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The code of the road	By : luna65 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 1016 -:- 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-The code of the road
- 1
In order to alleviate the greater burden of their collective aviophobia, the members of Pink Floyd and their road manager drove nearly four hours from San Diego to Los Angeles, along Interstate 5, rather than fly in a very cramped commuter plane for about an hour. Although Southern California in April occasionally displayed signs of the coming swelter, their proximity to the ocean meant the trip wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Or at least not as far as temperature was concerned. Put two particular people in the same vehicle for any length of time and unpleasantness was bound to occur. But the ensuing silence made their most mild-mannered member distinctly uncomfortable.

“And it’s onto Fun City!” Nick announced suddenly, doing a silly imitation of a game show host.

“It’s amusing, I suppose, but so bloody hot,” Roger groused.

“You would complain about it, wouldn’t you?” David gibed. “With the whole boring wasteland yet to come, you’re going to bitch about the one city that’s even vaguely interesting on this side of the country.”

“It’s superficial and full of –“ Roger paused, tilting his head, “ – what’s that stuff?” He waved a hand in front of his face.

“Smog,” Nick said, ever helpful.

“Yeah.” It was indicative of the period that no one thought it ironic when Roger then inhaled deeply on his cigarette as seeming punctuation.

“So Dave, do you think Miss Pamela will bring her lovely friends again?” Rick asked.

“Dunno. She might have a rule about married men for all I know.” David looked out the window, disappointed there was no clear view of the ocean when one was traveling north on the California coast.

“Fame is so fleeting,” Roger sniped.

“Quite,” David replied, though he was saying it just to say something. If Roger’s taunts went unanswered he was apt to believe he was victorious, a belief David was always keen to dispel.

“We’re going to the Riot House, knee-deep in sweet young things, even if the Queen herself won’t be there,” Robbie enthused from behind the wheel.

“I bet the entire network knows what you did, and you’ll be snubbed,” Roger continued, seeming to warm to the opportunity of ridiculing his bandmate.

“There’s a network?” Rick asked. David looked up at him and he appeared skeptical.

“Of course there is,” Roger answered, snapping at Rick as he usually did.

“And how would you know?” David interjected, looking Roger in the eye. Roger stared back in a manner which made it difficult for David to know the exact motivation.

“Your dream-on-wheels was most helpful in providing particular details.”

The car grew silent, only the faint murmuring of the radio and ambient sounds of travel remained in the wake of Roger’s breaking an unspoken but still rather inviolable rule: never use spouses as ammunition.

The two stared each other down for at least five uncomfortable minutes, their fellow travelers knowing better than to intervene in any fashion.

Robbie turned up the radio, once he had managed to tune in the LA-based free-form station they were all fond of. Rick tried to fall asleep and Nick amused himself with a stack of automotive magazines he had bought while in San Diego. Robbie remained silent, concentrating on the road and wanting no part of the mind games Roger and David were always playing, and they were the only ones who knew the rules...or made them up as they went along, at any rate.

“D’ya think Miss Pamela would like me, then?” Roger asked, his voice low but loud enough for David to hear.

“Sowing your oats again so soon? But no, I don’t know if you’re her type.” David quipped.

“Someone sounds possessive,” Roger teased.

David snorted. “Of a groupie, much less the self-proclaimed Queen of the Groupies? Bollocks!”

“Hmm, that’s fitting. But I still detect a lovely shade of chartreuse in your tone.”

“Color blind as well? You’re falling apart, lad.”

“Your feints are pathetic. You are jealous.”

David sighed. “P’raps I am, but it’s nothing to do with her.”

“Who then?” Roger suddenly flushed, looking down. “Whom?”

David smiled. He could see just a hint of the dimple in Roger’s chin; he was easily embarrassed over the smallest things, like using the wrong pronoun.

“Can’t say.”

“Can’t say because you don’t know?”

“Oh I know,” David answered, and Roger noticed the accompanying chuckle had an obscene quality to it. His already saucer-shaped eyes widened further in annoyance.

“Well while you’re pining in your room we’ll be out on the prowl.”

“Who said anything about pining, Rog? It’s the Riot House, anything goes.”

“Yeah anything goes, alright. Right out the fucking window,” Robbie noted, sardonically.

“The Peanut Gallery will refrain from further commentary,” Roger commanded.

Robbie pulled into the parking garage of the Continental Hyatt House around mid-afternoon. It was agreed that everyone could have a night off from each other if they so chose, but then Roger and David exchanged a look which Rick interpreted, with a sidelong glance, as not applying to them. He thought pursuing some female company might take his mind off of wondering exactly what game those two were truly playing; he was torn between a desperate urge to ignore it altogether and a painful fascination with various theories of what they really meant to one another.

David lay on his room’s California King bed, bare feet atop a pile of clothes, thumbing through a little black book (though it was actually red) - secreted in the lining of the case which housed his Strat - containing the phone numbers of all the girls he had encountered in America that he might want to encounter again. He had them listed alphabetically by city and state. He found the pages for Los Angeles and considered the list, attempting to picture each girl as he read the name. But a knock upon his door disturbed the elimination process.

“Yeah?” he called out. One could never be too careful in this den of iniquity.

“Let me in, you wanker!” Roger demanded.

David made his way to the door in a leisurely fashion after returning the book to its’ hiding place. When he opened the door Roger cringed as a large group of young people came running down the corridor at full-tilt, all of them shouting and shrieking.

“This isn’t the fucking zoo!” he yelled after them.

“On the prowl, hmm?” David teased. “You seem a bit spooked for an alpha male.”

“Are you coming?”

David pretended to consider the question, posed in the doorway with one arm draped on the frame, the other playfully lifting his shirt.

“I think a better question is will I be.”

Roger rolled his eyes then fluffed his hair. “Let’s drink first, and then we can consider all sorts of questions, yes?”

David paused to put on socks and shoes and then they departed, making sure to look both ways before venturing into the wilds beyond the relative safety of the room.

They went downstairs to the bar, full of noise and smoke, and spotted no one familiar, nor in turn did they appear to cause any recognition. It was likely at least half the room would be at their performance the next evening. They garnered a couple pints (the Hyatt House lounge was Anglo-friendly in terms of their on-tap selections) and managed to find a somewhat secluded table.

“So do you recognize any of these girls?” Roger asked, looking around.

“You want a groupie, Rog? Is that it?” David leaned back and put his hands behind his head, giving Roger a perfectly coquettish look.

Roger smirked at David and ran a finger around the rim of his glass. He mused that this was an even more intriguing prospect than mere sex. Sex was fun, no doubt, but sparring with David was his secretly cherished pastime, even in the worst moments, because he knew they were equally passionate. Though not always about the same thing.

“Nothing so obvious. I want someone who’s interesting.” He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table, meeting that ocean-like gaze. “Passionate.”

David leaned forward as well, but he was looking at the surface of the table. “How passionate?”

“If I’m not screaming within five minutes they get the toss.”

David looked up and Roger was amused to see a glint of surprise in those eyes.

“Screaming?”

“It’s the Riot House, d’ya think anyone’s really going to notice?”

“Don’t want a nice build-up? Just wham bam thank you sir?”

“That’s just the first act. The night is young.”

He lit a cigarette, extended the pack to David with a crooked eyebrow.

“You know I quit.”

“Oh that’s right,” Roger said, miming a memory lapse. David stuck out his tongue and Roger exhaled a cloud of smoke into his face. David waved his hand at it and coughed.

The lounge’s music selections were barely audible above the attendant din, but David could swear he heard the strains of “Have A Cigar.”

“Is that us?” he asked Roger, who cocked his head like a dog. He then frowned.

“Can’t tell, speakers sound like absolute shite.”

“Nothing like pulling a girl with your own music as accompaniment.”

Roger made a face. “Too tacky by half.”

“Nothing succeeds quite like success itself.”

“Yes I’m well aware you’ve wallowed in the trough, dear boy. You don’t have to rub my nose in it.”

“You’re the one who’s been wallowing, in more ways than one.”

“I don’t think anyone would blame me, considering the circumstance.”

“It’s terribly tragic, but it’s not revenge when the other person is no longer there to be hurt by it.”

Roger fixed David with a hard glance as he took a drink of his Guinness. “It’s all very well for you to say this now, but where were you when it would have counted?”

David set down his glass and crossed his arms over his chest. “In a place where you wouldn’t have listened to me anyway. It’s like I’m invisible to you unless we’re working.”

Roger’s laughter had a particularly bitter quality. “We cannot socialize, David, we both know that would be disastrous.”

“Then don’t ask questions I don’t have a hope of answering, Rog.”

Roger drained the remainder of his glass. “Where are the dirty girls then, Dave, so I may wallow once more?”

“Here’s a question for you: when are you going to drop this miserable pretense of a fox hunt and let me fuck you?”

Roger began coughing in shock and David sat back and smirked. Now there was some passion for that bastard.

As they walked out moments later, in entirely rhetorical response, the voices of Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway wistfully asked where is the love and the speakers weren’t so badly malfunctioning that the two missed the significance.

David began walking in the direction of Roger’s room as soon as they exited the elevator, fully aware that the other’s controlling tendencies would allow for nothing less than the bed assigned to him. As Roger nervously unlocked the door, David blithely observed some guy being fawned over by three girls, one looking about ready to fellate him right there in the hallway.

“I suppose we could make an argument for his spares,” he joked, nudging his companion.

“Oh yes, I’m so desperate I’ll just take gash from other men,” Roger sneered.

“You’re so irresistibly morose, Georgie boy.”

“Sod off.” He pushed the door open and it hit the wall with a crack. The quartet looked up in unison.

“Oh no, you’re not calling undue attention, not at all.”

“Shut yer gob before you’re met with an unfortunate traveling iron to the head.”

David closed and locked the door behind him. “There’s a fine line between passion and pathology, they say.”

“Since when do you know anything clever anyone says?”

“Mmm yes, you’ve got me right stiff now, boy.”

Roger dropped his key on the bureau and walked back to David who was leaning against the door with a mischievous smile. “Of course I do, you’re such a slut for my acidic tongue.”

The two virtually collided with brute force, Roger slamming David into the door and pressing his mouth down hard. David pulled at Roger’s hair with one hand and slid the other down the back of his jeans. For a while all was muffled moans and soft thuds of shifting weight distribution. When they finally stopped trying to eat one another, they separated with soft laughter.

“It’s been five minutes, hasn’t it?” David asked, out of breath. “I guess I failed the audition.”

“Oh I’m positively gagging for you, dishy twit. Get your arse in my bed.”

David shed his clothes as he walked to the other side of the room and Roger was glad to be standing behind him, lest the one he desired more than anyone he had ever known see just how undone he was by the sight of bare flesh. Roger was biting his lower lip so hard he was surprised not to taste blood when he stopped. He had lost track of the moment, not realizing he was frozen in place, watching as David pulled back the bedclothes and climbed onto the mattress.

“These beds, I swear they must think everyone has an orgy here.” David looked over at Roger and immediately recognized that thousand-yard stare of repressed lust.

“C’mon then, Rog,” he beckoned, lying back against the headboard. “The night isn’t getting any younger.”

“Need to find the Vaseline,” Roger muttered, pawing through his luggage.

David grinned, it was always amusing to see Roger unnerved by his own desires.

Roger was ever-insistent about having the lights out, so David had memorized his lanky body - no more awkward fumbling in the dark - he knew exactly where his mouth and his hands and his cock should go to achieve the desired effect: to reduce Roger to a slavering mass of libido. Head to toe he would lick and nibble and suck that smoky salty flesh just like he was now, moving up the long legs which he spread apart, straight to the crotch, letting his warm exhalations dispel the gooseflesh bestowed by the ubiquitous air conditioning. But instead Roger shivered further, the Pavlovian response to having David close enough to breath on him. Tickling his ear lobe or caressing the side of his neck when things were whispered in confidence. There was no need of whispers now – they didn’t call this place the Riot House for nothing – but certain phrases held a greater power when barely voiced.

“Mmm, haven’t fucked you since Tucson, I’d thought you’d thrown me over.”

“Less scolding more screaming,” Roger quipped.

“You want to scream then?” David asked, his face poised right over Roger’s crotch, softly blowing onto his genitals.

“How many bloody times do I have to say it?!”

David tilted his head from side-to-side, lasciviously licking the most sensitive part of Roger’s inner thighs. The recipient moaned and squirmed, then David nuzzled one side, rubbing his whiskered chin against the skin and leaned in to take a bite: not too hard, but enough to provide a surprise.

“Ahhhh Christ!” Roger yelled out, and David snickered. “You know that’s not what I meant!”

“D’ya think they heard you? The entire floor, I mean?”

“Shut it before I make you stop blathering on.”

“You choke me to death with that thing and you’ll be out more than just a living sex toy.”

Roger grabbed one of David’s forearms and pulled him up so they were face-to-face. He threw one of his legs over David’s hips, pressing the other’s mass against his own. He would never admit it if asked but he loved the feel of David’s weight on him. They had experimented with different positions but Roger was a traditionalist: everything else felt too strange and anonymous. Above all he desired David, specifically, and therefore wanted to be reminded of that fact at all times when they had sex.

He pressed his forehead against David’s, extending his tongue teasingly to wet those sensuous lips. “D’ya think I could, hmm?”

“You’d like to try, wouldn’t you?” David whispered, then suddenly his mouth was open against Roger’s and they were lost again in kissing. If all of their problems could be solved immediately with a kiss, Roger was certain he and David would never fight again. The things that David Gilmour could do with his mouth were downright obscene, and possibly illegal. Right now, for example, he was sucking on Roger’s tongue with an insistent seductive pull, a sensation which made all his synapses fire in a barrage of bliss.

“Have I ever told you what an exquisite cocksucker you are, David?”

David let go of the appendage in his mouth, smirking. He knew Roger’s comment contained more taunt than praise.

“Not lately no,” he replied, then began flicking his tongue around the head, following the sensitive contours. Roger moaned and wove his hands into David’s hair.

“Mmm, one wonders how you acquired such exemplary skills.”

David had to resist the urge to give Roger a nip, the smartarse. “I’ve told you before, I had to learn a few tricks back in the days of busking, just to get by.”

“Had plenty of takers, did you?”

David sat up, fluffing his hair and putting his hands on top of his head, a model’s pose. “Oh darling, I’ve never lacked for takers.”

Although Roger chuckled in answer, he knew that David was being equally serious, and as much as he was positively besotted with lust he also resisted it with all his might. The man was altogether too luscious and knew it too, the prat.

They were each dizzy from breathing one another’s air, panting open-mouthed nose-to-nose as Roger pulled and David pushed, a contraption of satisfaction. Well-oiled and locked in a cadence only they, as the original composers, could perform.

“Love your skin,” David murmured as he sucked on Roger’s chin, ran his tongue across lips seeking to kiss the mouth hovering above. “You’re so soft all over.”

“Push harder, Dave, all the way inside,” Roger urged, wrapping his legs even tighter around his lover, looking to fuse their pelvic cages together once and for all. “Want every fucking inch of you, oh yes.”

“Mmm, such a greedy thing, aren’t you?”

“You know there’s no such thing as too much, sunshine. Oh do it, you slut, bang me!”

“So demanding, yer gonna cripple me!”

Roger tilted his head to bite David just below his right ear, sucking hard upon his neck, relishing the long moan which sounded forth. “It’s a sacrifice you’re dying to make, isn’t it?”

“They’ll have to bring us both out on stretchers.”

They laughed then and kissed, their mouths stretching as if to swallow one another. David reached down and took hold of Roger’s aching cock.

“Ready to scream then, lover?”

“You think you’ll do it now, hmm?”

“Oh yes. I predict a supernova.”

More laughter, but as David increased his rhythm Roger began keening, a whine which grew more high-pitched the closer he came to impending orgasm.

“God you’re so fucking beautiful, you bastard. Oh don’t stop don’t stop oh Christ Dave you’re killing me I want you so much –“

Although his wrist burned from the repetitive motion, David worked his hand up and down Roger’s prick as fast he could, while pushing his own cock hard into the other’s ass.

“Want you too, Rog, want you so fucking bad.”

The word could hardly bear the weight of the true meaning, had been invoked so frequently as to have rubbed the linguistical patina right off, exposing layers of myriad interpretations. It was voiced as threat, as taunt, as seduction and as endearment.

When Roger did, in fact, scream (not unlike his shrieks in “Eugene”) and pumped hot splashes all over himself and David, the two of them immediately collided in kissing once again even though they were in danger of losing consciousness from lack of oxygen.

“You may,” Roger said when their mouths finally separated, each word between a breath, “have finally done me in. I can’t feel anything below my waist.”

“Mmm,” David responded with a chuckle, “s’why they call it ‘El Lay,’ you know. It’s the best place to get spectacularly fucked.”

“Bang on, lad, you did me proud.”

“Oh you must be chuffed, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Roger reached up and pulled David’s hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re just gagging for a flog, aren’t you?”

David giggled. “You can’t, I hid that thing in my road case.”

“Not tonight you mean, but you’ll get it when you least suspect, twit.”

“Mmm, go ahead and give it your best effort, me boy,” David taunted, then leaned down to graze Roger’s nipples with bared teeth.

“Ow, get off me, you cow! You weigh a literal ton.”

“So now I’m too heavy? You’re a right bitch, Georgie.”

Roger suddenly wrapped his limbs around David again, squeezing tightly.

“Only yours,” he whispered, and kissed his bete noir.

The dark room grew silent (even if the environs remained eternally raucous) as they lay separated in a post-coital stupor, then David turned onto his side and sleepily nudged his lover.

“Hand me the phone, eh?”

“What for?”

“Room service.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“This is the Riot House, they never close.”

Roger switched on the bedside lamp and picked up the phone, ensuring the cord was long enough to remove it from the table. He set it on the bed in the space between them, then found himself a cigarette and some matches.

“What happened to the lighter I gave you?” David asked him as he peered at the label on the phone, looking for the Room Service extension.

“S’probably in my road case. Don’t like just carrying it around, I might lose it.”

David smiled, it was the closest Roger would ever come to expressing pleasure in receiving a gift.

“What could you possibly want to eat this time of night?” Roger asked him, lighting up then looking around for the television remote.

“Strawberries. I think they’re in season now. Remember when we played the Hollywood Bowl?”

“Yeah, that was a good gig,” Roger murmured, pausing to tune in a late-night monster movie on one of the local stations.

“The caterer there told me California has the very best strawberries. And he was right, the ones back home don’t even compare.”

“You obsess about the strangest things,” Roger teased.

“Keep that up and you won’t get any,” David mock-scolded, dialing the number.

David had instructed the kitchen to leave his order outside the door, but rushing forth to grab it after hearing the waiter’s courtesy knock, Roger had called out after him, “Now I’m hungry too!” and the retreating figure of the waiter turned and inquired politely, “Excuse me, sir, was there anything else?”

David grimaced and picked up the covered tray, looking at the quantity of fruit inside the bowl. “P’raps another order of these? And some sugar.”

“Sugar, sir?”

“Yes, a bowl of sugar. For the strawberries.” It struck him then how odd it was to be negotiating at three AM in one’s underwear with a stranger.

“Oh yes. I’ll return shortly.”

“Wait!” David called after him, then went to grab his jeans from the floor. He riffled through the pockets and handed the waiter the largest bill he could find, a fifty. “’Preciate it, and your discretion, of course.”

“Code of the road, sir, we recognize nothing to be out of the ordinary.”

David grinned. This really was the perfect hotel for musicians.
- 1
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The code of the road