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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
- 36
- 37
- 38
Rehearsal had gone surprisingly well; Thom was disconcertingly optimistic, or maybe he’d just been taken over by a flighty good mood. He was sat over his amp with one leg folded, grinning like he was up to trouble while he played. Like the sound of his own voice was refreshing to him, now that he could sing again. He’d been tremendously humbled by his night at the ER, maybe he wanted to prove his own competence to himself, unknowingly.
“Come play with me, Jonny,” he sang, now stood with his guitar and pacing idly to the mic, and Jonny looked up from over some keyboards he’d been arranging at the side of the stage. Phil was helping the techs nearby to position the stands and equipment, he was inwardly glad Thom hadn’t got the rest of them ill; whatever he’d had was not to be envied. Jonny unfolded himself from behind his various tables and wires, hair shimmering black, shirt not reaching quite far down enough to cover the whole of his abdomen.
He grinned when Thom began humming along to his own songs, playfully strumming, eyes closed. Jonny had joined him at the mic after strapping on his guitar and beginning to tune it.
I am hungry again, I am drunk again…
Phil glanced up, hands in a blue crate filled with parts of what claimed itself to be a stand for his drum set, Thom’s voice came fluid and clear. He’d really got over his illness, he’d motioned for Jon to get closer, but Jonny was shy of nearing the mic so much, it was bad enough that he were so tall; but Thom kept telling him to move closer, and Jonny grinned under his hair. He was content at least to be playing.
He’d got Colin to play with him last night because Thom liked to watch, and Colin succumbed to it begrudgingly, like whatever game he’d been playing was spoiled once Thom had let on he’d watched. Colin had told Thom he was shite at whatever he was doing, even as he kissed him, even as he tugged him by the collar of his shirt in a way that was somehow still tasteful.
Coz had not yet graced the others with his presence, he and Ed were still up at the hotel, but Thom wasn’t bothered by that, either. This show would go well, he felt it. He’d gained inexplicable courage, spontaneously, tonight he’d been meant to perform.
He sang boldly into the mic, absently picking at strings, head rolling, and Jonny strummed at his side, shyly adventurous under the swing of his hair. Thom grinned at him knowingly as he sang, dancing a little in place, like there wasn’t enough weight in him to keep him still; Jonny thought he still could taste him, from what they’d done the night before.
Colin and Jonny fighting for a go.
Colin with his hand on Jonny’s hand, guiding, like this. Thom and Colin slinging swears at each other all the while, telling each other how terrible they each were in bed, fighting for dominance. It was brilliant, Jonny had thought, because he’d always fancied being included in these taunting exchanges he’d witnessed between them, and now, there he were.
“Oi, Philip,” Colin said as he finally joined the others on stage, “What’s this you’ve got in your bag?”
He had a small, whitish cardboard box in one hand, with blue swirls and red writing, Thom had glanced over his shoulder.
Phil appeared to be collaborating with one of the techs on installing a set of modular parts for his drums. “Don’t eat that,” he said, “American thing, very bad for you.”
“Are those Ho-Hos?” Jonny quietly asked, and Thom didn’t need to look before he was on about how it was garbage. Definitely not vegan food. Colin was already partway through prying open the box, he appeared to have commandeered the Ho-Hos for himself, with Phil’s unspoken permission.
“America…!” he called with his mouth full, and Phil snickered, and Thom laughed while singing, and Jonny turned partway around to ask if he could have one.
--
Beck led Leigh by the hand into the bathroom, the narrow linoleum space obstructed even further by the laundry basket and trash can next to that, they had a sliver of area in front of the counter and sink.
“Show me, what are you gonna do to me?” he asked, voice low and gentle, his eyes wandered to his own reflection, where he began fixing his hair.
She was compelled to sulk and say she didn’t know, but tried hard to focus on helping. It felt criminal to think about it every time she tried— but despite it her work was her passion, even after all the reprimands, and it was curiously consoling in that regard. There was tenderness in her hands that came inevitable because Beck wasn’t a model or mannequin or even a client, he was hers—
She reached upward and carefully gathered his hair, fingers combing, it had got a bit wet with a drizzle of rain; she knew just whose hair she’d cut it like, but she wondered if she could really go through cutting it. For a ‘60s look, she’d have to make it shorter. Beck glanced sideward at his reflection. “This just looks like a ponytail.”
“I’m not gonna do a ponytail,” she said, “that would look really dumb.”
“I could be like Willie Nelson.”
“Ew, no way.” She turned him a bit as to face the mirror fully, still holding his hair. “We can cut it like this, here—” she said, reaching upward to indicate, “leave it like a bit long here— kinda Beach Boys-like—”
The prospect of having his hair cut shorter freaked Beck out, but Leigh had regained a bit of confidence, so he was willing to let her. “Let’s wait on that for the video, though,” she said, “let’s not do that yet.” It came as both disappointment and relief to him. She let his hair fall out of her hands, it swung down to his chin, where he brushed his fingers through to straighten it out.
They always seemed a bit funny together; Beck was much taller, but he really seemed very young beside her, even though they were the same age. That’s why he’d look so cute in a suit, she thought, shakily aware of inadvertent optimism.
“What else you gonna do to me?” he asked, and she tugged at the sleeves of his jacket, he helpfully pulled it off, he had an orange shirt that said Reese’s in yellow. “Nothing till the video,” she said, the rain came low outside, tapping tin pipes one floor down. “Then I’ll put you in a suit and tie.”
Beck smirked. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Swanky.”
His hands were infinitely gentle in her hair. He smoothed it attentively, carefully picking out the pins that came partway loose before. He kissed her forehead, and her eyes, where her makeup had run, where her skin had gone brittle and pale with so little sleep.
Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.
She was too tired to protest, though she disliked feeling vulnerable; she would have to be back at work the next morning, best not get too comfortable tonight. You’ll get there one way or another, Beck thought, even if they do fire you. You still have to buy me that house, remember…?
She batted tiredly at his fingers, but he gently persisted, let me, he whispered, carefully sliding her hands away, he walked her backward to the closed bathroom door, trapped somewhere in the small confines of space, and kissed her cheek, and kissed her neck; he didn’t know how to hold her delicately enough, though she would tell him she wasn’t delicate at all.
(On to Chapter 38)
Poem: Somewhere I Have Never Travelled, Gladly Beyond (E. E. Cummings)
Song: How Can You Be Sure by Radiohead (Just EP 1995)
- 36
- 37
- 38
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Thom/Beck