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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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Come April, Radiohead were touring the States. Beck was still at the studio with the Dust Brothers, John and Mike, spending weeks on a single song at a time because of how much stuff they’d sampled into everything. You could get a Moog synthesizer for like sixty bucks at a pawn shop, so Beck kept getting them and using them till they broke.
You got used to seeing him emerge from the back seat of his car, walking slowly in reverse, gingerly pulling out this archaic contraption. He’d squint against the winter sun and balance the modular panel and all these wooden beams, and there was Beck with another one of those.
“It’s cool, you can leave it at my place,” Leigh had said one evening after she’d driven him back from the shop— because she could really use his company. She had a deadline coming up, and it did her good to have him around. She wanted to make him happy in return, she’d help him with his video, she promised, he wanted her to make ‘60s stuff.
Soon as this deadline was over, she would spend time specifically on that, she’ll make him look real cute. He didn’t understand why she didn’t want to just move in together, and he started to mumble about that, and she looked at him desperately from the driver’s seat, pleading without any words, please don’t start this tonight
He remained very sulky, but kept her company regardless. She let him set the synthesizer up in her living room, she let him watch TV, she let him play guitar while she worked. It helped her feel less intimidated about the weight of the presentation she had to give the next day, she really was very grateful. She was tempted to tell him about the ideas she’d had for the ‘60s stuff he asked for, but kept tight restraint on herself. Just one more day…
Just one more day. Beck lay on Leigh’s living room sofa, one hand picking absently at bare threads, acoustic guitar lain forgotten over his abdomen, listening to traffic out in the street. Staring up at the popcorn ceiling. Various events that transpired that day passing in and out of mind, he’d been on the verge of telling her about them, but remained quiet because she had to work.
She’d had some renewed confidence, this time she’d really gone out of her way; she’d paid attention to every detail, reviewed countless sources, made notes of any past faults where she might have been careless. Not this time, she won’t fuck it up now, she had displays printed at Kinko’s far in advance, the impressive kind, she would make up for her last presentation and convince her supervisor she had it in her after all.
Thom wasn’t much better for his recovery; he’d been emotionally exhausted as ever, and swore he was going deaf in both ears, but he’d not pleaded to Greaves any further for a long time. Despite it all he took renewed appreciation of his own competence, now that he felt physically well.
The band had got accommodations at a Holiday Inn at Boston. Colin and Jonny had grown weary of Thom’s moods and of the tour, itself, and took consolation in each other.
“He doesn’t sleep with me,” Jonny whispered to Colin, “he just falls asleep.”
They were lain face to face in the dark, late at night, Jonny’s bed large enough for both.
“I touch him and he just sleeps through it.”
“Every time?” Colin whispered back.
Jonny thought for a moment. “Not tried every time.”
The soft springs in the mattress shifted as Colin propped himself by one elbow, gazing in the dark over to the other side of the room, where the lump of Thom’s body was lain in the other bed.
“What is it you do to him exactly?” Colin asked.
Silence.
“How do you mean?”
“What do you do to him that he sleeps through?”
Jonny stared at his brother. He leaned in and gingerly brushed the hair from his neck; “You really want to know—”
There came no reply. Jonny moved forth and pressed his lips at the crook of Colin’s neck, the familiar warmth of flesh; Col’s fingers came consoling in his hair, much nicer than Thom.
“Well—” Colin’s voice came a little high, still in hushed tones, “he is very tired—”
“Suppose he is—” Jon whispered back.
Neither backed out. Colin pressed Jon back to his neck after that, it had been very nice. Thom had been in a real state for months now. His eyes met Colin’s in the dark room, he watched without a word as Jonny had at Col’s neck, and Colin hadn’t said a thing to Jon about it, because then he would stop, and Thom was clearly interested.
Behave yourself and I’ll keep it up, Colin seemed to say, and Thom might have nodded to indicate he understood, but he remained motionless as he watched, vastly curious as to how far this could go.
“He sleeps through this, the twat,” Colin whispered, deliberately challenging, eyes still on Thom, and Jonny meant to respond, but Coz took his face in both hands and kissed him, he knew now Thom was touching himself. Thom might have protested he can’t be held responsible for what he sleeps through if he’s bloody sleeping, but all this sulking and arguing would have to wait.
He’d wondered what else went on while he slept.
“Mate, take off my shirt,” Colin mouthed at Jonny’s ear, and Jonny stopped partway, like he were somehow confused. He felt Col’s hands come on his, insistent, “Just do it, like I’m him,” he whispered, and Jon hesitated before his eyes went big in a moment of clarity.
Completely frozen, he felt his hands numb beneath his brother’s. “He’s watching, isn’t he,” he mouthed, barely audible, and Colin saw him inwardly panic.
“Don’t look at him, just do as I say—”
“Bollocks, why’s he watching now?”
“Jonny, fuck’s sake, just— just take off my shirt—”
“Well don’t stop now,” Thom finally said in frustration, “it was just getting nice—”
“Oh— oh, for—” Colin sputtered, lying back down and rubbing hard at his eyes.
Jonny stared bewildered from Colin to Thom and back, not at all having planned for this sort of scenario in advance. “Reckon we should go on, Cozzie,” he asked after some consideration, and finally now he was tugging at Col’s shirt, and Thom muttered, “Yes,” and Colin muttered, “Piss off,” and Jonny was still wrestling with the shirt, having concluded it was worthwhile.
Colin raised his arms half-assedly in defeat as to at least allow him that, at least it put Thom in good spirits, Thom was now sat up in bed and touching himself without shame.
“You are such a fucking pervert,” Colin remarked after his shirt had come off, and Thom was unbothered. “You lot started it,” he helpfully pointed out.
--
For once, justice had smiled unto those most deserving: Chris Martin scored tickets to a show in the States, and not just any tickets— pit tickets. He would have to miss a week of classes , but mercifully not near term exams, and Thom Yorke was worth the sacrifice. They were both intellectuals, of this Chris was certain, and he reflected introspectively on the intellectual benefit he’d gain from just this experience alone. That, and also it would be cool to go see America, probably.
--
Leigh’s presentation had failed utterly. She’d been tactfully warned she was dangerously near dismissal, and it hit her very hard. She was only twenty-five. She remained professional at work and didn’t break out in tears till she was safely in the privacy of her car, parked far from prying eyes. It might not have hurt so much had she not been so certain she’d done well. Had she not invested her heart and soul into work, had she not prioritized it over everything else. She didn’t want to believe she was just no good at what she’d dreamt her whole life to become.
It was fantastically humbling, but she felt obligated to tell those closest to her, like an admittance of guilt, this is what I am. She told her dad and her mom, she told Beck. She tried to make it sound like she hadn’t been crying, like her nose weren’t still stuffed, like she already had a plan for when they fired her, she would go back and ask what exactly went wrong, so she could learn from her mistakes. All the while, though, what courage she had was entirely shaken; she would force herself forth on broken legs.
Beck had been at the studio that evening when he heard. “I’ve gotta go,” he said to John, one arm already into his jeans jacket, he started to buckle his guitar into its case.
“What’s up?” John swiveled partway in his office chair, and Beck muttered about something having come up, he was bothered, and now John was concerned. Beck had caught on to that, he stopped partway mid-stride out of the room, impatient. “It’s cool,” he said, “nothing— nothing major, I’ll be back tomorrow, I just have to stop for today.”
“I’m sorry,” he added after some thought.
Leigh wouldn’t cry to him, she was too proud. She was enough humiliated by how things panned out, he knew, he thought at first she wasn’t home when he showed up at her place. She hadn’t answered the door straight away because she’d been on the phone with her mom, Beck could tell she’d tried to pull herself together from some emotional thing she’d meant to conceal.
“Listen, I need you,” he said, forcing composure, aiming for credibility, he took her by the wrist and walked her to the small kitchen table. “You said you’d have time after your project, well, I need your help for this video, right, you’re free now—”
She was entirely out of sorts inside. He could tell, she was confused, she was fighting for calm and coming apart at the seams. “Not now, dude, I can’t—”
“Now, I need you now,” he said, “You have to help me—”
Her hair was a mess. She was still in her work clothes, with her blouse sort of wrinkled, some buttons undone, pins partway out of her hair, cause she’d lain down and cried on the phone to her mother.
“I can’t help you, I suck, you heard what I—”
“Shh— dude, come on— ”
He reached over and took her face with both hands. There were dark circles under her eyes that she’d done a good enough job hiding with makeup during the day, but you could see them now well enough. She’d hardly slept the night before; she was really exhausted.
Beck’s eyes darted across her face, she seemed so tired. She wasn’t gonna sleep tonight, either, cause she was gonna stay up punishing herself mentally for how much she sucked. “You said you’d help me, right,” he said, “And you’re done with your thing now, right?”
“Get someone else to help you,” she mumbled, her cheeks a little squished by his hands. Now she was self-deprecating.
“I don’t want someone else, I like your style.”
“You’re just saying that cause I’m fucking you.”
“I’m fucking you because I like your style. Besides, I wouldn’t ask you to design the wardrobe for my video otherwise.”
“Dude, I can’t do that—”
“Punkass, you said you would.”
“That was before—”
“You promised!”
“I—”
Traffic swishing outside, teenagers on skateboards, opening and shutting of a car door, discordant chatter. Beck kissed Leigh hard, hands tight on her cheeks. He didn’t go easy on her, that would be condescending.
His lips clung to hers, breath hot, eyelashes flickering. “Come on,” he whispered, voice low, forehead to forehead, fingertips at her temples. “You gonna whore me out, do it proper.”
But it was condescending; this was charity. She didn’t want to succeed by virtue of her man— like Beck, she liked doing things her own way. But you can’t make it anywhere if you don’t whore yourself out at least a little.
Beck had always meant well; it would be dirty of her to turn this down, even if it were charity. She would help him, because he wanted to do this for her. But, she thought inwardly, she would die before her career would be based on how well her boyfriend’s career was going. She wanted to succeed independently of him.
“Who the hell said I’m succeeding?” Beck asked, and Leigh felt terrible that it came to that. “I never said I don’t want you to. Of course I want you to.”
“I’m like, a one-hit wonder,” Beck said.
“You’re not a one-hit wonder. That’s just what pop radio—”
“And that’s just what your supervisor said.”
“They don’t even think I have one hit.”
“Yeah, I know how that feels, too, you know that.”
“Yeah.”
They sat quietly, Beck’s large hands in Leigh’s small ones, knees interwoven. The low hum of the fridge, halogen ceiling lights.
“Yeah, okay, let’s do your thing,” she said, feeling tremendously guilty, like it were somehow criminal for someone incompetent as she were to work on design after all she’d been told by highers-up that day.
She looked tiredly into his face, his red cheeks, his dark stubble, he’d been looking down at where her hands closed on his; she said, “You really are a good person.” She was almost tempted to say they could move in together because she knew how happy he’d be— but she knew self-restraint. It would be an emotional impulse, and would still carry the same problems, you can’t make big life decisions like that.
“I really love you,” she said, and Beck’s long arms came all around her, really just a child, himself. She had no idea how lost he’d be without her.
(On to Chapter 37)
- 35
- 36
- 37
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Thom/Beck