~The Izzy Cam~

Slash entered Michael's dressing room and shut the door softly. Where there was usually an air of humor and lightheartedness between the two, Slash brought a sense of seriousness; this day, he seemed to mean business.

A flicker of movement caught Michael's eye in the full length mirror, and he noticed Slash, leaning against the doorway. He looked completely out of place weaing a suit, the both of them did really; Slash felt that a monkey might be more comfortable in his apparel than he was.

Michael gave an informal smile, though he felt the tension in the room, mindlessly tugging at the edges of his bow tie. "My last few seconds of freedom," he chuckled, though on the inside he felt like the world was crashing down around him. He would give everything he had to return to the year 1984, and somehow prevent the acute decline of his love life.

"Don't do this, Michael." Slash said bluntly, not bothering to engage in any disarming small talk. "She will never be the same if you do this."

Her name went unspoken, but it was obvious who she was talking about. "That isn't true," Michael tried to convince himself. "Skip loves hanging out with you guys, she'll be just fine when I... if I marry Diana." Slash shook his head a few times, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"She tells me everything, even if she doesn't mean to. She loves you, so fucking much. She loves Axl too, I might warn you, as much as she likes to deny it, but she loves you. She would be happy with you, forever. So I'm telling you my opinion right here and now, whether you want it or not. Don't marry that chick Diana. You'll regret it for life, and so will she."

Slash turned to leave. "But... but what about you?" Michael asked quietly, consciously afraid of what the answer might be. Slash twisted the doorknob, but did not open the door. "What about me?" He left the room, and Michael felt more excited and confused than ever before.

****

Skipper's POV

Slash is running a fever, and I know it. He's showing symptoms indiciative of Pneumoccocal Pneumonia, his color is gone, it's freezing inside of this ridiculous chuch, but yet and still the white dress shirt beneath his suit jacket is soaked with sweat. He shivers every five seconds, and when he isn't shivering, he's hacking into his elbow.

"You're sick! Let me help you." I hiss to him, adjusting myself in the uncomfortable pew. I never went to church as a child and never had the desire to, which only makes the experience of a wedding even more awkward, if possible. The whole room is filled to the brim with 'family and friends,' examining the bright white ribbons and flower petals sprinkled all over the place.

"No, I'm not. And even if I am, you're only using it to distract you from this." He motions to the room.

He's right, but I can't bring myself to admit it, even to him. I woke up this morning feeling physically sick, which was followed by violent dry heaving. I couldn't force myself to eat, I could barely dump some salt water over my new belly ring. A headache pounded fiercely between my temples, and I was riddled with thoughts of Michael as if I was on LSD.

A living nightmare this is, staring at this church with my eyes wide open. I keep saying it in my head, Michael is getting married. Michael is leaving me. What happened between us is really over.

No matter how many times I tell this to myself, I don't believe it.

"I... I..." I let out a long and melancholy sigh, resting my chin on my fist and letting my eyes fall closed. Every time I do this I see him kissing her face again, lifting the veil, putting a ring on her finger. It drives me crazy; I feel the urge to scream, punch a wall, cry, and kiss Michael at once. He shouldn't marry Diana, he knows it, and I know it, he practically screams it at me with his eyes every time we talk.

Schizophrenia has nothing on these images, plastered all over the back of my eyelids, even more intense every time I blink. I can't watch this play out in real life or I know I'll melt, I know I won't survive.

Suddenly I'm sweating even more than Slash, shaking even harder, struggling to breathe. I claw at my throat, rocking back and forth slightly, muttering to myself. "I can't do this, I can't do this," I choke, my voice is barely a whisper. Slash looks over at me, raising an eyebrow. "Curly?"

The world spins and blurs, dizziness hits me in the head like a bag of bricks. My voice gets louder and louder each time I say it, like I draw strength from the words. "I can't do this!"

"Hey, are you okay?" Slash places a quivering hand against my back. "I... I can't do this!" I wail, and jump to my feet, squeezing past the guests seated next to us to get to the aisle. "Curly, wait! The bride is walking any minute now!" He hisses through his teeth. "The 'bride' shouldn't even be the bride!"

I rush down the aisle, grimacing at the way this tight dress rubs against my belly ring, and burst out of the room into the church lobby, gulping in as much fresh air as I can. There are no ribbons here, no sickening smell of flowers and a faux relationship. Here I can breathe, here I can think, and here the images of Michael and Diana fade, just a little bit.

I crumble, piece by piece, pressing my back against the wall and letting myself slide down into a sitting position.

The place is beautiful really, with stained glass windows, and chandeliers, all the fancy church stuff. The recurring image is Jesus of course, on the cross, portrayed in paintings. How is that possible? Nobody knows what Jesus looks like, and if we did, I doubt he would be some milky white man with blue eyes, being from Jerusalem and all.

I stare into his unrealistic eyes from across the room, cocking my head slightly. He gives so many people so much faith, so much happiness, so much hope. Why doesn't he give it to me? I stare at him, and I see nothing special. I see just another man on the wall that's done nothing for me.

"Fuck you, and your blue eyes," I grumble perniciously, glaring at the stupid painting.

"Skip?" A voice responds, and I jump, staring at the painting as if He could talk. After further investigation I discover a man standing a few feet away, dressed regally in a crisp tuxedo. His dress shoes shine, oiled to perfection. Michael's usual warmth seems absent as he stares down at me with a sad smile, his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets.

"Hey, what are you doing out here? Diana's gonna walk any moment, you should get back in there." I tell him halfheartedly, only because it would be rude to say anything else.

He disregards this quickly, and offers a hand. I accept it and he pulls me to my feet, staring down at me with a rather pensive expression. "I have to say, I really thought you wouldn't come. I'd understand if you didn't..." his gaze leaves mine and settles on the floor.

"No, I... wouldn't... miss it for, um... the world." I manage to choke awkwardly, willing myself to breathe in and out, refrain from having a nervous breakdown just until he's gone.

He doesn't seem to like my response, not even in the least. Once again he pierces my eyes with his own, searching for something, some emotion that he isn't receiving from me. His lips move to form words but no sound is produced. He stands just inches from me, stuggling to say something. His face is unreadable, and the moment is nothing but pure agony.

"Please, just say it." He whispers, and exhaustion washes over his face like an ocean wave over a sandy shore. His eyes close, and when they open they resemble that of an old man's. My throat closes. "Say... say what?"

"Tell me you don't want me to do this, please. Tell me... that you love me. Tell me to stay here, tell me to hold you in my arms and never stop. Tell me to kiss you, and I will. I'll do it, baby girl." An unimaginable amount of shivers crawl quickly up and down my spine, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand erect. He stares down at me and I know he means every word, running the tip of his tongue over his lips.

I grip his starchy and stiff collar in my fists, and draw in as much air as my lungs can hold.

"I don't want you to do this. I love you, Michael. Stay here, and hold me in your arms, and never stop." His eyes close just before I add my final request. "Kiss me-"

His lips crash down onto mine just as I form the last syllable, and it's as if I've been struck by lightning. Electricity races through my body, my heart pumps harder than it would if I'd just run a marathon. All of my problems melt into irrelevance, all the little things constantly nagging in the back of my head are gone. Nothing and nobody else matters. It's just us, his mouth on mine, raw feelings exposed for all the world to see.

And when he pulls away, his lips press themselves to my ear. His voice is like soft flannel as he whispers, "I love you more than anything in the world." I know he'll stay, in my heart I know it.

And for the first time in seemingly my entire life, I feel okay.

He grins down at me with eyes brighter than stars, his hands resting on my shoulders. "Okay, just, um... well... I've gotta take care of all this," he hastily explains, examining my body with his eyes. "Just... stay here, and I'll be back for you in ten minutes. Ten minutes tops, and we'll just... blow this joint." I nod eagerly, and stand on tip toes for another kiss. I didn't bother to really get dressed up, I just threw on some random dress I got at Kohl's and some converse.

He gives me another kiss- a few actually, and backs away reluctantly. "Okay, stay here. Don't move, I promise I'll be right back. Okay?" "Alright!" He turns, but I stop him. "Michael, wait?"

"What is it, sweetie?" "Why? Why are you doing this?" His smile widens, and he shrugs slightly. "Someone gave me a sign," he quickly explains, and disappears around the corner.

I glance at the Jesus painting with new hope, and give Him a curt little nod.

Once Michael is gone I allow myself to squeal, do a little happy dance. All pain is forgotten, while the sensation of Michael's kiss is still on my lips. Everything is perfect.

Five minutes pass, and then ten. When the twenty minute mark rolls around worry begins to plague me. It only increases as time goes on and there is still no sign of Michael. Several gruesome scenarios play themselves out in my head; could he have gotten hurt? Could he have left without me? Did I misinterpret what he said to me? Is he gonna leave me again?

No, I tell myself, Michael would never break such a promise to me.

And so I keep waiting and watching, pacing, but nothing happens, and no one comes.

The sound of 'The Wedding March' fills the room at the forty minute mark, and all hope flees my body at once. The realization is a cruel one as I sit there, on my knees before the door to the church, wondering why. As optimistic as I felt forty minutes ago is just about as depressed as I feel now, wondering why in the hell Michael would tease me this way.

He ripped my outer shell of hostility, and exposed my true self. He fed off of it, he kissed me in a way that only Michael knows how to do. Then he tore me to shreds, like he usually does, and left me swearing Jesus to hell and back at the door to the altar. He always does this, and I should've known, but like he once said- I always come back for more.

I pull myself together by the time the ceremony ends, quickly getting to my feet before the congregation doors open and people flood toward me, smiling, laughing, talking. Their insides are still intact. They don't feel like hollow shells of nothingness, like ice cream cones after all of the sweetness has been scooped out.

I'm a basket case by the time Slash emerges, and from the way he looks at me, it's like he already knows everything. Both of his clammy hands are on my cheeks now, his eyes are a little too soft, a little too gentle. He doesn't look at me like what I am, a broken hearted little girl. He views me the way he always has. Like a person. Just a person.

It's too much for me. I allow myself to fall against him, sad and choked-up whimpers escaping my lips. No tears, no sobs, only whimpers. His lips plant themselves on my forehead. He is there, he is real, he won't leave.

"I didn't think he would do it." Slash simply says, rocking back and forth with my heart in his hands. What's left of it, anyways.

Where did he go? What happened in those forty minutes that pitted him against me? He's gone, and I suppose that's all that matters. Michael is gone without a trace, for the second time.

"Me... neither," I manage to say, but he shushes me softly. "Let's head home, alright? I feel like a bag of shit."

"Me... too," I agree, clutching his arm to my chest as we leave the place where my love has officially died.

It was gonna happen. It was so close... and then I squandered it. But you can't possibly be surprised, doesn't it always play out this way?

If you're not too mad at me, vote and comment!