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Thom/Beck	By : VinylTap Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Radiohead Views: 2950 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not know Beck or any of the members of Radiohead. This story is a work of fiction, and I make no money or profit from it.

Chapter List
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Justin had worked with Beck’s dad since his late teens, David Campbell knew him almost better than his son had. David didn’t say a word when he walked into the studio late one evening to catch what appeared unmistakably like Justin and Beck making out.
You’d think Scientologists would be seven different kinds of against stuff like that, two guys and all, but it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like Beck never tried weed, either, you’re only human, after all. David very carefully turned on his heels, silently making his way down the hall to the office where he’d come to pick up some work.
It’s not like Justin was gay, either, and it wasn’t like he wasn’t also a Scientologist; it’s just that, turned out, feeling another guy’s cock against your own was really hot.
A singer had to know his bassist, after all.
This was before the two of them began work together, though, as far as records were concerned; they’d come to know each other far more intimately prior to that.
Justin would exchange knowing glances with Leigh, the two asking each other without any words which of them would get Beck that night. She’d watch them depart, hands loosely intertwined, Beck grinning boyishly at her from over his shoulder.
It got her so hot. He was simultaneously so humanly innocent and so cool about it all the while. Tell me what he did to you. Tell me how it got you hard.
Earlier that year, Beck was interviewed on Mtv, where Thurston Moore asked him a bunch of stuff Beck didn’t really wanna answer. What exactly is your real name, is it Beck? Were you Christened Beck?
Even though Thurston was six feet and six inches of unadulterated awesome, Beck wasn’t gonna tell him and the entire viewing public something so personal. He had good reason.
He passed it off as being quirky and high, and just tossed aside his shoe. It was the sort of thing they did on Mtv back then.
You know, where you’re from.
Who exactly you are.
I can’t seem to get any straight answers out of anybody who seems to know you.
But whose business was it anyway…?
It would be great to just tell Thurston everything, say my life is an open book, hang with him after and indulge in the pleasure that here Sonic Youth’s singer thought he was really happening.
It’s not that Bek Campbell had done anything wrong; it’s that people would think that he had.
“Would you get with him?” Leigh asked. They were at her apartment late on Friday night, lights out, her mattress not quite big enough for two.
Beck’s smile faded from whatever he was laughing about before.
“What?”
“Thurston Moore, would you?”
Silence.
“Leigh, I’m not like that, I don’t check out guys all the—”
“Cause I would.”
Silence.
Somewhere outside night birds were distantly calling. Sprinklers, a car now and then; he didn’t expect it to hurt like it did. In the dark, his eyes scanned the shadows over her face, the immaterial outline of her fist on the pillow.
Well— what girl wouldn’t? What was the big deal…? He wondered where the line was drawn between inside joke and too far, between experimenting and cheating, between just sex and falling in love.
She hadn’t said I want him instead of you, after all; she asked, would you?
Saying you know he’s married seemed stupid considering it were Beck’s own girlfriend who asked. She just had all these fantasies about him with these other guys, maybe it wasn’t so abnormal; he wasn’t sure why it stung so bad to hear her say she’d get with him. He kept waiting for her to take it back, or explain it somehow, or stutter, but she didn’t; it occurred to him he had no reason to expect her to. Yeah, it all got her hot, but he was the one getting with Justin and all— what she was saying, that was just fantasy.
But even when he tried to rationalize it, it still really hurt. He regarded her silently in the dark before his arms slowly came around her, he pulled her close to himself like a lost little boy. He could feel the thready cotton of her T-shirt on his cheek, she smelled like laundry detergent and cloth; he exhaled with relief when her hand came on his back.
“I would, for you,” he said.
He felt her fingers in his hair, maternal, consoling; he was really so attached to the people to whom he could open up. Maybe if he really behaved himself, she wouldn’t leave him for Thurston Moore.
***
Stanley Donwood was a man of the mountains. He’d spent the greater part of his adult life trekking across the Hewitts and Nuttalls of Wales, and descended through England ultimately to Oxford, where he’d first made his acquaintance with Thom in 1991.
He was not a man of many words, and was encased almost completely in furs and scraps of leather, you’d never know there was a man inside if not for the frost-bitten red of his cheeks. Thom was initially quite offended by a peace offering on Donwood’s part, because it consisted of a raw slab of beef brisket, and they’d not exchanged a word for a good two months after that until chance had them both on the blank side of an art canvas.
Thom had squinted at the twined bits of fur, swaying gray and thick in the cold English rain. He was angry inside about the animals that had to die for absolutely no reason, to whom that fur once belonged.
Trying to collaborate together on the art project into which they were very unfortunately forced had proved quite the challenge, as Stanley only ever wanted to paint mountains and mountainous parts.
Thom had no qualms about that in theory, but he felt inexplicably stubborn, because he wanted to give Stanley a hard time about something, and apparently this was gonna be it. Stanley seemed three times Thom’s size, and Thom sat across from him moodily, quietly glaring, defiant without anything to be really defiant about.
After once Thom had sat across from him glaring for a good hour and a half, Stanley finally looked up from over his work. Quite accustomed to being 5’6”— because that was as tall as Thom had ever got— he made a show of not caring about the difference in stature between them, just in case Stanley thought something of it— and proceeded to give him a piece of his mind about all the furs.
Thom had really thought this through, Stanely could tell, he’d invested honest time and effort into deciding exactly why he had thought stuff that was wrong was wrong. It offended him quite personally, and Stanley felt respect for that; he finally did away with all the furs.
***
Late afternoon was the best time of day, Chris Martin thought; that was when he had a few hours to himself after school, before his parents got home. He could turn the music way up, on his back on the bed, his fingers traced the picture on the cover of his favorite record with inhuman gentleness.
Such a brilliant color.
(On to chapter 22)
- 20
- 21
- 22
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Thom/Beck