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Volupta, daughter of Cupid and Psyche	By : luna65 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 755 -:- 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-Volupta, daughter of Cupid and Psyche
- 1
The year had begun busy, recording continued a-pace, the band’s collective resolution to make good use of the time they had, as the demands of touring had become greater still in relation to the other. Work was work, however, and Pink Floyd was glad of it.

Roger and David paid a visit to Steve’s office the morning of yet another rehearsal day at Bermondsey, and after Steve had spent ten minutes grumbling about how the Stones’ management entities were literally buggering him for the rental fee, the two had finally yelled at their manager to come to the fucking point.

“Harvey’s got the schedule nailed, finally, so we can start the publicity. But wot’s all this ‘bout wanting to use a snap of your backs? Is that a joke, lads?”

Roger and David began snickering. Steve rolled his eyes.

“C’mon now, there’s plenty of great pics from that shoot, why d’ya want to go that route?”

“I’m tired of seeing my face on everything,” David groused. “They get my arse or nothing t’all.”

Roger leaned over and put his lips to David’s ear. “They do not get your arse.”

David began laughing hysterically and Steve had to resist the urge to throw something. He hated it when they ganged up on him, acted insular, though he supposed it was better than when they all hated one another: sullen silence or sarcastic sniping.

“And what say you, Mr. Waters?”

“I rather like it. The only one looks bad from the back is Nicky, as his trousers are so saggy. But I fear you shouldn’t have worn your blazer, dear.” Roger looked his bandmate in the eye. “Hides your best feature.”

David stuck out his tongue. “But it’s my nicest one, y’know. Velvet.”

“Yes, it’s a lovely jacket, Dave,” Steve broke in, his own tone taking on a tinge of sarcasm. “Then why not something conceptual, hmm? Ring Storm and Po?”

“NO!” they shouted in unison.

“Look,” Roger said, growing annoyed, “we want something clean and simple, alright? If the venues want to do something fanciful that’s their lookout. But I also don’t care to see my face plastered all over the bloody precinct again. This is not a matter for discussion.”

“Fine then. Here, look over the dates,” Steve instructed, handing his charges a sheet of paper.

“Ah, there it is,” David declared, smiling. “Three nights at the Rainbow.”

“No one else who could fill it, me boys.”

Roger snorted. “Of course there is. But they’re all greedily going for the bigger venues.”

“Terrible capitalists,” David gibed.

“Shut it, you,” Roger retorted. “It’s fine. Now if only we can get everything to work properly. Steve, can’t we hire another boffin or something? I fear Peter doesn’t know this new equipment as he claims.”

“Didn’t he design it, or something?”

More chortles. “No, of course not! He’s gone over it with Kelsey but he’s got to train Mick as well; spreading himself too thin,” David answered.

“I can’t just pull a Front of House out of me arse, y’know!”

“Steve, what is the strange fixation you seem to have with the bum? I’m quite worried ‘bout you.”

Roger delivered the inquiry with absolute deadpan accuracy and David bit his lip to ensure his cooperation in the endeavor.

Steve put his head into his hand and took a deep breath. “We’re at our limit on the crew budget. Seth seems to know his way ‘round the console, why don’t you pinch him?”

“He’s on the backline. I s’pose we can muddle though with Chris helping,” Roger said.

“And you promised me a tech!” David exclaimed.

“Where I am s’posed to get the bloody scratch for that?!”

“Please let’s get off this vulgar path,” Roger muttered.

“Oh yes, it’s ‘vulgar’ when I’m telling you the truth of it, but not when you’re crying over your royalty cheques. You lot are totally spoiled! Why don’t you get back to rehearsal and stop trying to give me an ulcer.”

“You summoned us, Scrooge,” David chided.

“And now I’m givin’ ya the toss!” Steve waved his hands, shooing the two out of his office.

Roger rose to his feet. “Come then prat, let us leave Mr. O’Rourke to his Philistine endeavours.”

“Right you are, wanker.”

Steve frowned the moment his office was devoid of his primary headache. It was almost as if those terms, normally vaguely insulting, took on the weight of endearments. But that wasn’t so strange, was it? Given the amount of time those two spent in each other’s back pockets, and their demanding schedule was only going to become more so in the new year. After the UK tour more recording was scheduled, along with a second tour of Japan, then yet more sessions, and another junket Stateside. He looked at the picture they had deemed suitable for the UK tour promotion – from a photo session the year previous, which had yielded some great shots, all of them relaxed and photogenic (perhaps owing to the native cuisine, as it were, Steve imagined people had their first joint of the day with breakfast in the Netherlands) – the four members of Pink Floyd literally turning their backs on the camera. And it was true, Nick’s jeans were very saggy. Their manager tittered. Poor Nicky.

But was it his tired and harried mind imposing more than mere happenstance on the fact that Roger and David were standing literally shoulder-to-shoulder, no discernable space between them? And that Dave’s hand was resting against Roger’s hip?

He shook his head. Had to be thankful for the little things…like noticing Gilmour had at least brushed his hair that particular morning.

“How late are we?” Roger asked as they folded themselves into David’s aged Jaguar, which Nick had begged David to take off his hands with the promise of maintenance assistance after Lindy had put her foot down concerning automobiles outnumbering the actual residents of their Camden house.

“Late enough that another hour shouldn’t matter.”

“You read my mind, lover.”

“Yes and frankly I’m shocked at what I found there.”

They snickered at one another much the same as they had in the office, but the tenor of their laughter had a far more salacious quality.

No fencing with sharp words and aggressive gestures. No sly insults and pinching fingers. Overwhelming need delivered them to David’s old flat, now uninhabited but still leased since he and Ginger had moved to the farmhouse; clothes were shed without the least inhibition, and two bodies reveled in their absolute passion for one another upon an old mattress, the curtains pulled against both the day and the sight of their true feelings.

Roger kissed David, sucking upon that beautiful mouth, licking at musky skin, gently teasing his nipples as the other squirmed and groaned, trailing his tongue down a beloved torso, pausing to delve into the navel, and then down to the wand of wonder – that which gave him such blinding pleasure – which he sucked with gratitude until it spilled hot salty bounty down his throat.

“Oh Christ, Georgie, I believe you literally sucked me dry,” David quipped between breathy pants.

“And I expect the same in turn,” Roger replied, moving next to his lover, lying on his side to trace calloused fingers across the coveted skin.

“As soon as me balls stop aching.” The joke was one oft-repeated, but never grew old.

“They don’t feel shriveled,” Roger observed, gently cupping the sac, making his lover sigh.

“Gentle there, dear sir. I still have hopes for offspring someday.”

“A passel of pillow-lipped prats? I shudder to think.”

“Oh I’ll make you shudder, lad.” Ascending his favorite mountain, Roger did seem thus to David oftentimes: immovable and mysterious, one could never truly know the goal till it was fully attained. His mouth nipped at skin which bore a faint sheen of sweat, tasting earthy and acrid, but even the scent of Roger drove David to distraction these days. Music was ever in the forefront of David’s mind – snatches of melody and strategies of sound – but underneath it and everything else was a maddening litany of Roger. Spreading his lover and dragging his mouth along sinewy limbs, the target of his attentions moaned appreciatively. Delivering the tease to the prick: long slow licks from glans to root, kisses around the head, faint flick of the tongue across the meatus, delicate rubbing of the sac and perineum…Roger’s arousal quickly progressed to ravenous demand, his fingers dug into David’s arms and wrenched him up, his voice a guttural growl.

“Now.”

David always shivered with pleasure when Roger’s demands were so nakedly expressed, as his lover was ever-removed and reserved and controlled except in particular circumstance, and to know he could be responsible for those moments when the mask would slip, to have Roger in his thrall…heady as any intoxicant as David oiled the way and they fit together in the only manner in which they truly could, their personalities too disparate to cleave for too long, but their mutual lust was a wellspring of homogenous delight. It caused David to forget everything but the motion and meridian, he imagined they appeared animalistic, thrusting and grunting until the gasp and the breathless collapse. Roger would breathe into David’s skin and be rendered wordless – such a rare occurrence – for long minutes, their selves finding separate identification once more.

David pushed himself up – heart thudding, limbs aching – and stumbled to the kitchen for a glass of water. He brought the glass filled again to his partner, who sat up and drained it in seconds. Roger lit a cigarette, inhaling then exhaling with a contented sigh. David took one from the pack and did the same.

“Did you notice anything unusual ‘bout the schedule?” he asked.

“No.”

“We never get booked anywhere on Valentine’s Day.”

Roger raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. But we did – didn’t we – last year?”

“Year before that. I remember because Jenny was very cross with me ‘bout it, though I made up for it with the usual things.”

“Jude says it’s a tool of the –“

“Repressive capitalist regime, right?”

“Well, it’s rather a farce, isn’t it? I mean, the whole idea of romance and such.”

“Why?”

“It’s not like it is in the movies. People don’t really act that way, or spout dialogue out of Romeo and Juliet.”

“You don’t, but who’s to say what people do? I like to be romantic, sometimes.”

“Of course you do, because you’re a mooning prat.”

“And you’re a cynical wanker.”

Roger laughed, smoke jetting out from his nose. “I like that, cheeky bastard. So why are you so taken with me, then?”

“Sometimes I wonder. And then we fuck, and I remember quick enough.”

One last drag, and Roger was on him, his expression one of mischievous hunger. David smiled in turn, but held up a hand in surrender even as he was stubbing out his own cigarette.

“We’ve got to go, Rog. I’m sure everything’s going to shite without us.”

“One more time, please? Give you something to remember me by.”

“I see you every bloody day, I’m not likely to forget.”

“Remember why you want me, then.”

Argument was their daily bread, but sometimes Roger’s logic was unassailable.

Driving past a florist, a cardboard cut-out of Cupid in the window, arrow poised to deliver the killing shot. Love song on the radio, Roger turned the dial of the device with a huff. Love. Sometimes he thought love was merely reflexive nostalgia for one particular moment in which the world fell away and all that remained were thee and thine, but it would come crowding in again once the euphoria had faded. What he knew of love tended to horrify him: possession and ownership and smothering scrutiny. On the other hand he was not the sort to be alone, even as he and Judy could go for most of a day without speaking to one another, their regard unquestioning. Anything else was bourgeois nonsense.

And naturally that prat liked to hint otherwise. Something about David, beyond the obvious beauty and ability, made Roger consider sentiment as something other than foolish yearning.

His infatuation, it was just that, only itself and thus logical in a sense; but there were moments when their coupling revealed dark depths of something else, of other, and situations blurred: engaging in hot passion which Jude had never seen in him, whispering something suspiciously like I love you in the throes of orgasm at David’s hands and mouth and cock and hoping neither one of them imagined something suspicious in the action.

A large red heart in a stationers’ window and Roger suddenly had a vision of his own heart, that elegantly-made mass of muscle, with a crack down the center. He shook his head, continuing on through traffic to Islington, pointedly ignoring the sigils of Desire, both internally and externally.

On the return trip from Liverpool - mostly exultant over the triumph of the equipment rather than their own performance - the band devoured heart-shaped biscuits courtesy of June and passed around a bottle of champagne Peter had picked up at an off-license down the road from the venue.

“She gives us biccies,” Nick muttered, though he ate them just the same. “Couldn’t have packed a few sarnies in there as well?”

“Harvey’s hearing from me, I’ll tell you that,” David declared, “it’s in the rider, they’re supposed to feed us.”

Roger snickered and lit up a joint. Though it was likely to make them more hungry, none of them refrained from the favorite ritual.

“Open a bloody window,” Peter yelled from behind the wheel. “Liable to run off the fucking road if I cop a buzz.”

Rick rolled down his window obligingly even as everyone else cringed at the sudden onslaught of frigid wind. Roger took one of the digestible objects and broke it in half. He handed half to the man next to him, who went to place it in his mouth by rote, but Roger stayed his hand.

“Look,” he said quietly.

David took the joint from Rick and had another toke, then eyed the biscuit, amused, as he exhaled and passed it on to Roger. “Are we running low?” he asked, his tone a tease.

Not caring how his stance would be interpreted by the others Roger passed on the cigarette and leaned over, whispering in his bandmate’s ear. “S’what you get, Valentine. Half my heart.”

David didn’t care to employ a pithy comeback, but knew the setting wouldn’t allow for an emotional response. “You’ve had mine for a while, Georgie,” he murmured, then put the confection into his mouth.

Nick was telling a joke which involved a very complicated setup and the two in the backseat tuned him out, their prerogative as the alpha males of the enterprise. The van reached a very dark stretch of the A63 and they began touching one another.

“S’pose you want flowers and candy,” Roger whispered, running lips against David’s earlobe.

“And poetry. How shall I fuck thee? Let me count the ways.”

“Prat! Last time I tell you something true.”

“And I told you a true thing in turn, wanker.”

“Why are you so enamoured of romance?”

“Why is the sky blue? It just is.”

“I think we’ve had enough fresh air, Richard,” Roger gibed, and the recipient of his scorn was obedient once more. Nick had fallen asleep and his seatmate made to do the same. Roger took another biscuit from the paper bag and brushed it against David’s lips.

“Done in, lover,” David said, quietly. “Let me lay down, hmm?”

“Only if you want a lump in the back of your head.”

David began giggling and Roger pinched him. “Hush!”

“Can’t stop thinking about bacon sarnies now. It’s awful.”

“Suck me, then.”

David snickered. “Poor substitute.”

“Keep talking like that you’ll get the thorn but not the rose.”

“Wouldn’t get the rose any road, cheap bastard like you.”

They began their usual game of slap-and-tickle and ended up furtively kissing until Peter turned onto the well-lit M1 and then Roger conceded to allow David’s head upon his thigh. He leaned back and closed his eyes, a wry smile flitting across the lush mouth, to immediately recall Keats, one of the banes of his secondary education.

As with us mortal men, the laden heart
Is persecuted more, and fever’d more,

But damned if he would quote any of it to this man, who already had grabbed the reins of his emotions, the other not knowing how it had happened. When had easy collaboration in the form of sex and creativity and occasional bonhomie…become something more?

Judy had informed Roger in slightly oblique fashion once returning from her day at school as he sat at the kitchen table sleepy-eyed over tea, cigarettes, and the Daily Mail, that she should like to go out for dinner that evening, at the least, and suddenly Roger found himself wondering if she wanted a present as well.

The phone was ringing, and he ignored it out of reflexive paranoia.

“Can you get that, Rog?” she called from down the hall. “I’m going to have a bath.”

A pained sigh. “H’llo?”

“Look in your letter box.”

Roger immediately walked towards the window, pulling the phone cord as far as it would go, peering at the street in the space which was not occupied by a cat.

“Where are you?”

“Hurry, before the postman finds it instead. He might think Jude’s trying to seduce him.”

The dial tone followed and Roger let out with a breathy bloody prat then hurried out to the gate. A red foil package sat inside the letter box and Roger removed it, looking up and down the street for a familiar car and finding none. David had likely been phoning from the local and was probably now on his way back to Roydon. Roger leaned up against the fence and opened the box. One object was revealed to be a ceramic dove, painted with an eye towards realism. There was a note tied around the neck, which Roger removed.

Give this to J, say it’s from you.

The other was a lapel pin, in the form of a rose made from some type of metal, again painted much like its’ real-life counterpart, attached to its’ accompanying note.

Here’s the rose, though you prefer the thorn, my Valentine.

Roger chuckled, felt himself flush, again fluttery and breathless as the world dropped away for a moment and there was nothing but –

“Rog, did the mail come yet?”

He called over his shoulder. “Don’t look out here or you’ll spoil the surprise.”

“Surprise? Oh all right.”

Roger returned the dove to its’ covering of tissue paper (putting the note in his pocket) and placed it back in the box. Now why would I give her a dove? he thought, then decided his explanation should have something to do with peace. Plenty of time to suss it out. Had to remember to ring the Spanish place on Essex, Jude liked their paella. Then he held up the rose, peering at its’ miniscule rendition. No thorns on the stem, which made him laugh again. So unlike life. His previous revelry returned in an instant.

- thee and thine, me and mine, Valentine.

Roger pinned the flower to his jumper and returned to the house, box held behind his back, whistling a love song.
- 1
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Volupta, daughter of Cupid and Psyche