn’t cum that hard in a while, and if he had to tug another one out in the shower to the thought of her again, he was going to splinter under the congestion. But in his typical pride, he's content with convincing her that she's become an added notch in his bedpost.

Albeit a very important notch.

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: Izzy’s Apartment, 1987

He’s safety-pinned paisley handkerchiefs and European tapestries to every window in the apartment to stop any source of light bleeding through. The overheating lava lamp sitting on the nightstand bubbles goopy pink and purple wax around the glass chamber, a cool-toned glow washing the space of his dark room. Sleepily, she stirs in the woven blankets and clings to a warm bicep. It’s early, she can’t tell exactly what time, but it’s the delicate hours of the morning when everything seems peaceful and sensitive. She squeezes the supple skin she's assuming is the meat of Izzy's arm—she hasn’t even opened her eyes yet—only searching for the remaining remnants of his presence to remind herself that the prior night wasn’t a dream.

She gets an incoherent, drowsy mumble in return. With one bony forearm thrown over her waist, he spins her around to press her back flush against his chest, clutching her tightly like an emotional support stuffed animal. He molds his body to fit her smaller frame against him, crowding her personal space and invading her senses unashamedly. She can feel his nose bury itself in her hair, nestling gently. In the hushed whispers of dawn, his facade slips—no ego, no forced apathetic attitude, only dainty touches and heavy, sleep-laden puffs of air brushing against the nape of her neck. Smiling to herself, she lets out a contented hum.

She's never subscribed to a religious sense of nirvana or spiritual euphoria, but she could guess it feels a little something like this.

She drifts back to sleep in his arms.

—

There’s a hammering against the front door. It echoes through Izzy's apartment and falls on deaf ears.

A bassy voice yells from the other side of the plywood door. “Izzy, you lazy motherfucker, wake up!” 

They both stir, his weight shifting behind her. He lets out a deep noise of objection, furrowing his brows.

The banging is incessant.

“You fucking junkie, can you ever get up on time?” The baritone berates angrily, sounding like the plywood is the only thing keeping him from wringing Izzy's neck.

“Fuck…” Izzy breathes out gruffly.

“S’Going on?” She hazily mumbles, sleep still adhering to her slow-blinking eyes.

“Nothing. Go back to bed.” He groggily answers, clumsily stumbling out of the sheets.

He rustles around a pile of clothes discarded on the floor, the pale skin of his perky butt on full, shameless display. Sneakily, she cracks an eye open to enjoy the view. He shimmies on a dirty pair of jeans, not bothering to button or zip them fully. He scratches his flank lazily with a yawn, padding his bare feet across the tile floor, his steps lightening the further he gets away. From the sound alone, she can tell he almost rips the door right off its hinges.

“What?” Izzy snaps curtly, any remaining softness from his disturbed love nest being rudely scrubbed away.

She eavesdrops from her blanket-clad fortress, half-asleep.

“Finally. Been pounding on the door for the last five fucking minutes.”

“Was sleeping.”

“Whatever. We still going to Geffen today?”

A low groan comes from the doorway.

“Do we gotta do that shit today? M’kinda busy…”

Axl snorts. "Yeah, you look it.”

She feels her heart sink a little. She thought for once her and Izzy would have an unbothered afternoon together—ain’t no rest for the wicked, she guesses.

“You got a chick in there?” 

She can’t see his face, but from his tone alone, she can picture the shrewd smirk spreading across Axl's face.

Izzy pauses. "Uh, yeah…can you come back in like—I dunno, ten minutes? So I can deal with it…”

“Fuck no, man. It’s hot out today. The AC broke at Erin’s place. Just lemme hang while she leaves, you know I don’t care.” Axl's voice goes from a muffled intonation to a full-bodied timbre, like he just brushed past Izzy and walked into the apartment without regard.

Fuck.

She can audibly hear Izzy scramble as she bolts upright in bed.

“U—Uh, alright. Just...gimme a minute.” He awkwardly bleats.

He comes back to the bedroom with wide eyes and a poorly concealed Oh shit, what are we gonna do expression. He already let it slip that he has a girl here, so leaving through the fire escape will just make things seem more suspicious. Axl's not stupid—fucking psychotic, yes—but not stupid. He knows she and Izzy have a peculiar thing going on, and the last possible thing Izzy needs is for Axl to hold her naked in his bed over his head as collateral for whatever sadistic reason.

She clutches the blankets over her breasts and gives Izzy a panicked look. He makes a calm-down motion with his hands and clicks the door behind him.

“Relax. Maybe he’ll take a piss or something, then you can leave.” He says, hushed.

She forces down the alarm in her chest and nods shakily. Sneaking around like this is becoming exhausting. The thrill of doing something they shouldn’t be is still there—but exhausting, nonetheless. She's bordering on eighteen soon…if he considers a couple of months soon.

She stumbles over her own feet, tugging her shorts back up. “Can’t you just, I dunno, distract him or something?” She whispers harshly.

Izzy gives her a deadpan expression with lowered brows and downturned lips. “He’s not a dog. He’ll hear you leave and try to be nosy.”

Her shoulders slump as she clips her bra back into place. She wishes this whole ordeal of secrecy would be over with already. She wants to scream to Axl, to Duff, to the world that Izzy is her…her what? Boyfriend?

“This is ridiculous.” She huffs under her breath, pulling one of his oversized shirts over her head.

He notices her shift in attitude, walking over to hover above her. She guiltily peers at him from under thick lashes.

“Trust me on this, okay?” He coos softly, crooking a knuckle under her chin to tilt her face.

She hates how easily her knees buckle for him. She wordlessly whispers out an acceptance.

She waits anxiously and impatiently by the bedroom door as he joins Axl back in the living room, hoping for any sign to make a quick exit. She starts eavesdropping again.

“All good?” Axl questions.

“Yeah. We can go, she said she’ll leave soon.”

“You trust a girl enough to leave her alone in your apartment?”

“What is she gonna take? My matchbox collection? Ain't shit here for her to steal.” Izzy counters.

She tries to conceal a snicker with a palm slapped over her mouth.

“Lemme hit the john before we go.” His voice gets clearer and closer as he approaches the bathroom outside of Izzy's room—now’s her chance.

She waits to hear the lock click closed before walking on her tiptoes to the front door. Before she reaches for the handle, Izzy tugs on her wrist. She whips her head around with wide eyes, but she's greeted with a small, diffident smile on his face.

He leans in to place a dry kiss on her lips and whispers the soft promise of, “I’ll call you later,” in her ear.

She instinctively shudders at the rasping pitch that she's grown so fond of. Right as her hand grips the round doorknob and her wrist twists to make a break for it, Axl swings open the bathroom door.

“You’re out of toilet paper aga—oh, shit—” 

Immediate silence.

Then, he sneers with a smug grin eerily reminiscent of a Cheshire cat. Both she and Izzy simultaneously freeze.

“Well, ain’t this curious,” He says through an arid laugh.

She can practically see the cogs turning and creaking in his brain.

“Dude, please—” Izzy starts, but he’s cut off by Axl's booming low frequency.

“No, by all means—be a homewrecker, I don’t see the issue.”

She drops her head with a sigh. Any time she gets a small semblance of happiness or tranquility, it’s always crushed under the heel of reality.

Izzy awkwardly stumbles over his words, his mouth repeatedly opening and closing but not quite finding the right thing to say. This is the first time she's seen him actually flustered or speechless, which, more than anything, makes her go into full flight or fight mode.

“Hey, can we please keep this between us? Duff doesn’t know…” She interjects, filling the role of the voice of reason between the two big personalities that are very obviously fighting for dominance.

Axl's eyes linger on Izzy, and he shifts his jaw from side to side like he’s weighing the options of ruining both of their lives. He scoffs.

“Lips are sealed.” He says flippantly with a slight shrug.

A gut feeling tells her that isn’t entirely true.

Her eyes flicker between them both, Izzy staring down at his feet like he’s dissociating to escape the situation, and Axl compulsively chewing on his fingernails like he's mentally cataloguing this tidbit of information for future blackmail. She chews the inside of her lip until it tastes like thick, copper blood.

“Okay. I’ll uhm—see you later.” She blurts out stiffly, turning on her heels to run through the door and slamming it in her wake. Clomping down the rusted iron apartment stairs, she sits in the front seat of the car and stares blankly at the dash, an undeniable uneasiness moiling in her gut.

This could breed itself into a really, historically bad situation.

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: SPIN HQ, 1987

“Hey, do you mind faxing this for me? Thanks.”

She's heard that sentence from over her shoulder at least ten times today. She replies with a polite smile and a docile Of course, each time, regardless.

She's been trying desperately to work on her first review piece for Motley Crue’s latest album release. The aptly titled Girls, Girls, Girls was dropped not too long ago, and while the more experienced and nuanced journalists hopped on the puff piece bandwagon immediately, she wanted to give it her own shot. It wasn’t a terrible album per se—a strip club anthem sellout piece, sure. In her opinion, Shout at the Devil was much more cohesively produced and thoroughly written, and she plans to make that abundantly clear in her article that she intends to show Mr. Owen, with the hopes of landing it in a B-side column in the magazine. If only she would stop getting interrupted by higher-ups at the office to make them a coffee or send a fax. Standing over the machine, she sighs deeply and stares into space, shifting uncomfortably in her stuffy work clothes.

The internship has been a dream—aside from the deeply traumatic blunder and the par-for-the-course misogyny. Other than that, it’s been enlightening and has given her the knowledge on how to be a professional writer. She still hasn’t fully figured out what her plan is after the inevitable end of the summer program, in multiple facets of the term. College isn't completely out of the question, but now that she's tasted her first fix of adulthood in the workforce, she'd much rather be stuck in an office than a classroom. She keeps pushing the imminent end of the internship away, the impending adulthood responsibilities that will follow, and, more importantly, what the fuck is going on with her and Izzy?

In a drunken phone call a few nights ago, he proudly boasted that the guys are shipping off to Europe in a few weeks for a short run through England and Germany to promote the album release. In a slurred haze, Izzy happily garbled through the receiver, “W-We’re goin’ to fuckin’ London, babe.”

Of course, she's thrilled for them. It’s the culmination of all five of their combined dreams coming to fruition. She has fond memories of when she and Duff were younger, listening to The Beatles on his dirty, teenage bedroom floor and talking about Europe like it was some unfathomable, faraway land. Now, being surrounded by the members of what she thinks will become the biggest band on the face of the Earth, the world seems like it’s the size of her palm.

On a superficial level, she's overjoyed for them. On a deeper, selfish, primitive level, she isn’t thrilled about some cockney loose lady taking her spot with Izzy's for whatever carnal endeavors he chooses to entertain himself with. She isn’t dumb in that aspect; she knows what inevitably happens on the road. They aren’t even an official thing; she doesn’t have any claim over him, and she definitely can’t give him an ultimatum. The weight of her looming angst and the never-ending spiral of thoughts gnaw at her stomach like a parasite.

“McKagan? All good?”  Her coworker, Marcy, questions with a slight bump to her hip, shimmying up next to her at the fax machine.

She shakes the uneasy thoughts and forces a smile. “Yeah. Sorry.”

She gives her a once-over and cocks a perfectly arched brow. She tests the waters of sensitivity. “You’ve been kinda quiet lately…”

She didn’t stop to think that her macabre subconscious might be creating a palpable, dreary mood in the office. She gives her a weak shrug and tucks the faxed papers under her arm. “Oh, yeah, just—" She pauses, cringing before she even says it, "boy drama.” She recoils at the sound of her own voice and how excruciatingly juvenile she comes across at times. Marcy seems more intrigued than ever.

“Oh? Do tell.”

“I don’t know, it’s not anything serious.” She idly crumples the corners of the papers under her thumb. “I’ve been seeing this guy, he’s… in a band.” She purposefully leaves out details. The majority of her coworkers already know her brother's involvement with Guns, and Axl being privy to her prior entanglements with Izzy is one too many people. Marcy sighs and rolls her eyes playfully.

“God, didn’t I tell you to stay away from musicians? They’re all assholes…” She smiles disarmingly.

“Yeah, but they’re assholes that are unfortunately very good-looking,” She deadpans.

“Is there trouble in paradise?”

“Not exactly. Not sure there’s even a paradise to begin with. He’s going out on tour soon and—I dunno…guess I’m just, nervous or something. If he’ll want to come back to me after.” Saying her thoughts out loud makes the wound she's been ignoring prickle and bubble with pus. All these pestering thoughts have been lying dormant within her, and the more that time progresses, the harder it is to stay oblivious.

Marcy chews on her words for a moment.

“Do you really like this guy?”

She can feel a thick knot start to form in her throat, the edges of her eyes beginning to burn.

“Yeah. A lot.”

There’s a beat of silence—brutally honest silence.

“Then just be truthful with him. Whatever his reaction is will save you a lot of heartache. Whether it be good or bad, you’ll at least clear your head.”

Her eyes flit up, and she provides a ducked nod, feeling like all the air just got sucked out of her chest. It’s decent advice—she and Izzy can’t keep playing pretend forever.

“Thanks. I’ll talk to him.”

Her day at work ends with most of the hours being consumed by repeatedly having imaginary conversations with Izzy in her head about all these big, scary feelings. It could go either one of two ways: either she'll spill her heart out to him and admit she's developed very real and confusing sentiments, and he’ll react like a gentleman—unlikely. Or, he’ll get all cagey and uncomfortable with the vulnerability and sweet-talk her back into submission—more likely.

She leaves the office and rides the bus back home with an even heavier head. When she's approaching the apartment complex, she lets out a sigh of relief when she sees that his truck is nowhere in sight. For once, she's glad not to have his ghost haunting her.

She finds Duff in his usual state of sluggishness, spread out on the sofa, beer in hand. They trade lazy greetings, and she shoves his gangly legs aside on the cushion to make room for herself.

“How was work?”

“Fine.”

“Learn anything new?”

“I guess.” She has an awful poker face. Duff immediately notices her apprehension and lack of usual sarcastic quips.

“You okay?”

Her eyes instinctively roll to the back of her head, dropping the weight of her skull onto the cushions. She's so tired of being asked to talk about her feelings.

“M’just tired,” She says feebly, curling into herself and leaning over to rest against his side—he still smells like home.

Being so wrapped up and all consumed with sneaking around with Izzy, she feels like she's overdue for some sibling bonding. Duff congeals at her sudden display of affection, but relents with a warm hand, squeezing her shoulder supportively.

“S'goin’ on with you lately? Feel like you’re shutting me out.” It’s not accusatory or harsh; he sounds genuinely concerned about her total 180 in behavior.

He wouldn’t be wrong. She slammed the door in his face over the situation with Brent, and she definitely closed him off regarding the situation with his bandmate. She feels like she's stuck between a rock and a hard place—except she doesn’t want to be truthful about either issue. She releases a long, depressing exhale and leans further into his flank.

“Did you ever feel…lost when you were my age?”

Duff snorts. “I was always lost, you know that. But yeah, before coming to LA, I felt like I didn’t know my purpose.”

She bites the inside of her cheek to stop the emotion from bubbling to the surface. “I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing. Or why I feel the way I do.”

Duff pauses the rhythmic squeeze of her shoulder to digest the words. “Talk to me. Please. You know you can.”

She wants to tell him everything. She really does. She wants to scream that she hasn’t fully healed, and every time a man lingers his gaze on her body for too long, she convinces herself she's naked and exposed. She wants to cry and screech until her throat feels raw that she misses being in Seattle, longs for their mother’s advice, and her nerves feel singed and trampled. She wants to grab Duff by both shoulders, shake him until his brain rattles, and confess that she's in love with his best friend, and she isn’t entirely sure the feeling is mutual. But she can’t. She won’t.

“Just miss being home with you, dude,” Is all she can muster the energy to croak out before the end of her voice breaks off into a cracked whimper. She can hear him suck in a sharp breath as he props her higher under his arm, enveloping her in a comforting warmth.

“Hey, c’mon, s’alright. I’m here.” He tuts gently, trying to coax her off of whatever ledge she's teetering on the fringe of.

Sniffling, she tries to remain composed. On the inside, she feels like she's seconds away from having a full-fledged nervous breakdown.

“You wanna go out tonight? Get your mind off whatever’s bothering you?” He offers with the hopes of tearing her away from this perpetual funk.

“I dunno. Not really in the mood to go anywhere.”

“Not even The Roxy?”

She side-eyes him through ratty bangs and spots an impish grin spread across glistening white teeth. She must really be a fucking wreck if he’s offering to take her bar hopping.

No time like the present to seize an opportunity, hm? 

—

West Hollywood, Los Angeles: The Roxy, 1987

Duff's told her to slow down on her incessant pounding of vodka cranberries for the last half hour, but she pays him no mind. If he’s offering to let her drink her pain away, she's damn straight going to make it worthwhile. The guys have become regulars around the local club scene on and off working hours, so no one batted an eye when she slid up next to Duff on a barstool and ordered a fruity drink. The bartenders probably assume she's his entertainment for the night—and who in their right mind is going to report underage alcohol consumption in an establishment that makes most of their revenue overserving and catering to every high schooler with a fake ID in the area? That’s at least what she tells herself when she's happily sipping her umpteenth cocktail, feeling substantially lighter in her boots and less overwhelmed with the grim authenticity of her life.

Duff seems more occupied and interested in watching whatever shitty, three-piece band that is currently making an ungodly amount of noise while she pretends to care and runs up his tab. While the four-on-the-floor beat drills a hole in her head, her eyes scan the ocean of faces that are infesting the club. It’s the usual cast of characters—guys that look like girls, girls that look like guys, and every flavor in between. In a moment of self-aggrandizing, she thinks that maybe she might be able to get past her Izzy-sized roadblock easier than she anticipated. The city is full of a thousand men who walk, talk, and act like him—she shouldn’t paint him as irreplaceable so quickly.

A loud, bubbly greeting ripped from Duff's throat breaks her from the foggy train of thought she was getting lost in.

“Oh man, didn't know you guys were comin'!” He says convivially.

She follows his line of sight and sucks up an ice cube through her straw—her lovely buzz gets snuffed out immediately.

Axl saunters up with his usual feline gait, adorned in leather pants and a shirt that’s so tight it should cut off his circulation. A black mass of hair and cigarette smoke looms over his shoulder like a shadow.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

“Wow. Didn’t think you’d both be here. Big bro finally lettin’ you out into the wild?” Axl prods sarcastically, his bright green eyes unsubtly flickering between her aghast expression and the color-drained, soured look on Izzy's face.

One wrong word from him and they're both up the creek without a paddle.

“Yeah, we weren’t doing anything, so I figured I’d take her out.” Duff beams proudly like it's an admiral thing to take his underage sister to a bar.

Axl leers at Izzy like a cat with a canary caught in its teeth. Between sips of his drink, Duff motions to an empty booth.

“C’mon, let’s sit.”

She trails behind the three of them, and the one glimpse she gets of Izzy's face under the blue neon beer signs hanging above the bar has Don’t do anything stupid written all over it. Squeezing between the wall and Iz, the four of them pack into the small booth like a can of sardines. Hers and Izzy's thighs graze against each other under the table, and he instinctively pulls away, senses on high alert. She attempts to ignore the pang of hurt that flares in her chest at the visceral reaction.

After ordering a round of drinks, Axl's eyes land on her from across the table.

“So, how you liking the nightlife so far?” He shouts over the music, gesturing to the crowd of bodies gyrating to the melody blaring from the small stage in the corner.

He comes across as genuine, but from what she knows of him, almost every move is calculated—unhinged. He’s trying to make either her or Izzy slip up in front of Duff. Metaphorically dangling the carrot of your little sister is getting fucked by your friend in front of his unsuspecting face.

“Uh, yeah, it’s been cool so far,” She says with an unconvincing shrug, pushing ice cubes around in her plastic cup.

“Meet anyone interesting?”

She can see Izzy's eyes dart up from his lap over to him across the sticky table. They’re doing that mental sparring match again, where they fight to have the dominant personality in the surrounding space. It creates the same tense, thick atmosphere that was present in his apartment when he caught her trying to leave. She swallows dryly and ignores the questioning look Duff is giving her from the far end of the booth.

“Some people. I only really talk to my coworkers.” Nice save.

Axl gives a barely interested head nod to her curt responses and turns his attention to the busty brunette server who presents the table with a tray of drinks.

The night progresses awkwardly and stiffly, Izzy stays silent besides the occasional one-word answers to Duff between gulps of his rum and Coke, and she tries her best to fade into the background and out of everyone's scrutinizing and sadistic questioning.

This was the one night she wanted to steer clear of him and avoid anything having to do with their wavering relationship, and he still managed to weasel his way into her existence.

The flame-haired singer whispers something low enough for only her brother to hear, and he lets out a bellow of boyish laughter; both she and Izzy swivel their heads in their direction.

“You remember that, Iz? When you and Slash were tag-teaming that girl at the house on Melrose? I think she’s here.” Axl jeers, pointing to a random woman in the sea of humans. She can practically see a forked tongue slither out to lick his lips.

He’s doing it to get a rise out of both of them, mainly to piss off Izzy and make her cognizant of his questionable behavior. His first attempts at thwarting the secrecy of their engagements failed, so Axl figures he’ll just start bringing up his seedy past under the guise of retelling old stories to poke the hornet’s nest.

Izzy snorts and knocks back the last of his amber-colored beverage. “Yeah. Crazy times.” He deadpans, very obviously not in the mood for the games.

Oblivious Duff, now feeling significantly well-disposed thanks to his drinks, adds to the banter.

“Oh, you know when that crazy chick came banging on the rehearsal door saying you fucked her and her sister, aw, man, that was good, she came into the bakery not too long ago.”

Izzy closes his eyes and sets his jaw like he’s desperately hanging on to the last yarns of restraint he has. He didn’t exactly want her to know about all of his previous experiences—he never tried very hard to create a Prince Charming illusion of himself in her mind, he’s aware of his reputation—but still, some things are better left unsaid and unknown.

“Don’t even get ‘em started on all the tail he’s gonna chase in England.” Axl makes direct eye contact with her when the bitter words drip from his tongue, almost like he can smell the insecurity radiating.

She shrinks into the booth, and her eyes fall to the beer-soaked floor, feeling inadequate, incomparable, and like sloppy seconds.

Izzy gets locked into an intense staring match, telepathic insults being slung with only their gaze. “Gotta take a leak,” He says brusquely, tapping Duff's shoulder to make room.

He shuffles out, but before Izzy leaves, he sneakily reaches under the table to squeeze her thigh. Looking up at him sheepishly, he makes a subtle head tilt to follow.

Without being too conspicuous, she waits a few minutes before slipping out while the boys are preoccupied with the same voluptuous waitress. Shoving through hordes of sweaty and drunken patrons, she spots him leaning on a wall in the shadows of the club, one foot propped behind him as he puffs through a cigarette irritably. Still half-buzzed and fueled with a newfound sense of baseless jealousy, she stumbles up to him with crossed arms and an acidic pout.

“Don’t start.” He says through a plume of smoke.

“I didn’t say anything.” She stubbornly rebuts.

“No, but you’re thinking it.”

“So, what if I am?”

He rolls his eyes and crushes the filter under his heel. “Just ignore it. He’s doing it on purpose.”

“Well, it’s working,” She mumbles tipsily.

Izzy narrows his eyes. “You really gonna buy into that shit? Thought you were smarter than that—don’t act your fuckin’ age.” He replies callously, deliberately plucking the nerve he knows makes the short fuse inside of her spark.

“Fuck you!” She spits instinctively, her alcohol-induced courage flaring into anger.

He lets an enflaming smirk pull at the corner of his mouth. “Why don’t you?”

Pause. Self-righteous motherfucker. 

She falters, clambering for something witty to come back with.

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She spits, disgusted, lip snarled. Not wanting to stoop to the level of bending over in a bathroom stall.

He takes a step closer, his chest almost touching hers. “Yeah. I would.” He purrs lowly by the shell of her ear.

She gulps and turns slowly to survey the booth Duff and Axl were sitting at, now occupied by a group of strangers. She scans the room and finds her brother dancing poorly and uncoordinatedly with a girl in the middle of the club, leaving little regard for anything else when the prospect of a fresh catch crosses his platter. She turns back to face Izzy, who’s looking down at her with darkened eyes, the fragrance of rum and Marlboro wafting.

“Why should I? Aren’t you just gonna find something better in Europe in a few weeks?” She barks with the hope that it comes across as a challenge more than an admission of self-doubt.

This was not how she intended to air her grievances with him.

He raises a dark brow and gives her a provoking look. He leans down further to press his lips against the side of her neck, shallow breaths fanning against her ear.

“The girls in England won’t fuck me as good as you do.”

All the blood in her body rushes to her head, making the room spin and the cacophony of music dissolve into sudden silence. A large, warm hand grazes over her ass beneath the protection of her oversized leather jacket, making her breath hitch in the back of her throat. Instinctually, her sex pulses. Complete bodily betrayal. She drops her head to his shoulder with a guffaw. Once again, she realizes there’s no time like the present to seize an opportunity, no matter how outlandish.

She takes him by the hand and drags him off to the empty, one-person bathroom situated at the far end of the club. Thankfully, it’s vacant. He barely has enough time to lock the door behind him before she's assaulting his mouth with her own. A clash of teeth, tongues, and spit. He crowds her backward until she feels her butt hit the edge of the sink. Any slow and tender romance she experienced during their first time with him seems like a distant, forgetful memory with the way he's flipping her over carelessly, her hips digging into the sharp corners of the counter as his fingers blunder with the button of her jeans.

She swats his hand away, wanting to remain in control for once. Turning around to be face-to-face again, there’s a brief pause in the feverish movements when her eyes lock with his. Izzy leans down to place a virtuous peck on her lips, slow and sensual. He looks at her for a moment, his dilated pupils darting around to trace each edge, line, and definition in her beautifully girlish and delicate face. He has a fleeting instance of maturity, knowing that this isn’t the most appropriate way to deal with their frustrations and Axl's taunting, but then her lips slightly twitch upwards into a ghost of a smirk, and Izzy completely forgets for a second that he’s a grown man and not a teenage boy who’s so randy all the time that it’s physically painful.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.” He mumbles with a weak, thunderstruck laugh between kisses, nimble fingers digging into the threads of her hair.

“Shut the fuck up.” She chomps back sarcastically, sinking to her knees, fingers hooking around his belt buckle commandingly.

She knows he’s just feeding her lines at this point, but the wicked and spontaneous aspect of her personality seems to be running full speed into the brick wall that separates her from levelheadedness.

He lets out a scoffed chuckle and leans his weight against the adjacent wall, enjoying the view of her big doe eyes from under the hem of his zipper. She struggles for a moment with the layers of denim and leather, but he helps by popping his button open and unlacing the teeth of his pants. Taking the heavy weight from the confines of his tight jeans, his cock bounces free eagerly.

Experimentally, she places a few ginger kisses up his shaft with a small kitten lick to the underside of the head. He lets out a low grumble from the middle of his chest, his eyelids fluttering slightly at the sensation.

“You’re teasing.” He says through gritted teeth, the club music now becoming a droning thump outside the bathroom door.

“Yeah. I am.” She replies demurely, mocking. With the amount of games he's put her through to get to this point, he deserves it, or worse.

She gives a few more lethargic and measured licks with the flat of her tongue pressed to the underside of his warm length, the thatch of coarse, dark hair peppering his skin tickling her nose. Using the tip of her tongue, she traces the tracks of bulging blue veins running through his cock, fluttering the muscle delicately around the head leaking sticky.

He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth to bite back any escaping weak sounds that he so desperately wants to make. He brushes a calloused thumb over her cheek as she lets his shaft rest against her face, giving small, honeyed kisses to every area besides the place he needs her most. Stalking her heavy eyes up to his abnormally flushed face, she remarks on the quickening rise and fall of his concave chest. She can tell his composure is cracking.

“C’mon…fuck…” He breathes out in a whiny tone, growing impatient.

She wiggles her brows at him expectantly, like she's waiting for the magic word.

He rolls his eyes upwards and swallows down the pride lodged in his throat.

“Please. Need you.”

There it is.

She finally wraps two tight lips around his girth and drags her tongue against his head that’s practically spilling oil drums of hot and salty pre. He releases a ragged exhale and lets the back of his head thunk against the tiled wall that’s littered with graffiti.

Timidly, she bobs her head at a slow pace and lets her mouth become accustomed to the foreign feeling. She might not be a pro, but she's seen enough of Duff's secret porn stash that he hides terribly under his bed to get the gist of the whole operation.

Izzy lands a large, splayed hand on the crown of her head and guides himself deeper into her constricting throat, greedily searching for a tight canal to fuck himself into.

Novicely, she gags around his tip and pulls back with watered eyes and a lewd string of spit connecting them both.

“Mm’fuck…sorry, baby, your mouth feels so good.” He sputters out the dirtily sweet apology, but beckons her back with impatient, grabby hands, wanting to return to the warm wetness.

Diving back in, she wraps a hand around the base to give herself breathing room and works her mouth in tandem with the curl of her wrist. He lets out atypically loud and lascivious noises, a gentle hand wound through her hair, guiding at a steady pace. Thick globs leak from the sides of her mouth and dribble down her chin as salty tears prick at the corners of her eyes at the fullness crowding her palate. When his tip touches her tonsils again, she gags on command, causing his hips to buck forward.

“M’Close…” He manages to slur out the warning through breathy groans. “Can I cum in your mouth, baby girl? Hm?”

It’s chivalrous enough of a question to make her panties feel sticky. She hums an acceptance around him, hearing her own pulse thrashing in her ears. He palms the back of her head tighter, using her mouth as a vessel to expel the rest of his energy.

Watching his brows knit together, eyes screw shut, and the slight shudder of his shoulders as he comes unglued is by far one of the most beautiful things she's ever witnessed. There’s a flare of pride in her chest knowing that she's able to shrink someone so smug and self-assured into a whining, crying, nearly pathetic mess of a young man.

She watches intently as his hips cant forward and her name falls from his lips like an invocation of urgent release. A staccato sputter of brackish warmth coats her tongue, and she coos a low hum of approval. Still licking and suckling hungrily, Izzy lets out a hiss when her enthusiasm borders on too much.

“A-Ah, easy…” He cautions as he removes himself with a wet pop.

She swallows the viscous load without hesitation. Tucking himself back into his jeans, he looks down at her knelt position with half-lidded eyes and a lazy smile, he lets out a breath as his shoulders deflate.

“You’re gonna get me in a lotta trouble, you know that? Huh? Can't fuckin' keep my hands off you.” He scolds affectionately, helping her to her feet, both knees rubbed raw by the dirty tile, like she's been diligently praying to a perverse deity.

He hooks her neck with his arm, bringing her forward to plant a kiss on her forehead. Like many vices in Izzy's life, he knows it's bad for him—he just can’t help himself.

After a moment of recalibration and redressing, she's the first to leave the bathroom with Izzy secretly in tow. The pair of them giggle like schoolchildren and scamper in the direction of the dancefloor to rejoin her brother.

Across the club floor, Axl eyes them both unsuspectingly with a grinding jaw.

Jealous.

Always looking to stir someone else’s pot.

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff’s Apartment, 1987

This is becoming a revolting routine. Every time she's in his vicinity and they happen to be granted the luxury of privacy, she swears to herself she's finally going to have the talk with him. She wishes it were as trivial and superficial as the birds and the bees talk, but no, it’s another type of talk. The speech she's rehearsed in her head countless times to no avail. The point is nearly moot. Any mature and meticulously crafted conversation revolving around her existential-dread-inducing feelings with Izzy is immediately washed away when he places a warm palm on her lower back, gently nuzzling a beautifully downward-sloped, Roman-looking nose in the crook of her neck and inhaling deeply.

He’s such a pillow-talker with her behind closed doors, but God forbid she's in the same room as another person; she becomes a stranger to him. If she happens to be in public, surrounded by mutual friends, he’ll barely acknowledge her presence, much to her dismay and soured pouts. But once there’s the resounding sound of a lock clicking closed and it’s just them two circling each other like restless sharks, she likes to think she gets a sneak peek behind his veil. His shoulders lower from their usual raised and tense position, his brows relax, and he brushes the wayward strands of stringy black from his sienna irises to finally see her. His lips will snag in one direction to make her knees feel like jelly with a side-smirked smile. It’s usually followed by a soft-spoken, C’mere, honey. Missed you.

If the temporary warmth and all-encompassing rush of love, dopamine, and tenderness didn’t feel so good, she'd begin to grow tired of this whole game. That’s why she's been mulling over this speech that somehow keeps getting pushed further and further away with each secret drive-in movie date that ends with her being pressed into the stiff leather seats of his truck cab—only to be dropped off two blocks away from the apartment to walk home alone, feeling a bit shameless and used.

None of this is conducive to being healthy, and she's very aware of that. Her bottled-up and repressed emotions are starting to manifest themselves in different areas of her life. She's quick to lash out and easily pestered after another failed confrontation—she snapped at Duff when he simply forgot to pick up some household necessities at the drugstore. Becoming morose and downtrodden after fixating on the amount of time she has left with him before he leaves for tour, she doused her sorrows in pinot grigio, leading to the subsequent missing of the bus the next morning for work. Dumbly elated and happily numb to almost every feeling when he offers her weed or wine or a quick fuck—she's usually stuck with the crashing and burning aftereffects of feeling like a pressure valve for him. Only useful when he needs to distract himself.

Sometimes she's even too frayed and frazzled to write, the one coping mechanism she's leaned on as a crutch for nearly fifteen years. She refuses to even entertain the idea that he’s not good for her. His phantom has come to live between every cadenced beat of her heart. She's way too fucking deep now to turn back. Never mind the fact that he’s impulsive, reckless, and a bit jaded, not to mention the lovely substance issues he conceals poorly. He’s burrowed his way into her mind—irrevocably so.

—

The shared sentiment of unspoken tension ruminates between them on the pull-out couch. This is the first rendezvous that Izzy proposed that she almost wanted to decline the invitation to. She could’ve easily lied and told him she was busy with work, but he has an unfortunate, particular skill set of seeing through bullshit. So, with a subdued sigh and the sagging of her shoulders, of course, she allowed him to come over, not even convincing herself that she'd have an actual meaningful conversation. It’s starting to all end the same—she isn’t even fooling herself anymore.

Snuggled against his chest as a mindless sitcom plays, she can feel his chin resting on the crown of her head as two skinny fingers trace ambient shapes against her hip. She'd be lying if she said this wasn’t a safe space—nestled in his spindly arms like a child.

When things are lenient, gentle, and honest, that’s when she feels the most connected to him. Nights like when he rested the weight of his head against her stomach as she combed through his sweaty hair with her fingers—both their bodies still bare and sticky from a particularly frenzied and impassioned session on his thin mattress.

“Come with us to England.” He said through a puff of smoke, eyes half-closed from a mixture of post-coital Zen and the remaining traces of junk he had flowing through his veins.

She's learned not to take anything he says when he’s chasing the dragon too seriously.

She snorted in response. “You know I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Not everyone is a musician. Some of us have day jobs.” She sassed back, tugging on a loose lock of hair between her fingers.

He rolled over and smooshed his warm cheek against her breast, fumbling and squishing the other idly with his large hand—their hearts nearly beating in tandem.

“Gonna suck.” He murmured lowly, voice muffled by pillowy tits.

His head shook with the chuckle that resonated through her sternum.

“You’re going to Europe to play music, and you’re saying it’s gonna suck. Do you hear the shit that comes out of your mouth sometimes?” She said almost incredulously, impressed with the nonsensical ideas the so-called quiet one of the band provided.

He smiled lazily and balanced his chin between the valley of her chest, looking up at her with slow-blinking, soft eyes.“The shows'll be fun; you being gone is what’s gonna suck.” He whispered, the scraping of his cadence tickling her skin.

The lily-livered honesty nearly took them both by surprise. Even when they're both sitting naked in each other's arms after watching the other come undone, some words spoken make things feel too raw. The conversation ended shortly after when he lolled his head to the side and wrapped two heavy arms around her midriff. She was left with a baseball-sized lump in her windpipe, staring at the ceiling and musing on whether what they had going on even amounted to anything.

—

Tonight feels different. Even though things look the same outwardly—her smaller frame cradled against him, legs tangled under a thin blanket, and the steady rise and fall of each other's chests. Things feel different. At first, she thought the ability to read each other's minds with as little as a passing glance, and the pickup on subtle body language was an affectionate quirk. But now, as she feels the unuttered heavy thoughts lingering between them, it seems more like a burden. Izzy hasn’t inquired if she's alright, and she doesn’t plan on it happening either—he’s not stupid or oblivious, he just doesn’t want to open the bursting can of worms.

“You’re quiet today.” His fancy and deliberate way of skirting around being emotionally susceptible.

She shrugs, tugging the throw blanket tighter across their touching shoulders. With as unguarded and candid as Izzy has morphed her into becoming around him, the words seem to still be caught behind gritted teeth.

“Just thinkin’ about what you said the other day.” A very, very thin layer of disguising what she really means to say.

He makes a questioning humming noise from above.

“About going to England with you.”

The fingers tracing her hip bone pause their movement. She can almost feel him physically stiffen. Out of eagerness or terror, she isn’t sure.

“Yeah…” His voice trails off with a sigh.

She lets the words hang in the air for a moment. Is that a tone of regret she senses? Guilt and remorse about saying delicate sweet nothings and empty promises when he’s too stoned or impassive to remember his own name? It’s about time someone confronted him about it.

“I can’t, obviously. M’just gonna miss you.” The slight relaxation of his taught muscles pressed to her back is clarification enough that he never really wanted her to go. It’s a bit of a hindrance trying to score drugs and bury his dick in random people with a lover looming over his shoulder, along with the rest of his culpable conscience.

“M’gonna miss you too, sugar.” He purrs, saccharine kisses landing on her temple.

The syrupy-sweet pet name coaxes the primal-driven part of her brain to the forefront and keeps rationality at bay.

The tips of his digits dip below the bottom hem of his shirt that hangs loosely around her torso, ransacking it from the pile on his bedroom floor and claiming it as her own as a feeble remnant of comfort. She can feel a stiffening and prodding lump poking her tailbone, impatiently asking for attention. Usually, she'd be happy to indulge with no complaints from him. But tonight, the mood doesn’t feel very sultry and sexy—more like a resigned admission of entry.

His lips find hers, as they usually do. Lazy swipes of his tongue and her legs wrapping around his tapered waist. They've moved past clumsy fumblings and have started to develop a bedroom routine. With the apartment being vacant and free for the night of you-know-who, Izzy takes things at a ginger pace. He kisses and teases the right spots, earning encouraging noises and arches of her back like a violin string pulled tight. With as gratifying and as pretty as his head looks resting between her thighs, and his mouth put to good use for something other than sucking on cigarettes or the occasional tinfoil of H; she just isn't getting off.

Call it mental blockage or anxious, vexed thoughts—but as soon as she feels like she's about to cross the ever-in-reach finish line, it slips from between the cracks in her fist and she's back to square one. Sparing mercy and trying to avoid the impending lockjaw that he’ll eventually suffer, she coaxes Izzy back up for a kiss with feigned innocence. Cloaking her lackluster libido with needing him so badly that she just can’t wait—she can. If anything, she'd rather skip the whole sex part tonight and jump straight to the brutally honest, honeyed words that happen after the fucking concludes. At least that way, she gets to see a more existent version of him.

They slot together effortlessly. He moves so languidly within her, it’s as if he can read her insides like braille. It’s too much, not enough, and devastating all at once. The pressure and vehement heat hold her head beneath boiling water, her heart threatening to bleed and seep through her ribs. A cartoon-esque caricature of a devil appears on the stoop of her shoulder again, poking her in the jugular with a pitchfork and whispering in her ear, Tell him. Tell him. Tell him!

The thoughts are almost paralyzing. The roll of his hips connects between her thighs so easily that it’s hard to tell where his body stops and hers begins.

Her lips babble nothingness—a complete detachment from her brain. She can practically see her better judgment float away on a pink, fluffy, cotton candy cloud.

“I love you.”

“What?”

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff’s Apartment, 1987

He freezes completely, still sheathed inside her body. They both stare at each other, trapped in a liminal space that immediately turns the mood acrid and tart. From what she can see of his face, that’s partially illuminated by the TV, he looks even more dumbfounded than she does.

“I…I said I love you.” She squawks again, this time more feeble and dry-mouthed.

“Oh. That’s—that’s sweet, baby.” He replies, half-chuckle forced, his face a little more blanched than usual.

He leans down again to hide in the crook of her neck and resume his strokes, but she places the flat of her palm on his chest with furrowed brows, forcing him out.

“You’re joking, right?” She says, aghast, lip curled.

Izzy opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out; he sits up on his thighs and avoids eye contact.

The silence pervades the living room—even Izzy, always quick-witted and fast with his tongue, doesn’t know how to slither his way out of this.

“I, uh— ” He clears his throat gracelessly and scratches the back of his flushed neck. Tucking himself back into his pants, his zipper shutting, and his belt fastening closed is almost a comical metaphor for how this entire night is playing out.

His eyes glance at her face, hoping she'll be the first one to change the uncomfortable subject. But when all he gets in return is a sharply arched brow and a facial expression that screams, Go on. Explain yourself out of this one, dickhead. He lets out a shaky breath and swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“I, uh, I don’t really know what to say.”

She squints up at him, mind running on overdrive and desperately trying to keep up with her mouth. She musters a scoff and throws her legs over the side of the couch, slipping her panties and shirt back on with a cold shoulder turned.

Her face pinches. “Uh, I don’t know, Izzy… maybe say it back?” She spits, dithering between being completely mortified and enraged.

She tilts her head in his direction when she's left with eerie silence. He’s staring down into his lap, wringing his hands nervously. This is so uncharacteristically like him—befuddled and totally discombobulated by her unnerving display of candor. He peers at her from behind his curtain of hair as they both stare at each other in incredulous silence.

Then, in an almost unthinkable movement, he rises from the couch and slips his boots over his heels. “Think I should head back home.” He mutters, barely audible.

The humiliation churning inside of her is quickly overtaken by anger, bubbling to the surface and turning her ears hot. She's spent the last few months baring her unadulterated personality and body to Izzy, and this is how he verbalizes his thoughts for her?

“What?”

Now it’s her turn to throw out the sharply asked question.

He sniffs and shrugs his shoulders like he didn’t just put her heart under the sole of his shoe and squashed it until it was nothing but atoms.

“Yeah. Think I’m gonna—uh, head back to my apartment.” He doubles down, acting clueless.

It only serves to cock back the hammer and pull the trigger within her head.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, what’s wrong with you?” It comes out louder and more pungent than before.

He turns his head to look at her with the nerve to show an expression of confusion.

“With me? That’s like, heavy shit you just dropped on me, man.” His words hold more bite to them as well, the atmosphere quickly darkening in the living room.

They both can feel the nasty brewing of an argument beginning to froth. She gives him a face she's sure mimics a gunshot victim—her chest might as well feel the same phantom pain.

The space between them grows charged, brittle. Her head reels back, arms flailing wildly to punctuate her words. "What—so I was just supposed to act like we didn't have a thing going on?"

He pushes his hair back with tight knuckles, tugging on the roots like the pain can organize his thoughts. He shakes his head. "No, that's not—" he sighs, groaning, "That's not what I mean...I just, why the fuck did you say that? Like...like I'm your fuckin' boyfriend or somethin'."

The vibration between them hums until it starts to splinter. His words—painfully mean—shatter something inside of her.

“I was just being honest. Do you— ” She starts to fumble over her words, throat tight, stomach dropping, imminent tears threatening to spill. “Do you not feel the same?” Her voice breaks off into a whisper, but it carries the same weight. "I...I wasn't your girlfriend?"

Izzy just stares down at the carpeted floor, shifting his weight to either foot and fiddling with his car keys in his fist. His tongue curls around the words. “I…don’t know. Thought we were just havin' fun.”

He whispers it, but it feels like someone drops a brick on her skull from a skyscraper.

Everything they've been through—every shared commonality, laugh, tear, and kiss—and he doesn’t know? Was it all just a farce? For what? She can feel the wetness roll down her cheek before the bubble in her throat bursts with a sob.

“Just get out of here, Iz. Just fucking go home.” That's all she can choke out with a slight shake of her head, vaguely raising her hand to the door.

She can't even bear to look at him, but his brows pull together slightly at the sight of her slow unraveling, a flicker of empathy washing over his face for the briefest of moments. He goes to say something again, but his mouth won't cooperate. He quietly turns on his heels and leaves the apartment, head pointed to the floor.

The sound of the door shutting behind him is the only sound she can register before her knees buckle and she falls into a heap. She feels her sternum cave in, the shuddering and sharp inhales of breath rolling throughout her entire frame with each violent wave. Every indulgent and tender moment that she's spent with Izzy flashes behind her eyelids like a montage just to make her ache in a way she's never felt before.

Not his girlfriend. Not his, period. 

Doubling over on the floor, she curls into herself, unable to move, unable to breathe.

She wishes Duff were here.

—

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff's Apartment, 1987

“Yeah, I just don’t feel very well. Is it alright if I stay home for the day?” She squeezes her hand into a tight fist to brace for the impending negative answer. It’s not a complete lie—she does feel like shit.

She barely got a few hours of sleep between the muffled crying into her pillow and Duff stumbling back into the apartment around 3, knocking over the side table with his rangy legs in the process. She just doesn’t have the energy to pretend today; she'd rather sulk in private.

Frank coos. “No problem, Ms. McKagan, it’s a slow news week anyway. Rest up!”  He says warmly, still treading on eggshells around her since the entire Brent debacle. He’s still not fully convinced she won’t try to sue the company for negligence.

If it gets her out of work for the day to lick some wounds, then by all means—she'll exploit it.

She ends the call with a forced friendly smile and a chirped thanks, but her cheery visage immediately drops the second the landline rests in the cradle. She's exhausted. Her eyes burn from all the tears, and her face feels so puffy like she drank an entire shaker of salt. Even swaying on her feet in the kitchen takes too much effort.

She trudges heavily back over to the couch, but before collapsing, she looks over to Duff's room. It isn’t until now that she realizes, apart from him, and now without Izzy, she feels completely alone.

Tiptoeing over to his door, she knocks gently, poking her head into his space.

“Duff? You up?” She doesn’t expect a reply. He was out doing God-knows-what or who all night.

Surprisingly, his grainy voice travels.

“Yeah?”

She inches the door open with her shoulder, nostrils instantly invaded by the overwhelming scent of her brother. It smells like home.

She doesn’t know why she crawled over to him pitifully; it’s not like she can tell him why she's all torn up.

“Can I—never mind, it’s stupid.” She cuts herself off before she can dig herself into a deeper hole. He’s probably the last person who wants to hear her whine about boy troubles—especially considering the boy in question is one of his best friends.

She hears him stir in the sheets, sitting up slightly. His blonde mop ruffles, sleep still clinging to the slits of his eyes.

“What’s up?” He motions her over to the foot of his bed.

Once again, she finds herself with the truth, attempting to break through clenched teeth. A part of her wants to desperately come clean, to lift the burden of secrecy and tell him, Hey, your rhythm guitarist kinda dumped me last night. Any advice? But she fears that might open an entire can of worms that she isn’t exactly ready to divulge. She's learned that Duff can be a little oblivious at times, but he’d be straight-up dense to not realize that she and Izzy had become somewhat conjoined at the hip.

She inhales a shaky breath and curls her fingers at her sides, the raw emotions still simmering inside her starting to climb back up her throat. “Can we just—talk for a minute?” She asks timidly, mentally trying to dance around any real information coming out.

He shifts again in his sheets, twisting his upper body to inch open the blinds. They both wince at the sudden assault of sunlight that comes pouring through. He looks just as rough as she does, most likely for different reasons.

“Yeah, ‘course. C’mere.” He beckons softly, patting the empty space beside him.

She regresses into her 9-year-old self, curling up by his side and pulling the blankets up to her nose. He props himself on the wall, and by his silence alone, he can tell he’s surveying her cadaver-esque appearance.

“What’s goin’ on?”

She wishes she could tell him. There’s a hit of hesitant silence.

“If I told you I met a guy…would you freak out?”

He instinctively pulls a face but tries to mask it. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Is he the reason you’ve been so weird lately?”

She pushes a weary laugh through her nose. Yeah. She could fucking say that.

“Yeah, kinda.”

Duff sighs and lets his head clunk against his postered wall. He had an itch that something funny was going on. She's barely home anymore, and when she is, she's either glowering wordlessly with headphones on or sleeping so late into the afternoon it’s a miracle she even gets out of bed at all. It’s strange seeing the receiving end of a girl’s broken heart; it makes him reconsider some of his past—and recent—escapades.

“What’s his name?”

She feels her chest tighten, the gears turning in her brain. “Doesn’t matter. Think it’s over anyway.” The words burn her throat and lips like she just shot back straight whiskey. 

“What happened?”

She doesn’t even know.

“Told him I loved him.”

Duff sucks a sharp breath in through gritted teeth. She doesn’t even have to look at him to know he’s wincing.

“I’m guessing he didn’t take it too well.”

Her brows pinch together slightly, and a stray tear slips down her temple. She rubs it away on his pillow before he can notice. The slight stutter of her breath and a few sniffles answer his hanging question, so he lays a warm palm on the crown of her head, petting gently.

“M’Sorry, kiddo.” He exhales, allowing her to burrow further into his sheets to hide.

Out of all the emotionally naked and maimed moments she's had with Duff over the years, this feels the grisliest.

“Just thought he felt the same, I guess.” She bleats hoarsely, holding onto the remaining strands of composure she can by her fingertips. She's too tired to sob anymore.

“Did I ever tell you about the girl I was with in high school?”  He questions, brushing some greasy hair from her reddened eyes.

She shakes her head weakly; she's only heard whispers about her. She wasn’t too concerned about her older brother’s lady friends at the ripe age of ten.

“You might’ve been too young to remember her, but we were together for a while. I was really, really into her. Like—thought I wanted to marry her typa shit.”

She chortles weakly. The thought of Duff settling down anytime soon seems implausible, let alone when he was sixteen and humped anything that had a pulse.

“Remember when I went on that short tour with 10 Minute Warning for a few weeks?" One of his brief-stint punk bands. "Told you I was going to military boot camp to fuck with you?”

She shoots him an annoyed glance from the corner of her vision. Yes, she remembers that vividly.

“I was genuinely fucking worried, dude. I begged Mom not to send you away, and she had no idea what I was talking about.”

Duff laughs and bumps her shoulder with his own. She cracks an actual smile for the first time in hours, which feels incredibly foreign on her face.

“Well, anyway, I went on the tour. When I came back, all of our friends were acting really weird around me. Like they knew something I didn’t, finally, after a couple days, she told me that she cheated when I was on the road." He pauses, like the memories are still fresh wounds. "I was fuckin’ crushed.”

She frowns slightly, fiddling with the blanket frays between her fingers. She recalls a period of time when they were younger, when he didn’t leave his room for what felt like weeks. She never realized that was why.

“Sorry that happened.” She peeps flatly, not knowing what else to say, or where he’s going with this miniature monologue.

“My point is—the only way you grow from shit like that is to live through it. Yeah, it sucks, and it hurts like a bitch right now, but unless you let yourself experience it, you won’t mature from it.”

She abhors how easily he drops poetic shit at random. She appreciates it, but it’s grating to know that he’s still her sage older brother. She leans her heavy head against his bony shoulder, exhaling a long, languorous sigh.

“Thanks…for being here for me still. M’Sorry I’ve been cagey the last few weeks. Just trying to figure my shit out, y'know?”

Duff drapes an affectionate arm over her frame and squeezes lightly. “M'always gonna be here for you, you know that. And if I’m not, and I’m being a dick, feel free to kick me in the nads.”

Another natural laugh escapes her mouth—refreshing, in a way.

“Wanna get breakfast? I’m feeling IHOP.” He offers, hoping to distract from whatever maelstrom is fermenting up in that brain of hers.

“Yeah. Let’s get out of here for a while.”

Chapter Text

AUGUST

Humid. Tacky air. 

SEPTEMBER

Breezy. Chilled draft.

OCTOBER

Orange leaves. Dead and brittle. 

NOVEMBER

Seclusion. 

Downtown Los Angeles: Duff's Her Apartment, 1987

Four Months Later 

It’s strange how different life begins to feel when the leaves start to change their hue. Summer brings a sense of tranquility—warmth, whimsy, and a wondrous care-free feeling that has no choice but to bloom in someone’s chest and photosynthesize for a few months. But then a chill hits the air. The sun tucks itself behind the horizon at an alarmingly fast pace, and suddenly everyone is bundled up in mink coats and leather jackets, sporting a perpetual scowl. Not that she's any different, she's become a walking billboard that screams, Repressed Anger, plastered all over her face, no matter how vigorously she tries to scrub it away at night.

She's a legal adult now—so there’s that. Her birthday was a somewhat successful affair spent with a few coworkers galivanting and gossiping around the city, trying on different, egregiously expensive clothing at multiple stores like a sub-par rom-com montage. She dragged her heels at first, letting the girls know, It’s not that big of a deal…let’s just order pizza or something. But after the lot of them all flashed puppy-dog eyes simultaneously, she had no choice but to cave and participate without room for dispute. Halfway through the day and after a brunch mimosa or two, she actually found herself stumbling into a feeling that was less than miserable for the first time in a while.

Shortly after that, the deadline for the internship slowly crept closer, as well as the unavoidable feeling of accepted defeat in her chest regarding the next steps in her career. She warred with herself for a while on the topic—always going back and forth between the notion that whatever life throws at her, she would just have to deal with it—or, on the contrary, wanting to burst into tears and hide under her bedsheets like a toddler as she waited for the thunderstorm to pass. She considered college more seriously. There are plenty of universities around LA that have pretty kick ass journalism programs—but then again, who wants to deal with years of debt and a $40,000 piece of paper? It just seemed like another hurdle that she didn't have the energy to jump.

But then the day finally came, and she was pleasantly blindsided.

—

“McKagan, can I speak with you for a moment?” Mr. Owen crooned her name from the doorway of his office, beckoning her over with one hand.

She shoved down the globe of nerves lodged in her throat and forced a smile, nodding in response. She knew with each passing day, as she crossed off the little boxes on her desk calendar, that this moment was coming sooner rather than later. The program had been nothing short of enlightening—with a sprinkle of theatrics and trauma on the side, but she decided that made for decent character development rather than anything else, and yet, a large part of her still wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye.

With feet that felt like lead and tingling hands, she trudged over to his office and lowered herself into the squeaky leather chair opposite his desk. The skin around her nails had already been chewed so harshly that she'd drawn blood, and the inside of both of her cheeks had multiple chunks of flesh missing from repeated anxious gnawing.

“So, I’m sure you’re aware the internship is over soon,” Mr. Owen started timidly, letting out a quiet, middle-aged noise as he sat down.

She nodded curtly, a stupid, faux-polite smile still painted on her face to feign strength despite her stomach feeling like it was filled with a swarm of locusts.

“After doing the 90-day performance review, and speaking with some of your collaborators—”

She held her breath and curled her nails into both sweaty palms—waiting for the inevitable mortar shell of realism to drop. The rational and less primitive part of her brain wanted to earn whatever hand was dealt to her out of hard work and determination, but the more cantankerous side of her mushy frontal lobe regaled the idea of using the Brent situation as blackmail at least once or twice.

“SPIN would be happy to take you on as a full-time employee as a Junior Journalist and Editor.”

She just stared at him with a blank, deadpan expression.

She blinked.“Wait, what?” Dumbfounded, not sure if she accidentally slipped a tab of acid in her morning coffee.

“It’s completely your decision, of course…but the office loves your attitude and we’ve been thoroughly impressed with your writing capabilities. We’d love to have you as an official team member.”

—

And that was that. After signing a few documents and being quite enjoyably shocked at the sight of her first Big Girl Paycheck, she became a formal journalist for a music magazine. A notch in her belt that she'd been lusting after since she was convinced that writing frantically about music was her only realistic calling in life.

Duff was thrilled, of course—he even scraped together some cash to take her out for a celebratory dinner at a restaurant that didn’t have roaches or an eager fangirl ducking under the tablecloth to happily offer her services to her brother.

They discussed the mechanics of how things would look in the future over steak filets and mashed potatoes.

—

“I’m not sayin’ you’re stuck there if you wanna find your own place, but I think it’ll work out if you stay at the apartment while I’m out on the road just to watch over everything.” He offered with a cheek full of medium-rare meat.

In theory, it was the most plausible and easy option, but she couldn’t escape the feeling of uneasiness being trapped inside the apartment so full of ghosts, ghouls, and unspoken feelings.

She hesitated, poking around a few strands of asparagus with her fork. “I get that…but, you sure you want me taking over your entire space while you’re gone?” 

She had absolutely zero doubts that as soon as Duff left for tour, she would do an entire overhaul of his place.

New furniture, new linens, and for the love of Christ, a new fucking couch.

Duff shrugged, slugging down a tall, icy glass. “Totally fine by me—if anything, I wouldn’t mind coming back to a redone crib. Mi casa es su casa or whatever the fuckin’ saying is.”

—

So, not only was she gifted with the job of her dreams, a group of girlfriends, and a cheap apartment that she had total free rein over as her brother crusaded across the world—she was completely and utterly independent.

No prying eyes, nobody to answer to, and most prominently—no Izzy. 

It’s a sore subject for all parties involved. It took her a few weeks to even think about what happened that night, without hot tears pricking at the corners of her eyes—let alone even trying to process the entire catastrophe. And of course, in true Izzy fashion, it was followed by absolute radio silence. Nonexistence. Total and complete avoidance. She never saw him around his usual loitering destinations in town; he stopped skulking around Duff's, her apartment uninvited, and even when she hung around the rest of the band occasionally, he was nowhere to be seen. It was probably for the better. If she saw him in person, there would be a sparkle of longing in her eyes, propelled by a girlish enchantment that would immediately be taken over by wrath, and she'd clock him square in the face before she could stop herself.

At first, it was incredibly emotionally stifling not being able to talk about it with anyone—there are only so many innuendos and clever wordings to pussyfoot around the topic of, Yeah, I sorta got dumped by a budding musician, but not technically because we weren’t ever a couple. But after a while, and the slow process of rebuilding her self-confidence, the coping got more tolerable. She purposefully shied away from the dating pool for a while—rightfully so, she wasn’t sure if she could handle another fiasco involving a long-haired boy, but it’s quite funny how lonely a person can become in a giant city like Los Angeles.

Which brings her to the present, sitting alone in her familiar apartment that’s decorated much more tastefully since Duff left for tour a few weeks ago. Her routine has stayed consistent, sans the mornings she would make him an extra-strong pot of coffee when he would come stumbling back home the night prior. She peels herself out of bed around 7:45, makes breakfast, showers, changes, drives Duff's barely functioning sedan to the office, gets home around 5:30, unwinds, lights out by 10, and the cycle repeats five days a week.

It’s beautifully and blissfully mundane, and so incredibly mature. The irony isn’t lost on her that the majority of the other eighteen-year-olds are still scrounging and scraping by to survive, and here she is—a full-time nine-to-five and a place to call her own. It’s abnormal…almost imposter syndrome level uncanny. But it’s a nice reprieve from the mental and emotional Olympic gymnastics that some people had been putting her through for an entire summer.

The apartment has the same energy that the house back in Seattle did when Duff left for LA. His phantom still lingers around every corner, and sometimes she catches herself wanting to look over her shoulder to tell him something—but she's met with the low hum of the air conditioning unit instead.

It’s been a few days since they last spoke. He tries to call when he can, but not only are the time zones in Europe bonkers, but she reassured him endlessly that he didn’t have to mother hen her, starting from the second he left. Curiosity and a little boredom decide to get the better of her one Saturday afternoon as she picks up the landline from its cradle and dials the number of the hotel his tour itinerary says he should be at. Although it’s 3 o’clock LA time, which means it’s around 10 pm England time, he could either be a few drinks heavier or sunken a couple of inches deep in some poor woman—either option sounds a bit unsavory.

The dial tone rings a few times before it connects.

“Mayfair Hotel, this is Charley.” A posh British voice says from the other end.

“Hi, can you connect me to Duff McKagan’s room? It’s his sister.”

There’s a stroke of silence followed by a sigh.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but the gentlemen in the band have had numerous calls from young women who claim to be affiliated with them. I’ve been ordered not to direct any further queries to their rooms.”

Incredible.

She looks at the phone with a confused expression, like she's trying to decide if she heard that correctly. It wouldn’t be the first time she's gotten confused for a groupie vying for her brother’s attention. She lets out a weary breath, stretching the coiled phone cord taut as she splats down on the sofa.

“Listen, I understand this probably sounds a little far-fetched, but I’m calling from Los Angeles…I just want to check in and see how he’s doing.”

She's always reminded that when getting herself involved with GNR, the trouble seems to outweigh the merchandise.

The concierge mulls over his response for a moment before letting out a little huff of resignation. “Alright, I’ll direct you to his room now.”

There’s another dial tone that beeps a few times before her eardrum is nearly ruptured.

“H-Hello?” A familiar, slurred voice shouts over a discordance of music and other mingled chatter in the background.

She pulls the handset away from her head for a moment to recalibrate. “Jesus, Duff—sounds like you’re in the middle of a club.” She winces, rubbing slightly at the opening of her ringing ear.

He chuckles through a hiccup. “Yeah, sorry…we’re just hangin’ out in the room with a few people.”

A few people is code for girls and dealers—she's learned to decipher the lingo. At least he’s having fun.

“Was just calling to check in and see how everything's going.”

They’ve been gone for three out of the four weeks of the leg, and the majority of any of the updates she's gotten from him are drunken phone calls and chicken-scratch postcards. There’s a clatter of what sounds like glass breaking and a few hoots and hollers from the raucous room.

“Ah, it’s great. It’s really fuckin’ cool over here, you’d love it.” 

“How is—” She cuts herself off before she can finish that sentence.

Don’t ask. She doesn’t care.

“How are the shows?” She corrects herself.

“Pretty intense. Hot. But most of them are packed. The guys are good…Stevie's out right now at a pub, Axl's hiding in his room, I think, Slash is with me—” Duff's interrupted by an equally tipsy-sounding Slash calling her name and an exaggerated greeting from the background.

She giggles with a polite Hi, but she's sure he can’t hear her.

“Izzy's...”

She feels her chest tighten involuntarily. She doesn't care how he is; the wound is still festering

“He’s doin’ his own thing like usual. He was hangin’ out with us earlier, but I think he ran off with one of the girls.”

Classy. Very apt and predictable—what a joke.

She lets out the breath she's holding and mentally counts to ten to stop the blood rushing in her ears. She doesn’t even want to hear his name, or what chick he’s doing, or if he misses her as much as she misses him.

“That’s great. M’Glad to hear it.” She forces out as she clears her dry throat. “Well, I’ll let ya get back to your party. Call me when you get the chance.”

She's noticed her moods grow extremely sour whenever he gets brought up in conversation, even if it’s just for a passing moment.

They trade goodbyes, and the line goes dead.

The silence in the apartment afterwards feels louder.

—

Monday rolls around, and she's back to her regularly scheduled programming without any more distractions. She attempts not to think about the lanky creature that shall not be named—but sometimes he creeps in the shadows of her subconscious and likes to make an unwelcome arrival in her dreams. There have been more than a few occasions she's ripped herself straight out of REM sleep the second those soft, amber eyes flash in her fantasies. She refuses to entertain his bullshit even in her hallucinations.

Now that she's considered a full-time employee at SPIN, the workload has increased, causing her to become exceedingly more tired by the time she gets back home—but it’s a welcome feeling of exhaustion that’s brought on by a sense of accomplishment. No longer the worrisome and insecure teen who’s torn up about boys, or her unwieldy future—she's a woman with a profession.

She collects a stack of mail and cracks open a beer as she sifts through the envelopes by the kitchen counter. A past-due bill here, a spam flyer there, and then there’s a little laminated paper at the bottom of the pile. She curiously quirks a brow and inspects the professional photo of the London Bridge on the front—another postcard from Duff?

She flips it over, and it’s a miracle she's standing by the sink because she thinks her lunch is about to make a reappearance.

In London, thinking of you. Call me when you can, I want to hear your voice. —Izzy.

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: Her Apartment, 1987

The second the written words register in her brain, she feels queasy. It’s a confusing amalgamation of nausea, anger, anxiety, and something else she can’t quite put her finger on the pulse of. An old pang of longing, maybe. It’s been four months of absolutely no contact—and she had full intentions of keeping it that way. Still, he goes and pulls out one of his stupidly infuriating smooth-talking acts, and her hand is hovering over the landline before she has the chance to talk some sense into herself.

She falters and drops her arm to her side; he doesn’t deserve to hear her voice.

Her eyes flit back to the postcard, the pad of her thumb tracing the pointed edges of the paper, rereading the note for what feels like the millionth time. It’s a bit chicken-scratched, giving off the impression that he probably scribbled it down when he was drunk and halfway out the door, but that’s no surprise.

She chucks it onto the kitchen counter and collapses onto the sofa with an exhale, head lolling back, eyes boring holes through the ceiling. She rubs the suede fabric under her palms as a grounding technique—her newly purchased loveseat, a much nicer version of the decrepit pull-out couch that had been long discarded by the dumpster. It was almost like a dumbbell was lifted off her shoulders when she finally saved up enough cash to get rid of the nasty thing, a part of her having half a mind to burn it ceremoniously. But it was symbolic, like a time capsule of summer’s worst memories finally being thrown away.

But just when she thinks she's moved past everything, he always manages to dredge up every recollection of their time together. At least, she likes to assume she's moved on—but then she sees one of his shirts hanging at the back of the closet, or a long-forgotten setlist pushed to the back of the dresser drawer, ripped off the stage at the end of one of their gigs, and she reverts to the girl she was a few months ago—lost, desperate, and completely lovesick.

There’s that word again: love.

She isn’t sure she even knows the definition of it anymore, or if she knew it at all in the first place. Sure, she loves her job, she loves her brother, she loves music—but she fucking loved Izzy. She adored Izzy. She willingly accepted every broken and fragmented aspect of his personality and nurtured it back to life like a dove with a fractured wing. But then he decided that whatever the two of them had going on was too real and tender, and he packed up shop and hauled ass out of her life, leaving her with nothing but a shattered ego and a carnal, inconsolable, and unforgiving yearning for his presence.

The lines between genuine pining and hormonal cognitive dissonance have become extremely blurred. Does she really miss him, or does she miss the idea of him?

Trivially, the sex was great, and it was a dirty little secret between them that fueled the impassioned romance—but when it came down to brass tacks, what did she think was going to come out of it? He’s a young man—and a fairly well-known one at that— whose persona revolves around the antithesis of domesticity. He’s not built for monogamy or healthy relationships; he’s bred for recklessness and a dope addiction. It's not quite the perfect recipe for a doting boyfriend.

Oh well, c’est la vie, right?

—

It’s been three days, and she keeps walking past the postcard that’s still in the same spot on the counter. She's privately warring with herself—if he wants to talk to her so badly, then maybe he should fucking call. It’s not her job, nor is it her responsibility to flock to him when he’s feeling bored, horny, or lonely, not to mention the hubris is getting in the way of just how much she does want to speak with him, against her better judgment.

What would the phone call even sound like? Hey, how are things? I hope you choke for what you made me feel like. It seems unbecoming of her.

She attempts to occupy her thoughts by submerging herself in work, whether it be at the office or refurbishing the apartment down to each line of grout in the tile—she refuses to allow herself to dwell on the persistent nagging voice in the back of her mind, telling her to just pick up the phone and call.

After spackling over what feels like the thousandth pinhole in the drywall courtesy of Duff haphazardly stapling posters to every square inch of his old room, she decides to take a break. Winnowing through another stack of mail that’s just been delivered, she wrinkles her forehead when finding a cassette tape sitting in the mailbox outside the front door. Flipping it over to read any indication of what exactly it’s a tape of—she lets out an audible, dry-heaved groan.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” She scoffs to herself, half collapsing against the door frame, inspecting the inserted notecard within the tape.

Songs that make me think of you:

Twentieth Century Fox— The Doors

Beast of Burden— The Rolling Stones

Something— The Beatles

Wild Horses— The Rolling Stones

Call me.  — Izzy.

He sent her a mixtape.

This has to be a joke—there’s no other reasonable explanation. He’s in the middle of Europe, knee-deep in excess and hedonism—and he’s making her mixtapes.

Her heart disgracefully clenches behind her ribs. She has to close her eyes and take a deep breath to hang on by her fingertips to the remaining patience she possesses. He’s making it incredibly hard to keep acting like he doesn’t exist.

Her eyes skim to the phone, and there’s another brief moment of contemplation.

She shouldn’t, but she wants to.

—

She decides to wait a few hours and racks her brain with some of the appropriate things to say.

A few lines that come to mind are: How’s across the pond? Have you done any sightseeing? I pray you’ve contracted every STD under God’s green earth, you fucking degenerate. Amongst a few other choice, colorful words.

It’s pushing 9, which means it’s well past 4 where he’s at—subconsciously, she waited this long into the night with the hopes that he’s sleeping, and she doesn’t have to speak with him again. The bottle of white wine sitting in the pantry has been whispering her name for the last few hours, but she wants to go into this clear-headed. She's past the point of steeling her nerves with booze for him.

After taking a few slow, calculated, and calming breaths, she picks up the handset and dials the hotel number with clammy hands.

A cockney-sounding woman answers. “Wilshire Hotel, this is Amanda.” 

New hotel, new concierge.

“Hi, M'sorry for calling so late, but could you connect me to Izzy Stradlin's room?” Her stomach bubbles uncomfortably when she finally says his full name out loud. The first time in months.

A beat.

“Are you calling for the young men in the band? I apologize, but hotel staff have been told not to let any journalists call after hours."

She wishes this were for an interview—technically, she is a journalist. The next words that leave her lips nearly singe her tongue with barbed irony.

“Ah, no—I’m…actually a friend calling from LA.”

The receptionist takes a pause, almost as if she’s trying to decipher if she's telling the truth or not.

She mentally questions when the guys became such a hot commodity that hotel staff have to act as a buffer for security. She still remembers when they were getting booted from club queues for not being popular enough.

“Let me place you on hold and ask their manager.”

Once again, things become bigger trouble than they’re actually worth. She gives her name, and the line goes silent for a moment. She rests the handset in the crook of her neck and fiddles with the cassette tape in her palm. It’s a sweet gesture—she's never had a guy dedicate such beautifully written songs to her.

Stop.

Slippery train of thought. Don’t fall for his immature display of affection—he still doesn’t warrant her energy or time.

The call finally reconnects after a minute.

“Apologies, Ms. McKagan, I’ll connect you to his room now.”

She bounces her leg anxiously as the dial tone rings.

Four months. 121 days since she's initiated any sort of communication with him. The bottle of wine seems mighty appealing now.

Please don’t pick up, please don’t pick up, please don’t—

“Yeah?”

Oh Christ, how she's missed that strained, perpetually aggravated voice.

“Hey.”

There’s a long stretch of silence between both of them. In the background, she hears a rustling of sheets as he clears his throat like he just shot up straight in bed.

“Hi.”

It feels so painfully and brutally awkward. It’s eerily reminiscent of the first conversations she ever had with him—uncomfortable pauses and scrambled thoughts as she tries to think of what to say or how to carry on a conversation. She forces down a dry lump in her throat and exhales a shaky breath, coaching herself that it’s just a phone call—she can hang up and go back to avoiding him at any time.

“I uh, got your postcard and the tape. You wanted me to call?” She attempts to sound indifferent and aloof, like she couldn’t care less about giving him the time of day—in reality, she feels like she's walking a tightrope, hanging on to every syllable that slips past his lips.

“Yeah, I’ve been—” He pauses, not sure how to phrase his words to avoid sounding pathetic. “I was thinkin’ of you. Just wanted to talk.”

About what, exactly? The weather? Small talk seems completely pointless at this stage in their relationship. If anything, they're more strangers to each other now than ever. Two faceless bodies passing each other on the street.

She musters up the best impression of a casual person she can, but she can’t escape the slight quiver of her voice. “What’s up?” 

Izzy lets out a sigh that fans against the receiver. “It’s been crazy, shows are nonstop.”

“So I’ve heard.” She deadpans in response. She also heard that he’s humoring himself with other pastimes.

“Yeah…” He breathes out a dry chuckle.

If she analyzed his tone too deeply, she might start to think that he sounds a little tripped up about how calm, cool, and collected she's coming across. Damn fucking right—she won’t even expel the little energy she has left on a fruitless screaming match.

“What’s been goin’ on back home? How’s work?”

Home. He’s referring to his involvement in her life like they share any commonalities anymore. Is he actually interested, or is he just trying to break the ice and verbally dance around the elephant of tension in the rooms separated by miles of ocean? Either way, she's enjoying having the upper hand on him for once.

“It’s been great actually—I got hired full time so…watch out, you might get a hit piece written about Appetite.” She cringes immediately after she lets the thought slip, but she's only half-joking.

He forces a snorted laugh, and she can almost picture his eyes crinkling at the sides like they do when his lips curve into a smirk—she misses that sight.

“Shit, that’s cool. M’happy for you.”

There’s another beat of long silence where they listen to each other’s breathing against the phone. They're over 4,000 miles apart, and it feels like his spirit is right next to her on the sofa—she can almost feel the heaviness of his gaze.

“Listen—I, uh…I’m sorry about—”

“Don’t.” She immediately cuts him off. She can’t handle this conversation right now—not sober anyway.

“I don’t wanna hear it, Iz.” She's proud of herself for standing her ground, no matter how satisfying it would be to hear him grovel. She doesn’t want apologies or whispered sweet nothings to coax her back under his spell—she just wants to move on.

“Alright…I understand.” He murmurs in a tone that paints the mental picture of his tail between his legs. “But, just know that,” He stutters again, trying to fire every remaining brain cell he has to sound as sincere as he can possibly summon. “I’m still thinkin’ about you—and I wanna make things right.”

She drops her gaze to the fibers in the carpet and rests her elbows on both knees. There are so many vitriolic and venomous words she wants to sling at him—so many furious and boiling sentiments that she's stored in the chamber for months…but he sounds so genuine, so remorseful. Her throat tightens, the edges of her irises beginning to scald.

“We can talk about it some other time. It was good to just hear your voice.” She whispers out in a meager tone, trying so hard to remain stoic and impassive despite wanting nothing more than to crumble in his arms again.

“You too. Can I call you again soon?”

She can read between the lines—he’s asking for silent permission to slither his way back into her day-to-day life again.

She knows, as soon as she opens that Pandora’s box, it won’t be easy, if not impossible, to close. She pushes out an exhale through her nostrils, tilting her head to the sky and silently asking whatever higher power is in earshot for a lifeline. This is a reckless idea, and she's already regretting it before it’s even started.

“Yeah. Talk soon. G’night.”

“Night, sugar.”

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: Her Apartment, 1987

As soon as she rests the landline back in its cradle, she takes a moment just to stare at the ceiling in brutal, unforgiving silence. It's bizarre, to say the least. She expected to absolutely froth and fume at the sound of his voice—to let every gripe and frazzled feeling she's been harboring for him finally be set free and land on somewhat apologetic ears; and in an inexplicable twist of events, she felt calm—like his raspy timbre was a balm to a burn she didn't realize still stung.

She's torn between wanting to walk down the familiar path of his cunning or being smart by keeping a safe, respectable, and platonic distance. It feels as if every scar and wound she's worked to patch and heal over the last few months immediately reopened the second she heard the slightest hint of a smile in his tone through the crackly receiver.

He’s no good, a certifiable disaster that seems hellbent on lighting a match to every nerve and soft feeling she can seize—and she's so, so fucking in love with him still.

She can lie to herself, and she can lie to her girlfriends when they ask if she's interested in anyone…but she can’t lie to her heart—and her soul says that it’s digging its spurs in over Izzy, whether she agrees with it or not.

It’s foolish and foreboding, and despite herself, she just can’t help but toe the line between a casual hookup and a full-blown romance once again.

—

Downtown LA: SPIN Magazine HQ, 1987

The next day at work progresses as it normally does—she makes coffee, sits at her desk, and begins to edit some of the other journalists’ upcoming pieces that are being released in next month’s magazine issue. Right when she's in the middle of adding the umpteenth semicolon to a ridiculously long paragraph describing the intricacies of the latest Def Leppard album—Daphne, the Head of the Writer’s Group—waltzes over and leans by the side of her desk.

She’s a well-put-together woman in her thirties who’s been an accredited journalist for over a decade. She’s written it all—puff pieces, hit pieces, and the God’s honest, scathing truth. In a way, she looks up to her. She strives to become such an accomplished woman—pantsuit and all.

She gives a knowing smile, auburn hair framing her porcelain face. She’s wearing the expression of someone who knows something particularly juicy.

“Good news or bad news?” She prompts with a cocked eyebrow, already being able to tell she’s got some sort of piquant information brewing.

“What would you say to your first real interview with a band?” She questions smoothly.

What would she say? Is, Um, fuck yeah! HR appropriate?

“I would say, of course. What're the details?”

She's been silently and patiently waiting for this moment to finally arise. She's done a small blurb in the mag here and there, but never a full-fledged, published interview with a group. She's halfway eagerly chomping at the bit for the opportunity, but it’s followed by a tidal wave of uncertainty. She's been determined to prove herself as an actual journalist for what feels like months now.

“It’s with a new-ish band—they’re on the road right now, so it’ll be over the phone. But they just dropped their debut album, and it’s already starting to stir up attention. We wanna try to get ahead of it and publish a story before any of the other magazines do.”

Okay, a phone interview works. It’s less intimidating than being face-to-face, but lacks the visual interpretations of the band—but she's good at embellishing and creative writing, she has faith that she'll think of something.

“Cool, which band?”

“Uh, group called Guns N' Roses—you heard of ‘em?”

She’s joking, right? This is a prank? A perverse hazing technique on the newbie in the office?

Her smile falls, and her eyebrows flatten. She was only ribbing Izzy when mentioning writing a hit piece on Appetite; she really didn’t mean to speak it into existence. Her silence seems to confuse Daphne.

“Something wrong?” She questions with upturned brows, a sincere expression etched.

“N-No…just, uh…” She stutters, tripping over her thoughts as she tries to quell the rush of nausea in her gut. She can’t exactly say no, but it’s not like she wants to say yes either. “Yeah, I’ve heard of ‘em. Saw them play a couple times, too.”

What she should say is, My stupid older brother is the bassist, the lead guitarist is a bumbling drunk, the singer is a sadistic nutcase, the drummer is sweet but has the brain capacity of a goldfish, oh, and by the way—the rhythm guitarist was fucking me within an inch of my life a couple of times a week too, if that helps my journalistic integrity.

But that’s not exactly politically correct office lingo, is it?

“Oh, well, that’s great. Make sure to add that to your piece. Give the album a listen, and I’ll send over the confirmed times and dates soon. You got this, rookie.” Daphne says encouragingly before nudging her shoulder with a smile.

She forces a friendly one of her own, but the second she saunters away from her desk, her head falls into her palms with a stifled groan. She scrubs over her face roughly as if to wipe away the impending doom that’s headed down the pike. On the bright side, she's already listened to the album earlier than the general public did. She's been hearing the songs off the finished product long before they even started professionally recording them, when Duff was sending her rough demos through the mail. She knows the track list in and out, and she's been stage-side at enough club gigs to know the complexities of their unpredictable live performances.

Optimistically speaking, she has enough information to write a novel-length piece about the band; realistically speaking, she'd rather put a gun in her mouth than have to ask any of the guys the usual roster of intruding journalism questions.

Her first official interview, and it’s with Izzy's fucking band of all things—go figure.

Later on in the day, she's provided with a sheet containing the number to call, the date and time of the interview, and a list of questions that the magazine would like to see answered. She skims over, powering through what feels like her 90^th cup of lukewarm coffee.

How did the band members meet?

Who are your main influences?

As the band grows more popular, do you consider yourselves role models?

She audibly snorts. Yeah, that’s exactly the description she'd give to the worst possible group of five human beings combined—role models.

She shoves the paper into her bag and drives back to the apartment with a throbbing head and an aching neck. Not only is she entertaining a somewhat cordial communication with Izzy again, but now she has to interrogate him for work. Fantastic.

A part of her wants to gush and print rave reviews just for Duff's sake—but the more intolerant and spiteful side of herself is screaming to publicly humiliate the band just as a personal fuck you to a certain someone.

Probably not the smartest idea, though, no matter how tempting.

By the time she decompresses from work and finishes a small dinner, the phone rings. She's starting to get that anxious, jittery feeling she used to suffer from when she would never know who to expect to drop a line. She hates it.

“Hello?” She peers over at the microwave clock, already doing the mental calculations to tell what time it is in Europe.

“What’s up, lady?”

She wants to crack the handset over her knee. She knew that as soon as she agreed to let him start calling her again, he’d be relentless. He knows when she leaves for work in the morning, when she gets home, the unwinding routine she likes to do, and exactly what hour she's sitting in front of the TV with no other distractions—just like she's doing right now.

“Hey, Iz.” She sighs out, sparring with herself yet again about encroaching on any sort of relations with him.

“Whatcha up to?”

“Nothin’ really, just hangin’ out.” She despises having to feign casualness, but he doesn’t merit having anything else.

“Yeah, me too. The guys are out walkin’ around the city, but I hung back in the room…thought I’d give you a call.”

Aw, how sweet, she's a fucking pastime to kill boredom.

“Don’t have any interest in the tourist traps?” She jokes weakly to ease her own tension.

“Nah, got my fill of that shit in London. Germany's kinda bleak anyway.”

Fair enough—she would probably want to stay in a hotel room too.

“I saw this cool bookshop in Hamburg, real quiet, hole-in-the-wall place—made me think of you.”

Her fingers tighten around the phone, jaw subconsciously tensing. Her stomach flutters a bit at the thought of him seeing anything, and she's the first thing that comes to mind.

“You been thinkin' of me?” She questions coyly, slipping into a familiar rapport with him almost inherently.

He huffs out a light laugh, envisioning the introverted grin on his lips. He always used to do it when she would catch him off guard with her quick-witted tongue.

“I always am.”

Fuck.

She shouldn’t say it back, she won’t say it back—but she is too, always.

Her lips twitch upwards, feeling her heart flutter against her ribcage.

“You’re so full of shit.” She jests playfully through a chuckle, finally allowing herself to relax against the couch cushions. She forgot how much she missed talking with him.

“Am not! Can’t help it…I—” He pauses, hesitating over his next words. “I miss you.”

She shuts her eyes and draws in a slow, calming inhale. Like the words just physically lanced her. She wanted to hear him say it—she spent hours contemplating if she'd ever hear those words leave his lips again—and when she finally does, it takes more strength than she has to offer to refrain from saying three little words that got her into this mess in the first place.

“I…miss you too.” It feels like a dirty confessional—but it’s the truth.

She misses him desperately. Not just the intimate moments—but the connection. Out of all the people she happened to converse with in LA, Izzy was the only one who made her feel somewhat understood and less like a wallflower who was aimlessly floating through existence.

She quickly changes the topic to shy away from the emotionally raw conversation that they both have been pirouetting around. “Hey, you’re never gonna believe what happened today…” 

It seems like neither of them is quite ready to unpack that mess just yet. He hums curiously.

“I got asked to do my first interview piece. Take a wild guess with which band.”

Izzy lets out a full-bodied, warm laugh that she swears shines on her through the phone like the sun just blasted through the curtains. She hasn’t heard him laugh like that in a long time—too long.

“You’re shittin’ me. Really? You’re the phone interview management was telling us about? Isn’t that…what’s the word?”

“Nepotism?” She finishes his sentence for him. “Most definitely. But, whatever, at least it’ll make for a good story.”

“Well—just go easy on us. Europe’s been kickin’ our ass…m’almost ready to come home.”

She hadn’t even gotten that far, honestly. Talking with him on the phone is one thing—but seeing him again in person? It would be worse than walking on eggshells, more like tiptoeing on shards of glass. They’re set to come back in a week, which is seven days too soon for her liking.

“Yeah, well, I’m sure the label will have you guys back out in no time.” She says it as more of a reassurance to herself than anything.

If there’s one perk about fooling around with a musician, when they do something to piss you off, they'll most likely disappear for a few months.

“Speaking of which—we’ll probably be home for a few weeks before we get sent out again—”

Oh no…please don’t let this be the question she thinks it’ll be.

“Maybe I can…I dunno, take you out? I’d uh, I wanna treat you to somethin’ nice.”

His trepidation and bashfulness would be endearing if she still didn’t want to wring his pale, skinny neck.

“Maybe. I’ll think about it.” 

Good answer. Keep him on the hook for once. He played the cat-and-mouse game with her before—now it’s her turn to leave him hungry.

“Good enough for me. M’gonna try and sleep. We’re playing tomorrow night, so I dunno if I’ll call. If I don’t…just know I’m thinkin’ about you.”

God, he’s insufferably suave—she falls like an idiot for it every time. It could be total and complete bullshit, but the butterfly flurry feeling in her stomach can’t tell the difference.

“Alright, goodnight,” She says with a huff, pinching the bridge of her nose as if to will her headache away.

“G’night, sweetheart.” 

He’s impossible.

—

Downtown Los Angeles: Her Apartment, 1987

He was telling the truth for once when he said he wouldn’t call. She finally got one night of peace in the week since he started slinking around the quiet spaces of her mind again. It wasn’t filled with much tranquility, though—too preoccupied with the sluggish task of having to call him back for a work assignment—if things couldn’t become even more divinely ironic.

She's sat on the couch, beer bottle clasped tightly in one hand, and a pen in the other as she nervously bounces a notepad on her knee. She's dreading this for multiple reasons. This couldn’t be farther from the bounds of appropriate, and she has no doubts that Izzy will try and push the envelope at any given opportunity just to fuck with her. It could be worse; she could be interviewing Axl, or Duff, who would probably match, if not trump, Izzy's sarcasm about her faux-professional demeanor.

She polishes off her second drink to make the whole process easier, resting the phone at the junction of her neck.

He always picks up after the third or fourth ring.

“Yeah?”

He sounds tired. He wasn’t mincing words when he said Europe has been putting them through the wringer. It can’t be easy—the monotony of show after show and the constant hustle to make ends meet can eat away at anyone.

“Hey, it’s me.” She anxiously clicks her pen repeatedly to occupy her hands. She has a mental checklist of questions she wants to ask to keep things tolerable—but then again, he has a lovely way of derailing things quite easily without even trying.

“Time to play twenty questions already?” He jokes, almost like he’s trying to fortify his own nerves with lackluster humor.

“Yeah, about that…” She sucks in a deep inhale, reminding herself, Remain professional—leave all the other shit at the door. “Let’s keep it kosher, okay? No drama.”

There’s a slightly stunned silence on Izzy's end for a moment as he racks his brain for something witty to come back with. When he draws a blank, he lets out a little indignant puff of air.

“Yes, ma’am. Promise. Strictly business talk.” He purrs out in a tone that’s a little too husky for her liking. He’s already starting to push her buttons.

“Alright—we’ll start off easy…how was the show last night?”

“Pretty cool. The European crowds are a lot less contained, so shit gets crazy, but the response has been good.”

She furiously jots down his answers with shorthand in her notepad at the same rate he talks in rapid-fire bursts. She catches herself finishing his sentences for him a few times without even needing verbal confirmation—she still knows how he thinks. Surprisingly, it makes the process a little bit easier.

She makes sure to ask all the usual press-related questions that he either makes a grunt of affirmation or a groan of disapproval in response to, even in those quiet noises, she knows exactly what he’s trying to say. It’s equal parts maddening and charming. It’s not until she asks a passing question that wasn’t even a requirement on the sheet given to her by work, more of a personal inquiry that she was curious about, that things take an odd turn.

“Have you guys been working on new music?” She hears some ice clinking in a glass like he just took a hearty swig of something. She can picture the wetness on his pouty lips. She still remembers what it feels like to trace the edges of his smile with her tongue.

Stop.

“Uh…yeah, actually. I’ve been workin’ on something that I think is gonna be good.” His tone takes a bit of a sheepish edge to it, like he’s embarrassed about admitting his work in progress.

“Oh, care to share?”

“Off the record?”

She pauses. This is supposed to remain professional.

“Yeah…off the record.”

She's such an anemic fool for him.

“It’s a slow one. ‘Bout a girl.”

Her chest cinches. First, it was a postcard, then a mixtape, now he’s writing ballads for her? This is way, way above her pay grade.

“And who’s the unlucky lady?” She can’t help but let the metaphorical knife slice him a bit. She's bit her tongue enough since they started talking again.

He lets out an arid chuckle, always feigning detachment. “Someone I should’ve told these things to a while ago.”

She pushes the pen and paper away on the adjacent couch cushion, curling her knees to her chest and completely abandoning any notion of professionalism she was desperately clinging to.

This isn’t an interview anymore—this is just her and Izzy shooting the shit like nothing bad ever happened.

“Does it have a name?”

“Patience.”

“Yeah, you could fucking use it.”

“Shut up. You’ll understand when you hear it—it’s still being tweaked.”

“Does the muse get early listening privileges?”

“She does.”

There’s a shuffle of movement and the familiar sound of fingers traipsing over steel guitar strings. Her heart is completely shredded in two different directions—one of them still being bitter and shattered over how things were left, and the other blissfully and ignorantly optimistic about letting him back into the crevices of affection.

Now she's stuck in the middle ground, listening to him gently hum and strum to an acoustic tune that’s so pretty it makes the floor feel like it’s opening its gaping maw and swallowing her whole.

He lets a line slip here and there, but it’s garbled and full of static through the phone—but the effect is all the same; it’s slow and lovely, written with her at the forefront of his mind.

“I’m still tuning it…but you’ll be the first to know when it’s done.”

She gnaws her bottom lip, and as she presses the cool handset to her face, she can practically hear the sizzle of her flushed cheek as it makes contact.

He wrote that, for her.

“Well, I’ll be waiting for it.” She says with a clear of her throat like she's trying to regain authority. 

“Hey—we’re still off the record, right?”

She sighs tiredly, throwing all caution to the wind. “Yeah, Iz… still off the record.” 

“This Saturday, 7:30, the steakhouse on Melrose?”

She digs the pads of her thumbs into both eyes and rubs harshly. “Is that your idea of an invitation to a date?”

“If you want it to be, you said you’d think about it.”

Oh, Christ, she does. She really does. But this has bad idea written all over it—as do most things Izzy proposes to her. She lets out another resigned sigh. Fuck it.

“Don’t be late.”

She ends the call before he even has the opportunity to gloat.

Chapter Text

LAX Airport, 1987

She questions whether anybody possesses the ability to drive anymore. She's been sitting in the airport roundabout, frantically searching for Duff's gawky frame and bleach-blonde head of hair for what feels like hours. He told her he landed at 10, but here she is at 11:30, sitting in bumper-to-bumper LA traffic with nine people honking at her to move. Right as she's about to throw in the towel and make him call a cab, a pair of gangly legs and an acid-washed denim jacket appear at the end of the road outside of the gate.

“Dude!” Duff greets loudly enough to hear from inside the car with that familiar warmness she's missed.

She puts the car in park and all but throws herself into his arms with a kiddish squeal. He lets out a soft oof as she crashes into his sternum.

She originally planned to be nonchalant and indifferent to his return, a petty display of how much she's matured since he left—but then he flashed her that 1000-watt, beaming, stupid smile, and she's eleven years old again, overjoyed with her big bro’s homecoming.

“Hey! How was the flight?” She babbles into the cigarette-sodden fabric of his shirt

“Long. Delayed. Get me as far away from a fuckin' airport as possible.” He jokes, ruffling the top of her head.

He chucks his luggage into the trunk of the sedan, and they both plop into the front seats.

She peels out of the airport as quickly as she can without getting pulled over—half because she wants to get home and pick his brain about everything he did and saw in Europe, and half because she doesn’t want to see any more familiar faces from the rest of the band.

“So—” He starts with a slap of his jean-clad thighs. “How destroyed is my apartment?”

She snorts and cock an eyebrow. How presumptuous of him!

“Excuse you, my apartment is quite tidy, and a lot more tastefully decorated, if I do say so myself,” She replies snarkily, mock-offended expression thrown his way.

Before he left, the apartment looked like a category five hurricane swept through it on a good day—but now, there’s a spiffy new couch, a fully stocked fridge with actually nutritious food, and soft bedsheets that lack the previous stains that she'd rather not think about the origins of.

“Ugh, fine…hope you kept all my shit at least.”

She lets a sly smirk crack the side of her mouth.

“I did. It’s in a box under the bed.”

She flips on the radio and cranks up the dial just as Duff opens his mouth to protest.

After an obligatory stop at McDonald’s for sustenance, both she and Duff arrive back at the apartment. His eyes grow wide as soon as he steps through the threshold, head swiveling around to survey the nearly unrecognizable space.

“Fuck. You sure we’re at the right place?” He huffs incredulously, carelessly throwing his bags by the door.

She chuckles wistfully and retrieves an icy beer from the fridge for him; he grabs it with a wordless thanks—some things never change.

“Yeah, kinda crazy how nice things look when you actually take care of it, right?”

“Shit, maybe I got too hasty when I said you could have the place…kinda rethinking my choices here.” He grumbles, plopping down onto the feathery couch cushions, his weight finally being supported by new springs rather than sunken-in, battle-hardened ones.

She slides in beside him and props her feet up on the coffee table. “Too late. No takebacks.”

Duff puts his palms up in surrender and relaxes his head back, letting out a leisurely sigh.

“So, how was it? Gimme all the gory details.” She probes with a bump to his knee with her own.

He snorts and pulls a face. “Think I’ll spare you the gory ones—but it kicked ass. It kicked our ass. Glad to be back for a bit before we get sent out again.”

She nods silently in response and swipes the beer can from his hand to steal a swig.

It’s strange having another presence in the house again after flying solo for so long—but it’s Duff…in all his goofy, awkward, brotherly love—he’s always welcome.

She spends the rest of the night trying her best to pry stories out of him as he shyly skirts away from letting out too much information about what kind of extracurricular activities the boys occupied themselves with. Around dinner time, the jetlag seems to finally catch up with him, thankfully, before he has the opportunity to gripe about sleeping on the couch.

If she did it for nearly six months, he’ll survive a few weeks.

—

She has a few blissful seconds of ignorance when she first flutters open her eyes in the morning. The sun's out, there’s a nice, early winter chill in the breeze, and it’s the weekend.

Duff's playing catch-up with his sleep schedule, which leaves her with the all-encompassing freedom of no plans. No work, no chores, and no nagging responsibilities looming over her shoulder.

But then the crushing weight of reality hits her from the blindside.

Fuck. It’s Saturday—Izzy's home, and they have a date tonight.

She stares blankly at the ceiling, nearly paralyzed by a confusing mixture of reluctance and anxiety. Does she want to see him? Does she not?  She agreed to go out—but if he’s even a fraction of a second late, she's recanting the offer and telling him where exactly he can stick his little idea of a reconciliation.

She thought she'd grown past the persisting sensation of nervousness that he seemed to conjure from the depths of her psyche—they've seen each other drunk, high, naked, and in all other sorts of compromising positions—and yet, the impending feeling of doom in her lower stomach refuses to quit. Nerves, she supposes, after all, it’s been months since she's had any sort of contact with him, a far cry from the once-daily meetings they used to share.

Begrudgingly, she rinds herself from the sheets and trudges into the bathroom to commence the usual morning routine. After splashing some cool water on her face to shock herself out of the fog of drowsiness, she gives her reflection a good, long stare in the mirror.

She thinks she looks the same as the last time they saw each other. Well, maybe without all the tears and snotty sniffles, but fairly similar. She pokes and prods at her figure—the roundness of her hips, the soft skin of her lower stomach, a stress-induced pimple on her cheek—she stops herself when she realizes what she's doing.

She's assessing herself. Deeming if her appearance is worthy of his attention again.

Fuck that.

She groans deeply and rolls her eyes, harshly smacking the light switch.

Bumbling into the kitchen to scrounge something up for breakfast, she hits play on the answering machine that’s blinking with an unanswered message. It crackles to life with a gratingly familiar voice.

“Guess who’s home, pretty lady?”

She whips her head around to peer at Duff, who—thank God— is still snoring softly, sprawled out on the couch like a starfish. It isn’t lost on her that whatever fucking dumpster fire that she and Izzy have going on is still a secret to him. To everyone, actually.

“Don’t think I forgot about our plans. Be ready by 7, I’ll pick you up.”

She lets her head hang between her shoulders, exhaling a weary sigh. Great. So not only does she need to worry about mentally preparing herself for what she assumes is going to be a painfully awkward dinner, but now she has to somehow play hooky with Duff again so he doesn’t start getting suspicious. She forgot how eventful sneaking around with him was. Technically, she is an adult now…she isn’t doing anything wrong, and it would be significantly easier just to tell the truth—but then again, what older brother wants to hear that the guy who sticks his prick in anything with a beating heart is courting their baby sister? Probably still for the best to keep that entire arrangement on the DL.

The day drags on a bit uneventfully—Duff sleeps till around late afternoon and, by the grace of the Lord above, decides to make plans to go out with some friends to celebrate his return from the road. Surprisingly, he offered her to tag along, most likely to be his designated driver, but she politely declined and laid out her alibi as having her own plans with some girlfriends from work.

Around 6:30, things get meticulous.

She's standing in front of a full-length mirror in her room, draping numerous outfits over her frame in contemplation. A dress is too fancy, a lacy top is too revealing, and a band tee is far too casual. When she's nearly hitting the last hanger in the closet, she decides to forfeit with a simple blouse and a pair of black jeans, modest enough not to give Izzy any wicked ideas, but classy enough to prove that she's a woman now.

By the time she finishes canvassing her face and setting her hair the way she likes, the clock reads two minutes till seven.

Alright, 120 seconds or you’re shit outta luck.

A small, naïve part of herself still holds faith in his punctuality—but the more logistical side of her brain is incessantly nagging that he’ll be late, and she'll tell him to go screw.

6:59 pm: Nothing.

7:00 pm: Nothing.

7:01 pm: Nothing.

He’s late. Amateur.

7:02 pm: A knock at the front door.

She takes a deep breath and wipes her clammy palms on denim.

She can do this.

She wraps her fingers around the door handle and slowly creaks it open.

“Hey.” He drawls slowly.

She takes a quiet second to analyze his appearance. Black, tight jeans that are stretched thin at the knees, black, silky button-up that hugs his tapered torso, worn, haggard boots with scuffed edges, and a soft, shy, almost choir boy face hidden behind scraggly bangs—it’s like no time at all has passed.

Tracing the outlines and edges of his body with her eyes, her gaze lands on a small bouquet of assorted roses and lilies clasped tightly in his fist.

Fuck, she can’t do this.

Her throat runs dry. She forces herself into casualness. “…You ready?” 

“Mhm. These are for you.” He thrusts the flowers at her with a cautious smirk.

“Softie.”

“Ingrate.”

Their banter seems to have never missed a beat, either.

The walk to his truck is silent and burdensome, as is the ride to the restaurant in West Hollywood. It’s like they're both carefully skipping around each other’s bloated feelings—too timid to say the wrong thing too quickly, but too impatient to act like there’s no checkered history lingering in the forefront of their minds. When he makes a left on Melrose, he turns down the knob on the radio and finally breaks the silence.

“You look…nice, by the way. Thanks for letting me take you out—missed going out with you.”

She bites down harshly on the tip of her tongue. She's reverted and reduced herself to the unbearable small-talk stage with him—it’s insufferable and grotesquely uncomfortable. She grieves that it can’t be like before. Long gone are the conversations filled to the brim with inside jokes and rapport that flows from her lips as easily as memorized song lyrics and sonnets. Every syllable uttered now feels like it has to be carefully crafted and chosen to meander around the landmine field that’s become her own fragile sentiments.

“Thanks. You—” She feels like she has a fishbone stuck in her windpipe, a physical embodiment of all the words so filled with milk and honey that they’re rotten. “You look nice too.”

He makes a hum of acknowledgment and slowly rolls into the parking lot of the fancy steakhouse. It’s more highfalutin than any other place he’s taken her to—maybe the royalty checks finally started trickling into his bank account.

Sitting in a corner booth that’s tucked away in the shadows of the restaurant, she gives herself a moment to provide another once-over with her eyes. The small candle centerpiece situated between them on the table flickers against his pale face. His hair’s gotten a bit longer, his dusky, natural brunette roots starting to slowly inch their way down from the crown of his skull like ivy overtaking an old building. The darkness under his eye sockets has grown to a bleaker shade as well. He might've also dropped a couple of pounds, his already lanky and nearly skeletal frame not being substantiated by few and far between hot meals on tour, coupled with a constant side dish of coke and clear liquor. But his lips and his eyes are still the same—pouty and petal-pink, ocher and swimming with an elusive charm.

“So, uh—how'd that interview piece come out?” Izzy questions, skimming over the wine list.

“Still editing, but it’s good. Not a hit piece, I promise.” She notes that the cheapest thing on the menu still rings in at double digits.

The drink orders arrive at the table first—a purplish Malbec for him and a glass of sparkling water for her; she isn't dumb enough to try and sneak booze in a hoity-toity joint like this, they’ll card her for sure.

Izzy peers at her over the rim of his wine glass with a gaze that she knows too well—he’s wavering over something.

“So, I’ve been thinkin’,”

“Oh, that’s always good.”

“Very funny.” Spoken lowly with flattened brows. “I’ve been thinkin’ about what I wanna do with the time off before the band goes out again. It’ll be a longer run whenever we do, so I won’t be back for a while—”

She absolutely loathes the pang of hurt in her chest at that thought. She wanted him gone. She wanted him out of her life. But then he showed up with a bouquet and a sullen, puppy-dog look on her doorstep, and she's just about ready to never want him out of her sight again.

“I kinda wanna enjoy my downtime while I still have it. Think I’m gonna go out to Death Valley for a couple a’ days, maybe go camping…” He’s cut off by the waiter bringing out the entrees.

She can’t decipher if this is still menial chit-chat or a proposition.

He takes another big swig of his drink to wash down the slight vacillating of his voice.

“Would you wanna come with?”

Ah, proposition it is.

“Mm, I dunno. Might not be able to get away from work.” It’s a decent enough excuse; things have been especially busy as of late, and she's never been the best at asking for time off, whether she deserves it or not. Not to mention the fact that the thought of being stuck in a completely secluded and surplus of desolate space with nobody to accompany her but Izzy makes a sharp twinge of uneasiness and agitation spike in her gut like a bad bout of acid reflux.

“Well, think about it and let me know. It’s nice out there, but if it comes down to me, you, and a coyote—I’ll use you as bait.”

She snorts into her glass. Shit, she really did miss his dry humor.

Dinner is unexpectedly unproblematic for the most part. After jumping the initial, awkward hurdle of breaking the glacier of ice between them, things fell back into place just as they were left. They trade war stories of all their escapades they've gotten into since everybody broke off to walk their independent avenues—her misadventures of finding her footing as an adult on her own, and Izzy's debauched and decadent explorations around the red-light districts in Europe.

Old jokes seem to make a friendly reappearance too, ones that used to put them both in stitches, like the long-winded A rabbi walks into a bar shtick that Izzy likes to tell.

After the plates have been long cleared and her posture has softened from a rigid, upright position to being unguardedly lax with her elbows resting on the tablecloth, the atmosphere between the two seems less vitriolic.

She declines the dessert menu, but Izzy lingers for another glass before he pays the check without hesitation.

Chivalrous. Silently apologetic. 

Instead of a crumpled wad of cash that was acquired through shady business dealings, he slaps down a shiny piece of plastic embossed with the government name, Jeffrey D. Isbell—seems like he’s moving up in the world, too.

When they're both back in the cab of the truck, he pauses before moving the shifter into gear.

“You want me to take you back home?”

No. Yes. She doesn’t know.

“Why, what did you have in mind?”

She knows she shouldn’t put out. This is her first real date in who knows how long, and it doesn’t mean she's ready to dive head-first back into the abyss that is Izzy—but Goddamnit—he’s looking at her with those half-lidded eyes and cheeks dusted with faint color as he plucks a cigarette from the carton, and she's encroaching on dangerous territory.

“Maybe sit by the beach? We’re only a couple minutes away from Santa Monica.”

She sits in silent reticence for a moment, tracing the leather details of his dashboard with her eyes. She has a trifling clue where this will most likely end up.

“Sure…just don’t get any ideas, rockstar.” She scolds playfully with a pointed, accusatory finger. Purposefully using the condescending pet name she knows makes his eyes instinctively roll to the back of his head.

Izzy smirks and puffs out a cloud of gray smoke that slips from the side of his mouth, putting his hands up in a placating gesture.

“No funny business, scout’s honor.”

“You were a Boy Scout?”

“No…but I don’t lie to you.”

She flattens her lips to a thin line. She begs to differ. 

Chapter Text

Los Angeles: Santa Monica Beach, 1987

She's lucky he’s always preferred to blast music to drown out any possibility of excruciating silence because the cab of his tobacco-filled truck is quieter than a basilica. She's absorbed that muteness is one of his more charming attributes—depending on the context— but as of right now, it feels more like a trial of her patience. She should quit while she's ahead. Dinner fared well without any screaming competitions or tears, so it would be wise to just cash in her chips—but then again, she's never been great at gambling.

He parks in a gravel lot, and she decides to let her feet carry her further before her better judgment decides to call off this entire ordeal. Walking in silent tandem, their shoulders brush occasionally, and with each slight contact, she feels a bustle of nerves in her bloodstream—she can’t decrypt if it’s anxiety or girlish anticipation. The beach is empty except for a few stragglers, some night divers, and high schoolers who are certainly sneaking out past curfew to entertain themselves with juvenile freedom. Life seemed simpler when the only thing she needed to worry about was returning her mother’s car by midnight.

“Seems as good a spot as any,” Izzy says with a lackadaisical noise, dropping down in the sand, stretching out his slender legs, and crossing them at the ankles as he leans back on his palms.

She mimics his movements but keeps a safe enough breathing distance lest he hear the slamming of her heart against her ribcage, completely betraying the apathetic façade. The waves are quiet tonight, almost like the ocean knew to stay level-headed to ground her. The moon peeks shyly from behind a few gray clouds and reflects off the ripples—reminiscent of the first time he kissed her. So sweet, so innocently rushed with a teenage-like eagerness. Of course, it was followed by his immediate and somewhat par-for-the-course backtracking and shifting of blame, but those few suspended moments in time were a pleasant memory.

She idly cups handfuls of sand and watches it slip through the cracks in her fist. She can tell he’s staring at her through the wisps of hair in her peripheral, so she blurts out the first thing that comes to mind to break the tense atmosphere that seems to exist on a razor’s edge.

“Dinner was really nice, I enjoyed it.” She says with a passing glance over her shoulder to him. She forces a cordial smile, and gets a side-smirked one in return.

“‘Course. It’s nice havin’ somebody I can actually hold a conversation with again.”

She snickers and knits her brows. Is that his idea of a compliment?

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She tries not to sound snappish or offended, but her eyes narrow in his direction regardless.

“I mean—the people that hang around the guys are cool and all, but…” He shrugs and makes a vague gesticulation with his hands like he’s weighing the severity of his words. “They aren’t exactly the most riveting folk.”

“So, you’re saying you surround yourself with idiots?”

“I’m saying you’re a lot better company.”

She pushes a laugh through her nostrils and continues to poke holes in the sand. It’d be untruthful if she believed her ego wasn’t a little stroked that she's his preferred companion compared to the characters that like to dawdle around the band.

“What, the European girls didn’t hold your attention?” It comes across as a playful jab, but there’s a twinge of animosity in her tone just as a reminder to Izzy that she's well aware of the hobbies he perfected over the last few months.

He rolls his eyes, and sharp, white canine teeth poke through his lips as he smiles smugly.

“Stop. You know that isn’t the same…they were just—” He mulls over his words like he’s trying to figure out the most delicate and appropriate way to phrase it.

He should know better than to act like an insatiable dog around her at this point; she's always been able to see straight through it.

“Flings. Nothin’ else.”

The next words leak through her lips before she can even stop them, the disconnect between brain and mouth getting the better of her again.

“Then what did that make us?”

Both of them visibly stiffen as the sentence hangs in the air for a moment. The quiet sloshing and breaking of waves against the shore fills the space between them as Izzy casts his eyes downward in shameful resignation.

That was the one question she had been choking and strangling on ever since she and Izzy decided to completely crash through the boundary of a platonic relationship and cross over into the uncharted, choppy waters of ardor. She spent hours phrasing and rephrasing how she would bring it up in the most mature and put-together way, and it finally decided to crown its head amid a simple conversation.

Irony. It seems to pull its lace veil over her head wherever she travels.

He visibly swallows, fingers tracing mindless shapes into the grains. "Whatever you want it to be.” He’s kicking the can of responsibility down the road again—his indirect way of evading guilt.

She's exhausted her meekness and taking all of his drivel in stride—she was never one for confrontation, but it seems a bit obligatory now. “What do you want it to be?”

He flicks his eyes over to her face, the slight breeze brushing strands of hair against dark eyelashes. He stares at her for a beat like he’s committing the details of her expression to memory.

“I just want another chance.”

She can feel the tightness of her throat immediately begin to gag the words that are creeping up her esophagus. She rapidly blinks away the stinging that begins to collect at the edge of her eyes and takes her bottom lip between her teeth to chew on his words. This might finally be the moment she gets to speak the stifled and repressed thoughts she's been harboring for so long, and she doesn’t plan to coquettishly shy away from the topic anymore, only for it to be pushed aside again.

After a brief moment of sorting through the maelstrom in her mind, she exhales an indolent breath and levels her shoulders. She stares out into the blackness where the sky meets the ocean and unlocks the barricaded door that’s been guarded in her mind for far too long.

“What happened, Izzy…what you did—” She speaks as slowly and as calmly as she can to try and fight off the bubbling hysterics that arise every time she recounts the past. She keeps her eyes trained forward, pupils adjusting to the indigo-black sky with speckled stars that glimmer light-years away. She can still feel the immensity of his gaze on her profile.

“It really fuckin’ hurt.” She finally shifts her eyes downward and focuses her attention on a twig that she uses to push around sand and discarded cigarette butts. She has to occupy her motor skills somehow, or she knows her emotions will snatch her by the ankle and drag her to the bottom of a trench until she's drowning.

Izzy clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably, crossing his legs and leaning his elbows on his knees as he mimics her movements, playing with morsels of rocks as a kiddish display of anxiousness.

“I know…I—I don’t know why I reacted like that; it was really fuckin’ stupid.”

She peers at him from the corners of her vision, the side of his surly face being kissed by the moon’s yellow glow.

Izzy can feel the tendrils of vulnerability slamming its shoulder against the door of his mouth, begging to break through his gritted teeth. He doesn’t know why, but he’s always had this innate impulse to run, even when he was still just a boy. When things became too constraining back home in Indiana and he was confronted with the uncomfortable reality that he’d most likely work at a steel factory until he was in his seventies, retire, then kick the bucket with a gaggle of ill-mannered kids in a double-wide, he ran. When he first started seeking out bands to play in when he came to LA, but was met with the unfulfilling promises of chubby-cheeked high school dropouts who were only looking for a garage quartet, he ran. When he started ducking his black tar heroin supplier down in Tijuana because GNR started to actually kick back revenue into his bank account, even though he had a shit-ton of unfulfilled debts, he ran.

When she said she loved him, he ran.

It’s a fetid, rotten, nomadic wound that’s been festering in him since adolescence. The permanence of love terrifies him.

He forces words out. “I just got—overwhelmed, I guess. Wasn’t expecting it…m'sorry. Really, I am."

Her eyes finally meet his after what feels like a torturous moment.

God, she's been waiting to hear those words from him for so long, and now that she has, it only adds to the turbulence she's got brewing. She's been around him long enough to know when he’s being genuine and when he’s just spewing fodder to pacify someone—he means it this time.

He starts to inch closer to softness, even though something inside of him feels like it's about to shatter. “I get it if you still feel hurt or weird, but…I just want you to know that when we were together," he exhales shakily, "I was happy.”

The dull butterknife that was prodding at her heart has now sharpened into a full claymore that pierced directly through her chest.

He was happy. With her. Together. 

She may be able to forgive—sometimes to a fault—but to forget? That seems like a monumental task, given the way she fell for him like she never had before. Even if there was never a formal label on the complicated bindings that she and Izzy enmeshed themselves in, it still felt real. The love was real—at least on her part.

He looks over at her with such remorseful infatuation, a face that’s so accustomed to being fixed into a scowl or an aloof expression that hides any true perception, now completely abraded with longing.

She wants to give him another chance, too. Blindly.

“You mean that?” She breathes out in a hushed voice, half in disbelief. Her view of him starts to grow cloudy as thick tears brim.

“Yeah.”

In a moment of haste, propelled by infantile emotion that threatens to fill her gulping lungs with salt water, she subconsciously begins to inch closer to him, losing herself in the warmth of his irises again. She had a nasty intuitive feeling that the minute she agreed to go out with him again, things would lead to where they are now.

He meets her halfway, sucking in her exhaled breath and connecting his lips to hers as they twine together with unforced simplicity. It's so tender it's almost cruel. 

They both sigh simultaneously into the embrace like they've been aching for this exact moment ever since the last one they shared, not knowing it would be the final one for a long while.

On instinct, he threads a few fingers through her hair to deepen the kiss, the sound of puckering lips and wet spit mingling with the harmonic tides that ebb and flow a few feet away. She fists a handful of his shirt, twisting the fabric and desperately clinging to a tangible reminder of the present. He breaks away for a moment to catch his wine-laden breath, resting his forehead against hers.

“Please…please let me.”

She's never heard his voice so desperate and throbbing, his warm breath puffing against her raw lips.

It could mean numerous things—please let him have her again, please let him taste her again, please let him be with her again—whatever it is, she knows she'll say yes.

She nods fervently and leans back into him, guiding him down into the hills of sand. The kisses grow more eager and wanton, a mess of tongues and soft noises that blend and get lost in the wind. He grinds himself into her, the harsh material of his jeans and braided belt digging through the thin material of her pants and doing little to appease the growing heat that’s beginning to beg for the balm of his touch.

“God, I missed you,” Izzy mumbles in a broken voice, calloused fingers impatiently fumbling beneath her blouse and desperately searching to pinch and pluck at a hardened nipple.

Even though the intent is sweet, she can never take the pillow talk too earnestly. “Shut up and fuck me before I change my mind.” She snorts out, giving a good-humored punch to his shoulder.

It seems even in the most heated of moments together, they can never take anything too seriously. It’s comforting to know that hasn’t changed.

He chortles, reddened lips curving into a deliciously handsome smile that she's missed seeing from above her outstretched body.

“And I’m the rude one? Tsk, tsk, Ms. McKagan, when'd you get so shameless?” He leers out the purred words, one warm palm gently rubbing the expanse of her lower stomach, fondling and toying.

He begins to pop the buttons on her shirt, revealing soft skin that prickles when it’s unearthed to the cool night air. His hands make quick work of the jeans, rucking them down to pool beneath her thighs with neither of them caring to fully undress. He kneels on his haunches, and his eyes don’t stray far from the red, lacy pair of panties that are practically screaming his name to rip them away with his teeth as he fiddles with his own garments.

He pushes his waistband down far enough for his cock to recoil free, and she can feel her mouth salivate at the sight. She's been quite the opposite of him since separating—she wasn’t exactly keen on the dating market, and quick hook-ups felt fruitless, so for the better part of a few months, she's been celibate apart from her own devices. To say she's gagging for it is an understatement—preferably from him.

“You see what you do to me?” Izzy questions in a dulcet tone, reaching for her hand, guiding it over to his cock as he wraps his lithe fingers over hers, allowing her to squeeze.

She can feel the heat radiating off of him and the rhythmic pump of blood that flows directly to his pink tip that’s beading with eagerness.

“Nobody gets me so fuckin’ hard but you,” He grunts out hoarsely as he leans over her, his free hand shoving down the last obstructing layer of clothing as he props himself prone with one arm.

It’s a Freudian slip of truth, but truth, nonetheless. Izzy's become acquainted with a sea of nameless faces and strangers’ bedsheets, and still, that deep-rooted itch that tickles the base of his spine never seems to go away unless it’s expelled with her.

She spreads out as much as she can to grant him access into the domain between her thighs, and with one, two, three swipes of the reddened crown to collect her wetness, he pushes in slowly.

She tilts her head back in the sand, letting out a soft mewl of relief when she finally feels the familiar stretch that only he seems to be able to create and fulfill in one swift motion. He lets out his own low croon of approval into the junction of her neck, stilling his movements as he reaches the hilt, letting himself float adrift in the sensation of being wrapped so tightly by her again.

He rocks his hips in a slow-paced rhythm that feels unhurried and free of frantic hankering—more like a reverent, passionate appreciation of being allowed admittance into her body once more. She wraps both arms around his torso, one hand carding through his hair and tugging at the base of his neck just the way he likes.

“Feels so good, Iz…missed you.” She gasps out through breathy sighs, eyes half lidded, body melting into his.

He forgoes the throaty groans and restrained grunts, finally allowing himself to let out a submissive moan when he hears her return the sentiment of longing. He was waiting to hear those words, too.

“Missed you so fucking much, baby, you have no idea.” His syllables are fragmented by open-mouthed kisses that trail from her jugular vein pulsing with life to her damp lips.

Both of their hips chase a quicker pattern as the sounds of his skin meeting hers begin to grow in desperation.

“Wanna make you cum, can you cum for me, baby girl? Need to feel you…” He whines out pitifully, looking down at her with interwoven brows and blush-stained cheeks.

He slips a hand between their gyrating bodies and rubs tightly focused circles around her clit to incite, almost like he needs to see her finish just to get himself off.

Approval. A trademark of his worthiness.

She chokes out a sound, the combined feeling of his measured strokes and the faultless amount of pressure against her swollen sex sends her hurtling toward the edge of a cliff she hadn’t expected to arrive at so quickly.

"Fuck, Izzy, M'gonna cum, I'm— ” She stutters as her frame begins to tremble beneath him. A slowly boiling heat begins to claw and scratch its fingernails up the length of her spinal cord as she waits for the coil wound taut in her gut to snap.

It’s a slow and lazy orgasm, drawn out by his languid and sedated thrusts that work her through it for as long as she needs without any rush. It washes over her in warm waves, almost mimicking the tides that roll and crash at the edge of the shore.

Right as she's floating back down from the stratosphere, Izzy begins to crest over the mountain she just scaled with a tightrope. He pulls an endearingly reminiscent move, hiding his face in the bend of her neck as he shamelessly ruts against her, chasing a high that not even smack can parallel at times.

She coos gentle encouragements in his ear, softly spoken just like that, and cum for me, please, always seeming to do the trick to reduce him to a whining, desperate puddle completely at her feminine-wile mercy. He gulps out a strangled whimper against her throat, and with a final drive of his hips, he goes slack against her flank.

He depresses his weight, and they both lie in a tangled heap of sticky ligaments for a long moment. Shyly, he removes his head and looks at her with a sheepish, sluggish smile that seems to be devoid of any previous apprehensions. The moon shines over his shoulder, creating an opulent halo around his messy head of hair as the water serenely splashes against rocks in the distance.

Fuck, he looks heavenly.

“Good?” He questions innocuously, tenderly brushing some tousled and tangled strands of hair from her face, their bodies still connected in a way that’s surpassed something as superficial as sex.

She smiles just as lazily, nodding with a dopey expression.

She strokes his ego between the cloak of clear-headedness and hazy satisfaction. “More than. Kinda forgot how good you are at that.” 

Izzy ducks his head bashfully with a boyish chuckle, slowly removing himself, staring shamelessly at his spend that oozes out of her with a self-satisfied smirk as he zips himself away.

Marked territory.

He assists with her redressing, and after a ridiculously long time of wiping sand from each other in hard-to-reach places, they walk back to the truck—this time, hand-in-hand.

Chapter Text

Downtown Los Angeles: Her Apartment, 1987

She and Duff sit side by side on the sofa, knee-deep into a case of Budweiser and bags of greasy snacks. They've fallen back into the nostalgic routine of lazing around all day in front of the television as the hours slowly trickle by. It reminds her of the simpler days back home when Duff would sneak her out of school early just to piddle around the Pike Place Market and spend the little allowance she had on slices of pizza and comic books that inevitably ended up getting lost under the abyss of his bed.

“Do you think Guns is cooler than Madonna?” Duff questions as he fists his arm almost to the elbow into an empty bag of chips.

The Material Girl video has been on a constant loop on MTV; she can almost do a play-by-play of the offensively pink menagerie in her head.

She snorts. “You guys are in kinda different worlds, no? She’s a pop star.”

Duff makes a humming noise of indifference and traces the edge of his beer can under his thumb. “I guess, yeah…but the label said we should be appealing to the masses like her. I said she was lame and manufactured, Steven said he actually liked her last record…we haven’t stopped dogging him about it since.”

She gives him a knowing look with downturned brows, a small smile creeping its way onto her lips. “Since when do you guys do anything the label tells you to?”

GNR hasn’t earned a baseless reputation of being the bad boys without ample evidence. They’re constantly landing themselves in the headlines of all the music magazines: Notorious rockers tell the press to ‘Go Fuck Themselves!’, Booze, Babes, and Bad Intentions: Guns N’ Roses, the Scariest Band in LA, and her personal favorite blurb from SPIN: Would you let your daughter go to a Guns N’ Roses concert? Amongst a slew of other ridiculously blown-out-of-proportion, attention-garnering, media-frenzy press affairs. It’s funny being on the receiving end of a band’s loathing for the media, but she has a small sliver of self-gratification knowing that she helps contribute to the band’s growing hype.

Duff smiles in response, being all too aware of just how acutely the guys like to rebel in the face of all the big-wig suits at Geffen.

“Fair enough. But you know what I mean—people are starting to look at us differently. When I went to The Cathouse a few days ago, I got pushed into the VIP Room; they never used to do shit like that before.” He knocks back the rest of his beer and lets the can clatter on the side table, shifting uncomfortably with the stinging reality that he's not exactly a small-time musician anymore.

She understands his reticence and sudden uneasiness with being a public figure; it can’t be easy. The guys have only been off the road for a week and a half, and the landline hasn’t stopped ringing for more than an hour. Usually, it’s their management or PR team trying to get in contact with Duff to push an interview or another meeting; she's worked it down to a science to evade them most of the time. Her excuses are starting to grow stale, though. There are only so many times she can tell their manager, Alan, that Duff is in the bathroom or still sleeping.

She gives him a sympathetic shrug, stretching her popping muscles and relaxing back into the blanket fortress on the sofa. “Just keep doing what you guys are doing…” She trails off, rethinking her choice of words. “Maybe without all the bullshit antics.” She adds forbearingly.

Duff rolls his oval-shaped eyes and waves her off with a flippant hand motion that says, Yeah, yeah…whatever, Mom.

For the little time they’ve been back on US soil, they’re already starting to stir up problems. Duff, Steven, and Slash haven’t been straying very far from the block of clubs downtown, when the three of them are banded together and left to their own devices with money, time, and boredom, trouble seems to follow them, or more likely, they follow trouble. The majority of the nights since he’s been back, Duff comes stumbling in just as the sun is beginning to crest over the horizon, sloshing indecipherably and tripping over his own feet as he face-plants into the couch cushions.

She tries to humor him and let him be, knowing that he deserves to go out and have fun with his friends after being non-stop from show to show for a month, but there are some mornings when she second-guesses her own tolerance for his misadventures. It wasn’t exactly glamorous helping a very disoriented and belligerent Duff clean the puke from his clothes when he woke up and spewed violently on the carpet.

Axl has retreated back into his own universe, hiding away with his persisting on-again-off-again girlfriend Erin, who seems to have an exceptional talent for dealing with his erratic disposition. Which, by all means, is fine with her. After the stunt he pulled at The Roxy with the hopes of foiling the still innocuous love affair that she was going through at the time, she has no problems avoiding him completely.

This leaves her with the 140-pound, 6-foot, black box-dye-haired creature prowling near her doorstep during the late hours of the night, sniffing around and howling for attention.

Ever since their little tryst on Santa Monica Beach and an unspoken, shaky reconciliation, she and Izzy seem to be falling into the memorable pattern of tiptoeing around with each other again. She has her reservations, understandably so—even after he apologized and made his groveling apparently clear between her thighs on uneven dunes—she's still being cautious around him. But, she's starting to take a more even-keeled approach; instead of sending herself down a slow spiral of anxiety with the worries about what exactly their relationship means, she's taken on the attitude of being responsibly careless.

Taking things as they come has never been an easy pill for her to swallow. In her Type-A, linear, strategic way of thinking, she's always tried to plan forward and be ten steps ahead of the curve. The celestial irony that seems to haunt her thought it would be hilarious to drop the physical embodiment of the complete opposite train of thought into her life. It’s annoyingly admirable how much of a free spirit Izzy can be; he wakes up every morning and just goes where the wind takes him, meanwhile, she's been scheduling necessities like bathroom and snack breaks since junior high. 

They've been speaking regularly again; he always likes to call around eight after he’s had a drink or twelve. His slurred modulation will garble through the receiver and fill her head with pretty words like, Whatcha up to, baby? I’m thinkin’ of you, and of course, the inevitable, come over, need to see you.

She's done a fair job at setting some sort of boundaries, it wasn’t too long ago that she would've dropped everything and went running toward him the second he sent for her, but she's found a semi-agreeable balance of letting herself indulge, and keeping enough breathing room between them both so she doesn't feel like she's absolutely losing her sense of self within the cavernous gulf that Izzy harbors within his lanky chest.

Around midday, the clouds seem to draw the curtains over the sun and cast a perpetual shade across town. It reminds her of Seattle: cold, gray, and leaving little room for any motivation to do something other than sit in bed all day. Duff seems to be feeling the effects as well, either that or he's finally allowing his body to rest after a few days’ bender and seeing nothing in front of him besides the bottom of a shot glass.

The siblings’ sluggish movie marathon becomes disrupted when a loud, rumbling echo approaches the apartment complex and comes to an idling halt below their terrace. She quirks a curious brow at Duff, who gives her a shrug and an I dunno humming sound.

She shuffles over to the window and, peeking through the slats in the blinds, her eyes widen.

Without a word, she slips her shoes over her heels and scurries downstairs, ignoring the puzzled noise that comes from Duff’s direction.

“What the fuck is that?” She says with wide-set eyes, mouth agape.

“A Harley.” Izzy deadpans, straddling the leather saddle and rocking the bike back and forth in neutral.

“Thanks, Captain Obvious, I got that much. I mean, what's it doing here?” She retorts with furrowed brows, motioning to the parking lot.

He smiles surreptitiously, flipping some stray flyaway hairs from his vision.

“I bought it. Traded in the truck.” Spoken like a true man of impulsivity, completely straight-faced, and like it was the most glaringly evident and probable answer.

It’s a beauty of a motorcycle. A black on black, ‘87 1200 Sportster with a 45° V-twin engine and chrome pipes that reflect off the sun even in the overcast sky. He couldn't look more appropriately placed if he tried; his sinewy legs hug the seat as he gazes up at her with a devil-may-care expression. He looks like James Dean; all he’s missing is the leather jacket and comb.

“You’re fuckin’ crazy, you realize that, right?” She muses with a scoff, always finding herself being caught off guard by his eccentric displays of character.

He kicks out the stand and dismounts with a sigh, rolling his shoulders back and brushing through his hair with his fingers.

“If you think that’s bad," he starts before approaching her at a suspiciously close distance, "you’re really gonna hate what I’m about to say next…” He snakes his arms around her waist and presses his front to her chest, walking her backward towards the staircase up to the apartment.

“What’re you doing? Knock it off!” She says in a hushed, panicked voice, immediately trying to squirm away from his grasp with swatted hands.

He should know better than to be so touchy during daylight, in public, and when Duff is barely fifty feet away. He shushes her and grabs a handful of her ass through her sweatpants, enjoying her slight horror at his unusual PDA.

“C’mon, m'tired of creeping around your brother. I came over to take you out on the bike.” He coos, looking down at her from the bridge of his nose.

Her eyes turn to saucers at the implication.

“Are you out of your fuckin’ mind? You think you can just show up here and take me out without him going ballistic?” It should be spoken with more sincerity and seriousness than her voice carries, but she can’t help but laugh and smile through her words. It’s almost absurd enough of a proposition to make sense.

Izzy looks down at her with a flat expression.

“Yeah.” Figures. He can talk his way out of almost anything.

She sighs and rubs the lines on her forehead, pinching the bridge of her nose in thought. Logistically, it was getting a bit tiring coming up with excuses to see him. At first, convincing Duff that she was going out with girlfriends or just taking the car to go shopping was easy, but she could only play that card for so long without him unavoidably connecting the dots. The pros seem to outweigh the cons in this little calamity; she's an adult, and Izzy’s not a stranger. But there’s also the pending promise that Duff could quite certainly turn nuclear when he finally figures out that his bandmate has been absolutely ruining his sweet, innocent baby sister.

She looks up at Izzy and smooths out the wrinkles on the collar of his shirt, feeling the fabric under her palms.

“You sure about this? I mean…what are we gonna say?”

Izzy slumps his shoulders in response and lets his hands rest on her waist, squeezing the plush skin absentmindedly. “That I wanna take you out. That’s the truth, ain’t it?”

She feels a titillation of flattery in her gut. She's been trying to teach herself not to read too deeply into things, but if he’s finally letting the world know that he’s comfortable being seen in public with her, what other insinuations could that have? She feels her cheeks heat up to an incriminating temperature as she scrunches up her nose, wanting to hide in the junction of his neck and shoulder in a kiddish display of embarrassment.

He dryly chuckles and pats her butt reassuringly.

“C’mon, let’s go upstairs, just lemme handle it.”

She isn’t sure whether she should drag her feet or just run in the opposite direction. Reluctantly, she trails behind him up the rusty staircase.

“Oh, hey, what’s up, man? Didn’t know you’d be coming by,” Duff says casually, still spreadeagled on the sofa with one hand ostensively rummaging around a bag of pretzels.

Izzy shoves his legs out of the way and joins him on the adjacent cushion, mimicking Duff’s relaxed posture and swiping the last beer from the six-pack on the coffee table.

She lingers in the kitchen, trying to seem unremarkable and also keep enough distance from the blast radius in case things turn radioactive.

“Yeah, just thought I’d drop by and hang out.”

“That your new bike downstairs?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool.”

So, when’s the part where he finally breaks the news that he wants to start overtly courting the unsuspecting, naively loveable young woman who’s currently hiding behind the fridge? She even breathes at a subdued volume. She's nervous.

“Hey, would it be cool if I took her out on the bike? There’s a place in the Mojave that I wanna show her.”

Bated breath. Tense muscles. Bracing for impact.

“When?”

“Maybe tomorrow, weather's shit today.”

A long stretch of silence.

“You got a helmet?”

“She can wear mine.”

Duff shifts his head from side to side like he's physically letting the question rattle around in his head.

“Yeah, s’alright, just keep her safe.”

And that’s it—that’s the end of the discussion.

Months of sneaking behind his back, countless crafty lies, nearly driving herself to the point of insanity with the amount of mental aerobics and heartache…and it was that easy.

She doesn’t know if she should be delighted or furious.

— 

After an otherwise slightly awkward silence and Izzy’s lingering presence at the apartment as he chatted with Duff about upcoming plans with the band, he left. Flashing her his trademark hidden smirk and gently squeezing her hand in silent goodbye as he slipped out the front door and fired up the loud, rumbling engine of his new prized pony downstairs.

She tentatively approaches her brother when the dust finally settles, sitting down on the sofa and eyeing his reactions closely from the corners of her vision.

“So, you’re okay with me and Izzy—” She pauses, mentally trying to calculate the most appropriate and delicate way to phrase it while still remaining truthful. “Going out together?”

Duff licks his teeth in consideration, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to wipe away the grotesque thoughts of his sister and one of his best friends consorting together. If this situation had arisen a few months ago, he’d feel a bit differently about it. Putting things into perspective, however, she's proven herself to be a responsible, independent, smart young lady who was able to handle herself in LA. Not that Duff needed much convincing of that; he always had faith in her ability to rise to the occasion. It seems like every shred of common sense, maturity, and sensibility was siphoned into her in the womb, leaving him with nothing but heedless bullheadedness. He flicks his eyes over to her, smiling fondly at her apparent uneasiness with the topic of discussion.

“You’re smart. I trust you,” He offers gently. “You’re gettin’ grown now, kiddo, I can’t keep trying to stop you from doing stuff you want to.”

Her shoulders soften, as do her eyes. She's always been wary of making her own adult decisions, a people pleaser to a fault, and never wanting to poke the hornet’s nest. With Izzy, she seems to finally be putting herself first. She smiles at Duff, feeling the angst in her chest start to dissipate.

“I know...just wanna make sure you don’t feel weird about it.”

Duff snorts and fingers the front pocket of his shirt for his pack of cigarettes, needing one desperately after the last few moments. “Of course, I feel fuckin’ weird about it, I don’t wanna think about him porking you.”

She makes a dramatic groaning noise, hiding her scalding face in both hands. “God, Duff, shut up!” She whines, falling over on the cushions and wanting to curl up into a ball and disappear out of the mortifying honesty of it all. Duff laughs heartily, full-bodied and warm, nudging her leg playfully with his own.

“Don’t get all shy now! I’m just speakin’ the facts.” He says with a cigarette bobbing between his grinned lips, enjoying teasing her relentlessly. He doesn't let up. "Are you practicing safe sex? Is he a gentleman? Oh, Christ, please tell me you're on the pill."

He’s her big brother; it’s his God-given job to embarrass her.

She flips him the bird, still stuffing her beet-red face into the couch cushions. She hears him chuckle again as he squeezes her foot in soft reassurance.

"Just be smart. I trust you."

She peeks at him between the cracks in her fingers. "Do you trust him, though?"

"God, no."

— 

The next morning, she feels herself roused out of a deep sleep by the sensation of a deliciously familiar warmth building in her lower stomach.

It’s a soft, tepid titillation at the base of her spine that’s gently spreading throughout her entire body. Somewhere between the subspace of lucidity and sleep, she recognizes she's having a very happy dream. It feels incredibly real…if she focuses hard enough, she can compare it to the touch of having Izzy’s heavy head between her thighs. She can envision his half-lidded, glassy eyes looking up at her, his soft, sloppy, wet tongue swiping and licking at the place that makes her eyes go crossed, his veiny hands clamping onto her hips so tightly he nearly leaves bruises, refusing to let her squirm away or run from his incessant reverence to her pussy.

She lets out a tender moan into her pillow at the mental image, silently thanking her lucky stars that her brain decided to concoct such a lovely way to dream this morning.

“Yeah? That feel good, baby?” A purred, honeyed voice echoes in her head.

She gives a gentle, sighed moan in response, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she leans into the lewd fantasy. The added sensation of a long finger being dipped inside of her makes her brows furrow.

That felt a little too real.

She flutters her eyes open.

“Good morning,” Izzy says matter-of-factly, looking up at her from between spread legs, chin glistening with her essence.

She sputters, looking around to catch her bearings. Her pajama shorts have been rucked down to her knees, and Izzy’s planted himself prone across the bed. He continues to slowly pump his index finger, teasing and prodding at her gummy insides.

“W-Wha? How did—”

“Duff let me in when he left like an hour ago, shh…lemme finish…” He dips his head back down and continues his ministrations, drinking from her fervently like a man dying of thirst.

She lets her head fall back onto the pillows with a plop, still too disoriented and half-asleep to voice a protest. It’s not the worst way she's ever woken up.

It doesn’t take him very long to push her over the edge, reducing her to a shaky, panting, mewling mess that’s tugging on his hair and spilling obscenities as she writhes against the mattress.

With an arrogant leer, Izzy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and flops beside her. He’s a stark contrast to her frilly, flora-patterned white sheets and feminine décor, a denim and leather enigma that sticks out like a sore thumb against all the demureness. She takes a minute to catch her breath and wipes some damp strands of hair stuck to her forehead.

“What’re you doing here? You rarely get up before—” She looks at her bedside alarm clock. “10:30?”

Izzy takes one of her teddy bears from childhood that she still sleeps with and idly spins it in his hands.

“Told you, m’taking you out on the bike.” He tosses the bear in the air repeatedly like he’s playing with a tennis ball.

She snatches it from him. “Where we going?”

“Dunno. Nowhere in particular. The ride out to the desert is nice.”

She rests back against the wall and contemplates the offer. It’s her day off, Duff already approved, and he’s looking up at her with the expression she's learned is soundless pleading but hidden under the guise of impassiveness.

Her lips twitch upwards.

“Lemme get dressed…”

Chapter Text

Mojave Desert: Interstate 15, 1987

The Harley grumbles and throttles beneath her and Izzy as he sails through the long stretch of highway that’s bordered by absolute nothingness. Orange rocks, sand, canyons, and the occasional mile marker riddled with bullet holes are the only things ahead of them. She's perched behind him, wrapped around his middle like a backpack with a full-face helmet strapped securely around her noggin. Every up and downshift of gears under Izzy’s boot makes her feel like they can be hurtled into a vast, unyielding desert horizon, left lifeless on the side of the road with nothing but the vultures to pick on their corpses.

She tightens her grip around his waist as they take a sharp curve, her helmet bumping lightly against his shoulder. It’s not that she doesn’t trust him—well, maybe she doesn’t entirely—but the wildness in Izzy, that part of him that always seems two steps away from catastrophe, keeps her wary. The emptiness out here is oddly liberating, miles away from the noise of the city and the suffocating walls of the apartment. She takes in the barren scenery thrashing by, the sky an endless expanse of turquoise without any clouds to shield her sun-kissed cheeks.

Izzy takes his hand off the clutch, reaching behind to squeeze her thigh in hushed reassurance. The gesture so casual, yet grounding. Like he’s telling her without words, Relax, I’ve got this. She doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s grinning.

He’s been riding since he was a kid; he got his first bike when he was eleven. A shoddy, tinny-sounding 1968 Yamaha DT-1 crotch rocket. His dad bought it as a birthday gift; he found it at some garage sale in the neighborhood and presented it to his son with a less-than-pleased expression from his mother. They couldn’t pay Izzy to get him off that thing. He spent every day after school, and even some afternoons when he skipped class unbeknownst to his parents, whizzing around Lafayette, terrorizing its quiet, church-going inhabitants with wheelies and burnouts on the road that stretched through town. After the tour and receiving a hefty check from the record label, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that his first purchase was going to be a new hog. It’s the one hobby besides the obligatory insulating of his nostrils with powdery poison that offers him some resemblance of escape. When it’s just him, a V-twin engine under the seat of his pants, and the open road, he feels something parallel to freedom.

“We’re gonna stop soon! I know a place!” Izzy shouts over his shoulder above the roar of the motor and the whipping wind.

She nods in response, not really hearing a word but trusting the tone.

In the distance at the end of the asphalt, almost like a mirage exhuming itself through the heat waves wafting from the pavement, an old-style saloon and a squat, peeling motel that looks ripped out of a spaghetti western materialize. The bar’s sun-bleached wooden facade leans slightly, its warped planks and faded lettering reading Rusty Spur barely visible under layers of sand and time. A rusted-out pickup truck leans drunkenly in the dirt lot, its flat tire sinking into the ground, and a crooked hitching post stands out front, though there’s nothing tied to it except a limp strand of barbed wire.

Izzy pulls up outside the hidden treasure, flicking off the idling engine and wiping the dust from his sunglasses. She dismounts with a stifled grunt, her lower half growing increasingly saddle-sore from the two straight hours of riding. She shucks off her helmet and combs through tangled strands of hair with her fingers. A line of mismatched rocking chairs sits abandoned on the porch, one swaying slightly in the breeze like a ghost might have nudged it.

“How the hell did you manage to find this place?” She questions, examining the wooden building that seems to be dropped square in the middle of nowhere.

Izzy hops off and pushes his hair back with his shades. “Went driving out here and stumbled on it.” It’s fitting that he’d be able to find the one bar and by-the-hour bed in a 150-mile radius. “Thought we could grab a drink, maybe get a room for the night?” He offers as he snakes an arm around her lower waist, guiding her towards the batwing doors that rattle in the breeze.

She hesitates at the threshold, timidly peaking her head inside the dive joint. The smell hits her first—a concentrated cocktail of scent. Leather, gas, hickory, and something oddly nostalgic like someone’s cologne lingering in an old jacket.  

The dim interior is lit by a hodgepodge of neon beer signs and stained-glass overhead lights. The wooden floorboards creak with every step, worn down to a shine in high-traffic areas. Scattered tables and mismatched chairs are occupied by a handful of patrons, all of them turning briefly to curiously assess the newcomers before returning to their muted conversations or solitary drinks. A jukebox leans against one wall, a song crackling faintly through its speakers, something twangy and heartbreak-laden that feels right at home here. Merle Haggard or Hank Williams, she can’t tell. The bar itself is a long stretch of scarred mahogany, its surface sticky from years of spilled beer and neglect. Behind it, a grizzled bartender polishes a glass with a rag that looks no cleaner than the glass itself, his face unreadable beneath a scruffy beard.

Izzy strides up to the bar without missing a beat, plopping down on an old leather stool that’s adapted its shape to someone else’s ass. She slides in beside him, trying not to let her eyes linger too long on the faded naval tattoos that decorate the bartender’s forearms.

“What can I do for ya?” The man’s sandpaper voice grates out, thick with years of tobacco and whiskey.

“Two Budweiser’s please,” Izzy says with a forced polite smile.

The bartender lets his cloudy eyes loiter on her for a moment, almost like he’s debating with himself if it’s worth the trouble or not to ask for ID. When Reagan raised the drinking age to 21 in ’84, almost every bar in the country lost half its clientele. He decides it’s not worth the hassle, pulling out two glasses and filling them to the brim from the tap. She gulps the hoppy beverage speedily, her throat feeling parched from the desert climate.

“You cool with spending the night here? Rooms aren’t the fanciest but...” Izzy says over the rim of his beer glass.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s cool,” She says with as much feigned swagger as she can, still wanting to come off as impassive and indifferent.

She still struggles to match his levity in a way that complements his nature instead of dragging it down and dampening his fire with logistical thinking. He nods, happy that she's on board with his spontaneous stealing of her for the weekend. His eyes land on a beat-up pool table tucked in the corner of the saloon, an impish smirk cracking the sides of his mouth.

She knows that look. He’s cooking something ill-behaved.

“You up for a game?”

She flicks her gaze to the table. She's not the best at billiards, but she gets the gist of how it operates.

“Sure. We wagering bets?”

She gets a falcon-wing, cocked eyebrow in response.

“Hmm…how serious are the stakes?”

She ponders the terms. She could be really, really cruel—make him go streaking through the desert or something ridiculous. She drums her fingers on the sticky bar top in thought, an equally playful and mischievous grin spreading across her lips.

“I win: You gotta show me the song you wrote for me.” She proposes, crossing both arms over her chest.

Izzy’s smirk falters, the puckish confidence that usually lives in his eyes dimming slightly like someone turned down the volume on his arrogance. He rolls his eyes and takes another long sip of his drink. It’s not like he’s purposefully keeping the full thing from her; he’s just…nervous. The small tidbit he strummed for her over the phone was nail-biting enough, and he had a substantial amount of Bacardi and Coke to help him limp through. He’s still tweaking it, working out the lyrics and chords that reflect the gentleness of her personality. It’s the first song he’s written for a girl that wasn’t sloppily put together or just a ploy to charm his way under a skirt—he wrote it for her, about her, because of her. Every word, every harmony, feels like a piece of his chest cracks open and gets put on display. The idea of her hearing all of that makes him want to squirm out of his skin.

He huffs out a breath, rubbing the spot at the back of his neck where the muscles knot when he’s overthinking.

“Alright, fine. But if I win…” Izzy leans back, the stool creaking under his weight as he taps his fingers against his sweating glass, deliberately dragging out the pause, stalling for time. His smirk spreads wider, almost wolfish, as his eyes glint with trouble. “You get a tattoo tomorrow.” He gambles.

She chokes on her beer, snorting a few bubbles up her nose. She splutters, coughing into her arm. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” She says through a hacking fit.

“Yes.” Deadpan. Spoken through a half-smile.

“I’m not getting a tattoo.”

“Then I guess you'd better win.”

“Izzy—” He’s already slipped off his barstool, sauntering to the pool table and chalking his cue. She groans, scrubbing her face harshly, and follows him.

She grabs her own stick, the weight awkward in her hands as she leans down to inspect the table like it might offer her some divine guidance. The balls are racked tight, the triangle snug against the felt.

“You break,” Izzy says, stepping back with an exaggerated bow.

She squints at him. “I plan on it.” She bristles, forcing herself to appear confident.

Izzy grins, leaning casually on his cue. “It’s called sportsmanship, hon. Plus, I wanna see how hard you can hit.”

She lines up her shot, trying to mimic the poise of every bar regular she'd ever seen, but the tip of her cue scrapes against the cue ball with a painful thunk. The ball wobbles forward, kissing the edge of the rack and barely budging it. She drops her head against the lip of the table with a sigh.

Izzy barks out a laugh. “A scratch on the break? Damn, that’s impressive. Think you just invented a new technique.”

She scowls, her lips in a tight, flat line. Izzy lines himself up, his stance fluid and relaxed. He sends the ball flying with a sharp crack, and the rack explodes, sending stripes and solids scattering across the table. Two solids sink on his first hit.

“Solids,” he declares, circling the table like a predator with a smug smile. “Looks like you’re stripes, sweetheart.”

She leans on her cue, already regretting this bet, as she feels a burst of annoyance in her chest. “Don’t get cocky. It’s a long game.”

“Mm-hmm,” he replies, tapping the cue ball with just enough force to send another solid rolling smoothly into a corner pocket. He straightens, spinning the cue in his hand like a baton. “I’m thinkin’ maybe a heart with ‘Izzy—greatest guitarist of all time’ written inside. Maybe right above that birthmark on your—”

She flips him off with downturned brows, her patience thinning with every snorted chuckle that comes from him. She's not getting a fucking tattoo.

Her turn comes, and she takes her time lining up a shot on a stripe near the side pocket. She tries to remember what little she knows about the game—something about angles and where to hit the cue ball—she finally sinks a couple. On the third hit, the cue ball kisses the edge of the 9, barely nudging it forward. She lets out an immature noise, stomping her foot in a petty display of frustration. She pouts. Furiously. Izzy puffs out a laugh through his nostrils and circles the table to her side, hovering behind her shoulder.

“Don’t rub it in. I’m trying.” She whines, rolling a discarded cigarette butt under the heel of her sneaker.

“I know you are, baby. Here, lemme help.” He coos in a softer tone, almost sympathetic.

He puts his cue aside and guides her over to the table, leaning her down with two palms pressed on her shoulders.

“First, you gotta relax, you’re grippin' the cue like it owes you money.”

She huffs, but doesn’t bite back as he positions her in front of the next clear shot. His hands glide down to her wrists, letting him adjust her hold. He leans over her, his front pressed flush against her back. His voice tickles her ear when he speaks, his words mingling with a slow blues jam that plays over the bar speakers.

“Relax your shoulders, keep your bridge hand steady like this…”

She stiffens at the proximity, still unaccustomed to being so overtly touchy in public with so many prying eyes. The side-eye glances from the other patrons aren’t helping.

“Since when are you a pool shark?” She quips dryly, trying to keep the upper hand despite feeling a flush creeping up the back of her neck at his closeness.

Izzy can tell she's getting fidgety. He smooths a hand over the length of her spine, tracing the rivulets of bones and rubbing warm circles above the waistband of her jeans. Not enough to be overtly sexual, but enough to convey the message that it’s not casual.

“Knock it off.” She can feel the smirk on his lips; she doesn’t even need to look at him to tell.

“You’re sexy when you get all bossy.”

“Izzy, I swear to Christ—”

“Take the shot. Aim for the edge of the ball and hold your breath when you shoot.”

She sucks in a breath, closes one eye to focus in on the target, pulls the cue back, and cracks it forward.

11-ball sinks into the corner pocket without hesitation.

She straightens, looking over at Izzy, who’s slowly clapping in a mock impressed manner.

“Oh! Look who decided to wake up and play.”

She bites back the proud little smile that’s pulling on the edges of her mouth. She shoves his shoulder, but he catches her wrist, pulling her into a lazy embrace.

“Shut up…” She mumbles, an endearingly familiar blush on her cheeks.

Izzy rests his grip on her waist, looking down at her with a full-tooth smile.

“Never. You love it.”

It takes an hour and a half to get down to the eight ball. Between Izzy not-so-subtly missing shots he could’ve easily made and her attempting to sink her own without any more help, it takes them until the sun goes down before the final one.

It’s Izzy’s turn; the ball sits in a clear path that leads to the back right pocket. She worries her bottom lip as she perches herself on the corner of the table. He’ll make it, no doubt. She's guzzled two more beers in the time it took to get to this point, slowly accepting her fate of permanently painting her virgin skin with ink that she can’t fully decide if she wants or not. She's not completely turned off by the idea of tattoos; Izzy’s got one on either bicep: an American traditional rose and dagger on his left, and GNR’s band logo surrounded by knives and flowers on his right. She's traced the edges and lines of them a hundred times. But on herself? It seems so…everlasting. What if she likes it one week, and completely abhors it the next? It's not like she can just wash it off in the sink.

Izzy lines himself up for the shot, his eyes flickering to peer at her at the other end of the table through threads of his bangs. He pauses. Deliberating.

He strikes the cue, and it cracks against the edge of the eight ball. It rolls toward the corner, but ricochets off the felt and avoids the pocket completely. She knits her eyebrows and hops off the table.

“Absolutely not, you missed that on purpose!” She argues, not thrilled with her impending loss of the game, but still wanting to earn her win fair and square.

Izzy shrugs with an exaggerated sigh and chalks the end of his cue.

“Did not. Now’s your chance for redemption, lil’ lady.” He totally missed it on purpose. He just can’t stand when she gets that look on her face—like a goddamn kicked puppy.

She puts a hand on her cocked hip, staring over at him inquisitively. Her gaze flickers between the billiard table and Izzy sipping his beer indifferently, leaning against a bar stool as he waits for her to make a move. She grumbles out a muttered, “Alright, fine.”

She squares her shoulders and lines up the shot, remembering Izzy’s earlier aggravatingly correct advice to hold her breath and keep herself steady on flat feet.  

She pulls back, hits the cue square in the middle, and the eight ball rolls forward. Almost like it’s taunting her, it teeters on the lip of the pocket once, twice, three times before falling in with a clunk.

She snaps up straight with wide eyes, whipping her head in Izzy’s direction. He spits out a low whistle, clapping lazily as he rises from his seat.

“Good game, McKagan. Well played.” He drawls with a slothful smile.

She's got triumph glowing all over her face, but suspicion slithers onto her features.

“Why'd you let me win? I would’ve held up my end of the bargain.” She frowns.

“I didn’t let you win; you won. Full bragging rights.” He smiles, plucking a cigarette from the pack he had tucked in his rolled sleeve.

He places it between her lips and flicks a lighter at the end. She sucks in a deep drag, blowing the smoke upwards. “Guess you’ll get to hear the song sooner than I thought.”

She smirks, the smoke curling around her fingers. “Guess so.”

—

One beer turns into two. Two turns into four. Then beers turn into rum and sodas, and then she and Izzy transform into red-faced, snickering, heavy-footed idiots singing off-key and dancing badly around the saloon.

Around 9 o’clock, Izzy stumbles up to the bartender who’s been watching them two fall all over each other for the past hour, and slurs out, “H-Hey, man…can I get a room for the night?”

“One bed or two?” He grumbles.

Izzy looks over at her, who’s swaying on her feet at his side. He nudges her ribs with a boyish giggle.

“One, please. Heart-shaped and vibrating if ya got it.” He says through a poorly concealed chortle.

She snorts into her glass as she knocks back the rest of the drink, quite tickled by how unimpressed and jaded the burly man behind the counter looks. He sighs and slides a key across the bar.

“Ice machine is by the side of the building. Try not to smoke in the room, it’s got bad ventilation.”

Izzy gives him a mock salute, hooking her arm through his own and dragging her in the direction of the motel that’s connected to the bar.

The temperature has dipped considerably lower. The season is inching toward the middle of winter, and the desert is unforgiving in her weather. She shivers and clutches Izzy closer as they stagger to the room.

Much like the saloon, the entire space feels frozen in time. Encapsulated in amber as a relic from the '60s with ripped floral bedsheets and peeling wallpaper that’s quite an offensive color on the eyes. The bedside table lamp flickers like it’s trying to keep them company in the barren landscape, and the ancient radiator hums a low frequency as it struggles to warm the space.

She slams the heavy door shut with a dramatic swing of her arm, kicking off her sneakers haphazardly and feeling the shag carpet under her toes that has distinct track marks from the repeated shuffling of past occupants. She's too drunk to hesitate before flopping down on the musky mattress that squeaks horribly under her bulk, the frame sounding like it’s one dead-weight drop away from collapsing. Izzy does the same after chucking his keys, wallet, and cigarettes on the nightstand, crumpling beside her with a heavy exhale.

“If this place gives me crabs, I’ll key your new bike.” She slurs, feeling like she's riding a roller-coaster despite being supine, staring at the water-stained ceiling.

“I’ve slept in worse; we’ll be alright.” Izzy props himself up on one elbow, looking down at her with hazy eyes and a face that feels too warm.

Her hair fans behind her head like a halo, and she stares back up at him with half-lidded eyes that carry so many silent words. The thin bridge of her nose is speckled with sun-gifted freckles, and her spit-wet lips hold a pinkish shade that Izzy seems to fantasize about.

Fuck, she looks like an angel.

“You’re so goddamn pretty, you know that?” Izzy mumbles, his words seeming to slip through his mouth much easier thanks to the $100 worth of drinks he ingested.

She squirms under the praise.

“Stop…”

“M’serious—love looking at this fuckin’ face,” He grabs her by the chin, forcing her to look at him as he squeezes her cheeks in his grip.

She swats his hand away with a heavy palm. Too much attention. Too much of his concentration feels like a vice pressed on her chest.

“You’re drunk.”

“Y-Yeah, so? Doesn’t mean it’s not true.” He brushes some strands away from her eyes, silently appreciating the Venus that’s allowed him to associate with her again.

He starts to feel that guilty pit in his gut again, the one he tries to bury beneath blow, booze, and ignorance. It always comes out when they get like this.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers lowly.

She screws her face up in confusion. “’Bout what?”

“What I did.” He chokes on his words; he wants so desperately to just be transparent with her. “Before I left for tour.”

She avoids his gaze, focusing her attention on tracing the flower embroidery on the comforter with her fingers. She's still trying to move past it, to work through it, and just move forward with him…but the wound is still there, it’s just wrapped in loose gauze.

“It’s in the past, Iz,” She's picked up some of his skills of evasion, not wanting to dwell on the previous damage—no matter how painful. She still feels it. That word. She just refuses to say it, not after what happened last time.

He rests his heavy head in his palm, still looking down at her as he wraps a frayed piece of her denim jacket around his finger, tight enough to turn it purple.

“I know it is, but still…feel guilty.” He peeps meekly, wanting to fidget and crawl out of his skin at how much of a pansy he feels like for talking about his feelings.

She reaches up and tugs on his nose ring playfully, almost like she's trying to shake him from the confines of his own mind and break the film of tension slowly casing them.

“C’mere,” She coaxes gently, tilting her chin up in silent request for a kiss. Izzy happily obliges.

He keeps his eyes open, watching how her irises twitch slightly beneath the lids with every peck. It’s slow and tentative, his hand resting on her cheek as she tangles her fingers in the silver chains that dangle from his neck. Her breath hitches when he pulls back, lips still tingling from the contact. She doesn’t move away. Instead, she tilts her head, studying him closely with a small smile as if she's seeing him for the first time in a long while.

“Izzy,” She starts, voice lulled and soft.

The way she says his name—weak but heavy with something unspoken—pulls at his chest and makes something inside of him stir.

He swallows hard, unsure of what he’s about to hear. He doesn’t want to ruin this moment, not now, not when things feel like they’re finally starting to make sense between them. But he can’t ignore the weight of the past or the vulnerability that’s always swimming in her eyes.

“I’ve been thinking about…everything,” She continues, fingers tracing absent patterns on the fabric of his shirt. “About us. What happened before…what we’re doing now.” She meets his gaze, eyes searching his with an intensity that makes his heart pound against his ribs.

She always looks at him like she's able to see through every piece of armor that he’s built for the last twenty years with X-ray vision. Every cinder block that he’s formed around the mushy, puny underbelly of his psyche seems to crumble under the wrecking ball of a fucking teenager. Nobody sees him like she does.

She realizes if she wants whatever they're doing to work, she can’t keep pussyfooting around reality. She can’t keep kicking the can down the road and hoping it lands the way she wants. She's grabbing the reins and praying to God she steers this horse in the right direction.

He feels a wave of guilt ripple through him again. He knows he’s not the most reliable guy, hasn’t exactly been the easiest person to trust, but what they have now feels too real to ignore, just like it did before he skipped town. He takes a breath, leaning down to kiss her forehead softly, his lips lingering against skin.

“I know I fucked up. I don’t even know if I can make up for it, but I need you to know that...” He trails off, suddenly unsure how to continue. The weight of his words feels heavier now, like they matter more than they ever did before. He wants to say it, but the words feel caught in his throat like a fishbone.

She closes her eyes, fingers curling around the edge of his jacket. “You don’t have to keep apologizing,” She says, voice low and steady. “I don’t need that from you. I just need you to be here. Now. With me.”

That’s all she's ever wanted—for him to be present. She doesn’t want the doped-up, opaque fascia of Izzy hidden behind smoke and mirrors; She just wants Izzy.

He feels a knot loosen in his chest, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself feel something real. Not synthetic, snorted, smoked, or shot. He feels. He lets himself feel her—her warmth, her presence, the way she's not pushing him away despite how much he deserves it.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice raw, vulnerable in a way he’s not used to, but it feels right. “M'here, babe.”

They lie there in the quiet of the room, the only sound the hum of the radiator and the distant howling of the wind outside. It’s a fragile, fleeting moment, but it feels like a promise.

Izzy’s hand finds its way back to her face, tracing the line of her jaw as he gazes down at her. “Do you want me here?”

It surpasses the literal sense—it means, do you want me in your life?

She nods, her eyes still half-lidded as she looks up at him, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips. There’s no need for more words. Not now. The room, despite its seedy, rundown state, feels like the safest place in the world.

She presses her forehead against his, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady rhythm of his breath.

“Yeah, I want you here.”

“Good, ‘cause I don’t wanna leave.”

Chapter Text

Florida: Bluewater RV Park, 1992

It's been a strange acclimation period, but she's doing her best.

Instead of waking to the sound of yelling, or vomit splashing the rim of a toilet, or even an eerie silence that makes her brace for the worst, she gets the salty hush of sloshing waves slowly easing up the shore.

The air inside the motor coach is thick and warm today. Sometimes the climate changes so rapidly depending on where she's at that it's hard to keep up, but for the last few days, it's been Florida Keys heat hanging in the air like a long exhale. The RV rocks just barely with the ocean breeze, soft enough to remind her they're not still moving down some endless span of dark highway. Somehow, she's worked her way from the Southwest, through the Rockies, a pit stop in the Midwest, and now she's landed in Florida like a fucking pensioner. Go figure.

She stretches with a groan, joints popping in random places along her legs and back. For a second, in this soft, liminal space of early morning, it's easy to forget that the floor beneath her hasn't shifted a hundred times over. Lately, no crowded tour bus, no Learjet, no penthouse hotel room, no four a.m. phone call with someone crying on the other end—just this. Just him.

Speaking of him…

She turns her head to the side slightly to see empty, rumpled sheets, but that's nothing new.

She shuffles out of the bedroom, bare soles sticking to vinyl flooring, and drifts over to the kitchenette. The Folger's tin is already open, spoon and counter dusted with grounds, yet to be wiped clean. Typical. She fills the pot and watches the dark liquid begin to pool. Standing on her tiptoes, she reaches for the high cabinet and digs around for a mug. Her finger tips barely ghost the edge of one, and before she can fully grip the handle, it tumbles over and falls to the floor with a loud, splintering shatter of ceramic. She flinches sharply, blinks, and suddenly—

A hotel lamp is flung across the room, exploding into a thousand tiny shards. She should jump, she should recoil, but she's so fucking used to this it barely makes her bat a lash. All she can really muster the energy to do is roll her eyes, huff, and bend over at the waist to snort a thick one chopped out on the marble bathroom counter. She'll need at least two more eight balls and six more drinks to calm whatever fucking shit storm is happening outside right now.

She sniffs, wipes the residue from her septum, rolls her shoulders back, and walks into a completely demolished suite. Money isn't an object anymore, so he can destroy whatever he wants without repercussions. That's the issue—consequence isn't even a word in his vocabulary anymore.

His baretta's on the dresser, half the furniture is upside down, and when he turns on her, she's looking at eyes that don't know her name.

"The fuck is your problem?" She rasps, voice gone to hell from too much booze and not enough sleep.

He yanks open the nightstand drawer so hard it rips out of the tracks. "We're out." He says simply, like that's an explanation enough.

And at this point, it is.

—

"You okay? I heard somethin' break." A voice and a warm, gentle palm on her lower back make her blink. The hotel room burns away.

She's here. She's in the RV. The mug is still broken, but at least she isn't.

She looks up at a man she used to know, and somehow don't at the same time—more weight on his bones, brown-haired with wisps of light auburn threaded through, gifted from the sun, tanned skin, and clear, alert eyes.

"Y-Yeah," she exhales, trying to regain her bearings. "Dropped the mug."

She crouches before her brain catches up, trying to gather the fragments quickly, like if she doesn't, it'll cause an argument. A sliver of ceramic nicks her fingertip. The blooming warmth and the sting remind her of all the other things that used to cut.

“Careful,” he murmurs. No serrated edge or agitation, just warm and human.

He kneels beside her, bare feet creaking on the vinyl, and slides a paper towel under the bigger pieces. The Izzy she has a hard time forgetting would’ve cussed, groaned, and maybe hurled the whole coffeemaker for good measure if the noise woke him. But this one just shakes his head, lips twitching.

“That mug survived three states. Figures this place would kill it.”

She huffs a laugh that trembles on the way out. Ever-observant, he notices.

He bumps her shoulder with his. “Don’t bleed on my floor,” he says lightly, trying to lower her shoulders that've been hiked to her ears.

“Our floor,” she answers automatically.

That gets a small smile, the kind that doesn’t hide behind black hair or cruel sarcasm. He holds out his hand for the last shard, and their fingers brush. He offers a weak smirk, gently brushing hair from her eyes.

"C'mon," he jerks his chin to the door, "Let's sit in the sun before it gets too hot."

She pours two fresh cups, his an already chipped and coffee-stained souvenir from when they passed through New Orleans, hers a brand new one from some truck stop off I-10. Both of them make their way to the little veranda in the RV park overlooking the Atlantic, the humidity and salt in the air so thick she could swallow it.

Izzy drags two folding chairs along the wooden planks, leaning back, and exhaling a deep breath. She does the same, legs tucked beneath her, mug warming her palms.

He watches the tide for a long minute before speaking. “Told the park guy we’d stay another couple days. That cool?”

She nods on instinct, even though her brain’s been cataloguing deadlines, pitches, and the half-finished drafts collecting dust in her journal since they pulled out of LA. “Yeah. S'cool.”

A pause. Waves chew higher up the shoreline.

He tosses a pile of mail onto her lap that he collected earlier—postcards, spam, and the latest SPIN issue. The cover’s some band she barely knows, but familiar enough to recognize the shift that's currently happening in the scene. Eyeliner and spandex are quickly being replaced by flannel and dirty sneakers. This new band keeps getting their name tossed around—Paradise…or, Nirvana, maybe?—she can't remember, she's been out of the loop for almost a month, and in industry-speak, that might as well be a decade.

She flips through it, lips pulling thin at a spread riddled with clichés. It's all the same recycled questions, the same hollow quotes.

Izzy eyes her over his mug. “Bad as last month’s?”

“Worse.” She mumbles, shutting the magazine and dropping it. “No one can write anymore. It’s all gotcha journalism.” Leave it to her co-workers to completely tarnish the magazine's reputation, the one time she decides to go on an extended vacation. It truly sucks when you become important at your job.

He smirks. “You’re turning into a snob.”

“A managing editor,” she corrects. “There’s a difference.” She bled for that title.

“Uh-huh.” He stretches, bare feet toeing around sand. “You miss it.”

She chooses not to answer, but the truth hums anyway. She's spent weeks convincing herself this little 'sabbatical' is healthy, that she needed to take a breather, but every time she hears a new song on the radio, a sentence starts forming in her head, and she scrambles for the journal. She sips her coffee, tasting the bitterness that comes from leaving something you love too long.

Izzy studies her for a moment, then looks away toward the water. “We can head back home, ya know…I can tell you miss work."

Again, she stays quiet. He's always been way too good at reading her. Because in all honesty, she does miss work. Columns and chaos have completely consumed the last four years of her life and have barely left room for anything else. But the funny thing about life, it has a way of throwing absolute fucking curveballs when she's least expecting it. Sorta like when her boyfriend decides to quit his job on short notice, or she decides to suddenly be on the verge of a mental breakdown after doing nothing but work for 1,400 days. Still, writing is the one constant that's never left her, even when she's supposed to be vacationing. For now, though, this road trip won.

She sighs and finally looks over at him, speaking with a finality she hopes can cut through. "We'll head back whenever we're both ready—s'not only about me." Which is only partly true; she does have a date in mind, sooner, rather than later. She reaches over, trying to brush back strands of knotted brown from his eyes, but her fingers snag halfway through.

"Ow!"

"Jesus, sorry. Wouldn't kill you to run a hairbrush through it," she tries to untagle an early-forming dread by his temple, but Izzy swats her away, smirking.

Both of them fall into a comfortable lull of quiet, watching the waves and a few surfers paddle out past the break. The farther they get from LA, the calmer everything seems to become—not just the world, but the noise in her own head. These last few weeks are the first time she's been still enough to remember.

She takes another long sip, setting her mug down on the rail. She watches a droplet of coffee slide down the side, dark and syrupy. It leaves a brown streak across the porcelain before it falls and vanishes. It reminds her of different types of glasses, and different types of streaks.

—

The smell is strong enough to choke her: liquor, sweat, and the sweet rot of too many bodies crushed together into a nightclub. The beam lights sweep the walls, low and purple, and the deep bassline thrums up through her heels. The cocktail in her hand is leaking down her wrist, sticky against her dress, but she's too far gone to care.

She's no longer just a teenager or a baby-faced journalist, but a twenty-something woman, freshly minted co-managing editor at the best fuckin' music magazine. The boys are home on break, and of course, the second they heard the news, they insisted on celebrating. Not that it takes them much convincing to go out and party at some velvet-draped L.A. hole in the wall that’s suddenly too trendy for its own good.

How they've all managed from standing in club lines to being escorted into the VIP section immediately is beyond her. The band is on a straight trajectory up, and she seems to have landed herself along for the ride.

Duff’s on the other side of the room, arm slung around some girl's waist, shouting over the music. Axl’s holding court near the bar, now that he's suddenly a rockstar, and every time he opens his mouth, people's attention gets rapt. Slash is already halfway horizontal, easing the pain of everyone's eyes on him one drink at a time. Steven is just being Steven, happy to have a line of blondes with fake tits fawning after him. And Izzy—her Izzy—is beside her in the booth, thin smoke curling from his cigarette, hiding from the strobes under his sunglasses.

“You proud of yourself, boss lady?” He drawls, nudging her shoulder with his.

“I guess,” she laughs, but it’s breathless and slurred. She's been drinking since dinner, from champagne to vodka, and now to something stiff and burning. The floor tilts every time she blinks harshly.

He tips the ash from his cigarette into an empty glass. "You wanna celebrate?"

"Aren't we already?" She motions to the club, the table full of half-empty drinks, and the stupid congratulatory princess crown from the dollar store Duff made her wear.

Izzy smirks, digging around in his jacket pocket. "Yeah, but—y'know what I mean."

When his hand comes back, she already knows what he’s holding. He always keeps a baggie in the inside breast pocket.

“C’mon,” he says, grin widening. “You earned it.”

She hesitates for half a heartbeat. "Babe…" she sighs, reluctant and small.

"Come onnn," he coos again, all sing-song and mischief. This wouldn't be the first time she's dabbled, and he hates getting wired alone. Somewhere along this chaos, she's become his go-to partner in slime.

He clears a spot on the table with one sweep of his arm, not waiting for a yes or no. She watches him chop a line with zero uncertainty, zero subtlety—who's gonna tell him no? He's one of the golden boys now and can get away with almost anything, anywhere.

He rolls up a bill tightly and hands it over. “Ladies first," he smirks with that unshakable charisma that always makes it so fucking hard to deny him.

And, fuck it, right? She's hangin' out with rockstars, she might as well party like them too.

She laughs again, softer this time, and leans. The powder burns, the room shifts again, and the bass solidifies in her chest. When she opens her eyes, she's a lot higher, a lot lighter, and a lot less her.

He grabs her chin and kisses her hard, tasting like smoke and something sharp.

An hour later, the bag's already empty, she's riding shotgun in his BMW, cruising by his dealer's house to cop more.

—

"I hit my year recently, I think." She mumbles to herself, almost mindlessly, eyes still fixated on the dripping coffee mug on the rail.

Izzy hums beside her, "What—clean?"

"Mm."

He nods slowly, thoughtfully, and reaches out one arm. His warm palm lands on her thigh, squeezing softly. The gesture says the words he won't.

Good. Let's keep it that way.

By early afternoon, the sun is unrelenting, and she's retreated into the bus while Izzy tinkers outside. She's nose-deep in a book, nestled on the lounge bench, but through the galley window, she can see him fiddling with one of the dirt bikes he brought on the trailer. Something or other about the chain needing to be replaced, she wasn't paying attention. The sun glistens off sweat beads rolling down his temple, and when he wipes them away with his forearm, a dark, dirt-smudge carves the side of his face.

She laughs to herself. It’s good, watching him use those hands for something that isn’t self-destruction. Her eyes slide over to the one acoustic he brought from home, sitting lonely in its case in the corner, collecting dust. This might be the longest stretch of time she's seen him go without picking up some sort of instrument. Which is strange, obviously, but when he's done nothing but play guitar every night for the past five years, it's understandable to want some kind of distance.

Not much later, he swings open the door and comes in looking like he walked off of a corny porno set—blue jeans, unbuttoned linen shirt, grease-stained and sweaty. He rummages through the fridge, tips back a jug of sweet tea, and takes a long swig straight from the nozzle.

She tuts her tongue, eyes not even lifting from the page. "We have these things called cups for a reason."

Izzy continues gulping, long throat extended. He closes the jug with a loud, satisfied ahh. Without missing a beat, he sets it down and stalks over, raising both oil-slick hands.

"Don't." She warns, cocking a brow.

He inches closer, smile growing. "Or what?"

"Izzy, you're disgustingly dirty, do not—"

He pounces, snatching her by the ankle and hauling her into his lap, completely coating her in sweat and motor schmutz. To add insult to injury, the more she squeals and tries to writhe out of his grasp, the harder he tickles and wipes his hands all over her clothes.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, mock-innocence thick. “You don’t want my hands on your nice, clean clothes?”

Her stomach aches with laughter, but she manages to play wrestle through the fit. "God, you smell like an auto shop! Enough!"

"Never. You love it."

Of course she does.

The laughter trails off into quiet breathing and tangled limbs, the RV rocking gently with the hot breeze. For a while, there’s nothing but skin, sunlight, and her legs hitched over freckled shoulders.

No complaints there.

In the middle of it all, when he's happily buried to the hilt, trying to hide in the crook of her neck, she guides him up and presses her dewy forehead to his, breathing in the same air.

"Mmph, fuckin' love you," she exhales through a pinched sigh, lips brushing his. She's been trying to say it more often again—or, at least, getting used to saying it again.

Izzy lets out a shaky breath, hips rolling into hers with a languid tide. "Love you too."

There's never any hesitation anymore; his voice doesn't even waver.

Later, when he's through, he leans over the bed as he fishes for his jeans. "Grocery run?" He asks, cigarette bobbing between his lips.

She hums, blissed and tired. "There's a market down the road."

He takes a silent look at her as he buttons himself up—half wrapped in rumpled sheets, skin soft and plush, that ethereal, almost divine expression she gets after he takes her apart piece by tiny piece. The same thought that's been worming its way into his skull more often than not starts to reappear:

Make her yours, man. Really yours.

He shakes it from his head, tossing her a clean shirt. "Be outside whenever you're ready."

—

The local market smells of citrus and too-ripe produce, ceiling fans whirring lazily above the aisles, stirring heavy air without actually cooling it. She pushes a squeaky cart down the rows of canned vegetables and instant mashed potatoes while Izzy drifts behind her, sunglasses hooked in his collar, trying to blend in with the everyday sun-fried folk and failing miserably.

"Are you still off meat?" She asks him over her shoulder, inspecting a package of fatty bacon. She already knows the answer, but she asks every grocery trip anyway.

Izzy hums in response, trying to pick the least brown head of lettuce. "Haven't had it for so long, it'll just make me sick."

Out of all the transformations he’s made, vegetarian wasn’t one she'd bet on. His words, not hers—made detoxing easier. To each their own.

"Okay, hippie." She teases under her breath, chucking the bacon back into the frozen chest.

Izzy gives a glare under lowered eyelids. Very funny. "Would you like to do yoga and eat dry granola with me? Maybe some tai chi in Birkenstocks?"

She laughs, nudging his hip with the cart. “Shut up and grab eggs.”

It’s simple, lovely, and stupidly domestic. The kind of recurring scene she never thought she'd get to have with him. She still catches herself thinking, Somehow, we've made it here, and that alone feels like a miracle.

She grabs a few loose odds and ends, bread, milk, that gross kale shit he mixes into his sandwiches—but when she turns the corner into the next aisle, she stops.

Izzy’s already there, cornered by two teens in band tees and bad sunburns, holding out receipts and napkins, faces shining with disbelief and awe. He’s signing with that quick, practiced scrawl she knows by heart—polite, but not wanting to linger for small talk.

“Man, I can’t believe it’s really you!” The shorter one says. “You're like, the whole reason I started playing.”

Izzy chuckles quietly. “Sorry about that.”

Then comes the question, innocent but inevitable:

“So, is it true? You left Guns for good?”

The pen hesitates in his hand, his shoulders go stiff. Just a second, but she sees it.

—

It’s mid-'91 and everything’s on fucking fire…literally.

The open-air venue smells like smoke and panic. Two hours of increasingly agitated fans, frazzled security screaming Deutsch into radios, the sound crew white-knuckled sidestage, waiting to damage control another pressure valve that's on the verge of exploding into a riot—and Axl’s still missing.

Izzy's hiding in his separate dressing room, quarantined away from the rest of the guys. Slash, Duff, and Matt are already three sheets, burying the embarrassment of another tardy show and heckling fans at the bottom of a bottle.

She's stuck in the middle, trying to figure out how the fuck she can fix something that lost the plot, the point, and the passion so long ago. Everything's been on thin ice since St. Louis, and now, in Mannheim, sitting backstage, waiting for the prized pony to saunter out when they should almost be done with their set by now—he's wearing thin. She knows it. The guys know it. And most of all, Izzy knows it.

Her first confrontation is with her brother; unfortunately, it's one of many lately. She makes a point to corner him in the larger green room, where he's slumped in a leather couch, slowly nursing a vodka cran that's 99% ethanol and 1% fruit juice.

"Any sign of 'em?" She asks, kicking Duff's boot to grab his attention.

He looks up slowly, eyes glazed, red-rimmed, and distant. She can't remember the last time he spoke to her with a clear head.

"Nah." He shrugs, detached, tipping back his cup.

She arches a brow so high it might as well touch the ceiling. "That's it? Just, nah?" She echoes incredulously. It's gotten to the point that nobody bats an eye at the theatrics; they don't care enough to be on time. Whatever late fees that pile up don't make a dent.

Duff squints, a spike of his own annoyance flaring. Everyone's pissed off, but nobody knows who to direct the anger at. "The fuck do you want me to do? Drag him out by the hair?" He huffs, draining his cup and flagging down a roadie for an immediate refill. "He shows when he shows."

He says it with finality. Like this is the new normal, and everyone just has to deal with it in their own way.

It's fucking bullshit.

"Unbelievable." She rolls her eyes with a scoff, shaking her head and pacing away before she says something that'll just start another pointless argument. She isn't even in this fucking band and she's fed up with it all.

She stops short outside of Izzy's room, taking a breath.

Chill. Don't rile him up more than he already is.

He's fragile enough with sobriety; all this other unnecessary stress just adds insult to injury. Carefully, she nudges the door open with her shoulder and finds him in a familiar state of distress.

Though hunched on a creaky folding chair, his posture is rigid, cigarette pinched between his shaky fingers. A stick of incense burns right beside him, a feeble attempt at finding a shred of peace.

When the door clicks behind her, the small room fills with strain, threatening to crack under the tension.

She takes a single, timid step closer. "Hey—"

"Don't." He cuts her off sharply. The frustration isn't pointed at her, but there's no one else he can disperse it to.

She sighs, still hovering behind him, and drops her voice to a disarming tone. "I tried, okay? Nobody's giving me answers—not Duff, not Doug. I don't know what the fuck's goin' on."

He sucks in one last deep inhale and stubs out the filter in an overflowing tray. His head leans back over the chair as he scrubs his eyes harshly, letting out the driest, most humorless laugh. "Me neither."

The scary part is that he's not even angry anymore—bothered, yes, but he can't bring himself to muster the energy for anger. It's all just diluted into passive resentment. This isn't a band anymore, it's a machine, and it's the farthest thing from what he wanted it to become.

When his head tilts back upright, their eyes meet in the reflection of the vanity he's sitting at.

More than anything, he just looks so, so fucking tired. Carved out in a way beyond repair.

She swallows down a knot of something thick in her throat. He fought through hell to get healthy—they both did—and yet, he's still miserable. And by proxy, that means she is too.

He stares at her for a beat, intense and unwavering. His eyes flick down, he rests his elbows on his knees, and when his voice comes out so delicately, it nearly shatters her.

"I dunno how much longer I can do this."

It hits her like a truck going 70. She's seen the weary glances, she's noticed the way his feet drag before each stage call, and she should've known better than to think everything was 'normal' when he was adamant about traveling separately from everyone—but to hear it out loud…it feels like the little flame inside of her that's been burning since '87 is on the cusp of fizzling out.

All good things come to an end eventually; she knows this, but she never thought this would have a chance to pass away.

She takes another step toward him, gently placing her palm on his nape and squeezing. The only real anchor she can offer when he gets like this.

"You serious?" She questions, knowing the answer, and dreading the honesty.

Izzy stays silent.

A knock on the door comes from Doug, and both their heads snap up. "Stage." He booms the magic words.

Izzy goes into autopilot mode, shoulders squared, mask slid back into place.

They're two hours late, and twenty-five minutes in, Axl throws the mic and storms off.

She's sidestage, watching the scene with an eerie feeling of recognition. When they lock eyes with him, the guitar feedback and the roar of 47,000 people wash into silence.

It's done. I'm done.

—

Back in the market, Izzy nods solemnly at the two kids. "For now, yeah."

He always keeps it short. A part of him isn't quite ready to talk about it yet.

The fans thank him and wander off, giddily shoving each other and beaming. He slips his sunglasses back on, eyes distant.

She slowly pushes the cart beside him, broaching timidly like she just intruded. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” he says, forcing a small, hollow smile.

And just like that, the past recedes again—still there, still sharp as a blade, but quieter under the sound of grocery rustling and the door chime fading behind you.

The walk back to the RV park is silent for the most part, apart from the crinkling bags swinging by their sides and the buzz of cicadas hiding in the palms. Late-day heat sticks to everything; even their shadows feel heavy.

Izzy keeps his eyes on the hot pavement, sunglasses perched even though the sun’s starting to dip. She's known this version of his silence long enough to recognize it; he’s somewhere else entirely, rearranging pieces in his head.

She kicks a shell out of the way, breaking the quiet. “You been thinkin' about it?”

“'Bout what?” he answers, too quickly, playing dumb to avoid.

She side-eyes him, motioning vaguely toward the water, his bus coming into view. “You know. What you wanna do when we get back?”

It's the million-dollar question he's been ducking and dodging for a while. Even though this leave hasn't disrupted her work calendar for very long, he's been out of the game for almost a year. When you willingly leave the life, how exactly do you carry on with anything…normal? He's not exactly the type of guy who can just get a 9-5 after a consistent diet of strippers and blow…

He scratches the back of his neck, buying time. “Maybe. Dunno.” A pause. Then, softer, “Don’t think anyone’d care much if I did anything.”

She stops walking entirely, her steps skidding. “You’re joking, right?”

He glances over a few paces ahead, expression unreadable. “No, I mean…I just don’t think anybody would give a shit if I went solo.”

She stares at him, half-amused, half-appalled at his self-deprecating candor. “Iz, two kids just ambushed you with stars in their eyes. People care.”

He shrugs, deadpan, sarcasm masking the insecurity. “They were probably lost.”

She bumps his shoulder with hers, replying dryly. “Yeah, okay, lost and thrilled to meet you, THE Izzy Stradlin. Don’t downplay yourself.”

Something eases in his face, though barely visible. A blush creeps up his neck, quickly hidden behind a laugh. “Yeah, yeah…maybe.”

They keep walking, arms brushing in tandem. The ocean’s close enough now that she can hear it sighing against the shore, steady and patient, like it's coaxing him alive again.

He breaks the silence, speaking almost to himself. “Wouldn’t mind playin’ again, though. Nothin’ big. Just…somethin’ that feels good.”

She smiles to herself, encouraging. “Then do that. Do something that feels good.”

He nods, the ghost of a grin flickering. “We’ll see, no promises.”

The RV glows ahead, lights cutting through the blue dusky hour. She can already picture him sitting by the water later, barefoot, guitar finally uncased again, fingers finding their way back home. She hasn't pushed him toward music again—she learned the hard way she definitely can't make that horse drink—but she's always patiently waiting for his return, regardless.

The stars are out by the time she starts dinner, vegetable stir fry, the path of least resistance. The bus smells like soy, garlic, and cigarettes—a trifecta that screams Isbell and Co.

She's plating rice and broccoli when the blocky cell phone rings.

She groans, balancing a spatula in one hand, the phone in the other. "Hello?"

"Me again." Mr. Owen’s voice crackles through the line. Reception this far south is a coin toss, but he still manages to call at least once a week since she left, usually after a few brandies. Endearing, in a way.

She smiles to herself, a part of her missing seeing his face every morning. "What's goin' on, Frank?"

"Same 'ol, holding down the fort while you're away," he pauses, then comes the tinkling of ice being rattled around a glass. "Just calling to make sure you're doing alright."

It's sweet, the paternal concern he's always had for her, not to mention the fact that she's high enough on the corporate totem pole now that when she's gone, shit starts going sideways around the office. This wouldn't be the first fire drill she's had to put out from miles away.

She hums into the receiver, "M'good, we're in Florida right now."

"Retiring early?"

She snorts, "Not a chance. Just needed the time." He knows why. He’d seen the burnout coming a mile away.

Frank laughs softly and takes another sip of something strong and brown. "Well, not to rush you, but have you set a date to come back yet?"

She pauses, idly pushing around limp pieces of onion in the pan. Mentally, of course, she has—she had a date in mind the second she left, and punctuality has never been something she takes lightly—in practice, though, it's not as simple. She's having a hard time prying Izzy away from this, the freedom, the lack of structure and routine, everything he thrives in, and she flounders. This entire road trip has been one big overdue pressure release, but she knows the second they return to LA, it'll be nonstop like always.

She sighs, digging the pads of her fingers into her eyes and ripping the bandaid off. "Wednesday. Next week."

Mr. Owen lets out a breath that sounds like relief. "Oh, you have no idea how good that is to hear…between you and me, the latest issues have been…" he trails off.

"Sounding like Rolling Stone?" She finishes the sentence for him.

"Exactly. We need you back; the writers are coming up dry without you."

She chews the inside of her cheek until she tastes copper. Ain't no rest for the wicked, and she's still a salaried employee who's too good at her job.

"Happy to come back." She forces through a fake smile, even though he can't see her. "I'll call when I get back in LA, yeah?" Her not-so-subtle way of saying I'd like to hang up now.

Frank hums in acceptance, and they trade goodbyes. When she rests the phone back on the counter, her shoulders feel ten thousand pounds heavier.

"Iz?" She calls toward the cracked window, already trying to figure out a way to break the news over dinner.

Nothing. Cicadas.

"Izzy, soup's on."

Still no reply.

She rolls her eyes, louder this time, "Izzy! Dinner!" Like a pissy mom trying to corral her kid.

Still nothing. She wipes her hands on a towel and leans through the doorway, expecting to see him halfway under a dirt bike. What she gets is something entirely different.

A little down the sandy path, he sits on the edge of the dock. The guitar that's been collecting dust in the corner finally settled in his lap again—one of his babies, the black Hummingbird. His hair falls over his eyes as he bends the strings, fingers testing chords, muscle memory sparking to life and creating shapes. It’s rough at first, a few missed notes, a little fret buzz, but he finds a rhythm after a moment—something soft and twangy, familiar in a way that she can’t quite name.

Music’s always fit him like a second skin. Watching him now feels like watching someone remembering how to breathe.

She steps closer, quiet, afraid to break the spell. He senses her hovering and fumbles a chord; he grimaces and sets the acoustic down. “Ah, m’too rusty.”

She shakes her head, wistful, and leans her hip into his shoulder. "So keep playing, rockstar."

He smirks, but instead of picking the axe back up, he tugs her down into his lap. She goes willingly, curling against him as the night hums a lazy lullaby. His fingers trace sluggish patterns through her hair, gentle and slow, the kind of touch that always says I’m here. You're here. We're good.

Her eyes close, letting her cheek rest on his collarbone. She's come a long way to be able to be honest with him, and she doesn't plan on ruining that now. So, she lets out a deep breath and speaks softly.

"Frank called."

He hums, low in his throat.

"Don't hate me," she braces instinctively, "…but I told him I'd be back in the office next Wednesday."

His fingers stop their patterns, pausing at the dip of her waist.

"Next Wednesday?" He repeats like he's testing out the words in his mouth.

"Yeah." She exhales, body going rigid, expecting a blow-up.

"'Kay. Fine with me."

Her head lifts, brows knitting. He's either having a stroke or the reality hasn't caught up to him. "You're cool with it?" She asks, trepidatious.

Izzy shrugs, calm as ever. "Why wouldn't I be?"

She blanches slightly, waving a vague gesture. "'Cause…I dunno—I thought you wanted to stay out of LA for as long as you could."

"And I did." He says simply, no hesitation. "We've been gone a month, babe. You gotta work."

She hates how, even after all this time, he still catches her off guard with the indifference.

She slouches a fraction, nervously fiddling with his necklace just to occupy her hands. "You aren't upset?"

"'Course not," he replies, not missing a beat, "You got me thinkin' about music again anyway." He smirks, poking her hip repeatedly.

She squirms, swatting his hand, and pushes a laugh through her nose. It was only a matter of time; he could never stay away for long. "You thinkin' of being a frontman now? Mr. Big Shot?"

He groans, rolling his eyes. "Don't start."

She continues to tease, ever the instigator. "Nah, c'mon, admit it—you wanna be the star of the show." She cups his chin in her palm, playfully squeezing his cheeks, talking with exaggerated, syrupy sing-song. "Imagine it—The Izzy Stradlin Solo Project. I can see the review now. ‘Former rhythm guitarist goes rogue, finally learns to sing.’

He finally breaks with a laugh. "Oh, you are so full of shit." He scoops her up like a sack of flour; she squeals, legs kicking uselessly.

She laughs breathlessly, trying to wrestle her way down, but all those fucking yogi protein smoothies he's been sucking down have made him unnervingly strong.

"I can start drafting headlines—Izzy Stradlin, The Running Gun!"

She gets a swift smack on the ass for that one.

He deposits her on the couch in a heap of giggles, cheeks pink and hair wild.

“Now shut up and let me eat my dinner.”

“Your vegetarian dinner,” she shoots back.

He flips her off and takes a massive bite, grinning around the fork.

When the food is thoroughly destroyed, and Izzy's sprawled out on the lounge couch watching some tinny rerun on TV, it feels like the world goes quiet for a while. The ordinariness of it all is a double-edged sword.

At the sink, rinsing rice from the pot, his faint reflection in the window glass wavers. Hazy, but here. She still hasn't gotten accustomed to looking over her shoulder and seeing such a different version—tousled, content, and calm. A miracle of muscle and bone that somehow crawled out of the void and survived. He has peace she once thought they'd both forfeited forever.

The past still smolders, though. It's hard not to let it. It waits under the floorboards for the quiet, patient, lurking in its cruelty. Always quick to turn the stillness into something sour. Sometimes, she still flinches if he raises his voice, though he never means it. Occasionally, she'll shake if she smells whiskey on someone else, and feel a vestigial itch to have a drink of her own. And every once in a while, the past makes her sink so deep into her own head she forgets about the here and now altogether.

Like right now.

The faucet keeps running long after the dishes are cleaned. She blinks, trying to ground herself, but memories so vivid like to float up from the ether and drag her beneath the surface.

His reflection ripples, hers swells. The air shifts, and when she blinks harshly again, it's not the Keys anymore.

—

It’s Hollywood.

And it’s loud.

It's another night smeared with color, blue strobes, red neon, and white flash bulbs. The event—some industry gala, possibly MTV, she wasn't taking notes—is packed out with media, musicians, and too many faces to keep track of. She's thrown in the middle of it all, mascara smudged, hair teased, a half-finished drink in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other. Her press badge dangles from her neck like a scarlet letter. Everyone, look at me! I'm the enemy! Watch what you say around the McKagan; she'll print it. It's become a joke that isn't very funny anymore.

She was supposed to be covering the party, a big piece on ushering in a new decade of music; instead, she's just become background noise. Every 'exclusive' party is the same shit; the novelty's worn off. Same faces, same forced small talk until someone eventually pulls out the powdered goodies, and everything else gets pushed aside.

She doesn't really care about the story; she's not here for that; every piece she's turned in for the last few months has been nothing but regurgitated garbage, repeated lines she's cannibalised from past issues. Journalistic integrity went out the window around the same time her common sense did; her innocence left with it. She's here to forget for a few hours, maybe days, depending on how far she feels like pushing it. Anything to avoid coming back to an empty apartment full of ghosts. This night will end up the same as they have for the past however long—another prolonged party where she crashes at someone's condo in the Hills she's never met. Just a band-aid over a gunshot wound.

She ducks into the bathroom when the crowd starts to press against the walls. Staring at her reflection in a spider-webbed, cracked mirror, she waits for recognition that never comes. She doesn't know that girl anymore—gaunt, tired, sparkly cocktail dress hiding bruises—she's not sure if she even wants to.

She digs through her purse, fingers brushing gum wrappers, a lipstick stub, then the tiny baggie filled with her granulated crutch. She taps a little out, rubs it across her gums, sniffs the rest for good measure—there's no such thing as rationing anymore, her dealer is only a phone call away.

The sting hits first. Then the rush. Then she levels out.

Ah, better.

It's not really a party drug at this point, no social sniffing—now it's for maintenance. Enough to keep the withdrawal away, enough to pretend she's still a person.

She rolls her shoulders, smiles at her reflection like an actress hitting her mark, and pushes back into the heat of the room.

The guys are here…supposedly. Duff, maybe. They haven't been speaking much. He's too busy, and she's too blurry. She's stopped keeping track of the band’s chaos ever since she stopped being a part of the orbit.

Ever since he disappeared from it.

He's been a ghost for most of this year, more than the usual. Last she heard, he got clean. The gossip mill said he moved farther out of the city, trying to keep his head down and learning how to live like an individual instead of a name. She didn’t believe it, she still doesn't. Because how could anyone just walk away from all of this?

From her?

It's been…what? Seven, eight months, since they split? Officially, that is. Even before that, the relationship had curdled. Things stopped being less about love and more about logistics: who did the last of the bag, and who was buying the next one. She was bad, too. There's no use in playing victim and acting like the majority of their pooled funds weren't feeding a monstrous coke appetite—but he was worse. The fame, the money, the sycophants…he dealt with it the only way he knew how. When it came down to her or the drugs as a confidant, he chose the drugs.

She knew it was over the second he started shooting up again. Anything after that was a lost cause.

He went one way, she went the other. Simple as. Too many bone-deep scars, too many things said that time alone couldn't heal. She left, pretending it was a choice instead of surrender.

But now she's just as bad, so who's to blame? Back then, she thought losing him was the worst thing that could happen; now, the worst thing seems like just trying to survive in the after.

She hits up the bar for another drink, something tall and strong enough to cauterize the hole starting to burn through her septum. Halfway through her Long Island, or Old Fashioned, or whatever the fuck she ordered, Andy comes sauntering up beside her.

She doesn't feel like chatting, but she knows he'll do it anyway. She nods, tight-lipped with a smile that doesn’t touch her eyes.

"Don't look so happy to be here," he tries for a joke.

Her knee-jerk reaction is a crisp 'fuck off', but for the sake of one journalist to another, she bites her tongue and forces a weak laugh instead. "Yeah, well…these things get old fast."

He cocks a brow, smirks, and tosses some stale peanuts into his cheek from a bowl on the bartop. "Didn't think SPIN would make you so jaded."

Without thinking, she spits. "Didn't think Hit Parader could make you a worse writer."

It's supposed to come off as playful, but her tone has taken a perpetual edge. Andy doesn't find it very comical. He straightens, pulling a face.

"Jesus, McKagan," he says flatly, pushing off the bar, "lighten up."

Before she can even bite back, he melts into the sea of people. She scowls down into her glass, swirling around the liquid. She doesn't remember at what point she stopped being friendly, but if she had to place bets, it would probably be around the time she started leaving baggies and flasks in her desk drawer for a mid-day pick-me-up.

The song changes, some bass-heavy remix, all reverb and strobes. For one impossible second, the crowd parts like someone pulls a thread straight through the center of the night.

Right at the very front, past the bodies, past the haze, stands someone who looks familiar, but not quite.

Same slouch. Same vibrating energy.

Color in his face. Meat on his bones. Hair brushed neatly instead of hanging in his vision. And the eyes—Oh, God, the eyes—they're clear, clearer than she's ever seen. No bloodshot veins, no cloudiness. Just piercing amber, staring over the noise, zeroing in.

For a heartbeat, she wonders if it’s actually him, or some watercolor hallucination conjured out of long-buried yearning. But when he sees her looking back at him, the recognition hits both of them with a recoil.

He freezes. So do she.

The air folds in on itself, the noise goes muffled, like someone’s stuffed cotton in her ears.

It’s the same look as the first time they met—back when everything was new, dangerous only in theory. The same long, appraising stare across a room full of people who suddenly don’t exist.

Just her. Just him.

He's better. She isn't.

Shame spikes hot and floods under her skin. She turns, heart lurching, and bolts before the world can watch her shatter irrevocably under the weight of it all.

She shoves through the crowd, stumbles to the back door, and finds solace in an alley behind the club. Her heels slip on the asphalt slick with spilled liquor and garbage. She should tuck tail and run—she doesn't want a conversation, or a sorry, or even a prolonged look at his face. Because if she does, she might just break beyond repair.

She lights a cigarette with shaking hands, grey smoke billowing upwards into a smoggy sky as she presses her back against cool brick. He'll follow, she knows he will. But for some reason, every time she tries to move, her feet won't listen. Some immature part of her is almost daring him to see how far she's fallen—Look what you did to me. Are you happier now? I'm not.

The door hinges creak open across from her, but she doesn't need to look up to know who's there. She knows him by his footsteps.

Her eyes stay pinned down on the damp, sticky concrete, but through threads of hair, she sees a pair of scuffed Converse appear at her side.

Silence follows. Even LA traffic seems to hold its breath for a moment.

“Hey.”

Even his voice sounds cleaner.

It's like a bullet slicing right through the side of her neck.

A knot forms in her throat, something thick and ugly threatening to bubble up. She takes a long drag to push it down, refusing to meet his gaze.

"Hey," she echoes, pin-needles of lit nerves filling her fingertips.

"How, uh," he clears his throat, waving a vague gesture in her peripheral, "how ya been?"

She laughs, a brittle sound cracked down the middle. “Great.” She deadpans, voice oozing with mockery. "Really great."

He leans against the wall beside her, hands tucked deep into his jacket pockets. No drink, no tremor, just a steadiness she's never seen him possess. She hates him a little for it.

When more quiet seeps in, she finally risks a glance up. In the brief moment they lock eyes, an entire conversation passes without anyone opening their mouth.

You've been so bad to yourself, baby.

And whose fault is that?

Her eyes flick back down to the cigarette, tapping ash to occupy her quivering hands. She rolls her tongue around her mouth, trying to curl it around words. “You look…good,” she manages, but the sentence tastes bitter.

He nods silently, not returning the pleasantry.

Which isn't cruel, but the implicit honesty burns.

She exhales smoke toward the streetlights, throat tightening. “You here for the event?” Small talk is a moot point, but if she doesn't fill the air with some kind of noise, there's a real possibility she'll start crumbling.

“I guess.” He shrugs, tone subdued. His next words come out too fast, like he's forcing himself to say it before the courage runs out. “Really only came 'cause I knew you'd be here."

She blinks, thrown for a second, then pettiness boils. Her eyes narrow, slicing up at him. "Keepin' tabs all of a sudden?" He's had months to check up on her.

His lips pull thin as he shrugs again. "Nah, just—" he lets out a clipped sigh, gnawing the inside of his cheek. The same tell he's always had when he's trying to choose his words carefully. She can see him try to fight whatever words are about to slip through, but they come out regardless. "I wanna say sorry."

"For what?" She scoffs. There are a million things he could apologize for, and not one of them would make her hurt any less.

He looks at her, and she sees the answer in his face before he says it. “A lot. But mostly for lettin' you get this bad.”

Something inside her flinches, and the wall she's built up begins to crack. She reverts to defensiveness, not wanting to show him how close to a fault line every emotion inside of her has become.

“You didn’t make me do shit.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, so delicate it feels like a knife in her gut, “but I showed you how.”

That lands. Both of them are too smart to avoid the obvious—if he didn't introduce her to all this mess, she probably would've never ended up strung out. She isn't completely blameless, but he cast the first stone.

She bristles, shifting her weight, crushing the filter of her cigarette that's starting to singe her fingers. “I heard you got clean,” she says finally, partly to divert attention away from her current state.

He nods. “Tryin’ to stay that way.”

“Good for you.” A part of her means it, but it comes out sounding bitter.

He studies her for a long moment, brows furrowed, eyes gentle, brown curls rustling in the wind that flows down the alley, head tilted like he’s trying to figure out what went wrong.

“You sick and tired of it?” He almost whispers, syllables falling against her ears in a way reminiscent of sweet nothings.

She quirks a brow, only able to look at him sidelong without feeling like she's staring into the sun. "Of what?"

"Of being sick and tired." His lips barely twitch, smug, like he knows this game where there aren't any winners.

She laughs again, hollow. “Easier than stopping.” Her own honesty burns like bile in her throat.

He takes a small step closer, careful not to corner her. Her chest locks up tight, a breath getting caught between her ribs.

“It only gets worse. You know this.”

She shakes her head, eyes starting to burn, chin trembling. Emotions froth to the surface, but anger's the first to reveal. “Don’t, Izzy. You don’t get to be my high and mighty fuckin' savior now.”

“Not tryin’ to be.” He lowers his voice, palms raised placatingly. He's not looking for a fight, just the truth, no matter how badly it hurts. “I just know what it looks like when someone's about to snap." A beat, then a weary sigh, then the killing blow. His throat works. "…If you wanna stop, I can help. Even if you hate me, which you have every right to…I just don't wanna see you wind up dead."

She stares at the cracked pavement between them, motionless. A car passes somewhere down the street, headlights gliding over both their shadows. He looks enragingly unflappable, like always; she looks like she's been crawling through broken glass.

She does want to stop, she just doesn't know if she even can at this point.

“Why bother?” she whispers, finally splintering, waterline starting to brim.

He levels her with a look, genuine concern searing right into every frail bone. "'Cause my biggest fuck up was letting you leave."

The tiniest fracture in the numbness shifts under her ribs. She feels something she can't put a name to—not forgiveness, far from it, but something that might be the beginning of it.

—

The memory dissolves at the edges first, yellow-toned RV lights bleeding through like dawn creeping under a bedroom door. The sound of muffled club music fades, replaced by something softer: the steady hum of cicadas, the faint rustle of Izzy stirring on the couch behind her.

She blinks once, then twice. The alley burns away until she's staring at her own reflection in the window above the sink.

The faucet’s still running, the rice pot empty for god knows how long. She drags in a slow breath, tasting clean air and the faint notes of patchouli incense burning.

She shuts off the tap, wipes her hands, and leans on the counter for a moment to let the quiet of the present settle back over her.

It’s so strange. Everything. Just how far the two of them have limped from that alley. She didn’t forgive him right away, and he didn’t expect her to. But somewhere between the teary apologies, the relapses, the silence, and the second chances, they found themselves revolving each other again—slower this time, careful not to burn too bright.

From over her shoulder, Izzy yawns loudly, dragging her back down into her body.

"M'tired…" He mumbles, rising as he flips off the TV. He ruffles his hair and stretches, soft and rumpled with warm domesticity. "Gonna lie down, you comin'?"

She glances at him and hums, clicking off the lights, the quiet shuffle of two people who’ve finally learned how to share silence without it feeling dangerous.

—

East Malibu: Hers and Izzy's Condo, 1992

The city is still loud, sunburnt, and ugly, but somehow softer around the edges. Maturity, maybe. Learning how to appreciate the little things.

Back at SPIN, the bustle of the office is alive under her fingers again. Her desk is still cluttered with drafts that need editing, interviews that need publishing, and about a million sticky notes with messages she missed while away. The phone is ringing off the hook with PR agents following up for confirmed pieces, but it feels less like an obligation now and more like a pulse. She's writing again, not because she has to, but because it feels good.

Izzy’s been completely nose-to-the-grindstone. Whatever reservations he had about playing music again have been completely overtaken by a reignited passion. Notebooks crammed with lyrics and stuffed to the margin with melodies scatter across his office desk, and uncased guitars lean in every corner. He’s been meeting with musicians, tossing ideas around, trying to turn thoughts into action. The music’s coming back to him, slow and steady, like blood flowing back to a limb that's fallen asleep.

When she comes home after work today, he’s standing at the counter barefoot, dreads pushed back with a scarf. It feels like she's stepped into the kind of life she only used to dream about—quiet, warm, lived-in, and safe.

He looks up from a magazine when she kicks the door shut. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” she replies, flinging her bag on the couch. “You eat?”

He shrugs. “Kind of. Been doin' demos all day.”

Rough translation: I had cigarettes, coffee, and toast this morning.

“Ah, the musician’s diet.” She tosses her keys into the bowl, already smiling, remembering how little he cares about basic necessities when he's in business mode.

He watches her cross the room, leaning at the opposite end of the counter. Every practiced line he went over earlier in the day seems to get jumbled and caught in the back of his throat. A second of hesitation makes him falter, but he shakes it free, bracing himself.

He blurts his words out so fast she almost doesn't catch them.

“You got a dress?”

She pauses halfway through flipping pages of the magazine he pushed aside. “Huh?”

“A dress,” he repeats, lips twitching, voice barely warbling. “Like…for a wedding.”

She blinks slowly, face screwing up in confusion. “Who’s gettin' married?”

In an incredibly calculated movement, he fishes something out of his back pocket and slides it across the counter toward her with two fingers.

Small square box.

Not dramatic, not rehearsed. The velvet’s a little worn, like he’s been carrying it around for weeks, waiting for the right time.

"Us, if you want."