Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Summary: A half-life relationship is disintegrating at the seams. Neither of them is good for the other, but after 14 years together, they donât know how to be with each other anymore.
Word Count: 2109
A/N: This is a prize story written for @slashscowboybootsâ and I expect it to be about 4 chapters or so with maybe more if the chapters turn out to be much longer than this one.
I donât know how long Iâve been standing in front of the mirror. My eyes have gone foggy from the bright lights bouncing off of every shiny surface in the bathroom and from trying to see a coherent reflection in the shattered glass. I keep meaning to go out and replace it, but every time it leaves my line of sight, I forget about it and the rage Axl was in when he punched it. All the pieces are there; just broken. It serves its purpose, just not well. Itâs doing well enough that Iâm able to spot the gray hairs.Â
In the time Iâve stood there (God knows how long it was), I found twelve. Plucked them each out and dropped them into the sink. Iâm not even thirty yet⌠Nowhere near old enough to be going gray from age.Â
I turn the faucet just enough that a dribble of cool water begins to flow. The stream washes away the hairs and somewhere deep in my soul, I feel like Iâm telling a lie. I know exactly why Iâm going gray and it wouldnât be all that much of a guess for anyone close to me either. Not a single one of us would say it out loud. I can almost taste bile at the thought of it. The wave of nausea urges me to cup my hands under the stream of water and toss it into my face. For a moment, I feel some brief sense of relief, but the moment is fleeting.Â
I dab away the water with a nearby towel and the broken mirror confronts me with proof I canât just wash away: what used to only be crinkles are now lines of age etched deep in my face.
I must have gasped when I saw them; something caused Axl to turn over in bed. Heâd always been a light sleeper, for as long as Iâd known him. Likely a survival instinct his mind had created for him. If he was already tossing and turning, getting back into bed would almost definitely wake him up. The last thing I wanted on a day Iâd already slept as poorly as I did would be a crabby Axl. Or a bitchy one. Or an angry one. He could be moments away from waking up naturally, but if someone woke him up before he was good and ready, said poor fucker would need eyes on the back of their head for the rest of the day if they wanted to make it through alive.Â
I shut off the light in the bathroom and paused in the doorway for a moment to consider my options. On the one hand, I could try to get another hour or two of sleep before Iâd have to get ready to head out to the studio with Axl and risk waking him up as I got back into bed, or I could just stay up and try to get any kind of work done. Judging by Axlâs second groan and turn in the sheets, itâd be more prudent to take the second option. He may or may not be pissed at me already.
I donât remember much about what triggered the fight between us last night. My brain had been foggy during most of it and I was riding a mild hangover when I woke up. Itâs possible that might have been the beginning of the argument. Axl was no saint when it came to booze either, but he was the best about it and took it upon himself to chastise the rest of the band about their habits.Â
My suspicions seem to be correct, judging by the apparent tornado that had swept through the living room at the bottom of the stairs. On second thought, âtornadoâ didnât do the wreck justice; it was carnage. Almost as bad as the shithole the whole band was sharing when we were first starting out. The only difference was that I know the room had been clean and proper the morning before. A real âBetter Homes And Gardensâ situation. It looks more like a crime scene as I walk through it for damage assessment.Â
Nothing seems to be damaged beyond repair at first glance, just moved or thrown. The only furniture still where I remember it was the couch, which had purposely been the heaviest one available for exactly fights like the one we must have had. Canât throw something if you canât lift it.
Bits and pieces of the fight started coming back to me as I step over the strewn chairs, magazines and various other shit that populated the room. I remember the remote for the TV being whipped at the back of my head and a side table being poised for an equal action, but Iâd be damned if I could remember why. The only thing that makes me stop is the shattered bottle of Jack by the front door. Bottles had been thrown at each other before. Back in the day, theyâd been thrown at almost anything. Perfect for subduing destructive tendencies. The difference between the wrecks I recognized and the one at the door was the lack of any splatter. Thereâd always be a splatter from the bit of liquid left in the bottle, but there was no sign on the door. Just a little mark in the white paint where the black ink of the label had hit. No splatter meant that Axl hadnât taken it from me to throw. That impact was my doing.Â
The pang of regret hits harder than I expect it to. I donât remember feeling angry at Axl. Or the reason why I would want to hurt him. Axlâs rage burns fast and hot, but once heâs calm, it all goes away. Iâm used to the tantrums. Iâm not used to coming out of a blur and finding that I wanted to hit him with a heavy bottle that could have either knocked him out or given him need of stitches. And at the front door? He wouldnât be there unless he was planning to leave. Make-up sex isnât going to garner me the forgiveness I need for whatever transpired the night before.Â
I start by cleaning up the glass and fixing up the room as quietly as possible. Unfortunately, it means leaving all the furniture I canât pick up to move. How Axl can in his rages, I have no idea. Instead of looking like a crack den, I leave the room looking more like the middle of a redecoration project. The second step on my quest of forgiveness is breakfast. Neither of us are too big on it, or really food in general, but coffee and toast are still a staple of the day.Â
Luckily, the kitchen seems to have been completely disconnected from the chaos. A little messy from a slipshod dinner cleanup, but nothing more heinous than any nuclear family would be facing after meatloaf night. The early morning hour keeps me from wanting to scrub and dry dishes, but I can at least leave them to soak while I prep the coffee.Â
The old machine looks like itâs on its last legs, but I doubt weâd get rid of it even when it finally decides to stop. It was the one luxury we all chipped in on when we started renting the band house. We mostly stole anything more expensive than a Big Mac but security at the appliance store were on us like hawks if we dared to step into the store. We could have probably survived without food and most of our vices, but taking coffee away from a house full of drunks was just asking for murder. It wasnât anything fancy, but it was still kicking after the horrendous overuse we put it through. A memory of when the five of us werenât too fucked up to work together.
I exhale softly when the thought passes through. Stevie may have been a pain in our collective asses, but he was our pain in the ass. Part of the guys. And he threw it all away over a vice. If one of the five of us could leave, then who was next?Â
The little light on the coffee maker begins to blink. There used to be a shrill beep that went with it, but the speaker was promptly removed when five angry drunks with five angry hangovers unanimously decided that there was no place in the house for that kind of bullshit.Â
Iâm pouring the first cup when quiet shuffling from behind me results in two arms around my waist.
âI didnât wake you, did I?â I murmur, setting the pot back down. I can feel Axl shake his head between my shoulderblades.Â
âI was up anyway. Thanks for making the coffee and cleaning up.â His voice is still thick with sleep, making it deep enough that I can hardly hear him.Â
âWant something to eat? I was feeling toast.â He considers for a few moments and Iâm almost worried he fell asleep against me. He eventually nods, still holding onto me gently.
âButter, unless you wanna open that jam from your mom.â I turn around in his grasp and place a kiss to the top of his head. Heâs feeling the same way I am- remorseful for an event neither of us remember clearly, but knowing that reparations must be made. Itâs why heâs being so physically affectionate.Â
âAnything for you, Fireball.â He takes my cue to sit down at our little table in the middle of the kitchen. Itâs big enough for the two of us and maybe one more if we squished elbows, not really more than a card table, but perfect for two introverts who like proximity.
When he sits down, I take my opportunity for looking him over for damages. His hair is mussed, but likely from post-sex instead of a bottle hitting it, so Iâm not too worried. His collarbone is spotted with little bruises, but the placement and shape lead me to believe theyâre nothing more than love bites. No scrapes or cuts along his arms. He doesnât look like heâs facing anything worse than insomnia. I canât blame him; the new album is set to be released within the next couple of months, and his vision for it is huge. Two full albums, released on the same day, and weâve only got one albumâs worth of songs written for them. Itâs brilliant, but Iâm as worried as he is about completion.Â
The toast pops up and is smeared with my momâs spiced peach jam. She sends us a few jars each summer as a care package that I used to protest about, but learned to accept. Childhood comfort foods are something that only last for so long.Â
I set Axlâs plate in front of him with his coffee. We both like it strong, but he somehow takes it black without anything added. As far as he knows, mine is the same. Heâs still looking a little tired and distracted, but not unhappy.Â
âPenny for your thoughts?â I ask, nibbling on a corner of toast.
âJust the albums. Itâs the third album curse,â he explains, only now noticing his breakfast.
âExplain?â
âAny bandâs third album is always the worst. They use up all the songs theyâve written on the first two and by the third, they have nothing to say. Zeppelin 3? Dressed To Kill? Weâre having the same problem, but weâre doing two at once.âÂ
I can feel the floor shaking between us. Heâs bouncing his knee like he always does when he has nervous energy. I lean across the table and take his free hand in mine. Itâs softer; no calluses common to a guitarist.Â
âYouâre forgetting Toys In The Attic, London Calling, Electric Ladyland⌠The last two also being double albums. Dunno about you, but those guys turned out okay.â Axl manages a small smile. Itâs hard to believe that the same face that can look so sweet and charming is the same one who tried to throw a table at me less than ten hours ago. âOurs are gonna kick so much ass.â As fast as the smile came, it descended into a scowl.Â
âIt would if I wasnât the only one pulling his fucking weight.â I sighed quietly, only letting the air escape through my nose. An out-loud sigh would only bring on another fight. This wasnât Axlâs fault, or even my fault. He simply stressed out about details more than the rest of us and was definitely more vocal about it. It wasnât anyoneâs fault...
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming