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I Something You	By : signorinaravelli Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 734 -:- 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-I Something You
- 1
To be perfectly frank, I’ve never been much of a fashion maven.

I suppose it’s not my fault entirely. You try shopping at Hung on You, attempting to find something that suits a frame like mine. My body is awkward, that of an adolescent who never stopped growing. Gangly limbs and too-big hands, bones jutting out, entirely too angular and severe all over. My nose is far too big for my face and there’s quite obviously a slight stoop in my gait. Clearly I was not meant for today’s London. The bright colors that everyone else seems to wear do nothing for my enormity; I rather feel like a circus freak on parade when I go out in electric blue trousers and a boldly patterned shirt.

Some people can carry off nearly any look because…they can. Their physical beauty or mere presence gives them carte blanche to traipse about in the most horrid creations imaginable and yet they still look amazingly good. Syd’s one of those few. Syd Barrett could wear a bloody potato sack and all the pretty things would still be drawn to him like botflies to a succulent host. Christ, I can’t blame them, can I?

You could almost…almost say that I hate him. I don’t know if I could ever really explain my feelings for Syd to anyone. It’s like you’ve got this idea in your head but when you try to put it into words, succinctly anyway, it comes out all garbled and wrong.

See, I love him very much but at the same time I could kill him. Sometimes I think I could squeeze all the juice out of him like a lovely bright clump of orange pulp. Squeeze all that sunshine right the fuck out. He’s always been on a different wavelength than me, than the rest of us really. I watch him and grit my teeth and pull at my clothes and dig my nails into my scalp and loathe the fact that he gets to be so damned special and loved and I’m sitting here with all the allure of a pile of shit.

Syd’s always tried to help. He’s just a helpful sort of bloke, you know? He never fails to tell me how un-with-it I am and yet he tries to help integrate me into the scene, pointless though it may be. I have no desire to be part of “the scene” except for that silly need you had in school to belong to something. I don’t know…do I care about being part of the scene? I don’t even know my own mind anymore. I don’t know what I want and what I don’t want. I do know that I want to bury myself inside Syd’s entire body, squeeze into his pores and nest. I wanna to fuck him senseless and I wanna to kill him and then I wanna fuck him again for good measure. He’s got a morbid enough sense of humor: he’d probably laugh if I told him that.

Syd acquiesces to my murderous intent, though I doubt he fully realizes what he’s doing. He’s always searching for a unique new high and I’m more than happy to provide him with one. He says that it’s like euphoria and for a moment my face looming above his is completely obscured by pure white light, abrupt splatters of aquamarine and sunflower yellow. I’ve never felt a body arc so sharply under mine, tremble so much from the force of orgasm. It’s like his life goes out momentarily before he expels all of it through the hot cum that spurts against my belly. Ha, that’s mad isn’t it? Mad cosmic rubbish to describe this sod getting his sick fucking jollies. They’re my sick jollies as well, but that’s beside the point…

He coughs and wheezes for a bit until he regains his breath, then looks up at me and laughs like an amused child who’s just been shown a magic trick. I’m not sure if he realizes what these little sessions mean to me, or how close to actually killing him I usually am. He may or may not truly comprehend the rush I get when I see the fabric twisting into the soft skin of his throat…the way the flesh warps and turns strawberry red under my ministrations. His faces changes colors as well. Goes from pale to pink, to red in the beginning, then purple, and if I don’t let go when I’m s’posed to, a delicate shade of blue.

I thrust into his body and hear the involuntary sounds trying to escape his lips. They never quite come out right. Depending on how taut the scarf is, they can range from short, sharp, high-pitched groans, always cut off mid-moan. They’re desperate and sometimes frightening. Somehow, the barely audible squeaks are slightly less disconcerting in comparison, and the silence more so. I wonder what I look like while I’m doing this. His eyes are typically wild, mouth wide open, shaky fingers grasping at the pillow under his head for dear life. Tenses exquisitely around my hard cock and I pull the scarf tighter, his vocalizations die away. Mouth open so wide that it looks as though he’ll vomit his insides up, bones and muscle and organs. In some strange way, he looks beautiful when his face is grotesquely contorted like that. But then again, there’s Syd for you. Put him in anything and he’ll look divine…

He’s just been shopping at I Was Lord Kitchener's Valet, adorned in a nineteenth century frockcoat, American or something, and a wide-rimmed black hat. Everything is oversized. His bellbottomed legs look tiny and pathetic in comparison and yet he is resplendent in his second-hand finery. I’ve been perusing antique photographs at a stall on the Portobello Road and when I see him coming (felt his fucking presence before he turned the corner) I busied myself. Car rolls past and “Making Time” brushes piercing and tinny along my back, pairing with Syd’s fingers to send shivers up my spine.

“Shopping, are we?”

“People have their uses!” Kenny Pickett cries from a little ways off.

I won’t look him in the face, so he leans in front of me and grins. Wild eyes, dilated pupils, dark circles. I wonder how long it’s been since he slept, though he looks quite happy and bouncy. Big grin, flirtatious grin. He wants me to notice the purple and black striped scarf around his neck and I draw in a shaky breath.

“I’m quite bored with my lot. Your turn to entertain me, Rog…”

“And how shall I do that?”

“I only require a few appendages. Say, your prick. And your hands.” The vendor shoots us a rather confused yet disgusted look and I anxiously set a photo that I’d been fingering down. ‘No, no, sir, I certainly won’t taint your merchandise’ the action seems to say. I turn on my heels and start making my way down the uneven sidewalk, Syd by my side all the while. It takes me a moment to realize that I’ve unconsciously started off in the direction of my flat. He links his arm with mine and pulls me along with him faster, faster.

“Come on, you gargantuan fuck – making time, right?”

“Syd,” he ignores me. “Syd.”

“Hm?”

“How do you know-” I start panting at the pace he pulls me along by, “how do you know I wouldn’t do it?”

“Do what?” We turn the corner and pass a band of faux-gypsies, peasant blouses and bare feet. They’re charming. Syd’s charming. I should be laughing as I let myself be carried away by this lovely, joyous creature. Everything is so fucking whimsical here and I should be having the time of my life.

“Kill you.”

“What, d’you mean-”

“Yeah,” I stumble over a chink in the sidewalk but there is no choice but to keep going. “How do you know I wouldn’t?”

“I think you wouldn’t ‘cause you love me!”

“I don’t fucking love you!”

He looks back for just a moment, still grinning, continues going, laughing mockingly at me.

“I said,” as though he didn’t hear me the first time, “I don’t fucking love you!”

He ignores me and he’s ignored me for the last time and I spot the alleyway a few feet ahead. Now I pull him, jerking him inside, much to his surprise.

“Hey-” My hand grips his thin upper arm as I drag him further in quite unwillingly. For a moment he grapples with me but eventually crashes backward into a pair of overflowing trashcans. Cries out in pain at how sharply he lands, right into a mess of old papers, fruit, God knows what else. His new vintage jacket is a positive disgrace now, oh, what a pity. It’s autumn so the stench isn’t intensified but it is still terribly unpleasant. I’m right with him, straddling his hips and making very, very quick work of the knot in his scarf. A man on a mission.

“You little shit…” I’m trembling as I fumble with the fabric. I can assume he’s recovering from the way the back of his head hit the bin, the hollow thunk! it made. “Do you – do you think this is a game?! Do you think this is just a…just a jolly little…” I trail as my goal has been accomplished, I waste no time in criss-crossing the two ends and pulling, pulling hard. His eyes bulge and his mouth readily drops open like a metronome’s.

“Rrrr-” My name dissolves into an inward sort of squeal. There is definitely rotten fish somewhere in this pile.

“I don’t fucking love you!” I hiss. His body’s a taut bowstring under me, fingers claw at the scarf, trying to get under the material. I wonder if this is it…am I actually going to kill Syd Barrett? What will my mother think? How many years will I get? The bulging eyes are staring past me and up to the grey September sky and the squeals have been reduced to harsh gasps. He quite resembles a beautiful radish. Even covered in fucking refuse he’s lovely and wonderful. I hate him…I hate him, hate him, hate him. Hate him and love him. Hate him and want to be him. Why couldn’t I have been born into Syd Barrett’s sainted fucking body? Involuntarily hard against the back of my thigh, just like a real live hanging victim. “You-you just presume that I give a toss about you ‘cause…”

‘Cause you’re you and ‘cause I do. It’s been all of fifteen seconds. Is that all?

“You’re so fucking special,” I sob, “you’re so fucking special!”

All at once I break down and my grip slackens. He takes the opportunity to weakly rip the scarf from his neck and cough himself silly and meanwhile I still sit on his hips, crying my eyes out. He’s never seen me cry. Very few people have. I cup my hand to my mouth and bawl as I watch him trying to recover, tears streaming down his own face. He needn’t say anything – his eyes express everything quite clearly.

“Get off.” he wheezes and I’m quick to comply, crawling off him and isolating myself against the brick wall behind my back. He leans up on his elbow, still sucking in terrifying breaths, and looks down at the state of his coat, stained with myriad foul-smelling substances in unique colors. Shakily he staggers to his feet and it looks like his legs could give way any moment. I press myself against the wall and brace myself for the onslaught of fists and suede Cuban heel boots. He ignores me for the moment, takes the antique overcoat off, and tosses it in the garbage heap in disgust. For a moment he simply stares at the scarf crushed under the soles of his shoes, then bends down to pick it up and hastily knot it about his neck. Why this happens is beyond me. I sit and sob into my palm, wipe my running nose on my sleeve. I’m unable to say “sorry”, as I’ve always been, but I very much doubt that a sorry would mean anything at this point.

After straightening himself up and rubbing at his wet, red eyes, he briskly begins to make his way toward the street once more. He pauses to look down at me and his eyes speak quite loudly now. They’re sneering and spitting. You pathetic little man…

“Knew you couldn’t do it. You never can.”

Oh God. He strolls past me and I well up with a fresh sob as he disappears ‘round the corner.
- 1
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I Something You