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Under The Ivy	By : luna65 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 642 -:- 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-Under The Ivy
- 1
“Who on Earth would have scheduled us to make an appearance on bloody Boxing Day?”

A question without an obvious answer, as none in the Pink Floyd traveling party had a response, save that they were indeed scheduled to appear on Beat Club which required a trip to Breman. Roger, outrageously hungover, had slept the entire way: in the car, on the boat, on the train, in the taxi. Upon reaching the television studio he had made the impervious inquiry, and he was currently a lanky mess of a man with throbbing head, bloodshot eyes and sallow complexion. David smirked at the sight, as he had wisely avoided excess the previous night...Christmas or no. He watched Roger gulp water with a miserable expression, leaning against a makeup table as the two had claimed a dressing room and locked the door against intrusion.

“Y’look a fright, Rog,” David teased, whispering to his lover. Roger grimaced and turned his head away.

“Too bad you weren’t there, could’ve had your way.”

“I’ve been having my way all year, darling.”

“And become insufferably smug because of it.”

“Didn’t like my present, then? Didn’t take a drink for me?”

“Oh I certainly did. It was the thinking ‘bout why I took a drink for you that did me in. Because I had to take another one after that.”

“And then a few more, hmm?”

“How many aspirin can one reasonably take, y’think, without killing oneself?”

“How many have you had?”

“I lost count.”

“Then you’ve likely done all you can do.” David stepped back and looked at his partner. He knew Roger had bathed and shaved and his normal stage attire was clean, but he gave off a vague stench of anxiety and agony. “Ouzo is not something merely to quaff, y’know. But take heart, it’s only Boxing Day, and you hate Boxing Day.”

“I’ve nothing to give anyone, since it was all done last night.”

“A stickler for tradition, eh? One would have never suspected.”

“Keep mocking me and I’ll slap that smirk right off you.”

David looked around the room they had been assigned, festive with Christmas decorations. A bower of holly and ivy hung across the top of the doorway which led to the back hallway where the lavatories were located. He eyed the plants and with satisfaction saw a particular one nestled within the others, a visual metaphor for their own relationship: entwined within the greater circumstance of their artistic alliance and their avaricious enterprise was a desire all its’ own: a secret flowering sticky with rapacity.

“I brooded all evening because of you.” Roger’s tone was sulky and accusatory, and David knew it wasn’t just the hangover talking.

“And y’think I wasn’t doing the same?”

“You don’t brood, you moon, and that’s entirely different. Silly daydreams.”

“All about you, lying brown on a beach in Crete. I can still taste your salty skin.”

“Hush, prat.”

“Only one way to shut me up, lover.”

“That is where you err, thinking I’d be kind.”

“And when you were, did you lie?”

The nights were hot, they melted into the bed as the air pressed down upon them, heavy as their own limbs wound around one another. Kisses liquid as the liquor they shared, passing it between their mouths, across their tongues, tirelessly lustful in their solitude.
“I’m convinced no one kisses like you,” Roger confessed, hoarse and fervent, leaning in to suck upon the other’s neck. “You likely taught the whores, not the other way ‘round.”
David chuckled with more breath than sound. “I have a talent for ensnaring you.”
“It’s not just a trap,” Roger said, in a moment of candor David wasn’t quite sure how to classify. “It’s as if I can’t imagine what it was like before I kissed you. Surely I can remember?”
“Do you want to remember?” A drink, a kiss, deep and wet.
“No. Only now. And now I want you.”
“Kiss me, then. Kiss me and I’ll do whatever you like. I’ll even let you break me, if you want.”
Roger frowned, recalling how David had stoically suffered through their previous attempt. He had to accept he was too well-made to take charge, as he had felt sharp guilt at the drawn pale face of his lover in the aftermath.
“Much too voracious for you, lover. Greedy for your thrust.”
“And you’ll have it, strumpet.”
Their tongues were eager to know one another once more, with murmurs of satisfaction.
They were wanton in July, in the embrace of their secret holiday, four days of absolute passion under the Cretan sun. When he thought back to that particular night Roger was vaguely embarrassed at the memory of hanging from one of the windows of their rented house, longing for the faintest breath of a breeze, as David held him from behind. pumping with a steady rhythm. Despite the sting of sweat and the near-misery of being overheated Roger was hot, holding his own arse open so David could plunder him, drive home the literal point that he was everything Roger would ever truly desire – not only the most skilled and playful of lovers, but an imaginative spur in their mutual quest to go as far as they could, whatever that might entail.
Although it was dark and mostly deserted in their immediate environs, Roger had no concern for whomever might see them, because he was quite literally incensed: only the velvet rasp of David’s cock within him, the weight of his hips as they hit Roger’s arse, the tension of David’s fingers squeezing his hipbones, the quickening labored breaths as Roger bit his lips, then pressed them together against the sounds he was making quite independent of his desire to be discreet…he realized he had lost the sense of propriety which governed the more sane moments of his existence.
I love you, beautiful boy. You will make me suffer because that is my way, to anguish over every instance, but right now you’re all I know and I’ll do anything to make you swear the same.
Now, and now, and nownownownownowNOW.
Roger’s cry startled the seagulls - a mad squawking - and David’s laughter was the sweetest sound.

“No, I didn’t lie when I said you were my only lover. That no matter who else might touch me you were the only one who knew me.”

“I thought of that very thing, with our mutual taste down my throat.”

So-called because David and Roger had given each other the exact same gift, a remembrance they both longed to recreate from the very moment they departed their brief idyll. The thought kept them warm through a secretive winter and the stresses of attempting success.

“And what did you wish was in your gullet instead, hmm?”

“That’s another rhetorical question, surely. Look,” David said, wanting to derail any maudlin tangent. “What do you see up there?”

“Greenery. What of it?” Roger sighed and took another drink of water.

“Not just greenery. There’s mistletoe in there.”

Roger rolled his eyes. “Stupid. Mistletoe is a parasite, y’know.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“On BBC Two, there was a program yesterday ‘bout Christmas.”

“I must have missed that part. But did you see the bit where the narrator said it was our tradition?”

“What?”

“To kiss under the mistletoe. It’s wholly English.”

“Oh aren’t we clever. ‘Sides, I don’t see any in there, just the holly.”

“Open your eyes, me boy, the white berries – see them? Like drops of spunk they are.”

“Oh you ruddy pervert!” Roger exclaimed, his mouth comically agape.

“It’s true. That’s why they kiss.”

“That is not the custom, the narrator said it was merely to ensure everyone should be of good cheer.”

“So you did see it. I knew I’d catch you out.”

“Do shut up, Dave.”

“Have you not been listening? The very solution to your problem is right above your bloody head.”

“You are a tenacious problem, David Gilmour. I fear mistletoe is hardly the solution.”

“You want to give me something for Boxing Day, sweetheart, this is it. Cleave to tradition and kiss me. Kiss me, because there is nothing I want more than your mouth on mine, your arms around me, your hands in my hair –“

“Spare me the litany of romance!”

“Then shut me up, Rog. Stop my teasing the way you know best.”

“You’ll only start again once we’ve stopped.”

“No, I promise to be good. I’ll purr like your Queenie when you scratch her chin.”

The smile which only David possessed dawned and Roger groaned inside. That damnable smile, he could not resist its’ light, its’ warmth, its’ beauty and the promise it contained of pleasures merely dreamt of before he met the man who bore it. How he ached in opposing directions, wanting concurrently to jump in the fire and piss upon it. Wanting to be held in that thick-fingered hand and wanting to cut it off.

Master of my fate…it is to laugh. He smiles and I’m ready to follow him off the fucking cliff. Who cares if we’re killed, we’ll be together.

“You sodding prat,” Roger hissed, hands in David’s hair, shoving him under the doorway in question. And so under the ivy, tangled much the same, they kissed hungry and hot and profound, growing together in desire and in dependency.

“Did you have a Happy Christmas, lover?” David asked, his whisper thoroughly seductive and Roger wondered how he could hide his stiffening prick from the dressing room to the studio, where he could then camouflage it with his beloved Fender.

“Only thing that would have made me happy was you deep in me. So I drank instead.”

“Poor Georgie, I’ll set you right when we’re done with our contractual obligation.”

“So prideful you are, as if you’ve the cure for everything.”

“It’s the cure for most everything, lover. Now be a good son of Albion and kiss me under the mistletoe.”

They were gentle then, with genuine affection, as if it were all simple sweetness instead of bittersweet subterfuge. Chris came a-knocking, rattling the doorknob, and they ignored him for a time, giving each other the only gift they could: the most cloistered parts of their souls, unused to the act of sacrifice but willing to take the risk.

When they parted they were ready to be Roger and David, though they each saw themselves as a singular entity, meant for greatness. And whatever the cost it was the only gift which mattered…as they composed themselves with the reserved façade a good son of Albion wore as his armor against all…even the regard of those who loved him.

Under the ivy, the self was ever hiding.
- 1
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Under The Ivy