Disclaimer: The following story is a work of fiction. The author does not own any of the following names or personalities. The author does not imply that the people mentioned within would act or have acted in the ways depicted. No money has been made from this.

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Guns was between tours. We'd all needed a break; each of us had been drowning the stress in our various vices. Slash had his fucking heroin. I'd been riding his ass about it for months. Hell, I'd been riding his ass about it for years, warning him not to get hooked on that shit. Like the fucker ever listened to me.

So I get this call at 3 o'clock in the fucking morning. It's Slash. He doesn't sound too good. He's asking me to come over. He must have needed something pretty fucking bad to call me at 3 o'clock in the morning. "Fine," I said. "Be right there."

He answered the door in a t-shirt and shorts. His face looked pale. "Hey," he said. I followed him into his kitchen. He flopped down in one of his chairs and said "I quit yesterday."

No preamble, nothing. "What?"

"I quit. I haven't shot up since yesterday morning." He put his head down and rested it on his arm. I sat down beside him. I could see that there were sweat stains all over his shirt.

"Are you okay?"

"I... uh... no, I'm not. I, well, I was freaking out when I called you... but I feel a little better now. But, uh, still shitty, you know?" He gave me a weak half-smile.

I put my hand on his back, between his shoulder blades. "You need anything?"

"I want to go back to bed. But I don't think I can stand up. I feel like I'm gonna puke." He pushed himself out of his chair, braced himself against the table with his arms.

"C'mon." I took hold of Slash's bicep and steered him to his bedroom. He crashed onto the bed, curled up in a little ball, and pulled the blankets up around himself. I sat down beside him.

After a few minutes, he said "Axl?"

"Hm?"

"I'm really cold."

I put my hand on his leg. "You'll be okay."

"What if I'm not?"

"Don't worry." I gave his leg a squeeze. I was really glad to see him quitting. Really glad. But I wondered why he didn't talk to his doctor about this, arrange some type of treatment. Then it struck me. For months he'd been telling me that he didn't have a problem, that he could quit if he wanted to, that he wasn't addicted, and that I should just chill out. He didn't want to go to the doctor because that'd be like admitting he was hooked. Like also admitting that I was right. That stubborn, stubborn bastard.

But then... if he was so concerned about proving me wrong, why was I the one he called over when the withdrawal started to get really bad?

"Slash, why'd you ask me to come over here?"

He shifted on the bed. "'Cause you're the cleanest."

It was true. "Yeah, but what can I really do for you?"

"I... shit. I dunno. I just... fuck it. I don't know. Leave if you want to." He rolled over on the bed again.

"Slash, I'll do whate--"

He tossed the covers off of himself suddenly and scrambled out of the bed, groaning. I followed him to the bathroom and stood in the doorway. I could hear him gagging, saw him clutching the side of the bathtub as he knelt in front of the toilet. I stepped inside and knelt beside him, gathered his hair and pulled it away from his face.

And it was right then, kneeling in front of a toilet holding Slash's hair while he puked, that I realized. I loved him. He may have been stubborn, hot-headed at times, a little irresponsible about certain shit... but I loved him. With my free hand, I stroked his back. "Just relax, Slash. Just relax."

He finished throwing up and leaned against the side of the bathtub, shaking. I kept rubbing his back.

"Lemme brush my teeth." Slash struggled to get back on his feet. I helped him stand up and make his way to the sink.

Once he was finished brushing, he went back to his bed and perched on the edge. He looked up at me. I said, "I'll stay here tonight, if you want me to."

Slash nodded. He burrowed under the covers once again and I sat down on the opposite side of the bed, smoothing out his blankets and comforter underneath me. Slash had turned the air conditioning down, I was sure, because of his chills. I decided to lean back and settle in for the night.

Slash rolled over to face me. His arm was out from underneath the covers and his fingers stroked the comforter as he spoke. "Thanks, man... for, uh... everything."

I put my hand over his and squeezed. "Anytime."

Slash looked at my hand, then smiled at me a little. "Okay."

I held his hand, rubbing little circles over the back of it with my thumb, until he fell asleep.

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