Chapter Text
The night was wild, tawdry, and mischievous—like a girl with too much to handle, she kicked up the skirts of her short blue mini dress and sang her heart out in neon lights and hiccupping guitar wails; laughing hours away in the form of car alarms and people cursing and cackling, racing down the street like madmen; only to topple over hedges and ferns at the finish line. Her shoes glittered like starlight above them as she danced on, her face a big bright moon, prettier than any lantern, something for all the stoned passers-by to ogle at as they went on home for the night. She blew kisses at those who were fried to the point of a blackout, she put a heel on the back of the drunkard vomiting in the gutter. She stood haughty and young and vivacious and cruel up in the night sky, pouring wine over the heads of fools and laughing when you got a headache, laughing when it got worse; screaming with barbaric mirth as you held your head and begged it to stop. And then her sister the sun rose up and took over, tearing the bottle from her sister's hand, turning whiskey into water and reams of noise into a couple of pain meds for you to gobble down like the drymouthed heathen you were.
Of course, Axl wouldn't know anything about all that, because he hadn't properly woken up yet. In fact, he'd been asleep long before the day took over the night sky. He wasn't present for the fierce glow of dawn, nor the gold seams of the first clouds of the day, nor the pink and lavender streaming across the sky, like somebody's last-minute attempt at a birthday celebration. He wasn't even aware of how awful he'd been last night, how loud he'd been when he fell over the top of the fence, how he'd tried to open the door with a screwdriver instead of a knife and then a knife instead of a key—and how he'd woken up the whole neighborhood and then some while he was cursing and trying to find the lightswitch in the dining room. He didn't get drunk often, and his housemates were usually all the better for it; because when he did, he was a real brat—but no one was so lucky tonight. And no one would be so lucky this morning.
For the moment, though, he was pacified and quiet, still sleeping off whiskey daydreams of lemon wedges and the sharp, bitter twang of a hot, spiked earl grey tea. He had no idea what time it was, no idea how much he'd drank; he only remembered seeing the moon in the sky, and then the front door; and then the leering blackness as someone slapped the lights back off and told him to shut the fuck up and go to bed already. And then he'd woken up here, in some loving woman's grasp. Well—who was he to ask for anything better?
Axl wiggled around a little, got comfortable with his woman, who he assumed was this blur of a pretty thing from the night before. Was he remembering correctly? God, he hoped so. He thought her name was something pretty, something unsuspectingly gorgeous, like… like… (Y/N). Was it (Y/N)? Hell, it sounded right. And if she was anything like the blue eyeshadow and silver glitter and red lips he remembered, oh, it was going to be a good time today, alright. When he'd first saw her, he thought she was just the type to cure his perpetual hangover, just the type to tear him to shreds with her love—and the feeling had only intensified when he saw her smile, and her eyes shone with a mirth sweeter than sugar and darker than molasses. God, she was gorgeous. Axl smiled in his half-dreaming state, snuggling up closer to her form, basking in the heat radiating off of her body. Ahhh, fuck yeah, this was the life. Even if his head did kind of hurt, it was no matter; not really—not as long as she was next to him, her sighing breath sweet with the tang of cranberries and some kind of fruit-flavored vodka. For a brief moment, he opened his eyes to the glare of the sun coming through the window, flinched, and squinted. His vision was still blurry—though whether that was a question of him still being drunk, or whether it was sleep plaguing his eyes, or whether it was just his own goddamn retinas, he didn't know. But he could see her form beside him, a lovely goddess, a tall, lithe thing; sleek as a panther resting on a bed of feathers.
Ohohoho—she was a blonde. Axl smiled wider to himself and wiggled around to get more comfortable, still squinting in the sun, but then sneaking another blurred peek or two at her. Her eyes were so pretty, closed like that—she looked peaceful, and yet, with the way her eyebrows arched, so dark and beautiful over her long, long lashes; she looked like she could snap awake at any moment and strangle him. It was a strange thing to admire in a woman, but Axl had always found himself more and more attracted to that kind of thing—he liked the biting ones, the ones that looked like maybe they could kill you if they wanted to. And he wasn't opposed to that at all, really. Not if she had her hands around his neck and she was on top of him the whole time. God, what a fucking delight. Axl drew closer and grinned giddily to himself, wondering whether she'd wake up soon, so that they might do something about that—so that she might open her dangerous eyes, look at him, and wrap a hand around his throat while she whispered a sweet good morning in his ear. The thought made him shiver, and all of a sudden, he felt her arm reaching over him, pulling him in close.
Duff didn't know who the hell was cuddling him, exactly, but on the off chance that it would be that sweet little thing called Wendy, he reached out blindly and put an arm around her. Fucked up as he was (almost perpetually, at this point), Duff could never remember the events of the previous night as well as he remembered—well—anything else, really. But there was something in his subconscious talking to him about it, reminding him through mired dreamscapes and flooded halls of gentle morning light that he really ought to see her again, that pretty girl, that darling Wendy. She was pretty, wasn't she? Even with that choppy dark hair of hers, and those honey brown eyes that seemed plain until the right light hit them—good God, she was a looker. Especially with nothing on. Duff huffed a quiet little laugh and imagined her again as he'd seen her the night before, all laid out in her bed without an inch of fabric on her, like a nymph that had climbed out of the honey-hollow of some beehive. He was pretty sure he hadn't left a single space on her body untouched—and fairly certain he wanted to go back in to cover it all again.
Reeling her in that much closer, Duff bent down and pressed his lips to her neck, once, twice, three times. She shivered again, and he felt it ripple across her skin, a twitch of delight not unlike the horse awaiting the starting gun at the gate—but then something in his subconscious stopped him, and he had to wonder what it was, as he rested his lips on her neck. What was wrong? …Nothing. Not so far as he could tell, anyway. So why…? …Huh. Well… now, hold on. Wendy had a pretty good smell about her, didn't she? She wasn't a smoker, or anything, at least. And—yes, that was right. She had a very specific bar soap she used, something she'd told him about because he mentioned it, something that smelled halfway between oatmeal and lavender—Duff knew this, even if his brain wasn't firing on all cylinders. And this girl didn't smell like oatmeal and lavender—not really. No, she was more… tangy. Lemony? No. Something more alcoholic. Aha—she smelled like Slash's whiskey, that was what it was. Which wasn't inherently bad, or anything, but… well, Duff liked Wendy, and hoped she wouldn't be too put off if she happened to see him in bed with some sort of Jack Daniels-type hooker.
Axl was enjoying his proximity to the blonde girl, the assumed (Y/N), with her dangerous eyes and catlike movements—the way she kissed him right in the crux of his neck, so lazily and yet so hungrily, was just perfect. He shivered again, harder, and slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her in and just waiting for that perfect moment, the one where she'd flip the tables on him, where she'd tackle him backward onto the bedspread and really let him have it, despite the banging in his head. The moment never came, though, because all of a sudden, he realized that the body next to him in bed was wearing a suspiciously ragged pair of jeans. And on top of that, she—they—whoever—was much, much too flat up top to have any sort of tits, teacup-sized or otherwise. And she—they?—sounded much too masculine when they yawned, sat up, and rubbed their eyes. Axl laid, frozen in place for a second, staring up at the bleary form of the blond bassist above him, who seemed just as confused as him, if not more.
Duff, not completely registering the situation in his head, stared down at Axl, who simply looked mortified. "Oh. Hey, Ax. Boy, you're in a good mood today."
About five miles away, on a trailhead not usually marred by the existence of human sound so early in the morning, a cluster of blackbirds fluttered skyward as a scream echoed out from the suburbs.
Axl scrambled backward out of bed as fast as he could, nearly getting tangled in the bedsheets as he did, and falling back on his ass just as Duff leapt to his feet.
"WHAT THE—HOW LONG HAVE YOU—WHY DIDN'T YOU—AAAUGH!" The screams continued, until Axl was no longer frightened, he was just hopping mad. He flung himself up from the floor and stood angrily, as if he were a badger defending his property, jabbing a pointed finger at Duff as if it was all his fault. "DID YOU FUCKING DO IT?"
"Do what?" Duff exclaimed, feeling like he should have his hands in the air, like he should surrender somehow; worried that if Axl got any madder, his hair really would catch fire, like it always seemed to. "Did I do what?!"
"DID YOU—did you—" Axl seemed so shaken, he could barely get the words out. But with a fierce enough glare, and a somehow-even-more aggressive stance, he curled both hands into fists and whisper-hissed, "Did you fucking sleep with me?"
"Wha—no, you idiot," Duff spluttered, turning red at even the thought of it. Did he? …Did he…? Of course not! That was ridiculous! He would have remembered something like that, like he did for Wendy—and even if he couldn't remember exactly, he could trust his body to make decisions for him when he was completely shitfaced. There was no world in which he would find Axl's wall-bouncing crazy-ass carrot-headed self attractive enough to hop in bed with.
…Or was there?
Oh God. Duff was sure there wasn't—at least, like, 99 percent sure—but then there was that one percent that still bothered him. He looked down at himself, shuddered in brief disgust, and then thought about kissing Axl's neck, and wanted to crawl out of his skin. Axl just stood there, looking like he wanted to murder somebody.
"Are you sure?" Axl hissed again, sounding impatient, like he was just fucking tap-dancing to get his assurances straight, to try to get everything in line and settled before he went around with the knowledge in his head that he'd been cuddling up to their goddamn bassist, of all people. "Are you SURE?"
Apparently, Duff took too long to open his mouth, because Axl began to freak out again, and pull on the ends of his hair, pacing back and forth along the length of the bed, like a cat in a trap. "Oh God," he muttered, sounding like he was going to be sick—and if Duff hadn't felt just the same way right then, he might have taken some kind of offense to that. What was he, chopped liver? God. He understood, though. At least—he thought he did. Still, it pissed him off enough to the point where he had to say something.
"Jesus Christ, you asshole, nobody slept with anybody. Unless you slept with me."
"WHY THE FUCK WOULD I—" Axl began to shout again, but Duff cut him off with another yell.
"BECAUSE YOU WERE IN MY BED, ASSHAT!"
"Wh—no I wasn't! You were in my bed!" Axl snapped, and Duff waved his hands around like a deranged windmill, pointing out their surroundings.
"Take a look around, you goddamn fruitcake! You're in my room! Sleeping under my covers! Invading my personal space!"
"Well—well—" Axl couldn't deny the fact that he was actually in the wrong room, which terrified him, in spite of the homey decor; the white lace curtains that could do no wrong; the sun speckling the soft brown carpet with the gentle light of day. But even with this realization, he still had a bone to pick. "Well, genius, you're the one who fucking kissed me!"
"YOU CLIMBED INTO MY GODDAMN BED! YOU WERE STARING AT ME WHEN I WOKE UP! HOW COULD YOU NOT FUCKING KNOW—?"
"YOU'RE THE ONE WITH THE GIRLY EYES, IDIOT!"
-
Across the hall, where the morning light was just starting to get its foot in the door; there lay two girls in the same bed, both waking from a land of fruitful dreams, warm and happy to be tangled in each others' grasps. Or, well. Happy until they heard the sounds of their boyfriends shrieking, that is.
"God, what fucking time is it…?" (Y/N) muttered, frustration permanent in the lining of her raspy voice as she rubbed her face and yawned louder than a wild cat. Wendy, the more politely-inquisitive of the two, murmured an "I don't know" and peeled herself away from her friend, sitting up and peering toward the door as if the two grown-up problem children of the house might come in and introduce them to whatever they were yelling about. Groaning at the loss of warmth, (Y/N) fell back over on her side of the bed and rolled until the alarm clock was in her view. Ugh. Did that say… nine? As in, nine A.M.? Seriously? It was too early for this bullshit. Much too early. Again, she scrubbed her eyes, and then cursed at the sting of faded mascara burning at her waterline.
"What even…?" Wendy asked softly, bewilderedly, and then waited. The two girls paused so they could listen to the noise outside their door; each shivering and rubbing her bare arms, trying to piece together the shouts and exclamations of some weirdly-accusatory conversation occurring between their resident idiots. Something-something gay, something-something gross, something about a kiss…? Oh, whatever. (Y/N) might not have known what the hell was going on, but she knew one thing was for certain, and that was that it was too early to get up; and she wasn't moving until Wendy did.
Luckily for her, her compatriot seemed to be of the same mindset, and within seconds was snuggled back under the covers with her—right up next to her, as all cuddly companions should be. Ahhh… there could be nowhere cozier than this. (Y/N) had come to see why Duff liked Wendy so much; playful little thing that she was. She was a sweet girl, sassy and kind, and she liked to laugh at herself more than she liked to laugh at anyone else, which was just the kind of selfless person (Y/N) thought she could really get along with. That, and she was drop-dead gorgeous. Not like (Y/N) had an affinity for that kind of thing—she only rode the bus down one side of the street, and it was, unfortunately, the side most decorated with idiots of every possible male stature and status—and it wasn't like she had self esteem issues, or anything. She liked herself just fine—she liked the way she was, all angular and long and thin; tapered at the edges with faux red nails and a toothy, glistening grin, like a jaguar in the jungle. It was just that Wendy was pretty—she wasn't a lipsticked bottle blonde with blue eyeshadow on her pillowcases; she wasn't a partier who liked to throttle every man who enjoyed it—she was just a clean-cut girl, with eyes like honey and skin the color of sand in the Mojave. And she happened to be exactly the kind of girl where no one would mind if she hopped into the wrong bed at night—after all, she was so warm and soft that she more than made up for it.
(Y/N) relished the haze of summer's beauty that washed over her; the way Wendy's bare chest pressed into her back, the way their hips locked together, like bunnies nestled in a hutch. A lock of Wendy's choppy brown hair fell gently over the shell of her ear as the girl herself leaned forward to rest her chin on (Y/N)'s shoulder; and (Y/N) thought again about how nice it was to be cozied up to someone as soft as this. God damn. Wendy might not have made it as a singer at the Paris Canteen, but she could have made money as a comfort girl, that was for damn sure—even with how small she was, she hadn't a single hard line in her body; she was all curves and all handles, like if the Pillsbury boy had had a smokin' hot wife. (Y/N) sighed and twisted around in Wendy's grasp, breathing in the wonderful, gentle scent of oatmeal and lavender as Axl and Duff still squabbled in the background.
Wendy was already looking at her, her eyes half-lidded and lazy as a pool of honey on a breakfast plate; her lips glowing that wonderful pinkish-caramel color in the dull sunlight coming from the window. (Y/N) would have loved to spend as much time as possible ruminating on her, and how goddamn gorgeous she was, but the look on her girl friend's face was hilariously monotonous—and she was snickering long before Wendy even opened her mouth to say her next words.
"Ugh," Wendy muttered quietly, rolling her eyes to the high, heavenly ceiling before locking back onto the girl across from her; the tall, giggling bottle-blonde with the smeared blue-and-red makeup and a smile like a delighted-to-meet-you cougar. And just for this, just for her darling friend; she put extra vitriol into it:
"Men."
"You said it, honey," (Y/N) snickered, and snuggled closer to her friend, listening for Wendy's soft sigh of delight as they entangled themselves once more and wiggled further down beneath the comforter. "What're you thinking for breakfast? Pancakes, maybe?"
"If you make me pancakes I'll make out with you, swear to God," Wendy murmured, and (Y/N) broke out into real laughter this time, tickled at the thought—especially since the yelling from down the hall had finally ceased. With a loud "I DON'T EVEN WANT TO HEAR IT!", a couple of door slams, and a round more of tittering giggles from some very cozy women in the second bedroom down the hall; the house was left to bask in the quiet white sunlight of what was to be, if not a peaceful day, then at least a very, very interesting one.