A/N: English isn't my native languages, I apologize for any mistakes.
He drank himself to sleep this night. Just because he hadn’t done that in a while and he’d felt like it. Booze was still his sweetest lullaby, except some good sex maybe.
Still, he didn’t sleep well that night. His brain just wouldn’t stop working, producing images and sensations over and over again, which he couldn’t remember for longer than a second.
But when he woke up to the crying of a child, he was feeling all restless and troubled, sweat running down his face and naked chest, telling him it must have been hell of a nightmare. There was still the taste of whiskey on his lips and tongue and an emerging dizziness slowly filling every part of his body. He just prayed he wouldn’t feel sick in a second, he really wouldn’t like to throw up. So he had a deep breath first and finally stated that his stomach was alright. Normally he’d just have gone back to sleep but there was still that annoying high pitched weeping in his ears, torturing his nerves like a tinnitus.
I don’t have a child, he thought. And he couldn’t think of any reason why there’d be one at his house.
The reason why wasn’t bothering him as much as the pain it caused. How the fuck did parents endure that? He didn’t like the idea of getting up, so he tried to just hide his head underneath his pillow, but the noise wouldn’t go away, the only thing that was different now was him having problems breathing. Throwing the pillow somewhere into the darkness of his room he jumped up, filled with anger.
“Stupid little shit!”
That wasn’t a good idea at all. The dizziness immediately reminded him that he wasn’t sober yet, letting him stagger and finally tripping over his own feet.
He played with the thought to just continue lying on the floor, hoping to fall asleep again. Turning around a few times he even found a comfortable position and he started humming a melody that was stuck in his head (he knew the song but he couldn’t name it right at that moment). But there was still that bugging kid and forced him to get up again, a bit slower this time, though.
Alright, time to find that bastard.
He or she wasn’t in his room, therefor the sound was too muffled. He looked around and eventually headed to the closed window, which was only slightly illuminated. As he opened it the crying indeed reached his ears in a clearer tune and louder – it annoyed the hell out of him.
What incapable parents would leave their crying child out there in his backyard? Either it’s been abandoned - he could totally imagine that considering how fucking maddening that noise was - or his parents (or other relatives) simply wanted to annoy him, which was likely to happen as well, there were some names that immediately came to his mind.
“Shut the fuck up!”, he yelled out of the window and into the void.
The crying continued as if he hadn’t been heard at all or – and he loathed that option far more – he was simply being ignored. He felt his blood pressure rising.
“Hey pull in that crybaby!”
No one answered but he could swear he’d heard someone giggle, very quietly, but somehow he knew that voice. It was enough to have him explode.
“That’s it, you stupid dickhead!”
He turned around and made a run towards the door, outside his room, down the stairs, through the rest of the house and finally outside. No one should think he could mess with Axl Rose, especially not in the dead of night.
This time he didn’t trip, now his anger was in control, not the dizziness, and it made him damn fast and sure of step.
He knew he’d arrived in the garden when he felt the cool blades of grass between his toes, kind of tickling his feet and it made him slow down and look around. He then spotted his bedroom window and he walked right underneath it, facing the darkness of his backyard before him, arms akimbo. So, where was that kid and his sociopathic parent now?
Everything seemed quiet now, there was no crying and no giggling. It made him snort with aggression. He’d find these people.
Highly concentrated to not miss any kind of noise or shade he walked forward to the bushes which, together with the metallic fence, served as a border between his estate and the outside world. He was absolutely certain, that the crying sound had come from there.
His eyes kept adjusting to the darkness and he could now clearly recognize the outlines of the leaves and branches and how they slowly moved in the soft night breeze, but no person, neither child nor adult. He’d been tricked.
He clenched his fist, reached back and unloaded his anger by smashing his arm right into the stupid bush, causing some branches to swing back and even crack, but also one to scratch him right in the face. Fucking plants!
He should definitely go back to sleep now, he was feeling so tired. So he turned back to the house and approached it again, but as he came closer he started hearing the sound of a guitar, playing one certain riff over and over again. He knew that song, it was exactly the one that had been stuck in his head early that night. And now he could finally assign it to the artist. And oh, how he hated that junkie.
His whole body started tensing up again as he walked towards the front door, quietly opening it to definitely catch the guy this time. He entered and followed the music until he stood right before the door to the room where it was coming from, the other bedroom in his house or the so called guest room.
One last breath and then he pushed the door open, ready to yell at the men in there and threatening to call the police or breaking his fucking nose.
The room was dark. Immediately he turned on the light and he had to blink because of the sudden brightness. He hadn’t felt the presence of such an empty room in ages, weighting upon his shoulder and causing him to sink to his knees. Why was there nobody in there? Where the fuck was Cobain?
It’s surely been the guitar of Come As You Are. But now that he started thinking about it, it was absolutely impossible. Because they’ve just found him dead. Kurt Coabin was dead and Axl Rose feared he was either being haunted by his ghost or going mad and he didn’t know, which was worse.
He was probably just dreaming and sleepwalking. Still he told himself to go back to sleep, because he felt the vast need to rest. Now more than ever as no more anger was left in his body, only tiredness and a feeling. Grief.
“Come as you are”, Kurt sang to him and made him close his eyes. He wouldn’t let it bother him this time, knowing there was no way he was actually here with him.
Suddenly he was feeling cold and he reached for his blanket but he couldn’t find it. He didn’t want to open his eyes so he just wrapped his arms around his chest. Cold and naked on the floor, was it that how he wanted him to be?
“Axl, hey Axl”, Kurt’s voice reached his ears, paired with laughter.
He had to go to bed, Cobain was only mocking him, even though he didn’t know why. He’d never known why. And he was so dizzy again.
As he made his way back to his room his thoughts wandered to the two year old girl crying in his backyard. He felt really sorry for her, she’d just lost her father. Sorry ‘bout your dad, girl, he thought, knowing he’d never utter this words since he couldn’t call a little child and he definitely wouldn’t call Courtney. He didn’t like that woman. He didn’t like Kurt either, but in a different way. Like a friend and an old enemy at the same time. The same as he came.
Sleep was taking over his body again and he finally found his blanket.
It was all quiet now. The silence made him shiver and so he started humming that tune again, kind of surprised how much he was thinking about Kurt now. Because he felt bad for him? Because he couldn’t believe he was gone? Because he regretted some things?
Nonsense, he would have said hours ago, but now, being haunted by both Cobain and his baby daughter, he’d probably have to answer all of these questions with yes.
What a strange night of a restless mind.
Why?, he asked. Hadn’t he been completely fine the evening before? Not caring about Kurt’s decease at all. He definitely hadn’t been drinking out of gloom, right? Or because of some suppressed feelings. No way he’d suddenly care so much.
Maybe, but just maybe, he had always cared in a way.
But he’d probably think differently as soon as he was sober again.
“I swear that I don't have a gun…”
“Shut up, you old liar and let me sleep”, he heard himself breath into the silence with his cheeks feeling all wet and he played with the thought of getting himself another nightcap.
Or maybe two, one for each of them.