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Sunshine	By : signorinaravelli Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 749 -:- 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
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Roger's POV

Seven-fifty and I still feel sick. I’d been sick constantly the day before, much to the concern of the crew. Steve asked me if I was going to be able to get up onstage tonight and I just snapped at him for treating me like a child…but I still don’t know if I can go out there. The physical sick has warped itself into the emotional sick. Last show. Home, home again after this. I cling to that thought ‘cause it’s the only comfort I’ve got now. Home and Carolyne. Home and my room. Home and the secure bolt on my front door. Even surrounded by all the different types of backstage life forms, I still feel isolated…vulnerable. Unsafe. I take a shaky drag off yet another cigarette and hide my face as best I can behind a styrofoam cup. Since yesterday I’ve drunk nothing but tap water because at least I can clearly see it gushing from the spigot into the sterile white cup, even if I haven’t quite gotten used to the taste yet. Cigarettes and water for two days but I can’t even feel hunger pangs. This afternoon I watched the lot of them scarfing steak and fish, potatoes, pastries and beer and I couldn’t bear the sight of it. And I wondered how he could eat. How the fuck could he eat? How could he actually sit across from me and stuff his face like that?

‘Aren’t you hungry, Rog?’

Note of smugness in his tone. Slight sneer. No one else picked it up but I sure as fuck did. I wish I could remember…I remember enough, too much really, but God, some part of me wants to know everything, regardless of how ugly it may be. All I get are these little flashes of memory from a multitude of senses, a cornucopia of hazy delights to try and piece to together.

Sight: I can remember the cracked plaster above me. I thought that the Algonquin was supposed to be a nice hotel – why the cracked plaster? Why did they give me the room with the cracked plaster?

Sound: The radio was on but now its off. Telly’s still on but it sounds like it’s coming from a lift shaft.

Scent: Sweat.

Touch: Crisp sheets under my back, too much sensation all over my body for my mind to wrap itself around now, to categorize. What I can remember best is the scratchy beard against my skin and how much I used to love the unique, prickly sensation of kissing a man with facial hair.

Taste: Nothing, like my tongue went numb.

This would have been quite sufficient to deduce what happened but the physical evidence was much clearer and much more painful. I woke up in the afternoon, naked, laying at an odd angle and for a good few minutes I continued to lie there like that, trying to remember the night before. After the show Dave and I came straight back here, had a drink, watched the telly for awhile but after that I drew a complete blank. I knew that something must have happened between the time we were watching telly and the time I’d gotten into bed. Did I see him off? I didn’t recall getting undressed at all. Surely I couldn’t have been drunk ‘cause I’d only had one brandy…I stared up at the cracked plaster and wracked my brain. But Christ, why did I even give a shit? I’d woken up on more than one occasion with absolutely no recollection of the night before and I’d never cared. What was so different about last night? The frustrating part was that I knew something was different but I couldn’t put my finger on it until I tried to sit up.

It was the unmistakable feeling that I’d been given a proper fuck. And I realized that there was a pillow under my ass for whatever reason…is that what happened? Dave must have left and I’d gone out and picked someone up. Fair enough, I supposed. Even if I couldn’t remember drinking anything else, I had to have been utterly plastered. As I climbed to my feet, I noticed that the telly was still on and this struck me as particularly odd because I knew I’d have turned if off before I went out. I hate having that fucking thing on when I’m not watching it and regardless of how drunk I might have been, I’d definitely have switched it off before getting into bed with whoever was with me.

Right now I’m starting on another fag. I take the pack in my clammy hands and draw one out carefully, as though if I move too quickly my fingers’ll shatter. All of a sudden a familiar scent of sweat invades my nostrils and I feel myself reflexively tensing up against it. He’s leaning over me and plucking a cigarette from the box I hold in my lap, breathing against in ear.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

I say nothing but I’m sure he can feel my shudder. He doesn’t even touch me and still I feel violated – here, backstage, in the company of dozens. Why the fuck’s he doing this? I want to ask him so badly but I can’t even look him in the face, much less speak to him.

It wasn’t until I’d padded into the bathroom yesterday that those little bits and pieces started to come back to me. Gradually at first…I’d never even left the room had I? I could remember Dave’s breath up close to me. The crack in the plaster. All the bits slowly assembling themselves into a jigsaw puzzle that was missing a third of its pieces. I got the gist well enough…“gist”. Somehow I feel that’s an inappropriate word in regard to my situation. Don’t know why. I just do.

Showtime!

I realize that everyone else has filed out already. What the fuck is wrong with me today? Feels like an hour passes by each time I blink. I stand and as I’m about to follow the others, he suddenly appears in the doorway, palms set securely against the frame. I don’t look him in the eye but murmur that I need to get through, receiving thick silence in return. I don’t want to touch him, really I don’t. I ask him to move once more but he stands his ground. I can’t see his eyes but I can see his lips curved in his usual sweet smile. Christ, what a wicked fucking smile that is! He’s like the Big Bad Wolf all of a sudden – waiting to gobble me up. Behind those lips wait masses of sharp, pearly white teeth eager to tear at my flesh a second time. I don’t have to see his eyes to know any of this.

A sudden burst of determination is what makes me move, shoving my way past him, picking up my bass as I head into the wings where the rest of the band waits. I chastise myself for my stupidity, realizing that he couldn’t have possibly tried anything at that very moment. Aside from that, I’m bigger and possibly stronger. And I’m not fucked up on whatever he slipped me the other night, am I? I’m not afraid of him! I stare at the floor, and through the darkness, see a pair of white tennis shoes come up beside me, black Fender Strat hovering just out of my line of vision. The crowd is screaming and I can pick out single voices crying out for “Money!” or a song unknown to me called “Gravy Train”.

I’m not afraid of him. I’m not afraid of him. I’m not afraid of him.

“Money!”

I’m not afraid of him or what he may try to do after the show. I’m not afraid of his smile.

“MONEY!”

I’m not even afraid of the way he’s breathing against the side of my neck in the dark. If I were, I wouldn’t be in the right frame of mind to perform tonight, now would I? And I’m definitely ready to go out there and play for all those lovely people tonight! Tickled fucking pink! Before we even walk onstage, I can hear a firework go off and I set my mouth in a rigid smile, confident that this show is going to be a fantastic closer to an already amazing, fun-filled tour.

Hello, Montreal!

The sweep of his hair as he walks past me and the din rises to a fever pitch.
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