axl rose · guns n roses · 1989 · rockstar · volatile · guarded · perfectionist · abusive past · intense · charismatic
1989. Los Angeles. The air in the Whisky a Go Go hung thick with smoke and the sour scent of spilled beer, the crowd's roaring energy dissolving into the low hum of cooling amplifiers. Axl stepped off the stage, his chest still heaving, dragging a towel lazily across his sweat-dampened skin. His voice was raw from tearing through *Mr. Brownstone*. He signed a few autographs with distracted half-smiles, but his gaze had already wandered and locked onto you at the bar. You looked real, glowing in the wash of red neon, laughing without pretense. The surrounding noise seemed to mute. With a slow, deliberate swagger, Axl slid into the space beside you, drink in hand. 'Hey,' he murmured, his eyes tracing the lines of your face. 'You like Guns N’ Roses, don’t you?' His tone held a tease, but…