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The first time he showed up, it was (mostly) coincidental. The second, it was spur of the moment. The third and fourth, it was completely voluntary -- and every time he did, he was ushered inside, forced to sit, given a cup of earl gray tea with way too much sugar mixed in, and belt fed a million questions about the who's, the what's, the where's and the when's.
But he was never asked why, and for reasons that escape him, Axl thinks he appreciates that the most.
Right now, it's six in the evening.
Sebastian Bach sits adjacent from him on a dining room chair he'd pulled up, clad in nothing but a pair of festive pajama pants he's been toting around since Christmas and a plain white sweater with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He's got the most intense case of bedhead Axl has ever seen, but his face is bright and open; like he'd been expecting company, and didn't bother trying to get any sleep because of it.
It would make sense, if so. Axl's visits have been more and more frequent recently, what with how much time he spends alone and all. An idle mind is the devil's playground, he was told as a kid, and Axl's strayed far from the church since his adolescence. Real fucking far.
He wonders if that's evident. He wonders if his anger and malice is palpable-- if others can pick up on just how fucking terrible he feels sometimes, like a storm cloud looming over him everywhere he goes.
Axl sighs, slumping down in his seat.
Sebastian leans forward then, slender fingers trembling slightly as they get to work removing all the bits of broken glass from between Axl's raw knuckles. Axl jerks when the tweezers cinch a particularly large, jagged piece nestled in the soft valley between his index and middle finger, and Sebastian stammers out an apology as he struggles to hold Axl still long enough to extract it.
"What do you do when there's nobody around to pick this shit out, man?" He asks once it's been pulled free, reaching for an empty beer can so he could drop the glass into it.
"Nobody's ever around to pick it out."
"So you just…?"
"I dust it off and forget about it." Axl watches with mild trepidation as Sebastian's lips twitch, eyes darting up to look at him. Axl expects to find a hint of judgement or disdain in his expression, but all he sees is a sort of kindness, softened further by the sympathetic curve of the blonde's brow.
Sebastian nods slowly, mulls over that bit of information for a second or two before he refocuses on Axl's busted knuckles again, adjusting his grip on the tweezers. Axl jolts when he feels the cool touch of metal against his burning wounds, but doesn't rip himself out of his friend's hold like he had the first time.
They sit like that for a while, with nothing to accompany the silence besides the intermittent tinkle of glass-on-aluminum as Sebastian drops bits of Axl's shattered mirror into the can.
For a moment, he feels like he's being baptized or something.
Each piece Sebastian withdraws is like the surgical removal of a fraction of the rage he channels into his actions, forcing him to destroy things that hold semblance to himself and all the underlying disgust he carries with him.
Mirrors.
Tink.
Windows.
Tink.
Framed photos, and sometimes porcelain dinner plates he decidedly never eats off of anymore.
Tink. Tink.
"Hey, Ax?" Sebastian murmurs, drawing his attention quickly. He blinks a few times to dispel his errant thoughts, and, realizing he'd been staring a little too hard at their joined hands, shifts his eyes to look at the coffee table instead.
"Mm?"
"Shouldn't you go see a doc for this? Get stitches? Full disclosure, but I never went to medical school. I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing."
Axl snorts under his breath, finding amusement in the way Sebastian mistakes it for a huff of pain and startles at the sound.
… And then he hesitates, unsure of what to say. He has his reasons, of course, but they're fickle and confusing; and, sometimes, they make him angrier than he was twenty minutes ago, throwing his fist into his vanity mirror and sending a myriad of glimmering fragments tumbling to the bedroom floor. They're reasons he doesn't understand, reasons he doesn't want to understand, and he'd rather kick dirt over the whole thing than consciously and willingly acknowledge it anytime soon, so he just… he won't. Not now.
"Axl?" Sebastian is looking at him again, head tilted to the side, lower lip caught between his teeth. Axl shifts uncomfortably under the heavy attention, rolling his shoulders and keeping his tone nonchalant.
"I trust you," he says.
Sebastian quirks a brow. "More than a doctor?"
"More than a doctor."
Chuckling, Sebastian tweezes out another piece of glass and says, "You probably wouldn't see a doctor for this shit anyway."
"Yeah."
"But you still come see me."
He has no reply for that.
Sunlight glints off of Sebastian's hair like spun gold as he continues to slave over Axl's injuries, spilling in through the open balcony and painting the whole scene like an amber-washed portrait straight out of the renaissance. Axl gnaws on the inside of his cheek as he watches the amount of debris stuck in his skin begin to dwindle with each careful pluck of Sebastian's fingers until, far too soon, the soapy rag Sebastian had procured from the bathroom was gently being swept across his torn skin.
"I think that's the last of it," Sebastian tells him, scrubbing at a few speckles of dried blood. "Ready to get wrapped up?"
Axl nods. Sebastian's grip on his hand softens as he reaches for the gauze next and carefully unravels a roll of it, leveling the tacky material as tenderly as possible with Axl's knuckles. His touch is gentle and incredibly warm as he begins to slowly dress them, and it sets Axl at ease in a strange, comforting sort of way. It always does.
"There." Sebastian smooths a few fingers over the top layers of gauze, tapping lightly. "Does that hurt?"
"I wouldn't care even if it did."
"So that means it doesn't?"
"No, it doesn't hurt."
Sebastian beams, patting the back of Axl's hand as he inspects his handiwork. Axl expects him to move away and start cleaning up the mess they'd made, but instead he just sits like that; leaning into Axl's space, holding his hand with a lopsided smile glued to his face.
"It's because I do this, isn't it?" He asks, and Axl blinks.
"What?"
"Why you won't go see a doctor or anybody else, but you'll still come see me." Sebastian glances up then, brown eyes reposeful as he lifts Axl's hand to his lips and presses a feather-light kiss to the bandages wrapped around it. Axl's own eyes widen momentarily as he takes in the sight, tensing up, but Sebastian soldiers on bravely; delivering kisses softer than a butterfly's wing to each individual knuckle.
When he finishes, Axl's at a loss for words. They've done this a handful of times now, and it still strikes him as the most shocking occurrence in the world every time it happens. He relaxes, and Sebastian goes back to tamping down the wraps, making sure they're snug and secure against his battered flesh.
God.
Sebastian invokes that feeling he wishes he could ignore in his chest every time he does it too, and maybe… maybe Sebastian's right, just... for all the wrong reasons.
He likes it, sure. He likes the attention, but he doesn't want it from anyone else. He doesn't want his doctor kissing his cuts and bruises -- he doesn't want his doctor even seeing them, knowing that they exist in the first place.
'This' implies a lot, but Sebastian's pretty simple-minded. As far as he's aware, Axl probably just finds him kissing his booboos all better a novelty, or some shit like that. Probably finds it funny.
And Axl's fine with that, because he doesn't want to acknowledge what he feels, and so long as he chooses not to, then nothing has to change.
Axl still has his friendship.
His solace.
Somewhere to go when life comes crashing down hard over the top of his head; the weight of it grappling onto his shoulders and trying to send him sprawling into an ocean full of self-deprecation and resentment.
Sebastian, he figures, is the lifeboat in this shitty analogy. The one thing caught in the maelstrom, whose sole purpose is to keep him afloat. Whatever that could possibly insinuate beyond Sebastian being a good friend looking out for his 'partner in rock and roll crime', Axl doesn't know. Doesn't care.
All that matters is that when he shows up at the Skid Row frontman's door looking like a hot mess, he's never questioned why. He's never made to look the fool, with wild hair and wild thoughts and blood trickling from the split skin of his knuckles; dripping a macabre constellation all over Sebastian's front stoop.
He's welcomed inside. Even if it fills him to the brim with guilt, even if he hates himself just a little bit more every time a sleep-deprived Sebastian shuffles to the front door and opens it wide to see him bleeding like a wounded dog beneath his porch lights, he's always welcomed inside.
And whatever that means, he's also not sure. Maybe one day, he'll grow enough spine to ask.
For now, though, he's content to bask in Sebastian's comfort and care, and the way the blonde unfurls Axl's fingers so he can press another kiss to the very center of his palm.
He's still smiling, and Axl finds himself smiling too.
"Yeah," he agrees quietly, cradling Sebastian's jaw with his freshly-gauzed hand. Sebastian leans into the touch, and Axl strokes his cheek with his thumb. "Yeah, maybe."