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Any Fool Knows	By : luna65 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 858 -:- 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-one
- 2-two
- 3-three
- 1
- 2
Just before it was time to go – taking the long walk from the dressing room area to the stage - the veritable army of musicians who made up Roger Waters’ touring band would allow their pre-show jitters to be manifested in different ways. Some joked, some might bounce up and down or shake their extremities as if trying to shrug off the tension. Others became absolutely silent and serious.

Snowy was never nervous, in fact, he could only recall one night in which he had been absolutely terrified to take the stage. It was the Spring of ’77 and the Floyd was playing for tens of thousands of people on a humid night in Miami. The audience was so loud the floor was shaking as he strapped on the Fender Precision and followed Phil up the stairs. The stadium lights had been turned out but he could sense the literal weight of the crowd, as well as spy hundreds of points of light as he looked out. He would be alone for a time; when he started the riff for “Sheep” it was the band’s cue to come out, and he usually had to vamp for at least five minutes before everyone was in their place ready to begin. He waited in the wings for Phil’s signal, and started at a pair of hands grabbing his shoulders.

“Who is this, that plucks my rose?”

He was trembling, but also intensely aroused by the feel of the other’s hands, his breath in Snowy’s ear, and the faint tickle of his beard.

“Snow White.”

“Ah, the fairest of them all.”

Phil was waving him forward, and Snowy stepped out onto the stage, courage in his mentor’s blessing.

1976
Britannia Row was rather a dour-looking place, Terence White (known to one and all as “Snowy”) thought to himself. Islington was all urban, rows upon rows of houses and shops along the orderly streets, perhaps a tree here and there, but primarily grimy stone structures. Not that most of London was any better, but this neighborhood had the feel of being hemmed-in, insular. That impression would only be strengthened once he stepped inside the building. It wasn’t dark so much as rather grim. Only the lounge, on the third floor, had any real light at all, with windowed walls looking out over another cloudy day.

He’d known for a while he was on a short list for anyone needing an axe for hire, merely because Greenie had given him the nod. Despite the consensus that Peter Green was a right nutter, his approval still possessed a certain mystique among other English musicians. So when his neighbor Hilary insisted he call Steve O’Rourke about a job with Pink Floyd, instead of feeling giddy hysteria he was rather puzzled. Didn’t they know he wasn’t really familiar with their music at all? But David Gilmour apparently wanted a blues player to back him up, and that was one territory Snowy knew as well as any other. And they likely paid better than what he was currently scrounging to get as a session player. His own band was in limbo as far as their album was concerned, and hadn’t been able to get many gigs, forcing him to look for other work.

“Say, how’d you find me, anyway?” he asked their manager.

“Hilary told Dave you’d be a good one for the gig. So you’ll go down to Brit Row then?”

“Certainly.”

So here he was, and he had been waiting in the lounge a very long time. Thinking they’d forgotten him Snowy came back downstairs and found his way into the studio, led by the sound of angry voices.

“Fuckin’ hell, you better not have lost that, you bastard!” This from the mouth of David Gilmour. All Snowy had for reference were the pictures of the Floyd from the albums he’d hastily bought in the wake of Steve’s call. But this version was heavily-bearded and somewhat stout.

The guy at the console looked confused, but unafraid. Snowy couldn’t quite see his face.

“Can’t blame it on me this time,” another guy said on the other side of the room. “Wasn’t even over there.”

“No Griff, because you wouldn’t help me I likely fucked it up,” Roger Waters declared, turning around in his chair. He was easy to spot, tall and rather insect-like, his cadence in speech much like that in song.

Oh Christ, this was a lovely time to visit, wasn’t it?

Roger looked over at their visitor with a sneer. “Who the hell are you?”

“Snowy – Arthur let me in. Steve said you wanted to talk to me about playing on the tour?”

“Ah, they did find you,” David remarked. “Hang on then, right?”

Snowy took a seat on the couch at the back of the control room, watching as David hovered over Roger and another fellow, who was revealed to be the drummer. The tape was played back several times, it seemed a nice enough backing track.

“Where is it?!” David demanded.

“It’s gone,” Nick answered. “But I could have sworn you said that would dupe it, Roger, not erase it!”

David gave them both a look of equal parts exasperation and contempt.

“C’mon,” David said to Snowy, “we’ll have a chat.”

“But what about –“ Roger began.

“I’ll just have to fucking play it again, won’t I? But not right now,” David replied, walking swiftly out of the room. Snowy jumped up to follow him and from behind he could hear another tirade, as Roger seemed to take out his frustration regarding his own ineptitude on everyone else in the room.

“Tea?” David offered, as they entered an office across the hallway.

“Oh, no thanks.”

David gestured to a nearby chair and sat behind the desk, rubbing his hands over his face.

“If it’s a bad time –“

“Oh no, s’alright. I was rather fond of that solo and now I have to do it over again and I never quite play the same thing twice.”

Snowy made what he thought was a sympathetic noise, not really knowing what to say. Normally he might say something like oi that’s a pisser, but he didn’t know Gilmour well enough to say something off the cuff, after all. And if the guy was going to be his boss, then that was another reason to play it close to the vest.

“Right then. The record’s going along and we’re touring again in the new year, for six months. It’s been a while, and we’ll be playing stadiums. I want someone to back me up. Actually, both Roger and I, some of the songs he didn’t play bass on at all, so we might as well keep it that way.”

“I have to tell you, I’ve never played any Floyd songs.”

“They’re easy enough to learn. D’ya want the job then?”

“Absolutely, but, couldn’t we have a play, just to make sure I can follow you well enough?”

“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t know what you were doing, right?”

“Yes, I s’pose you’re right.” Though Snowy was starting to feel anything but sure, this was the strangest audition he’d ever been to.

“That’s fine then. Hilary said you were good, and that’s all I need to know. We’re starting rehearsals in November, so you’ll get a call from someone at the office letting you know when and where, alright?”

“Of course.”

And that, seemingly, was that, David rising out of his chair with a faint smile. It was then that Snowy noticed his eyes. He couldn’t recall whether he’d seen a color photograph of the group but heard himself gasp faintly when he looked into those blue orbs.

Wow.

Snowy didn’t usually notice such things, as he could recall. He noticed when certain people stared at him, if they had a particular intensity, but details like facial features didn’t normally register. He did notice hands. And David had interesting hands, his fingers were long but they were also thick. Snowy imagined that’s why he used a lot of sustain – his fingers looked as though they could bend a note very easily.

“Well I’ve got to get back to it,” David said, holding out his hand. Snowy pressed his palm to David’s, felt the weight of his fingers and couldn’t stop staring at those eyes. But eventually David turned away and Snowy followed him out of the room. As they stood in the corridor, Snowy awkwardly inching towards the door of the control room, David stared at him again and smiled warmly this time, as if he knew he were the cause.

“Say there,” Roger broke in, popping his head through the doorway, “since you’ve come you might as well play something.”

Snowy started, not realizing he’d fallen in a sort of daze courtesy of those eyes. He had been trying to think of what color blue they were. Not just any blue, but a particular shade. “Oh, certainly. My guitar’s in there,” he said, pointing behind Roger.

They went inside, and David told Phil to help Snowy get set up. Once he was settled in the live room, they played Roger’s acoustic ballad, which they called “Pigs” and told him to solo for about twelve bars or so. It was a very simple melody to follow, and he responded with something he thought was fitting; since there were references to the sky, he hoped it had a kind of “soaring” quality to it. He played in a sort of emotive style, which he knew David did as well, with the appreciation of the crash course he’d given himself in their music.

“That’s all right then,” David told him once he had finished.

Snowy nodded and unplugged himself, putting Goldtop back in her case. After returning to the control room, they all nodded at him approvingly.

“Thanks for that,” Roger said, “well see you, then.”

“Thank you,” he responded, not quite believing it was as easy as all that.

But it was, because as promised Steve called again in November and told Snowy to report back to Brit Row on a particular day to pick up the rehearsal schedule and let Phil know what he would need on the road so the equipment could be procured. It was really happening, he was going on tour with Pink Floyd and wouldn’t his friends freak out if they knew? But he hadn’t told anyone because there were still some people who didn’t believe he was friends with Greenie so why would they believe this? He chuckled to himself as he imagined certain reactions once they played London and would see for themselves.

After the first meeting to discuss the rehearsal schedule David invited Snowy to the local, though they didn’t engage in much of a verbal exchange either during their walk to the pub or once they had placed their order and found a table.

David had a knack for conversation when it was necessary, but wasn’t one to talk just to talk. Roger was far more garrulous in that respect. So they sat there quietly, drinking, and Snowy was perfectly content with the silence.

“Our birthdays are three days apart, did you know that?” David remarked.

“Really? I’d no idea.”

“We’ll have to have a do, won’t we?”

“That’d be something, for sure.”

“Yes it would.” Their eyes met, yet again, and they stared at one another without speaking, the ambient noise in the pub filling in the space.

One of the barmaids brought them their food but they did not rouse from this silent appraisal. A cheer from the other end of the bar as Arsenal scored a goal finally broke the spell.

“You’re a looker, y’know,” David told him. “Dunno why you aren’t in some popular band already.”

“Was it your looks got you in the Floyd?” Snowy asked him, but he thought he already knew the answer.

“At least partly. I mean, Syd was beautiful, y’know? So they had to consider someone who had that sort of appeal. But mostly it was that they knew me. It was all very convenient.”

“Sounds that way.”

“The best things usually are. Convenient, I mean.”

“That’s not what we’re taught.”

“Oh I’ll work when I have to, but I don’t see the need for working too hard for anything.”

David then smiled at Snowy and he wasn’t sure what to make of it, except the suggestiveness of the expression made him think he was being told something very important without it actually being said.

“I do have a band, but we can’t even get our record released.”

“That’s too bad. Maybe this will help.”

Snowy smiled, turning his attention to his meal.

“You’re a cagey one, but that’s alright. I’ll eventually get you sussed.”

Again, that smug smile of assurance, and Snowy was thinking about something he’d encountered more than a few times in all the years he’d spent as a journeyman player, the occasional wink or nudge, was he a go-er for a bit of fun? Even Greenie in his odd moments had grabbed at him, declaring he was too beautiful and the devil had sent him as a torment. It was strange because he himself had never been tempted by anyone. Until now. But he had no idea what these sorts of things were supposed to involve. He’d heard tales, of course, about whom was shagging whom, despite grand reputations and a trail of broken hearts left in the wake of their meteoric rise. But Snowy never really paid attention to the gossip or innuendo, except now it seemed an expectation was being laid in his lap and how would he respond to such a thing?

Those eyes, and that smile, made Snowy warm inside. The kind of feeling he’d rarely had with anyone. His curiosity was like an itch under his skin, and it was maddening. The type of madness which was apt to make one act without considering the consequences.

Rehearsals were workman-like enough, people were mostly on time and the setlist had been decided, only the songs from Wish You Were Here and the new album to learn, with “Money” as the encore. As Snowy had a quick ear for the changes, David was pleased, which was all that truly mattered.

The band didn’t seem to get along so much as attempt to get along, primarily polite, occasionally caustic. For Roger, this extended to anyone around him, as Snowy was soon to learn.

“Where’d you get that silly nickname?” Roger asked him one day. Everyone else froze, waiting to see how Snowy would react, but he displayed his talent for diplomacy.

“I lived in Sweden for a while, played in a band, and the other guys came up with it; I s’pose they thought it was funny, but it made it easier to remember me.”

“Can we call you Terry?” Nick asked him, teasingly.

Snowy stuck his fingers in his ears and made a la-la-la sound.

“Leave the boy alone,” David chided. “It’s not as if he’s the only person we know who goes by another name.” He gave Roger a sardonic look and his bandmate flipped him the bird.

“I want to call you Snow,” David murmured, as the two of them adjusted their settings before the next run-through. “Like the fairy tale.”

“Sure, Dave.”

Then those eyes were telling him other things and he wasn’t sure how he was going to concentrate, but he had to, didn’t he? It was a big deal, this gig, perhaps the most important thing to happen to him since he met Greenie. It was difficult to keep from being overwhelmed, but he had to try. If only David wouldn’t stare so much, as if he could see under his skin somehow. It was unnerving and arousing all at the same time.

The first week had flown by, and David invited Snowy out to Roydon on their day off.

“Y’miss living in the country?” He knew his charge had a pastoral upbringing.

“Not really. Well, I s’pose sometimes it’s nice to have some peace.”

But Snowy’s childhood on the Isle of Wight had been idyllic yet isolated. Being in the city, any city, meant being connected to all the things which were important to him. But David seemed perfectly content living out there, with cats and horses, his wife and daughter, and his weird friend Emo, who had plenty of interesting stories about the Cambridge days. They took a walk around the farm, David showing him the half-dug pit which would later become the pool, the dilapidated barn and stables, and the woods beyond. Snowy followed David along a well-worn dirt path which led down into a hollow - the slope of the hill behind them and trees all around – the mist beginning to encroach upon the property.

David laid down on the grass, and Snowy sat beside him, slightly wincing at the damp surface.

“I love this spot,” David said, putting his hands behind his head. “You can’t really see anything but the trees, little bit of sky.”

“Like a hidey-hole for the fae.”

His companion chuckled, turning onto his side to regard him. “Ah, you were raised by the landed gentry.”

Snowy burst out laughing, falling back onto the ground. “Far from it, man!”

“I thought only the rich told their children fairy stories.”

“My parents weren’t rich, by any means.”

David reached up and ran his fingers through Snowy’s hair. When he thought of the moment later on, he could remember how quiet it was – only faint birdsong – and the air was starting to turn cold. But his eyes met David’s and he couldn’t move, didn’t want to move.

“You’ve a piece of grass in your hair.”

“Thanks.”

They were centimetres away, their exhalations slightly steaming in the dank air. Snowy wondered why he felt as though he had lead in his veins, rooted to the spot, completely fascinated by the curves of David’s face, or why he had his own impulse to brush his fingers against the other’s mouth, trace his eyebrows, his nose, the very bones beneath his skin which appeared so smooth, like fine china.

“It’s cold,” Snowy whispered, and suddenly a warm mouth was on his and he pulled his host on top of him to ward off the chill.

1977
Snowy was surprised to learn that David spoke German. He knew his boss was fluent in French, but it was unusual to hear that distinctive voice adopting the guttural rhythms of the Fatherland. It certainly made things easier when visiting the biergarten, though ordering the local cuisine had never been too much of a problem.

“D’ya know any dirty words?”

“I always know the dirty words, lad. Though I’ve never had to use them here, the girls all speak English too.”

Snowy made sure he didn’t get carried away with the bier though it seemed every time he looked at his glass it was full again. People came and went around the table until the place became fairly quiet, which meant the hour was late, or early, depending upon one’s view. Finally David stood up from his seat, a silly smile across that beautiful mouth.

“Pour me into bed, Snow.”

Snowy grinned, and put a hand on David’s upper arm to guide him.

“Come along, then.”

In the back of the taxi, David slurred the name of the hotel to the driver, who appeared to comprehend and drove on. David rested his head on Snowy’s shoulder.

“You’ve got a shiny smile, y’know that? Like a toothpaste commercial.”

Snowy grinned wide. “Yeah? Maybe I should model like you did.”

“Oh Christ, everybody’s gotta bring that up, don’t they? It wasn’t a fuckin’ career, y’know.”

“Roger said. . .well, never mind what he said.”

“Yes, let’s, shall we? He’s a wanker, any road, and his opinion means less than shit to me at this point.”

Snowy remained silent, expecting another hail of complaints, but instead David sighed and put a hand on his thigh.

“You’re a comfort, lad, and that’s alright, isn’t it?”

“Yes Dave,” Snowy murmured, placing his hand on top of David’s.

Snowy had to rouse him when they reached the hotel, but David returned to giggly mischief in the lift, playing with Snowy’s hair, pressing him up against the mirrored surface of the wall.

“Want to melt you, my pretty,” he whispered, then laughed as if it were truly hilarious and not merely the result of drunken punning.

“Hmm, I think you’re rather a puddle yourself, sir.”

“P’haps I am. . .can you do something to stiffen my resolve?”

The two of them burst out laughing, which drew surprised looks from the couple waiting on the car once it reached the selected floor. They continued to snicker as they exited and made their way down the corridor, weaving slightly.

“Dave, let me lead before you walk into a wall!” Snowy exclaimed.

“I should. I should let you lead instead of that fucking bastard,” David muttered, and Snowy looked around then put his arm across David’s shoulders.

“C’mon boss, let ol’Snow show you the way, alright?”

Show me the way to go home, David began to sing.

“Shhhh!”

I’m tired and I –

Snowy grabbed his shoulders and silenced his boss with a kiss. David kissed him back, his fingers sliding through the flaxen hair.

“Rumplestilskin” he murmured, then kissed Snowy again with an obscene probe of his tongue, relishing the moan his charge let out. “Spun straw into gold. Gold like your beautiful hair.”

“There is none so fair as you, princess,” Snowy teased. “C’mon before we get caught.”

Snowy reached into David’s pocket and extracted the room key as his boss giggled and squirmed, then pushed him down the hall from behind till they reached the correct door. Once inside David collapsed on the bed with a groan.

“Oh my darling, you’re going to take care of me, aren’t you?”

“Yes dear, I promise,” Snowy replied, with an indulgent grin. He carefully undressed his mentor and coaxed him between the sheets.

“Mmm, come to me, warm me up,” David called, holding out his arms.

“One moment,” Snowy said, undressing, “you won’t freeze.”

“I will, I’ll be trapped in the palace of The Ice Queen forever.”

“I’m coming to save you, princess!” The sheets were cold, admittedly, but David’s body was so warm, they entwined around each other instinctively.

“My prince has come,” David whispered, kissing him softly.

“Not just yet,” Snowy quipped.

“God, you’re beautiful. I mean, when you’re right here in front of me, I can really see it.”

Snowy felt himself blushing. He stroked David’s face in response.

“Not as beautiful as you.”

“Even with this?” the other asked, rubbing his chin against his protégé’s. “I rather hoped I’d stopped looking like such a prat by now.”

“What’s that saying? Something about a light and a bushel?”

David chuckled, and began playing with Snowy’s hair again.

“Gold,” he murmured. “Y’know I couldn’t resist, from the very first. Wanting to touch your hair.”

That reaction was familiar, Snowy recalled a girl in school who was forever pulling his hair. His mother had to explain to him she was doing it because she liked him.

“So how goes the story of ‘Snow White?’ I remember she ate a poisoned apple and the prince kissed her and she woke up.”

“Her wicked stepmother was going to kill her for being too beautiful so she ran away into the woods and lived with the dwarves.”

“The stepmother, she had the mirror, who told her that Snow was the fairest of them all.”

“Right.”

“And did they think that? The boys who named you?”

“P’haps. They never said, just started calling me ‘Snowy’ and laughing every time.”

“I bet they did. It was their way of saying so without having to say it.”

With the flash of a brilliant grin they were kissing again, their hands wandering over skin and hair and across each other’s cocks, reveling in a quiet moment of private pleasure.

“What story were you thinking of? That day in the woods?”

“Tam Lin. D’ya know that one?”

“I know the song, I think, but I don’t quite remember.”

“Tam Lin was rescued by the Queen of the Fae, and he was happy to stay with her. But he had magic enough to take the virtue of the maidens who trespassed in the forest, till one bore his child, and she rescued him from his captivity.”

“That’s a strange one.”

“I dunno why it came to me like that. My mother had a book of stories, and that one always stuck in my mind.”

“So Tam had his way with the maidens fair, eh?”

“They would come to pick the roses –“

“- and he would pluck them.”

“Rather. He’d say something like, ‘How come you to take my roses without my leave?’”

“Clever. And he would always have his way?”

“Of course. He used magic, and he was fair and so full of flesh.”

“Just like you.”

Snowy sat up, shaking his head with an indulgent smile. “No, you’re Tam Lin, the one who no one can resist.”

“So that makes you the maiden fair.”

Snowy laid back, a come-hither expression on his face. “Will you take me, then?”

“Oh yes.”

Since the first - when he had willingly bent over for his mentor in the loo at Olympia during rehearsals, stuffing his jacket in his mouth to silence his cries - he took it because he wanted it, wanted David and whatever that desire entailed. . .he allowed his mentor to lead, and he would perform according to demand and surrender according to desire.

“You are the fairest of them all, my Snow, and none can melt you but I.”

And it was true. . .no one else had the power to make him feel what he was feeling at this moment, despite the pain he wanted to follow this man anywhere, do anything he asked, be his protégé always, even till he was far too old to be taught.

Perhaps anyone else would find their dialogue ridiculous, but it came so easily, the fantasy of their circumstance, the way in which they thought of themselves together. For only David could transform Snowy’s world into something seemingly magical.

It was easier now, to let him inside and bear his weight, but especially easy to please him, to be his willing companion in fantasy and flesh, a gloriously lustful striving towards Happily Ever After as David fucked him, questing for his eternal devotion, and receiving it in the form of their mutual orgasmic climax, which was loud and long and discretion be damned. But as if a spell had been cast to cloak their intrigue, no one ever heard.

Only David could make Snowy believe he was, in fact, living in a fairy tale.

“Who’s that guy? He’s not in the band, is he?”

They wore shirts emblazoned with a pig for every performance; Roger had a strange fetish for uniforms. The pig had somehow come to symbolize not only the concept of the record and tour, but the band itself, though Snowy didn’t know how, exactly. But Roger looked at David one night before they went on and nodded at his attire.

“It suits you, doesn’t it?” he taunted, then gave a snort.

Snowy watched as David curled his fingers into fists, but otherwise did not move.

“If we’re talking suitable, Rick should be wearing a sheep,” David retorted.

They laughed, and Snowy was confused. How could they leap from enmity to empathy so quickly?

“And why aren’t you wearing a dog then?”

“I didn’t like the way that one turned out.” Roger looked over at Snowy. “The pig looks good on you as well, though you make it look cute, just like everything else.”

Snowy shrugged and David smiled at him.

“Yes we’re s’posed to be grim, I think. Is that it, Rog?”

“Positively horrifying.”

Snowy chuckled, looking at the ground.

“Oh I think the lad is trying to tell us he can’t be scary.”

“You would have to hire another dish, wouldn’t you? I s’pose you needed someone to fulfill that role since you can’t.”

“Well God knows it couldn’t be you, Georgie.”

Christ, they go on and on like this every bloody night.

Snowy found it strange Roger had practically no contact with the others during the daily course of travel or after the show, but began to understand, as the tour ground on, why it was a necessity. Roger seemed incapable of keeping a civil tongue in his head and simple verbal barbs hooked sensitive feelings which led to figurative blood being spilled on both sides. As the others sat around getting hammered every night, the same complaints would arise: He pushes and he pushes until you push back and then he says you’re a shit. He provokes as if it’s the only way he can prove he’s still alive. When the slightest thing goes wrong we all have to pay, even if it’s not our fault. Why is he so fucking miserable and why does he insist on taking it out on us?

“Because we’re easy targets,” David would always say, raising his pint as if in toast to the notion of opportunity.

“I truly think he’s mentally ill, or maybe I am,” Rick said quietly. Snowy noticed he tended to cower whenever Roger was in the room, as if he hoped he wouldn’t be noticed.

Occasionally it appeared that Roger would decide to actually talk to David, not at him, and the two would disappear pre or post-gig to work out their differences, but the peace rarely lasted more than a day or two. Then they’d be back to shouting behind closed doors and sniping at one another in plain sight.

No seemed to take Roger’s side in things, save Nick, who tried his best to be neutral, though even his patience was often exhausted. Dick was David’s friend and Rick and Roger had apparently never truly gotten along, ever since they’d first met. Robbie had too much to worry about on the production side to look after the band and Steve was only present at about half the shows. Even Vicki could only do so much to keep everyone happy, as logistics took precedence over sanity. The crew didn’t seem to count, except for Phil, who was unerringly loyal to his boss, and David rewarded him with trusted responsibility and a certain leeway when it came to extracurricular activities. The more hangers-on about the more it seemed an easier time, but even they were ultimately shunned every night when three of the principles hid themselves away in a room with their hired hands, drinking and cursing Roger’s existence.

Yet there were bright spots, even so. The more they played the more David and Snowy developed a language of their own in the musical sense; trading lines and echoing each other when they stretched out to jam on “Shine On” and “Money.” And David let him solo on “Have A Cigar,” smiling broadly whenever he felt Snowy had really nailed a particular part. Their playing was complimentary, if not possessing the exact same feel, and they often had a blues jam during the soundcheck, David asking him to reprise some of Greenie’s famous runs, teasing that he didn’t know how he, as a Fender devotee, had ended up working with a Gibson man. Snowy would reply by kissing the headstock of Goldtop as if to taunt him further.

When they played together, inspiration sparking like lightning in the air, it was like sex; he could declare his desire for his mentor in such a way that no one would ever know what it truly meant.

But David always knew, a sly smile on his lips as their lines entwined and climbed high above the crowd, floating upon the air, a euphoria of many interpretations.

On more than one occasion, he found himself being pushed into a room as soon as they came off the stage for the last time, his skin shining, door locked behind them, pinned to the wall and set upon by an equally sweating admirer, who would murmur “You were so fucking hot, boy, you shame me when you play like that.”

“I play like that to impress you.”

And they would kiss then, violently passionate, all the lust previously sublimated to fingers and frets now free to express itself with the rest of their bodies.

“Oh you do, you are most impressive.”

David would fall to his knees and pull at Snowy’s jeans, eager for his cock, which he would suck with finesse and with genuine desire, a tribute to pay. And Snowy would brace himself against the wall, rendered breathless and weak by the sheer force of David’s passion and his own, eventually sinking down to the floor after he had let go in a white hot flood and pulled David on top of him, stroking his cock, reading him for his own worship, to give his boss every reason to keep him, entirely willing to do anything to show him how amazing he was, as David lacked the encouragement from other quarters.

“You’ve no reason to be shamed,” he whispered to his mentor. “You’re the one who shines like the sun.”

David smiled at him, and the fact that they were ridiculously tangled upon an anonymous floor, half-clothed and panting like they’d run a race was completely beside the point.

“Oh you’re the golden boy, aren’t you? But show me how you admire me.”

And Snowy would slide his mouth downwards across damp skin to the root of obsession, of desire, of dominion, sucking the seed to be the One, the golden boy of a certain beauty’s dreams.

It was an almost fitting ending to a terrible month. Roger had become ill – both in body and spirit – and the rest of them were catching it too. Tempers were short, nerves were frayed, and the crowds were increasingly rowdy: at every gig the police were waiting outside, and security was incredibly lax inside, only one or two steps ahead of the chaos.

Roger and David had stopped speaking to one another, and barely spoke to anyone else. They were all earshot witnesses to the last altercation, at the final show, hearing Roger loudly proclaim from behind a closed door, “Don’t you fucking touch me or I will break your hand!” with an enormous amount of venom. Nick left the room, Rick turned pale as he lit another cigarette, and Dick and Snowy looked at one another with cautious curiosity. David emerged and asked where the beer was. Roger came out moments later and abandoned them, holing up with Carolyne and some other people until it was time to go on.

Snowy knew something was truly wrong when David hardly looked at him at all. Usually no matter what had occurred before the show, once they were out there all he had to do was to get him to smile and it was fine, they could make each other feel good. But David looked tired and sad, and Snowy couldn’t penetrate that veil of misery.

Then Roger spat on a kid who was trying to climb the barrier and it all went to shit.

During the encore Snowy kept looking around, waiting for David to come out as he and the others began a jam, but he never appeared. Roger and Rick got in the groove of the “traveling music,” as Roger referred to it. Still playing, Snowy walked over to Phil behind the amps.

“Where is he?”

“Gone, it seems. I can’t find him. Keep playing!”

And so they did, until the crew came out and started taking everything down. Phil whispered to him that the union was making them pack it up, but fuck that, just play! It was fun to jam, Snowy reminiscing about all the living room sessions he’d had with Greenie, just sitting around playing the blues for hours, unless his flat grew dark and they couldn’t see their own fingers. Eventually they had to stop, Nick had only his bass drum to keep time. Snowy looked out at the nearly-empty stadium and thought what the hell was that all about?

They returned to the dressing room to shower and change, and eventually David appeared, first looking around for Roger.

“He’s long gone,” Rick informed him, and took a large swig from a bottle of vodka.

“Thank Christ. With any luck he’s on a plane now.”

Nick shrugged, and once he was dressed he excused himself, saying he needed to call Lindy, see if she’d let him talk to the girls. The others eventually drifted away, murmuring something about calling it a night. David was sitting very still, looking off at nothing.

“You really wailed out there,” he finally said to Snowy. “I heard you. I was at the board with Brian.”

“It was rather lonely without you.”

David sighed, resting his head against the couch. “I couldn’t go back out there with him, he disgusts me.”

“I understand.”

Snowy sat down beside David, who tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it.

“Now we can all go home, and forget this ever happened.”

“I won’t forget. Well, not some things.”

David squeezed his hand. Snowy’s mind flashed on the feel of those calluses against his bare skin. “You were good to me, lad. That I won’t forget.”

Past tense.

“I s’pose we should get going, try and get some sleep. It’s a long flight tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

David fell asleep in the back of the limo as they rode back to the hotel. In repose he looked as beautiful as the legends portrayed him – not only Emo but also Dick had told stories of how David could literally stop strangers in the street with that perfect visage – and although it seemed he was attempting to purposely obscure it somehow, such perfection could not be denied. Snowy wondered if the dull ache he was feeling in his chest was the actual sensation of heartbreak. And if so, how long was he going to have to endure it, a most unwelcome souvenir of an otherwise grand adventure.
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