~The Izzy Cam~

Michael was riding on a cloud of ecstasy as he burst back into his dressing room, tripping over himself to find the duffle bag containing his street clothes. He dumped them out onto the floor, and began filling the bag with necessities for the night ahead of them. Perhaps he and Skip would just... hop on a plane tonight, and visit someplace. Las Vegas or Chicago, and put themselves up in a fancy hotel.

There they would have the chance to really reconnect, just... lay around for a while, have sex until they tired of it, if that was possible. She could be his again, and he would be hers, just when he thought all hope was lost. To Slash, he told himself, he owes his sanity.

The door hinge squeaks, revealing an unnaturally tall woman standing in the doorway. "Michael! I was supposed to walk ages ago, what the hell do you call yourself doing?" He spun on his heel, completely prepared to tell her off, when he noticed the photograph in her hand. "What's... that?"

"Della? You know, my sister? The one you mur-" "I know which she is," Michael snapped, he'd seen Delano around the place. While considerably older now, her presence still really gave him the creeps. "I would've wanted her to be my maid of honor," Diana seemed to glare at him with all the worst intentions. "But she can't be. Because she's gone."

"Diana listen, I can't-"

"So you'd better get out there, pretty boy," Diana continued, while Michael was certain that he was staring into the eyes of the devil himself... or herself, apparently. "That is, unless you want the whole world to know what you've done."

He didn't care anymore, as long as he had Skip, so he thought. But it's hard to deny the devil, when you're staring right at her. "But-"

"Now." She demanded. Michael considered making a run for it, but before he could move, she wrenched him by the ear. "Follow me." She dragged him from the room kicking and screaming. There was nothing poor Michael could do.

****

Skipper's POV

I dip my body sponge back into the bowl of cold water, and lethargically draw it across Slash's forehead.

He is the physical manifestation of what I feel inside. Cold, shaking, and using his words only, 'like a bag of shit.' I gave him a dose of acetaminophen, and tried to focus my efforts on healing him, but there's only so much I can do without a full workup, and frankly- my feelings are extremely distracting.

So I attempt to break Slash's fever the old fashioned way, with a sponge and cold water, because it's all I can bring myself to do. I can't take him to the hospital, I can't address the fact that the fever is burning right through the Tylenol, I can only stare into his cotton eyes, try not to give into them, and re-soak the sponge in the water.

"Are you tired yet?" Slash croaks, letting out a few stray coughs afterward. "No. Don't try and talk, save your strength for when I can get you to the hospital tomorrow." He shakes his head, and when I meet his eyes again, they're deadly serious. I attempt to place the sponge on his forehead again, but he pushes my arm away, pulling himself into a sitting position.

"Lie back down, you need to-"

"Are you tired yet?" I groan, throwing the sponge back into the bowl of water on the coffee table. He faces me on the couch, studying me with absolute irritation.

"Tired of what, Slash?"

He glowers at me for the longest time, and I can literally see the gears turning in his head, working, forming what he wants to say. It's a long time before he utters them, I guess because there's so much he wants to say that he can't get it out.

"Tired of running around your love life like a chicken with its head cut off?" I furrow my eyebrows and cock my head slightly, but he's serious. "What?"

"Are you tired of listening to what Axl tells you about Erin, and seeing him act in a completely different way? Are you tired of watching him with Erin, and then venting to me about it after drinking half a bottle of Tequila? Are you tired of waiting for him, when you know deep down he'll never come? Are you tired of sitting alone at night, with your heart aching, ripping itself to shreds, trying not to come apart at the seams?"

He really does know me.

"Are you tired of hanging out with Michael, plastering a fake ass smile on your face, and pretending it's all okay? Are you tired of watching him with Diana, every kiss and every touch, and wishing it was you? Are you tired of the way men look a you, like you're some sort of prize, when you know deep inside you're damaged goods? Are you tired of being damaged by them?"

He's right, and I know he's right. My heart swells and jumps inside of my chest, my mouth opening and clamping shut again and again. I have no idea how to respond, though I may be feeling my tear ducts burn just a little bit. He's being cold, he's being ruthless, and it doesn't fit him at all. "Slash, please stop-"

"You tired of being Michael and Axl's whipping girl? The one they fall back on, the one they lie to? Are you tired of being second in line, chasing after people who don't want you nearly as much as you want them? Are you tired of hurting, Curly? Are you tired of being alone?" I jump to my feet, covering my mouth with my hands.

"Stop, please stop!" I deplore, speeding to the window-wall to escape his words, to look out at the night. All those times he would study me in taciturnity, he was penning these words up inside. The truth in them cuts like a knife, and I only wish he could have held them in for longer.

"Are you tired of being underappreciated? Of waiting, Curly?" I don't respond, gripping the skirt of my dress.

"Well, do you know what?" He's on his feet now, strutting over as if he didn't collapse onto the couch the minute we got into the apartment. "You know what I'm tired of, Curly? You may not be, but I'm tired of watching you hurt. You like to pretend you're fine, but you aren't, and you haven't been since I met you.

"I'm tired of watching you chase them around like a damned puppy, getting kicked and coming back for more every time! And Curly, I have to fucking tell you, I am so fucking tired of trying to show you."

"Show me what?" I snap at him and my voice cracks, making me out to be weaker than I am. I turn to face him and his features are a puzzle of emotion, anger, fear, embarrassment, affection.

"Show you what you mean to me! I'm tired of puttering around you, being the only one who truly cares about how you're feeling, the only one who really talks to you. I'm so damned tired of putting you first, when you don't return the favor for me! You don't see me, Skipper! You follow 'Rosie' around, you follow Michael around, and you... you just don't see me."

His hands grip my wrists, and when I stare up into his wide window eyes, I know he's just put himself on the line.

"They used to talk to me, and they used to put me first," I whisper weakly. He drops my wrists like hot potatoes, scoffs, and faces away from me, pacing toward the couch. "This is what I mean! I am always here for you, but you don't see me!"

"I was in love! I was in love with the both of them, and now they don't love me anymore! They've both left me, so excuse me if it takes a little time to stop following them around like a scorned puppy."

"I love you! I do! It doesn't mean a thing to you!" He laughs hysterially, pacing back and forth again like a caged tiger, tugging at the roots of his hair. This time I take his wrists tightly in my hands, and force him to meet my eyes again.

"I know you do. You're my best friend, and I love you too." I tell him gently, and force a smile. He doesn't return it. His eyes are like two balls of lifeless coal as he glares at me. "No, you don't understand. You don't get it, I've spelled it out for you, and you still don't understand. You still don't... you don't..."

"I see you, Slash. Yours is the last face I see when I go to sleep at night," I tell him. He shies away as I place my hand against his cheek. "You're the first person I see in the morning. I tell you everything, even if I am drunk on tequila. We cuddle. We watch 'The Neverending Story' nonstop, and promise each other that we'll never tell anyone else it's our favorite. I wear your clothes, I used your god damned toothbrush! I spend the most time in the world with you! Don't you see?"

He shakes his head stubbornly. "Yes, we do all that, Curly. But you still don't see me the way you do them."

And then it hits me. Something I never wanted to sense from him, a moment I dreaded would come in the darkest recesses of my subconscious mind. That little bit of stirring I felt in my heart as we clung to eachother on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, watching Artreyu lose his horse in the swamp; the comfort I felt when wearing his baggy Black Sabbath shirt. The smiles we share when no one's watching, the expression only we understand.

I tell myself it's friendship. I tell myself it's like having a sibling.

"But... but you're my best friend, why would I-"

"Stop lying to me, Curly. Please," he whispers, and his eyes finally soften. "I see it in your eyes, you know. You know what I'm saying." "I see you. I've always seen you."

"No," he says again, his breath fanning over my face, and his palms pressed against my cheeks. "But I'll help you."

Fear. That's it, the hard stone sitting on my lungs as I stare up at him. Scared that he'll do what I know he is going to do a few seconds from now, and scared that I want him to. I don't know what I want, and he's shown me that. He's shown me too many things.

He's too good to me. He's just too perfect, too beautiful as a whole. I stumble through my life like a drunk, and he shows me how to be sober again. And I never let myself think about the entirety of what he does for me.

A few seconds later the door to the apartment swings open, and there is someone in the doorway.

His long reddish hair is down, messy. His green eyes seem lost, and his clothes seem disheveled. "Junior, I've gotta talk-" He freezes mid-sentence when he lays eyes on the two of us, and suddenly he isn't lost anymore. He's just pissed the hell off.

"I knew it! I fucking knew you were lying to me!" He spits, and turns on his heel, storming out of the room.

Then the fear is replaced by regret. Maybe I was about to be rewarded for being a scorned puppy, and I've thrown it all away. "Rosie, no! Stop, this isn't what you think it is!" I blubber, running to catch up with him before he can escape the building.

It's too late. When I reach the lobby he's already in his new car, whipping it out of the parking lot, speeding away. "Damn it!" I curse myself, stamping my foot and looking after him in the dark. It's gonna take a lot of convincing to get him to believe that he walked in just in time.

"Yeah, you really see me, don't you?" Slash snaps as he storms past me, right out to the parking lot. Where he's planning to go tonight? I don't know, he practically lives with me.

Not anymore, I remind myself as I trudge to the elevator. Now I've ruined him too.

We're just friends, right? Nothing more.

THINGS ARE GETTING TENSE MANN

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