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Day Like A Diamond	By : luna65 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 848 -:- 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-Day Like A Diamond
- 1
The grandfather clock on the first floor, taller than Roger, went bong bong bong all night long, and at first it was tolerable…everyone was completely horizontal from booze and hash and whatever else was offered as hospitality at Stones Café, which the promoter suggested because it was based on the prototypical English pub, and the band did feel slightly at home. But then in the thin light of dawn Roger sat up in bed and, as the echo lingered in his ears, cursed life itself.

“Fuck me,” he whispered. At least it was warm. He hated being rudely awakened on cold mornings.

No one was certain how they’d ended up at this particular hotel, which was more like a bed and breakfast or a youth hostel, but the communal concept no longer appealed to Roger. But the festival for which they had traveled to this familiar destination was a one-off and tomorrow they’d be gone. After looking up and down the corridor for anyone else roused by the ersatz Big Ben, he slipped from his room into David’s, quietly closing the door and turning the latch. He slid into the bed and spooned a warm soft body, sighing with contentment he’d be loath to admit, not wishing to give David any fodder for manipulation.

David remained unconscious, and Roger tried to go back to sleep, listening to the sound of the other’s breathing, rhythmic inhales and exhales. As consciousness slid from his grasp…

bong bong bong

It didn’t even chime less on half-past, it was the same deafening declaration as on the hour.

“Dave.”

“Mmm.”

“Dave.”

“Hmm?”

“David Jon Gilmour, open your eyes or I shall pinch you.”

“Christ, Rog, what time is it?”

“Six-thirty, if that fucking clock is correct.”

David pulled the pillow over his head and groaned.

“Too bloody early for your incessant demands.”

“Sod off. I’m awake, so are you, let’s do something constructive.”

“I’m not awake, I’m merely talking in my sleep to a very annoying man.”

Roger reached over and put his hand around David’s cock.

“Your fellow says otherwise.”

“Need to piss, nothing to do with what you’re –“

Roger put his hands seemingly everywhere at once and David bit back a moan lest anyone else on the floor hear his arousal.

“I do need to piss, you bastard, so I suggest you let me do it.”

“Me too, come to think of it. Let’s be off then.”

“Why in the name of everything holy did June book us here?”

“Dunno, but it’s not the first time we’ve shared a loo.”

David grunted, rising to pull on his trousers but not bothering to button them. Roger did the same and they quietly crept down the hall to the lavatory, cursing internally when the floorboards creaked under their combined weight. After answering the Call of Nature they returned to David’s room and fell on the bed in their usual courtship dance of pulling hair, pinching, poking and prodding, eventually their mouths met with what appeared to be violence, but their passion was an intense imperative. Then David found the Vaseline and things were quiet for a while, no one would be able to hear the whispery grunts unless they had an ear to the door.

“See? Isn’t this better than sleeping?” Roger breathed.

“It’s not helping my hangover, lover, but I’ll cop to its’ charms,” David quipped.

Roger pinched the well-sculpted arse and secretly reveled in David’s ability to amuse him even in the middle of…some of the best sex he’d ever had in Amsterdam. Not that he’d sampled much of the city’s wares, but there had been one or two occasions. April, for example…they hopped a train straight from the gig in Rotterdam for a bit of fun and David had dragged him into the Saarein and kissed him right at the bar. He couldn’t quite remember what happened after that, except perhaps that there was a lot of beer involved.

Forget De Wallen, Roger knew he had the very best wanton slut between his legs, sliding with a seductive rhythm as they smiled at one another and tried very hard not to scream…or make the bed squeak.

The proprietor was also awake, whistling and making sandwiches. Roger and David entered the kitchen with a sigh of gratitude, as they’d scented hot tea. A pot sat on a trivet on the dining room table and once they’d poured themselves a cuppa the man in question brought a plate piled high.

“Eet smakelijk!” he exclaimed, placing it between his guests.

They smiled and nodded, possessing no appreciable familiarity with Dutch. “Cheers,” Roger offered helpfully, raising his teacup. The man smiled and nodded in kind, returning to the kitchen.

“Sarnies for breakfast,” David observed, as he peeked between the slices of bread, “I always found that odd.”

Roger made a selection of ham and gouda, sniffing at it.

“I rather like a sandwich, no matter what time of day.”

“Because you can barely boil water. Difficult to muck up a sarnie.”

“Why do you insist that I am lacking as a human being because I can’t cook or speak four languages? If I could I’d be you, wouldn’t I?”

“Yes, but could you play guitar as well?”

“I can do that.”

“Debatable, my darling.”

A flurry of slapping ensued, but then they heard footsteps and suddenly became very interested in their respective breakfasts.

“Kun ik je helpen?”

David looked up from his broodje pinderkaas.

“Sorry, ik begrijp niet.”

Roger let out with a surprised gasp.

The man spoke haltingly but fluently. “Is anything wrong, sirs?”

“Oh no, sorry for the ruckus,” David said.

“The food, it is all right?”

“Capital,” Roger said, raising his sandwich. “Thank you.”

The man retreated again, smiling, and Roger gave David a good smack on his arm.

“Prat, you speak Dutch as well?”

“Only a few phrases. Remember the ’69 tour?”

“Yeah.”

“Lovely girl tagged along after the Paradiso gig, taught me everything I know.”

“Give you anything as well?”

“Oh they’re ever so careful, the Dutch are. We only get in trouble when we go to America.”

Roger poured himself more tea. “True. If only American girls weren’t so adventurous and pretty.”

“Who’s adventurous and pretty?” Nick asked, entering the room.

“The groupies in the States.”

“Oh yes.” He seated himself at the table, looking at the plate expectantly. “Gonna pass that here?”

“If I must,” Roger quipped, and Nick chose roast beef and gouda.

“Is Rick up?” David asked.

“Dunno, didn’t see him. I’m famished, came straight down.”

Roger suddenly snapped his fingers. “Wait, was she the bird who wore the elbow-length gloves? They were black, weren’t they?”

David grinned. “Yeah. She had aspirations towards the burlesque.”

“Oi, she was a looker. If we’re lucky maybe she’ll turn up today.”

“No time for fun though, we’ve a plane to catch after, remember?”

Roger and Nick sighed in tandem. Peter entered the room, looking pained and pale.

“Christ, who spiked me drink last night?”

The three laughed at their road manager, always happy for a chance to affectionately ridicule him.

“Had to have your own spliff, didn’t ya?” Roger mock-scolded. “No wonder you’re still wrecked.”

“Hair of the dog, must remember to stop off before we get to the Bos.”

“Not the whole dog, lad,” David quipped.

“Forgot to tell you chaps, you’ve a photo session there.”

The others groaned loudly.

“Why?!” Roger exclaimed.

“Because Steve said so.”

Fearing another anxious inquiry Roger and David refrained from doing their road manager slight harm as he made protestations regarding not shooting the messenger.

“Wasn’t gonna shoot you, just crinkle you a bit,” David teased. “I s’pose this means bathing.”

“Please do,” Roger gibed.

“Sod off, Georgie.”

Nick snickered and helped himself to another sandwich. Once the plate.reached Peter he frowned.

“Only cheese left? That’s a kick in the arse.”

“The cheese is tops here, you’re lucky there’s anything left at all,” Roger commented.

Having been employed by Pink Floyd for a while, Peter knew better than to argue.

Freshly bathed and dressed in their performance finery (which of course wasn’t particularly spectacular) the band was led by the assigned photographer to a particular garden within the Amsterdamse Bos. They could hear distant sounds of the festival at which they were the headliners, but an early arrival was necessitated by the photo session, though thankfully the Dutch predilection towards hospitality was in evidence once again; there was plenty of food, drink, and other party favors available. The band had already shared a joint in the taxi over and having passed around another on arrival were feeling particularly giggly and relaxed. The photographer didn’t need to exhort them towards posing, they readily obliged in several ways, once of which was a tutorial from David on how to be a model, and Roger and Nick played along, but as the photo would later reveal, even as David had always downplayed his involvement in the profession he knew how to vamp like a pro.

Some of the shots were typical poses, with Roger and David taking turns standing in the center, others snapped while they sat on a bench focused on everyone equally. They talked and teased throughout, giving even the posed shots an air of casual appearance. During many of them they ate between the setups, and the subsequent pictures included food. David with a teacup, for example. which he held in front of his face teasingly at one point, though his mischievous grin was impossible to camouflage.

All who observed commented on how photogenic the quartet was, which caused Roger to remark you just caught us in a good mood. The rest of the band laughed, knowing the exact cause.

“We should do every photo session in Amsterdam,” Rick proclaimed. “It’s rather fun!”

“There’s ever so much fun to be had in Amsterdam, wouldn’t you agree, Dave?” Roger asked. He winked at his bandmate.

“How ‘bout another smile?” the photographer asked the group on the bench.

Their unified mindset, perhaps never so perfect as in that moment, caused them to simultaneously cover their eyes in response, giggling like loons…or perhaps merely four Englishmen who were pleasantly stoned on a Saturday afternoon.

“Ever so much fun, Rog,” David replied, and the photographer despaired that he wasn’t quick enough to capture the adoring smile which followed the answer.
- 1
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Day Like A Diamond