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The backstage dressing room smells of damp denim, crushed velvet, stale lager, and the lingering, sweet resin of Hashish. Outside, the muffled roar of the venue slowly dies down, but inside, the air still vibrates with the phantom hum of maxed-out Vox amplifiers. It is 1967, and the world is spinning fast, but in this small sanctuary, time stretches out long and languid.
David lies stretched across the velvet sofa, his legs slung casually over Roger’s lap. Roger, tall and angular, rests a heavy arm over David’s shoulders, his fingers lazily twisting a lock of David’s thick, chestnut hair. They fit together with the seamless, unthinking ease of an old married couple—the kind of quiet intimacy forged over endless motorway miles in freezing vans and shared plates of greasy chip-shop chips. David leans his head back against Roger’s chest, his eyes half-closed, listening to the steady, rhythmic thump of Roger’s heart.
Roger occasionally murmurs something low against David’s temple, a quiet joke meant only for the two of them, prompting a soft, chest-rumbling chuckle from David. They are utterly wrapped up in each other’s presence, grounded in a private world that the lingering adrenaline of the gig cannot break.
Across the room, bathed in the dim, yellow glow of a fringed floor lamp, Richard sits cross-legged on a plush loveseat. A battered acoustic guitar rests against his knee. He is a picture of quiet concentration, his dark eyes fixed intently on the wooden headstock. His slender fingers turn the tuning pegs with minute, painstaking adjustments, plucking a string, listening to the vibration fade into the quiet room, and plucking it again. For Rick, this quiet routine is a necessary anchor, a way to gently step down from the chaotic, blinding light-shows and soaring organ solos that defined their set.
The heavy oak door swings open with a sudden, breezy flourish, breaking the quiet hush of the room.
Syd practically skips inside, a kinetic burst of sheer, unpredictable energy. He wears an oversized, floral velvet jacket that sways with his movements, his dark curls a wild, haloed mop around his face. His eyes shine with a bright, childlike brilliance, practically dancing with mischief and lingering excitement. He doesn't just walk; he floats on the tips of his toes, humming a fragment of a melody that exists only in his head.
He glides right past the sofa where David and Roger are entwined, zeroing in on the loveseat with total, laser-focused intent. Without a word of warning, Syd swoops down, leaning over Rick until their faces are barely inches apart. His grin stretches wide and brilliant. He extends a single, pale index finger and lightly taps the very tip of Rick’s nose.
"BOOP!" Syd chirps, his voice high, clear, and utterly delighted.
Richard freezes mid-stride. His hand halts over the soundhole, the plucked B-string still faint and humming in the air between them. He blinks once, twice, his wide brown eyes staring blankly at Syd, who remains hovering there with an expectant, radiant smile.
Slowly, Rick turns his head, seeking a compass point in the sudden, bizarre pause. He looks over at the sofa. David and Roger both watch the scene unfold with quiet amusement. Roger offers a subtle, knowing nod, his mouth twitching up at the corner, while David smiles warmly, giving Rick a tiny, encouraging nudge of his chin. Go on, their silent expressions say, play along.
Rick looks back up at Syd, who hasn't moved an inch, still beaming down at him like a lightbulb. "Oh!" Rick stammers, his voice carrying the endearing, hesitant, polite charm that always surfaces when he is caught off guard. He clears his throat softly, adjusting his posture on the cushion. "Err... thank you?"
Syd’s grin only deepens, his head tilting slightly, waiting. Feeling a sudden wave of affection break through his initial confusion, Rick sets his right hand against the neck of the guitar. Unsure, yet fueled by a soft, blooming warmth in his chest, he raises his own index finger into the small gap between them. He pushes himself up slightly from the loveseat, leans forward, and gently presses the pad of his finger against the tip of Syd's button nose.
"Boop," Rick says softly, a small, genuine smile finally tugging at his lips. He lets his hand drop back to his lap, his eyes fixed on Syd’s bright face. "There. Now we're even."
Syd lets out a high, musical giggle, flushing a delicate pink across his cheekbones. He looks for all the world like a schoolgirl completely overcome by a fresh, wonderful crush, practically vibrating with happiness. He takes a tiny, delighted step back, clapping his hands together once before leaning against the edge of Richard's chair, entirely content just to be near him. Rick looks up at him for a second longer, his smile lingering, before turning his attention back down to the instrument in his lap. He plucks the top E-string, its clear, pure tone filling the quiet dressing room, perfectly tuned at last.
From the far corner of the room, buried behind a mountain of discarded tour flyers and empty teacups, a heavy sigh cuts through the ambient hush.
Nick lowers his fountain pen, rubbing his temples with a theatrical air of suffering. Spread across the small card table in front of him are dozens of scrap papers—napkins, train receipts, and torn envelope backs—all covered in Syd’s frantic, looping chickenscratch. He is mid-translation on the lyrics for "See Emily Play," trying to decipher whether a smudge on a napkin is a brilliant poetic stanza or an accidental tea stain.
He looks up, taking in the scene: David and Roger wrapped together like vines on the sofa, and now Rick and Syd indulging in soft-focused, starry-eyed giggles across the rug. Having long since adapted to David and Roger’s comfortable, domestic co-existence, Nick had hoped the room might hold *some* semblance of sensible decorum.
"Oh, marvelous," Nick mutters dryly, tapping his pen against a notebook. "Just what this band needed. Another terminal case of the silleys. I am surrounded by utter sappiness, and here I sit, performing literal archival rescue work on a song about floating in a river."
He gestures vaguely toward Syd and Rick with his pen, his moustache twitching as he tries—and fails—to maintain a stern expression.
"It’s bloody grotesque, really," Nick continues, leaning back in his folding chair and crossing his arms. "I can’t even decipher whether 'gown of crimson' is meant to have two 's's because I'm being blinded by pure, unadulterated romance. Is there no sanctuary for a hard-working rhythm section?"
The room sees right through him. They all know the truth: Nick is secretly thrilled. The last few months had been a terrifying tightrope walk, but Richard had quietly, patiently helped wean Syd off the heavy fog of Mandrax. With the band stepping back from heavy psychedelic sprees—trading the chaotic acid trips for dog-eared books on Zen Buddhism and quiet, grounding routines—the dark clouds have finally started to clear. Syd’s laughter is light again, genuine and sweet, and Nick wouldn't trade it for the world, no matter how much he pretends to grumble.
David bursts into a bright, melodious laugh from the couch, shifting slightly in Roger's arms to look over at the corner. "Watch it, Nicky," David calls out playfully, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Sounding awfully bitter over there. Are you trying to take the mantle for the cranky horseboy now?"
Roger lets out a low, rumbling laugh, nudging David's shoulder affectionately at the familiar nickname while Nick rolls his eyes, unable to keep his own affectionate smile from breaking through.