Come Home

Author's Notes: This is part of a new writing exercise I'm doing with my girlfriend. She gives a song, I pick a random pairing, and write a little ficlet. So here it is! No harm or disrespect is meant towards the people mentioned in the story. I was just having a little fun and stretching my writing muscles.

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Things seem to blur sometimes. He can blame it on the drugs and booze, and he usually does. It’s easier that way. Nothing on him! He’s not losing it, it’s just the dope, just the music, just the endless round of parties. God, the parties. Thousands upon thousands, girls with no faces, just breasts and a pussy attached to long legs and aggressive hair. All pouting lips and grabbing, clawing fingers. He hates them.

Axl loves them. Axl drips with them, wears sluts like jewelry. Girls taller than he is, clinging to his arms, twirling talons in his hair, shaking sex in front of his nose. He shakes back, shimmying hips and high cheekbones. Beauty. Sometimes lights fly off of him. That’s the drugs, but Izzy wonders. Maybe he just sees things more clearly when he’s high. There is something about Axl Rose…

Rose, god, what a name. Izzy remembers. He knew a boy once called Billy. Bill Bailey, who changed his name to Bill Rose to escape his fuckface step-dad. And then to Axl Rose. W. Axl Rose. It still makes Izzy laugh to call him that. Axl. It’s so awkward on his tongue. For so long, it’s been Billy. Billy this and Billy that. Billy, don’t drop the beer. Billy, quit fucking with my hair. Billy, you can stay with me tonight. Billy, Billy, Billy…

Won’t you come home, Bill Bailey, won’t you come home?

And there’s a flash of red hair, like the old song summoned him. Sneering and swaying, claw-fingered whores on each arm. He’s not going to take them home, Izzy can already tell. He doesn’t want them, keeps pushing them away. The track marks burn and he shifts his arms. Axl doesn’t give a shit, but Billy hates them. Billy… that flash of green. Hah. Billy’s dead now…

…and Axl is talking. Saying something about leaving, going to a different party with different sluts. Better ones, perhaps. Better drugs. Izzy’s arm twitches but it’s no good. He’s stuck on the couch. Axl’s not asking him along, anyhow, just casually passing on information. Making sure that his faithful Izzy will be waiting when he gets back.

Right here on the sofa. He nods and the world teeters a little and he laughs. God, what has he had tonight? Too much. Not enough. Axl snorts and turns away and the sluts turn to him, second best. Third, even. Slash is covered already, or they’d be on him. Izzy glares, calls after Axl. I’ll be here. I’ll wait.

Axl lifts a hand in a flippant wave. He heard. Didn’t listen, but he heard, and Izzy watches his vivid hair disappear into the swirling mass of people. He’s glued to the couch. Glued to his drugs and his pathetic need and his idiotic memories. Yeah, he’ll be here. He’ll be here for the rest of his fucking life…

Bill Bailey, won’t you please come home…