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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
- 33
- 34
- 35
Maybe Leigh and Beck couldn’t score tickets to the Radiohead show, but Chris Martin lucked out— that is, he couldn’t score tickets to a show anywhere near him, cause those were all sold out— but he was excited as fuck to get ones for the Sheffield date. Even if it meant traveling all the way up there. This was gonna be brilliant, he was already having his buddies Simon Pegg and Jonny Buckland clear up their schedules, cause they were coming, too, cause they just had to see this guy sing, he was a fucking genius.
--
Leigh had told Justin to whore Beck out, so he got some dude named Nigel Godrich on the phone and asked if he could make it to Lollapalooza in July. It had nothing to do with Radiohead’s tour, Nigel was the guy who produced The Bends, according to the insert in The Bends. Justin was gonna be there, anyway, cause he was gonna back up Beck on bass, cause Justin had nothing better to do at the time.
Well, Thom’s schedule for the next six months was laid out just as grimly as Beck’s, but fuck all if Nigel knew where exactly the band would be touring come July— he was their record producer, not their bloody manager. Nigel, though, maybe he could make it. It sounded like a lot of fun if only it weren’t on the other fucking side of the planet, and if it didn’t cost as much as it did— but, yeah, Justin didn’t ask if the band wanted to come, he asked Nigel.
So that hopefully Nigel would go tell the band about it. If he’d been in actual contact with them for the past two weeks, that was.
“See, it’s not I’m Beck so I can go,” Justin reasoned with Leigh, “It’s I fucked the singer so I can go.”
“Who says he gets to go?”
“I kinda wanna go,” Justin said, “their record’s pretty good.”
“Who says you get to go?”
“I didn’t say I get to go, I said I kinda wanna go.”
Leigh leaned back in her office chair. It wasn’t that big a deal, really, there were a lot of shows they wanted to make— some they didn’t have time for, some they couldn’t afford, some where they just couldn’t be bothered— but she really got into the idea of doing Beck’s look.
She wasn’t so much up for whoring Beck out for concert tickets as she was up for whoring him out to the listening public; behind every cutely-dressed guy there’s some significant other who dressed him that way, and in Beck’s case it was a designer. She wondered how much he’d let her do, she just didn’t have the heart to cut his hair, but she’d sketched up so much stuff—
“Boy scout, I dig that,” Beck said as he leaned over her, neon green flyers in one hand that someone had stuck under his windshield wiper. Leigh gasped, quickly slamming both hands down on the sketch and covering it badly, she leaned forth toward it as well for good measure. “Don’t!” She squeaked, “I’m not done!”
She hadn’t really meant that sketch, that was just… artists got ideas, and ideas came out on paper, and boy scout came out.
Beck snickered, he leaned over her and got his hand under her hands to grab the sketch, gentle enough so it won’t wrinkle, hard enough to make her aware she’d lost.
He held it high over his head, she twisted partway toward him in her chair with visible dissatisfaction, already muttering explanations and excuses.
Beck tilted his head up so he could view the paper the way he held it so high, lips parted, eyes darting. “Yeah, that’s cool, let’s do this—”
“No!”
“Too late, punk, you came up with this.”
That was so not the epitome of all she came up with.
She got up on her chair, made a few tries for it before he gave it back, then she smacked him hard on the arm and told him to go make noise or whatever it was that he did for a living. Truth be told, she was spending too much time on this new pet project of dolling Beck up. She really couldn’t afford to do something like this that was really for pleasure, there was too much to do for work.
But Beck totally egged her on. He loved crazy shit. At times he’d get inexplicably wrapped up in the colors in his mind, like a kid on a sugar high who didn’t know what he was gonna do next. He’d pause mid-stage, breathless, looking out like a dog waiting for you to just throw the ball already. He was freaked out of the prospect of having his look changed for him, but was awfully curious about it all the while.
He’d get these ideas, like while out on the freeway, or while playing something or falling asleep, like how the video for this would go.
“There would be like— three robots— here—” he would indicate to Joey Waronker, demonstrating with both hands midair, “—like— out on this porch, right—”
“Like those cheap toys from the dollar store?”
“Yeah! yeah— like that—”
He was totally sampling the fuck out of that Barbie, too. There was this one line that came out at random where she was all, I know… let’s…get pizza…after school on Friday…with my sister! — And it was just perfect, it was exactly what needed to go just at the end of some song, Beck still wasn’t certain which. Justin and Mike kept saying they won’t get away with it, but Beck thought maybe if it were really subtle, would Mattel corporate heads really listen to his stuff…?
--
“I told you I’m fucking ill…!” Thom croaked defiantly from Colin’s bottom bunk, he’d not bothered trying to climb to the top cause he’d got dizzy just standing upright. Jonny stood at the Bedside, hands on hips, looking at Colin expectantly like it was his doing and he was meant to recompense the damage.
Thom couldn’t sing, that was for sure; he’d been sick all morning and up till afternoon, until he was throwing up pure stomach acid and dry heaving after that.
“It’s this fucking tour…!” He said, then stopped partway into the next bit of his speech, because he felt too crap to go on; he only lay back with one forearm over his eyes to shield out the light the blinds weren’t doing much of a job obscuring.
There issued nearby sounds of footsteps on the bus stairs, Phil had climbed up, visibly worried, like he could see this really was bad. They really would have to cancel the show, the day of. Thom really looked shite.
He was swallowing dryly, you could see the bony square of his mandible move from where his forearm ended, where still he was shielding his eyes. There were sheets partway tangled round his legs, he was in his day clothes, shoes off, like he’d at least managed that before collapsing on the first bed he’d reached. Jonny felt like taking care of him. Because Jonny was being daft, and not getting it into his head that there was nothing romantic about being ill— but when you’re feeling well, taking care of someone you fancy who’s sick sounds as pink and flowery as why don’t we move in together.
Thom didn’t see anything cute about it; he mostly just wanted to keel over and die. He certainly didn’t fancy himself sexy and fit after having thrown up all morning, in front of everyone. The weight of having to cancel a show for real, the day of, felt heavy and overbearing, like he was asking himself whether he really wasn’t having second thoughts— as if there was anything he could do.
--
Chris Martin stared absently at his beer coaster with lingering shock. He and his two mates from uni had taken the train all the way up from London, he’d planned the entire past two weeks round this show. He’d thought Buckland was having a laugh when first he’d said what the barman told him— Sheffield show’s off. Three hours prior to the show.
It was like Chris’ informal induction to the harshness of reality, the pivotal loss of his innocence. “But why?” he mouthed, in what to him was eloquent rhetoric, and Buckland muttered something over his drink, lead singer had the stomach flu, couldn’t go on.
“Mate, you sure?” Chris gazed brokenly from the beer he’d never touched, fingers tracing watery lines on the frosted glass.
But why would fate toy so callously with a hard-working honor student such as himself?
He shook his head, musing philosophically on the burden of coming of age.
--
Leigh wasn’t as weak as you’d think, being short and all. She got a good grip on Justin when he walked in through the kitchen entrance, she shouted to Beck, “Now, get in here…!”
Beck darted in in his socks like an eight-year-old on Christmas morning, cheeks flushed, hair flailing, the floor rattled with impact from the pounding of his feet.
“Jesus, what in fuck—” Justin twisted most of one arm out of Leigh’s grip by the time Beck skidded across the kitchen floor from the other direction, cause it had two entrances— Leigh gave Justin a good smack on the ass for good measure before Beck got to him, she was still catching her breath by the time she let go, hair in a mess partway out of her ponytail, then Justin and Beck were doing something that approximated wrestling, until Beck got him with his face to the wall.
“Go, Beck…!” Leigh was cheering for him, also she was on to the fridge for some orange juice.
“What, is that orange juice?” Justin sort of asked, he couldn’t really see from that angle, and his next question about real or from concentrate? never fully made it out because Beck had got one hand on his mouth and one knee between his thighs, and he was trying to keep him up against the wall with his abdomen while wrestling with his belt.
“Leigh, you suck,” Justin muttered, but he wasn’t exactly not enjoying this; he was quite interested in finding out whether he could win.
“Thanks Leigh, I owe you one,” Beck was breathless, he’d successfully got Justin’s jeans partway off, but it was really hard keeping him tight up to the wall and making any headway in that regard. “Help me, he’s moving too much—”
Leigh really just wanted to lean back against the counter and enjoy, but Justin was amusingly good at whatever it took to get away from the grip Beck had him in, so she set her orange juice down and came over to help.
“That is not fair, you can’t gang up on me, that’s two against one.”
“It’s my apartment, though,” Leigh said, “so I get to gang up on people.”
“That’s a bullshit excuse and you know— hey…!”
“Now, Beck, now…!”
Leigh had a good grip on Justin’s boxers and got them down to his knees in one hard pull, Beck was rapidly fumbling with his own belt, having forgotten all about that.
“God damn it, Beck, don’t you plan for this shit!” Leigh muttered.
“You guys are both dead, Beck, I’m having my girlfriend beat you up tomorrow—” Justin said, and Beck murmured back that that’s not till tomorrow, and he’d just barely managed to get his member partway out of his boxers in time.
But Justin was totally smiling, he was saying something that came muffled but sounded like don’t you have something like vegetable oil or— don’t just—
“Leigh, can you—” Beck’s voice came breathless, Justin was still struggling, even while he was giving suggestions on how to do it to him better.
“Yeah, cooking oil, right—” she said, spinning around and heading for the pantry. Teamwork at its best. She tossed it over to Beck, the cap was all sticky and oily but he’d managed to get it off, and it splashed all over and Justin cursed him; and Beck swore, too, because he’d got it on his own clothes that were mostly still on, and Leigh was on about how it was Justin’s own suggestion.
“God, just— just shut up already—” Beck told everyone, he’d got oil everywhere, but also on himself, and he’d got a good enough grip on Justin that he could get himself properly in. “Oh— oh, fuck, that’s awesome—” he muttered, and Leigh cheered, and Justin went quiet, because it really did feel awesome. A few moments passed before he remembered to tell them both to go fuck themselves, and Beck murmured, “Dude, you’re not even that much taller.”
“I’m way taller.”
“Whatever.”
--
REM has had to cancel not one show, but nearly their entire tour that winter— because Bill Berry, their drummer, didn’t just have the stomach flu; he’d got far sicker than that, and that was life. Michael Stipe was lain strewn on his living room sofa, TV on, Family Matters reruns. He had The Bends turned over in one hand and was reading the back; this record really wasn’t bad.
(On to Chapter 35)
Super Talk Barbie by Mattel (TM 1994)
- 33
- 34
- 35
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Thom/Beck