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Play For Today	By : signorinaravelli Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 760 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Pink Floyd. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Play For Today
- 1
I know that he can feel me staring at him and it’s exactly what he wants. For me to stare. He’s looking for an excuse to start trouble with me. But he doesn’t let me know just yet; instead he puffs on his cigarette and fiddles with his guitar strings, tuning and plucking and stroking, deep in false concentration. This is one of his lucid moments, few and far between as of late. They’re Siamese twins now, Syd and controlled substances.

I tossed some of his pills out of the window a little while ago. For a brief moment there was this shower of reds and blues and yellows outside, painting the street primary. Pretty, I supposed, but he didn’t much like it. I’d done it partially to make a point about all this drug business, but also just to piss him off. It worked, sort of. I could tell that he was angry, that he’d like to hit me. If it were any other occasion, he would’ve and I’d let him. I always do. His punches hurt like hell, and I really don’t understand why I let him do it. Some unconscious masochistic desire of mine? I don’t know…Syd-baiting isn’t one of my more frequent pastimes but I do it enough to know that it’s too much. That’s our relationship, I guess: I bait him, he hits me or baits me back, we fight, then with no apologies given, everything falls quietly back into place. Odd friends, us.

The radio in the next room is on. I guess Syd was listening to it before I got here. Sounds of Donovan’s “Mellow Yellow” are drifting into the kitchen, stifled by the rattling air conditioner. I hate this fucking song. I hate it even more when it’s muffled by the air conditioner. What a twat. I want to get up to turn it off but I feel like I’ll be more vulnerable to attack if I move. He thinks I don’t see him watching me in his peripheral vision like a wily cat. He thinks he’s so fucking clever. Another stupid twat. Well, fuck him. Let him start and see what happens. I’ll hit him this time. I’ll hit him so hard his head’ll spin.

“You’ve been staring at me for the past ten minutes.”

So? I can stare wherever I want; they’re my eyes, even if he does dominate them. And besides, it’s not like I was mentally undressing him or anything. Not this time anyway. It’s just that he was the object in my line of vision. He probably knows it too, but this is a great opportunity for him: Roger-baiting time. A smile spreads across his face when I glare at him.

“Oh, yeah?”

I won’t give him the satisfaction of getting angry. I won’t even give him the satisfaction of looking him in the eye. I turn away and hear him slowly set his guitar down on the table, hear the chair creak as he leans forward.

“Yeah…so, why’s that, eh?” He lowers his voice to this mockingly husky tone that he uses to torture me. I can still hear the smile in it. “You still wanna fuck me, Rog?”

Yes, I do and he knows it. He knows it because, in a moment of drunken weakness, I told him. For some stupid, childish reason I’d thought that maybe, just maybe, I could confide in Syd and expect him not to use it against me later. How could I be such an idiot? It’s just what we are; spiteful creatures who take pleasure in one another’s misery. It’s really quite sick.

So I don’t agree with Syd’s assumption but I don’t deny it either. The chair groans once more and I’ve got this mental picture of him slumped back, still smiling infuriatingly and delighting in my obvious discomfort. I don’t move at all and I know that it’s incredibly stupid to look so visibly distressed. I have to stop tipping him off.

“I didn’t know you were still a queer.” He says, very matter-of-factly. He makes sure to tinge it with slight disgust. I’ll bet he isn’t really disgusted. I’ll bet that he wants to fuck me too. I’m not the queer. He’s the queer. He’s the sick one, not me. Sick, sick, sick.

“I’m not a queer.” I murmur in annoyance, attempting to look distracted. It doesn’t help and as with every other tactic, encourages Syd all the more.

“Oh, don’t be shy about it with me. You know I don’t have a problem with queers.”

That word again! Stop using that word!

“I’m not a queer…”

“Is it just that you want to fuck me?” He sneers. “You aren’t in love with me, too, are you?” I turn to glare at him and suddenly he laughs at me. I don’t understand why. One of those Syd-quirks, I guess. Always aware and amused by things unseen by the rest of us, that clever thing.

So he laughs and it’s hollow and soft. He doesn’t stop laughing either, cigarette nub still set elegantly between his fingers. He’s in complete control here. It seems as though he’s sapping all of mine for his own.

“Stop laughing.” I’m in no position to be making demands but I need to try and salvage some of my dignity anyway. This only makes him laugh more. I understand that this is all a childish game that I’m letting myself be pulled into but I can’t stop. Syd has a way of forcing you into things either by using his charm or physical and mental brute force.

“I said ‘stop laughing’!”

Numb as it is, it still borders on being a sad laugh. Very tuneless. Syd always seems to be making some sort of concealed cry for help. At least I think that’s what it is. It seems like it should be. But I don’t know. All I know right now is that I want him to shut the hell up and I tell him so.

“Then shut me up yourself. You could always kiss me – that’s romantic, isn’t it?” he eyes me amusedly, still giggling and now rolling the remainder of his cigarette between his fingers in the most manic way. “That’s what happens in the pictures, you know. There’s that scene where the two of ‘em are laughing and having a grand old time and that’s when the bloke makes his move, right? She’s laughing and all of a sudden he leans in and kisses her.” His eyes are bright. “Well, I’m the girl, Rog! Kiss me!”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Barrett…”

“Then kiss me!”

What’s that? A demand? It sounds like a demand. I don’t think that it just sounds like a demand to me because I want it to be. I wish he’d demand that I lay my hands on him.

“Shut up!”

Christ, don’t tempt me. Don’t tempt me because you know I will.

“Kiss me!” He collapses on the table, cackling wildly, the sound of it half-maddening and half-frightening. “I’m waiting for you!” Like a ghoul.

“Shut up, you fucking idiot! Do you have any idea what you sound like?”

His eyes are glistening with tears. I want so badly to submit to his request, if only to show him that I can. But I don’t really want to kiss him anymore, not really. I’d much rather fuck up his face. Smash that perfect, hysterical face to pieces. My fingers are flexing of their own accord. Before I realize it, I’m up out of my chair and this seems to knock him back into reality. He ambles to his feet, still grinning ear to ear but his face is now apologetic. I don’t care. I go to move and now he instinctively backs away. He’s like an animal who can sense my anger. He attempts to look unaffected but his eyes betray him as usual. He thinks I’m going to hurt him. Hit him maybe. Well, good, let him be afraid of me for once. You’ve got no control over me this time, Syd.

“Can’t you take a joke?” I begin to advance and he sways backward, just out of my grip. “Rog, stop…”

There’s nowhere he can go in the little kitchen and he knows it. Reasoning with me is useless but still he tries. We’re making circles around the table now and any other time I’m sure it would look terribly comedic. I feel like a great lumbering monster. “I mean it, Rog! Fucking stop!”

Realizing the pointlessness of that approach, he changes tactics. Instead he attempts to duck past me but that proves ineffective as well. I catch him by the shoulders and shove them roughly against the wall, inadvertently causing him to hit his head as I do so. A sharp cry of pain is mingled with an equally sharp crack and I’m filled with a rush of satisfaction (latent sadistic streak now?) No more than the little bastard deserves anyway. He’s temporarily impaired and not to mention in danger of falling to the floor, so I hold him steady with my body. It’s also strangely satisfying to be in control of so much as whether he stands or falls. I’ve never had so much power over anyone in my life. I could get to like this.

He slumps into my arms, moaning something unintelligible, shifting ever so slightly in an attempt to escape and preserve some bit of his pride. I hold him with some difficulty and position him against the wall. He’s much heavier than I’d imagined he’d be, like a big sack of potatoes. Syd isn’t really like potatoes, though, so I’ll have to draw another vegetable parallel later. I lift his face so that he’s forced to stare up at me, focusing on nothing in particular, unable to for the moment anyway. His mouth hangs dumbly open.

So Syd wants Roger to kiss him, does he? Well, Roger is more than happy to oblige.

I launch an all-out attack on his mouth with my own and, save for the meeting of lips, there is nothing in my actions to suggest a kiss. I have no intention of turning him or myself on; I simply want to hurt him. He begins to twist against me, harder now, regaining his strength. I won’t be able to hold him for long. He’s bent backwards, an arch almost (L’Arc de Barrett), while I loom over him like a great vampire. We probably resemble a warped parody of the perfect heterosexual romance, with strong boy forcibly taking aloof but ultimately willing girl. Boy and girl, just like the pictures he talked about. I think we play our roles pretty well. I’m sucking his lips into my mouth like a vacuum cleaner now, knee pressed between his legs. He’s starting to gain leverage. His hands tear at the back of my shirt, trying to grip but unable to get hold of enough fabric to do so.

You deserve this, Syd. You deserve this.

But suddenly it feels strange. His chest is…vibrating against mine…Oh God, I hope I haven’t pushed him to overload! He’s shaking so much. Overheating like an old car, maybe? Total meltdown? The room isn’t going to be covered in Syd-bits in a moment, is it? Christ, don’t let me have pushed him over! Panicked, I pull back to evaluate the situation and I’m met with teeth. Grinning like a fucking Cheshire cat, eyes twinkling as if to say ‘got you, didn’t I?’ For a moment I’m at a complete loss. Why the hell aren’t you upset by this, you stupid prat?!

I know that he can see the shock on my face when he grabs me through my jeans. He sneers and lowers his lids, leaning in to attempt to pick up where I’ve left off. I jerk back as though I’ve been burnt and he laughs again, wrapping his free arm around my shoulder.

“What’s the matter, Rog? I thought you wanted to fuck me.”

All I can do is stare in disbelief. No, I did not want to fuck you. Not like this, not here and now and in this situation. I realize that I’m half-hard under his stroking fingers and push his hand away in exasperation. I won’t give him the satisfaction of getting hot for him, not physically anyway. I pull from his grip and stumble backwards, directly into the kitchen counter. I grip the edge for leverage, bracing myself there when he begins to make his way toward me. It’s frightening. He isn’t ever this frightening, even during a fit. But the idea that he knows that he can turn me on, and that he has, and that he’s attempting to make it with me even after that horrible kiss, is terrifying. He’s pressing against me very brashly now, keeping me positioned with his body and his hands on top of mine, caressing my fingers suggestively.

“Unless you’d rather I did it to you.”

“I - I don’t want anyone to fuck anyone else! I just want you to stop and start acting normal!” Ha. Normal Syd. I kill myself sometimes.

“Was it ‘normal’ for you to try and bite my lips off?”

“I apologize for that, now would you please-”

“I’d like to return the favor.” He lifts his hand to my face and rubs his thumb over my lower lip. I jerk away from his touch and he laughs softly. “Christ, Rog. You act like I’m gonna hurt you.”

“I think you ought to stop…’cause,” My mind scrabbles for an excuse, a quick one. “…‘cause the others are gonna be here soon-”

An explosion of pain hits and for a moment I can see these brilliant fireworks going off behind my eyelids. Fuzzily I can process that I’ve been hit yet again, but the impact this time around was especially intense. Rather than stagger back or grab hold of something for leverage as usual, I feel myself falling. Damned if I can see anything though. I tip backward and another blow hits my lower back. It wasn’t Syd, though, and I hear a distinct crack of wood. Did I break the chair, perhaps? Oh well, that’s a shame, especially when we’ll have to explain it to the others. But I can’t think of what I’ll say to cover up this last incident of abuse that I’ve apparently willingly taken, not now when a picture is beginning to form before me. A half moon of light. It’s the overhead lamp, bright in my eyes and partially eclipsed by the table. I can taste blood in my mouth and touch my tongue to my lower lip testingly to survey the damage. It’s been split, and pretty good to boot. I can stick the tip of my tongue inside the little gash – oh, how charming! I drag my fingers heavily, stingingly over it to assess the damage and they return nicely blood-smeared.

There’s a pressure on my hips now. It feels like the potatoes again, or whatever vegetable it was. I don’t have time to think of these things now. The weight is heavy but not altogether unpleasant. Kind of comfortable. Some part of me still wants to fight it off…I can’t let him dominate me anymore…I want my turn! I want my control! The daze from the hit is fading but for some reason things remain blurry. Syd’s face is a huge white blob floating over me and I feel like laughing at the absurdity of it. Of everything, really. At some silly notion going round in my head that I’m enjoying this. I’m not enjoying this. I’m not enjoying the feel of this soft tongue lapping at my split lip. Or his warm, denim-clad thighs under my hands…Why are my hands moving? Why are they going along with this?!

Even my body is betraying me, like I’m his fucking puppet. But he won’t have my mind – his evil influence can’t reach that far. He’s off me now. Here’s your chance, Rog! Get up and leave! And again I fail myself. Instead I’m leaning over him and rather enthusiastically helping to unbutton his shirt. The buttons are going *pop* *pop* *pop*, flinging themselves away because my body seems a bit impatient.

The sensory part of my brain seems to have kicked back in, though I don’t remember it ever shutting down in the first place. Suddenly I can smell Syd, his cigarette-scented hair, and I can feel the heat radiating from him. I’m associating these things with some sort of pleasurable experience. I’ve got this unique acid burnout scent in my nostrils and a slender, washed-out chest under my mouth. He feels so much thinner than he looks. It makes me wonder how he could ever have hurt me all those times. I rake my nails lightly across the white expanse, ffffeels ffffrail. Maybe…just maybe…he’s not quite so strong as he looked before. And maybe it would be alright to give into this, just a bit. I’ll get up in a minute. I’ll get up once I can get my fingers untangled from his hair but it’s proving difficult. He’s watching me through heavy lids eyes and working his witchcraft on me. He mumbles something and smiles a little. I didn’t hear it. I don’t care. I move onwards and downwards against my better judgment.

I’ll stop in a moment. I will. I suppose I will. I mean, eventually. After my tongue finishes this last circle around his nipple. I promise. There was this delightful gasp when I bit down just there. It’s a pretty sound. I want to hear it again. Just once more. I swear. And then there’s this navel down here, a very nice navel I think. I don’t think it would hurt to just nibble around the edges a bit.

“Christ, that tickles!”

Tickling qualifies as control, doesn’t it? So really, I must be the one in charge here. I’ve justified myself. Even if I can’t get up, even if I’m stuck to his body indefinitely. The gravitational pull is forcing me lower. He’s looking at me still, very satisfied, smug perhaps, and yet I’m not going to get angry. Finally here are these trousers, the barrier that must be destroyed. I’ve never made such quick work of a zip, my own included. He’s laughing at me for what seems like the hundredth time today, mocking my impatience. He knows he has me and I guess that I do too.

So keep laughing, Syd. Keep it the fuck up. We’ll see who gets the last laugh, because it sure as hell isn’t going to be me.
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