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Normally, one would expect their boyfriend to take them to a nice restaurant—or any restaurant at all—for a romantic Christmas dinner. Axl, however, took you to Hell House for, well, an attempt at a romantic Christmas dinner.
You arrived earlier than he had told you to come over and as you stepped into the front yard, Axl jogged down the stairs to engulf you in a hug. “Hello, baby,” he murmured into your neck before grabbing your cheeks to kiss you. “Just let me finish up real quick, take a seat.”
His fingers interlocked with yours, he led you to the porch and pulled out what had once been a white plastic chair for you. Although it was now covered in scratches and dirt that wasn't removable anymore, you appreciated sitting on something more sophisticated than a beer crate as well as the therapeutic nature of this specific chair model. Once you sat on it, it seemed you couldn't stop philosophizing and revealing your deepest secrets—something Axl welcomed when he was in a calm mood like today.
When you pushed the chair toward the table, Axl briefly squeezed your shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, and hurried inside.
The house itself still looked as run-down as it had since the group had moved in and honestly, you were glad the table was set up on the porch as the last time you had actually set foot into the house, you couldn’t stand being in there for longer than a few minutes so you had suggested going to Tower Records rather than hanging out in what Axl called his home.
In short, this place rightfully carried the name Hell House. However, for today Axl had visibly put some effort into making it look presentable. The small round table was for once steady as it had been fixed with a newspaper under the wobbling leg and there was a tablecloth on top of it, complete with a candle, two plastic cups and a bottle of Night Train.
Soon your boyfriend returned with two paper plates in his hands, taking a bow as he served them. “Voilà!”
“Thank you.” You chuckled and ran your fingers through his hair before he straightened up and pulled a lighter out of his pocket to light the candle in the center of the table.
He sat down across from you and poured the band's favorite fortified wine. Smiling, he raised his cup and touched yours. “Merry Christmas, my love.”
The strength of this drink in relation to the low price explained why it was so popular among the band. Still, a drink in hand added a nice touch to this meal, even if it was one of the least fancy drinks one could get at the liquor store and you were drinking out of red plastic cups.
With no kitchen, you figured Axl must have ordered takeout and only transferred it onto plates at home. Either way, it looked good and turned out to taste delicious as well when you started eating. Axl seemed to read your mind as he sheepishly admitted, “I picked it up from Canter's, told Marc to give me something impressive.”
You grinned, stroking his hand with your thumb. “I was going to ask for your secret of cooking this up without a kitchen.”
“This grand feast is a once in a lifetime event, second best is steak when Slash gets the barbecue out every now and then.” Axl brought your hand up to his lips to kiss your knuckles, a smirk appearing as he reached for his drink. “Next year we'll be dining at the Ritz.”
A fitting comment for his ambitious nature. Ritz or not, it was nice to share a semi-private dinner with your boyfriend on Christmas Eve.
Through the roll-up aluminium door, you could hear the boys’ shenanigans you had grown accustomed to, though they weren't quite as loud as other times, which was probably due to the fact that not everyone seemed to be here.
“It's unusually quiet,” you pointed out. “Did you put half of the dogs down?”
“If anything, they put themselves down, I only told them I'd kill them if they bothered us while we're just trying to have a peaceful dinner,” Axl said dryly, eliciting a laugh from you.
“Hard to promise me the Ritz in a year if you have no band.”
None of this looked like Christmas in the movies, but then again you were in Los Angeles and it never looked or even felt like the deepest winter here. The only indicators were the red candle on the table and the radio on the windowsill playing a Christmas song every 20 minutes.
Yet somehow, all this was more romantic than you could have expected from Hell House. Maybe because you were spending the whole time on the porch, maybe because at Christmas you couldn't help but romanticize everything.