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my sweet	By : luna65 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 877 -:- 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-my sweet
- 1
The members of Pink Floyd wearily returned to their local environs in a typically frigid holiday season, 1970 e.v., and the nation was in throes of Harrisonmania.

No one would deny All Things Must Pass was well-made, and it had the added benefit of being more accessible than Plastic Ono Band and more sophisticated than McCartney. It had outsold both within a month of its’ release.

But Roger was so bloody sick of that song.

“I rather like it,” Rick opined, after the fifth time they heard it in the van on the way to Steve’s office. “Though I’m not apt to go join the Krishnas because of it.”

Roger made an exasperated sound. “It’s not religious. It’s a sodding love song!”

“From his mouth to your ear, right?” David chided.

“It’s so bloody obvious one would have to be a drooling pensioner not to notice,” Roger snapped.

“Love songs have their place,” Nick interjected, attempting to thwart another spat. Their collective nerves were frazzled enough from the monotony of seemingly endless travel.

Rick nodded, and David made a face. He was as much of a snob as Roger, just less likely to publicly declare most popular music of the day to be total crap.

As per the usual, Steve was shouting at someone over the phone. They all began throwing various objects at him to announce their arrival in the office. Although it had only been about a week since he last saw his clients, Steve beamed like a parent welcoming his children home for the holiday. Eventually they sat down with tea and biscuits provided by June and related to him how the last week had gone from their perspective.

“Now, did everyone get their final per diem?” Steve asked. “Some of the crew were saying they never got their packet.”

“Peter paid us, but I don’t know ‘bout anyone else,” Nick noted.

“Right, so no worries for three weeks then, yes? Happy Christmas!”

“What, no box for us?” Roger quipped. “”Aven’t we done ya good this year, sir?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “You, Mr. Waters, have been a bloody nightmare. But I have a special surprise: tomorrow I’m throwing you lot a bang-up do. I think we all deserve it.”

“At your place? Didn’t the coppers show up the last time we had a party there?” Rick asked.

“The hens have decided that the party is to be at Dave’s. Then hopefully we’ll all be recovered by Boxing Day,” Steve answered.

“Nice of them to bloody inform me,” David groused.

“Not to worry chap, we’ll bring all the goodies. You’re just providing the locale.”

“What did that one promoter in Los Angeles call it? The ‘No-Tell Motel?’” Nick teased.

“If anyone other than me is banging in my flat, they’re getting the toss. Forewarned gets the worm, or something.” David declared.

Nick collapsed in his chair with the giggles, the others gave David strange glances. Save Roger, who was starting at him thoughtfully, his fingertips tapping a rhythm one might have categorized as nervous excitement.

Steve had told David to expect everyone after six, so he made sure to have an early bath and shoved all his dirty laundry into the wardrobe. The flat was otherwise relatively clean just for having been largely uninhabited of late. He did remember to ensure the record player had a new needle cartridge but hoped other people were planning to bring records because his own collection wasn’t in good shape, he had a bad habit of leaving the vinyl laying out and the cats would walk on it.

Right on the hour the buzzer for the downstairs door sounded and David welcomed the hoards who were laden with food, drink, Christmas presents and other assorted party favors. A couple fingers from a previously-smuggled-through-Customs bottle of Jack Daniels gave him courage (and a warm glow) to be able to withstand the crowd. It was one thing to play to a large group, quite another to invite them to one’s flat. As he passed time with various conversations, a few pints and a few tokes, it dawned on him that he wasn’t truly involved in the proceedings.

David had been waiting for something to happen. But then he considered, as he found himself staring out one of the windows in the parlour, the particular view a frigid Chelsea night and a festively-decorated street, that he was really waiting for someone.

Well into the evening, as the air acquired a blue haze and the music was ever-changing, David had briefly spied a gangly dark form, knew The Raven (one of his teasing sobriquets) was finally on the premises somewhere, it’s not as if there were many places to hide in his flat. He took his leave of yet another conversation by going to knock on the door of the bathroom. As he did so he heard more than one voice and rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Just a tic!” a voice called out. It was Nick, and as Lindy was in the kitchen haranguing Steve about royalty payments, he was likely giving some other dolly what-for.

“In my bloody loo, Nick?” he said to the door. “You couldn’t take her out in the alley, could you?”

The door opened, and Nick was hastily buttoning his trousers.

“S’right cold out there,” he answered. “You know how women hate the cold.”

“Where’s our Rog?”

“Dunno. Did he show? He and Judy had some kind of row earlier.”

“Yeah, he’s here, likely brooding somewhere.”

“Look in all those places, then.”

David gave him a teasing slap on the back. “Thanks ever so much, Nicky.”

After making one more reconnoiter of the kitchen and parlour, David finally walked down the hallway to the bedroom. The door was shut and he thought he discerned multiple voices on the other side.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, wondering who he might find humping each other on the coats.

His inbred sense of decorum prompted him to knock nonetheless.

“No thank you,” he heard Roger call out.

David opened the door. Roger was recumbent upon his bed, a heap of coats on the other side curiously reminding him of Glastonbury Tor. If not for the pale face framed by sable hair and almost-skeletal hands, Roger’s black-clad figure would have completely blended into the bedclothes, which had been dyed by a servile groupie a particularly dark shade of aubergine.

“D’ya have more drink?” Roger asked.

David examined his empty hands after closing the door behind him. “I seem to have misplaced me booze.”

“Well go run it down, there’s a good chap.”

“In a moment. Were you planning to make an appearance?”

Roger put a hand across his eyes. He looked very young in that moment, David thought, even though all the pictures he had ever seen of Roger as a teenager made him imagine someone who was trying very hard to grow up and get it over with.

“Not as long as whoever it is keeps playing that damned record.”

“It’s a pressie, you know. Don’t want to seem ungrateful.”

“You like it, I know you do,” Roger sneered.

“Rog, you can’t honestly expect me to say that Harrison is crap. Something large and heavy will likely fall from the sky and crush me if I utter such a sentiment.”

Roger suddenly sat up with a distressed look on his face.

“Have you ever thought it might be nice to go somewhere and hear our record?” he asked.

David crinkled his nose while walking toward the bed, a gesture Roger often noticed he made while hitting certain notes, as if he were emoting rather than singing. Roger found it painfully fascinating. David nearly sat down on top of Roger’s legs, he begrudgingly moved them just in time.

“We have a record out, then?”

Roger rolled his eyes and flicked David’s arm. “Twit.”

“Hey that hurts,” David protested, and flicked him back in response.

Roger was unsuccessful in dodging the attack. “Figured that out on your own, did you?”

They stared at one another, each suddenly aroused by the teasing, a thunderous pulse of blood in their ears. Roger cleared his throat and looked away.

“Well, people seem to buying our record, any road,” David noted.

“They were,” Roger countered, “till now.”

“Well Christ, it’s the Beatles, innit? Bigger than Jesus, ‘cept now they’ll be four records instead of one.”

“And no one’s playing anything of Lennon’s, no, just that bloody hallelujah rubbish.”

“I’ve heard Peel spin a track or two. But why is this such a bee in your bonnet? Save the fact that you enjoy having something to complain about.”

Roger grabbed his glass off the bedside table and drained the contents.

“Oh yes David, you’ve got me sussed all right. Rog the eternally bitchy.”

David began snickering, which turned into full-fledged guffaws. Roger smirked at him, but refused to succumb to the contagion of David’s laughter.

“So did you come alone then?”

Roger frowned, laid back on the pillows and lit a cigarette. “Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“Who bloody knows? Jude’s been upset about something since yesterday but I can’t get her to tell me what. Finally I asked if she was on her monthly and she screamed at me until I left.”

“Roger, certainly you must know by now that is never a good question unless you’re a gynecologist.”

David was awarded with a dry chuckle for his trouble.

Roger looked into his empty glass. “Am I pissed yet?”

“Not quite.”

“Well let’s get working on that then,” he said, handing it to David.

“So I’m Jeeves now, is that it?”

“You’re the host, dear boy,” Roger replied. Even with his eyes closed he managed to bring his cigarette directly to his mouth for a drag. David stared, transfixed. The saucer eyes sprang open, startling him.

“What’re you doin,’ then?”

David reached over and took a cigarette out of the pack. “Getting you a drink.” He practically leapt off the bed, forgetting to light it.

“Don’t you want a –“ Roger called out, but was answered by the slam of the door. He closed his eyes again and tried to think of anything other than what was occupying the whole of his mind at the moment but was as spectacularly unsuccessful as he had been in trying to talk himself out of coming to the party in the first place.

David had to endure three more rounds of small talk before he could even reach the kitchen (though he did manage to get a light), wherein he went straight to the person manning the keg and had him draw two pints. There was a flurry of backslapping then Chris grabbed his shoulders and spun him around.

“Happy Christmas you bugger!” he exclaimed, leaning in and planting a sloppy wet kiss on David’s mouth.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” David cried, pushing back till Chris was arms’ length away. “Did you drink a keg by yerself then, ya tosspot?!”

“Had to try it lad, with all the eavesdropping I’ve done over the tour. Oh I want to kiss David Gilmour! Those heavenly lips!!”

“Shut yer bloody gob!” Then he laughed. “I didn’t ask for this mouth, you know.”

“Oh no, but you’ll bloody well use it when you can, won’t you?” Chris teased, waggling his eyebrows and kissing the air in an exaggerated fashion.

“One must utilize one’s talents when necessary,” David declared, with a sly wink.

“Share the wealth, will ya?” Chris asked, reaching for one of the glasses David had just received.

“You’ve had more than enough, I’m sure. No this is for a raven who’s of a mind to get pissed.”

David took advantage of Chris’ confusion to quickly but carefully return to the bedroom. Roger had seemingly dozed off, luckily he thought to put his cigarette in the ashtray before doing so. The smoke danced in the spotlight of the bedside lamp. David set the glasses down then went to lock the bedroom door. At the sound of sliding metal Roger’s eyes opened.

“Thought you’d settled down for a long winter’s nap,” David quipped.

“Climb off it Gilmour, you’ve cornered me now, haven’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

Roger smiled thinly. “Eh, what am I saying? Haven’t had enough to drink yet.”

David walked over and handed him one of the glasses as Roger struggled to sit up.

“Cheers,” he said then took a long drink.

“Cheers,” David said, picking up the other glass. He sipped rather than guzzled and seated himself on the floor, leaning against the bed and looking up at his bandmate.

“So bloody knackered,” Roger said, running a hand over his face.

“We have three weeks to sleep,” David said, taking another cigarette. Roger handed him a matchbook. “Then we get to start all over again.”

“Our very own Sisyphean labor,” Roger noted archly.

“It beats driving a lorry, I’ll tell you that fucking much,” David informed him.

Roger looked into his glass again and chortled. “How much have you had to drink, Dave?”

David took a drag, considering. He tilted his head back and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke rise towards the ceiling. “As always, never nearly enough.”

“Tell everyone to go home and let’s go on a bender, eh? Serious drinking.”

David leaned over and looked at Roger’s watch. “Give it a bit, hmm? Someone’s bound to come complaining ‘bout the noise then I can clear everyone off.”

In the other room someone had changed the record to Christine Perfect’s solo disc.

“Ah, this crap!” Roger exclaimed, slouching down.

“And this isn’t so bad either – she’s got a nice bluesy sort of voice,” David chided.

“She’s no Joni Mitchell.”

“Well we couldn’t have more than one, could we?”

The patented Roger Waters withering glance came in answer. David stuck his tongue out in response.

“You’re positively obscene when you do that,” Roger said, a sort of curious envy in his expression.

“How so?”

“Oh you’re well aware of how so. Your ego is healthy enough, I think.”

“Why is everyone compelled to comment on my mouth this evening?” David asked rhetorically. He was afraid to look at Roger because what he wanted to see might not be there.

“It’s like trying to ignore an elephant driving a Mini. Can’t be done.”

The analogy made David laugh and Roger smiled as well.

“I can think of more obscene gestures.”

“Such as?”

David turned to face Roger and stuck out his tip of his tongue, then slowly ran it across his lips, first the top then the bottom. As he closed his mouth again he pursed his lips with a kissing motion. He noticed with an internal satisfaction that Roger’s mouth was slightly agape. Once Roger came back to himself he took a quick drag on his cigarette, his lovely wide eyes cast downward at his hands.

“See?” David asked, smirking.

Roger’s face was obscured by smoke, as if a fog had suddenly entered the room. “Yes, you’re a legendary beauty, shall I compose an epic poem to that effect?”

“That would be lovely.” This was followed by the equally legendary smile. Roger had that dazed look again.

The floor seemed to suddenly shake, startling them both. They could hear a heavy rhythm coming through the wall, someone had brought the Sly & the Family Stone Greatest Hits record. David turned away, his heart fluttering like Larry Graham’s rubberband bassline.

“Fancy a dance?” Roger asked sardonically.

“Not nearly hard enough to be a buffoon for that lot.”

“Mmm. You were right, then.”

“About what?”

“I do know better. S’pose I was spoiling for a fight.”

“In your case that’s rather typical.”

“It’s Christmas. You’re supposed to be nice to me.”

“Well,” David turned sideways and put his arms on the mattress, resting his chin upon them, “since you’re composing an epic poem and all I reckon I could be nice.” His smile this time was close-mouthed and sly and Roger thought it was more captivating than any other at that moment.

As David predicted the bobbies came to call after midnight, and the host made his apologies, sending everyone out into the cold.

“Where’s Rog?” Nick asked him, slightly slurred. Lindy was propping him up, looking tired but smilingly indulgent.

“Passed out. I thought I should ring Jude, but –“

“She’s at her mother’s so there’s no need,” Lindy cut in. “I dunno if she’d make Rog spend Christmas alone, but she sounded positively frosty when she phoned. We were all s’posed to ride in together.”

“Well I’ll put him up. My sister is expecting me tomorrow, but not till later.”

“Happy Christmas, Dave!” Nick said, swinging his wife towards the door. She rolled her eyes, but gave David a smile as they departed.

“Same to you all.” He had been saying that in response for about half an hour now, and finally everyone was gone, his apartment still smoky but silent. The wives and girlfriends had done a fair job of cleaning up, he was thankful for that. David made a mental note to send them all flowers for New Year’s. He walked into the kitchen, looking around at the countertops. There was a motley collection of bottles lined up, none of them full, but some of them were at least half full. He was tempted to have another drink but thought better of it. If something were to happen, he didn’t desire it to be the result of drunken fumbling. He knew both of them were aware of coming ever closer to the moment of truth, although the specific truth was likely a matter of interpretation.

David would say it was I have loved rarely, been infatuated frequently. But what I feel for him is something containing both and yet he infuriates me on a daily basis. How does one live with that?

The answer was that one put up with whatever one felt was necessary in order to achieve the larger goal. And David did want to be known, to finally be a part of something; but the past three years had been so confusing and anxious. He was decidedly not in charge, and there were times when he felt the other three shut him out, their bond not absolute, but tenuous as a result of time and trial. They all appreciated that he played well, sang well, looked good and was, apparently, not a loon. But he felt that his potentiality was in limbo somewhere, as they all dithered about, feeling guilty and lost, knowing what the Floyd had been but not what it was to be.

The specific guilt caused by the problem of Syd, it had weighed on them all: Rick was still upset because his one ally was now gone. Nick was upset to see such a nice chap seemingly ruin himself with drugs, Roger was angry and heartbroken for a variety of reasons, some of them unclear, some of them patently obvious. His ambition had begun to overshadow both his admiration and his empathy.

David knew what it was to have enemies, but to make an enemy of a best mate, of a man it could be said he did love, once upon a time, this was beyond distressing. It was depressing, in point of fact. David found himself dreaming about Syd reclaiming his place…or sabotaging him somehow; and daydreaming about making things right, however that came to be. To see Syd himself well again, smiling in his elfin way, writing songs which were playful and intricate and enthralling. Because David was well aware that he’d never match Syd’s level of effortless creativity and inventiveness, even if he did feel he was a better musician. He thought back to the spring, to what Syd had become, and his eyes watered. He pressed his forehead to the cold glass of a window and whispered to himself.

It’s just you and me, Rog. We’re the ones who could make it work. But can we?

An unguarded answer was required of the Raven. He selected a few bottles of booze and returned to the bedroom, this time leaving the door wide open…to possibility and anything else which might venture within.

His Raven had his eyes closed again, the proboscis which was the subject of much lampoonery giving out a cutting snort every so often. David laid the bottles upon the bed and sat down next to his sleeping guest.

“Rog,” he murmured, nudging the other gently. No response. A mischievous thought came to him and he pinched Roger’s nose shut for a few seconds which caused Roger to snort loudly and awake immediately.

“What the bloody fuck –“

“You’re the Guest of Honour now. No snoozing.”

“Ah, and you knew I was thirsty.”

Roger selected a bottle seemingly at random and removed the cap, then took a long drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing as David stared at him, tempted by his flesh and his proximity.

“Steady on,” David chided, “this is all the drink I have. You swill it too quick and then we’ve nothing to do.”

Roger lowered the bottle and gave his host a mocking look, one eyebrow crooked.

“Nothing? One wonders.”

“Does one?”

“’Bout a great many things,” his bandmate responded, but his next swallow was much more conservative. Roger passed the bottle to David who looked at the label.

“Gin, ugh. Can’t drink that straight.”

“What kind of man can’t take a slug of gin, hmm?”

“You watch too many war flicks, lad.”

“S’when men were men, except for those which were cannon fodder.”

David kept his mouth shut though his brain entreated please, not your dead father again, dear Georgie. But then he thought of something which would not offend.

“What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?” he recited.

Roger made a kind of affirmative sigh. “Least you’re not quoting Hodgson at me.”

“S’the only one I can remember from grammar school.”

“Wot? The only poem?”

David laughed. “Of course not, twit, just the only one ‘bout war.”

“Hmm.” Roger lapsed into silence, took the bottle back from David.

David placed the rest of the bottles upon the bedside table, and removed the telephone receiver from its’ cradle, placing it into the drawer. He saw something else there that he hoped to use later, which made his smirk. The bottle of Jack Daniels was nearly empty, so he kindly killed it with one swallow. The ambient temperature of the room was such that it did not seem to burn going down, and he got up to fiddle with the radiator.

“Jude says too much heat isn’t good for you.”

And apparently she would know, David responded silently, but then thought it unfair, perhaps, as it was slight reflexive jealousy. He wasn’t sure if he thought Roger was supremely wise or thoroughly insecure for marrying when he did, before they had reached the cusp of their ambition. He suspected it had something to do with Syd, grasping at any straw of his former life which still provided comfort as he watched an admired and beloved figure fall victim to what he believed was madness.

But David thought it was more like heartbreak.

“Well I’d like a little less chill without having to drink meself into a stupor.”

“That’s the goal.”

“As you wish. But I’ll settle for what I feel right now.”

“And that is?”

David turned to him with the smile he knew could make Roger fidget. “Cheery.”

Sure enough, Roger’s pale face colored and the Adam’s apple bobbed again as his lush lips parted and his eyes blinked rapidly. David recalled, when they appeared on Forum Musiques, that Roger seemed loathe to take his eyes off him, even as he kept smiling out of nervousness rather than manipulative bonhomie. David had even pointed to Roger as the one to be interviewed, but the host knew he was conversant and therefore was more interested in national pride (Speak to a guest in English? C’est incroyable!) And David had wondered, that day and in the days which followed, what exactly it was which caused such a reaction, as if Roger were hypnotized. It began to dawn on him that his desire might be equally mirrored in the man who stood across from him so many nights as they attempted to find a path which did not feel like running in place or going in circles. Who sat next to him in the van or on the plane or the train as they traveled from place to place and it all blurred together into one place, which was not home. Who sat at tables with him and drank – as they drank now – and pontificated, elucidated, opinionated –

proud and pithy and oh so pretty

- and Roger was now inside him, somehow, as Syd had once been.

It’s just you and me now.

David pulled up Roger’s jumper and the shirt underneath, exposing smooth white skin.

“What are you -“ Roger mumbled, but he grinned wide, seemingly amused.

“You’re drunk,” David replied, moving up the garment inch by teasing inch.

“Not as much as you’d hope, I’m sure.”

“But enough to stay.”

“Mmm.”

“So let’s get you tucked in, me boy.”

“I think I’d rather keep me clothes on, it’s bloody freezing in here.”

“Warm under the covers, and soft. Can’t feel it unless you’re bare.”

“S’all trickery, Gilmour, I know.”

“I’m tryin’ to be a good host, me boy. C’mon now, I promise you’ll be ever so cozy.”

Roger allowed David to undress him above the waist. When David’s hand moved to the button of his waistband he stopped, even as he felt burned by the touch of David’s hand under his own.

“I’ll do it,” he mumbled.

David moved off the bed to turn down the duvet and the other coverings. Roger had turned his back but removed everything save his skivvies, even his socks, then folded into the envelope of the bed, shivering. David turned out the light on his side of the room, and the night glowed frigid and blue at the window. He handed Roger another bottle, this time it was brandy.

“Ah, this will ward off the cold,” Roger said with enthusiasm.

“Or send you off once and for all.”

“Either way I’ll be warm,” his guest muttered, and took a drink. “But you really should have a cask ‘round your neck if you’re going to be saving chaps from frostbite.”

“Piss off, prat,” David protested with a chuckle, taking the bottle back. “I’m much more attractive than a Saint-Bernard.”

“Oh yes, your reputation precedes you, of course.” And David saw the resentment of his own powers of attraction, Roger’s specific need to dominate the situation and knowing there were situations in which he could not. How could one seemingly be desirous and disconsolate? David knew the specific currency of his self, knew how much it was worth and how much people were willing to pay, in whatever coin, for his regard. But Roger had overturned all the precedents, had willfully ignored all the rules, and David had never wanted anyone quite so badly. . .even as he knew it was folly, for so many reasons.

David could hear the ticking of a clock somewhere. Perhaps it was Roger’s watch. Roger lay beside him with eyes closed but David knew he was still awake. His fingers tapped the mattress in an off-kilter rhythm.

“So then lad, tell Father Christmas what you’ve been wishing for.”

Roger opened his eyes and lowered his voice to a reverent whisper.

“I want a beautiful boy who sings like an angel and plays guitar twice as good. Who has a smile bright as a sunrise and eyes like an unclouded sky.”

“Hmm, sounds like a tall order,” David said, tracing the bones of Roger’s torso with a calloused finger.

“He exists,” Roger murmured, apparently content to be touched in such a manner. “I see him every day.”

“What, in a shop window?”

Roger chuckled. “If that were the case I wouldn’t be asking you then, would I?”

”I dunno, he might be awfully dear.”

“He does look it.”

“Does he?”

“Yeah. Incredibly posh.”

“Perhaps a bit too fancy then.”

“More like –“ Roger paused, running his fingertips along the back of David’s stroking hand. “ – perfectly made.”

It was all David could do not to lean down and kiss Roger right there and then. They had experienced a few drunken near-misses in past months, but every time the moment was at hand Roger would suddenly turn demure, though his eyes seemed to tell David’s that he wanted to kiss him, but numerous considerations of consequence prevented him from making the decision.

“And what does Father Christmas want?”

David swallowed heavily, eyes fluttering. He let the words tumble forth without thinking, he wasn’t sure if he could actually say them otherwise.

“I want a raven. Tall and angular and clad in black, with lovely shiny feathers and long talons. I want him to come when I call and sit on my shoulder, so I can pet him and feed him treats.”

“What sort of treats?”

Roger’s eyes were still closed, so David lowered himself as carefully as he could, pulling his hair back behind his head and put his mouth against Roger’s. Almost immediately at the touch of the other’s lips Roger’s mouth opened and began sucking on them gently. David pulled away only to press down again, this time flicking his tongue into Roger’s mouth. Roger likewise responded and they began kissing deeply, months of sublimated passion finally spilling out, threatening to drown them in kind. Roger grabbed the back of David’s neck and pulled him down on top of him, and although he felt as though he were being crushed his grip did not falter.

David put his hands into that dark shiny hair, holding Roger’s face in position, and kissed the breath out of him, deeply, their mouths absolutely fused, the ache of bones as they ground against other bones, noses butting, cheekbones cutting, chins jutting. All bumping and banging and the two pulled at one’s another’s hair and tried to occupy the same space at the same time, physics be damned.

The voice within Roger’s mind had dissolved into a litany of beautifuldave from the earlier stopityourefuckinlooney with which he had been chiding himself for so long, as months passed and he found himself falling into the gravitational pull of his bandmate, falling into a resigned suspicion that it would come to precisely this, even as his sense argued it was all madness; one could not keep something so fiery, fiercely passionate at a discreet remove. Surely if they became lovers – christ, what a ridiculous term for this – everyone would know, they wouldn’t be able to hide their feelings. If they went so far as to kiss and touch and cling and merge and meld and...oh god I want you so fucking much…melt, ah…they wouldn’t be able to stop smiling for days. Years, perhaps.

Because Roger knew with instinct and intellect that they desired one another, had been desirous of one another for at least a year, likely longer. Roger had always been stunned by David’s beauteous grace and he found David looking at him when the other thought he wasn’t paying attention…or knew very well that he was.

The circling of prey, the covetous glance of avarice, the smolder of repressed lust - it was all there between them - heavy and hot and taunt.

David, for his own part, was giddy with a bubbling wantyouwantyouwantyou, and although the taste of their mouths was each sour in turn he was reminded of Marbella: of sweet wine and beautiful bodies and heat and the joy of just rutting blind, collapsing breathlessly as sweat stung and muscles ached. He shifted onto his side and pulled Roger to him, his hands wandering over long limbs, feeling the tracery of veins beneath the fair skin, skin which he began to taste and feel and acquaint himself with ever so intimately. At a remove he could admire his Raven’s height and carriage, the lanky ease he had developed within the past two years, even as he still had a tendency to be far too effusive during gigs, carried away by their collective vehicle, soaring towards the sky.

Even as frostily pragmatic as Roger could be, he had a touch of whimsy to him. He enjoyed a certain brooding space in songs – even as he derided it as noodling in the same breath – saw himself as dramatic somehow. And David wanted to encourage that quality when appropriate. He tugged at the hair framing the beauty of his angular face and began speaking in the breaths between.

“You’ve been a good boy, methinks.”

A throaty response came forth, equally hushed.

“You may learn just how good.”

“Show me, and I’ll show you what you’ve been missing by teasing me all this time.”

Roger turned brazen somehow - and David wasn’t sure whether to attribute it to the drink, the hour, the fact that it was now Christmas, or the revelation of their mutual desire – but he was suddenly pinned down by his bandmate as long-fingered hands sought to touch him everywhere and David shivered despite body heat and bedclothes as Roger left his secretive fingerprints upon David’s pale skin. This action was followed by an equal seduction of Roger’s mouth questing along the same paths as David’s hands encouraged him by stroking his cock. Roger rose to deliver another round of breathless kisses as they smiled into one another’s mouths.

“You think I teased you?”

“I think you positively tortured me at times, knowing how I loved to look at you, be near you.”

“I found your regard to be altogether subtle.”

“Bollocks! You knew I wanted you, could feel my eyes on you all the time.”

“I knew nothing of the sort!”

David laughed, turning his nascent lover onto his back, nipping at his neck and chin.

“Y’know now, hmm? Know I want you and everything else can hang?”

“It won’t, y’know. It’s already in motion.”

“This as well. No stopping it.”

“Didn’t say I wanted to.”

“You can’t, it’s not allowed.”

“So sayeth His Nibs,” Roger intoned, reaching for the bottle of brandy.

“My kingdom, to be sure.”

“Ah tis so fine, sire!” Roger proclaimed sardonically, putting on a Pythonesque inflection.

“I liked you better when your mouth was otherwise occupied.”

Roger grimaced, passing a hand over his face. David could recall its’ touch in an instant.

“Be sweet, Dave.”

The request was barely a whisper, and Roger had suddenly turned morose, akin to a lone thunderhead moving across an otherwise clear sky. The change disturbed his partner and David ran a thumb along a knife-sharp cheekbone.

“Been trying, Rog. I get underneath and then you’re gone.”

A sigh heavier than the specific gravity of what they contemplated, an act which could not be rescinded once performed, because it would remain between them no matter the actual outcome.

What are you saying? You can’t be saying what I think you’re saying. I can’t even think of what it might be because it’s fucking insane is what it is.

“Try again.”

David leaned in and kissed Roger again, but soft, despite the rough skin on their lips. His tongue tasted salt and sour and an aching intimacy as he licked Roger’s lips and Roger opened his mouth to swallow the bait. Their bones felt unyielding and yet they ground them together once more, their similar forms held off consummation as if it were impossible but they persisted: their hands grasping and their torsos rubbing. Fingers stroked and pinched and probed and there was no more talk for a time, only breathy grunts of declarative want.

Roger kept his eyes closed, as if he could excuse himself by not facing the event, but David would not allow himself to be insulted by the implication. He moved under the bedclothes and took Roger’s cock into his mouth and then it was done.

There was no going back to an uneasy innuendo-filled alliance now.

Roger’s eyes were still closed but the character of his expression had changed to one of rapturous joy. David knew his lover would be upset if he heard the song which played in his head, but it did. It reminded him from the very first time he heard it of how he felt, and yes, he had to agree…it was a love song.

Hallelujah.

“It’s going to hurt.”

“Which is why it’s only my fingers right now, dear.”

“Just one – ah Christ – I’m not used to that!”

“I know. Relax, hmm? What if I do this too?”

David reached for a familiar appendage and Roger sighed.

“Oh, you know that’s one hell of a gift.”

David found himself smiling, as he ran his lips - even more swollen than usual from kissing and biting - along Roger’s neck.

“What?”

“The things you do to it. No wonder they used to call you –“

“Hush, prat.”

“I think it’s rather a compliment now.”

“I bet you do,” came the reply, the sweetest of whispers as a slick hand worked sensitive skin and muscle and Roger wondered just how many times he could spill in an night oh bloody hell an hour but don’t let him stop. So engaged by that rhythm he didn’t notice a digit had gone deeper, pushing insistent into the center of his reserve, ready to be stripped away by the fingers of someone who only looked like an angel, but who was only a man, albeit a rare amalgam of beauty, ability, and wanton assurance. He looked upon the world and the world looked back eagerly, happy just to return that deep blue gaze with the hope of something more profound to be revealed.

A vague wondering what the hour was flitted on the edges of Roger’s consciousness, his limbs ponderous with satisfaction and titillation as David stroked Roger’s anus with the head of his cock. Surprise at how the nerves were bundled there, just the slightest touch had made him gasp but now this slow persistent rhythm was delicious torture. He found himself wanting to stretch, just as David said he would.

But he didn’t want to dwell on how the other possessed that knowledge. It wasn’t a matter of morality, only that the thought of someone else in this position, being teased and taunted, was almost too much to bear. A sudden specific possessiveness assailed him. Roger saw himself as making a specific claim on David, not merely for the sake of the band (the guiding force of all their decisions) but because he did worry that one day he would find that David’s attention had waned because he wasn’t brave enough to hold it.

The more pressing and stroking the more Roger felt himself melting, the warmth of the bed now like a hothouse, his arse opening like a bloom in that particular heat. A distinct bit of pressure and he let out a lustful groan.

“Mmm,” David murmured. “I told you, didn’t I?”

“More,” Roger said, but not willfully insistent, rather pleading in his most pretty fashion.

And David gave him more: sticky fingers followed by that knob of beautiful muscle dividing so much more than just his arse.

Now, he was himself…and he was David’s creature: dissolving at the touch of that mouth he had watched drink and eat and speak and sing, those hands which expressed the passion the possessor was often loathe to show, stroking his skin as deftly as they played a guitar, and now, entering him, the lightning rod of his emotions and even his very soul.

The morning was cold and bright, even as the snow was not nearly as pretty as one would assume, brown slush in the gutters. David attempted to merely smile rather than smirk while he watched Roger sleep, wondering if the way he had whinged at being bereft of David’s warmth before succumbing to unconsciousness again was his way of saying that he had no regrets.

But that was silly, wasn’t it? Because there were always regrets. Some of them did not appear until later, was all.

David finally got up to make tea, letting Roger sleep, as the hangover was likely to be wicked, even as he wondered whether what they’d done had sobered him up. At least enough for him to know what they did. It only seemed like sex, but in the ongoing impasse which was their relationship it was the most startling of revelations.

But it was likely to change little in the long term, because affection did not change one’s character after all, it merely reminded a person to attempt to change.

As the kettle was on the boil David hunted around for his headphones, finding them at the bottom of the hall closet. He wanted to hear that song again, over and over, understanding now the need for ecstatic affirmation.

Really wanna know you
really wanna go with you
really wanna show you lord but it won’t take long, my lord.

David sensed movement on the edge of his vision and saw Roger, bare-chested with trousers merely pulled on to that precious pale skin giving him a look of sleepy annoyance. He moved the cans off his ears.

“Dave, that kettle’s whistling like it’s going to explode!”

Hallelujah.
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my sweet