Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

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
- 1
- 2
- 3
Jonny’s thumb trailed with careful attention along the stubble on Thom’s neck, almost with concern; he really was going for the homeless look, wasn’t he—were torn jeans and old sneakers not enough? Did they have to one-up themselves as far as making a point of how much about image they weren’t?
“Don’t you start with him when he gets here,” Thom warned, finger admonishing. “Nothing about how ace his last show was. Bloody fanboy.”
Jonny grinned, thumb still moving along Thom’s stubble, saying nothing about the homeless look and nothing about Mister Scientology. That Thom and Jonny were fucking was news to no one. No one. They did it behind no one’s back, because everyone knew, and everyone understood.
Beck’s last show was ace, though. Jonny realized he’d been meaning to tell Beck, now that the opportunity came, but he knew Thom was probably right. He let Thom open the door when Mister Scientology came, and only smiled meekly from behind him as the two singers scowled at each other.
Beck had called Thom a friend when he asked him on stage in 2002 to do a duet of I’m Set Free, and explained to the wailing audience that his friend was a little jetlagged. That was before Beck explained to the world that he’d been practically born into Scientology and had more or less grown up surrounded by it. Jonny Jon had still said Beck was an incredible artist; Thom thought ideals mattered more.
Beck thought privacy mattered more than that.
Also, Beck had always been one for style, and if his stuff made it into Twilight films or his logo was branded on the backs of iPods, he didn’t really care. That pissed Thom off, too. Beck just sort of pissed him off a lot lately, but he’d been willing to forgive stuff up till the Church bit. Beck was just waiting to hear him say it. What the hell did Thom know? Whose business was it anyway?
Radiohead was an irritatingly self-righteous band. It was awesome when you agreed with their opinions, and it sucked when you didn’t, because you wanted to love them either way. You wanted to love Beck, too, and it became hard when you didn’t agree with him, either. Maybe that partly was why he hadn’t said anything for so long—but did he really owe it to his fans?
Did he really owe it to Thom? Did he get to say I thought we were friends when Thom saw betrayal between them, because Beck never told him he’d always been part of a cult—and did Beck get to act offended when Thom called it that, considering Beck never really talked about stuff that was so personal—
Either way, it had made things ugly, the sort of ugly that made them both very quietly mad, neither daring to open the can of worms that would have them at each other’s throats.
Come get your fucking phone, it was written all over Thom’s face, and he really was looking crazier than usual. Behind his shoulder, Jonny couldn’t help but grin, apologizing without any words for what Thom hadn’t said aloud. Beck could tell he’d hear them arguing later after he’d left, from the balcony below.
This was why you didn’t tell people things.
“That’s a good look for you,” Jonny said as a gentle peace offering, hands coming to the sides of his own face as to indicate Beck’s long hair. Before Beck could respond, Thom chimed in without missing a beat,
“Stunning, reckon he’ll autograph our tits?”
Beck’s eyebrows rose as he let out a sigh, one hand running through his hair. “Listen, can I…” he made a motion with his finger toward the room, and Thom stepped aside as to let him in. He could hear Jonny whisper to Thom behind him, “That not a bit much—”
Thom remained at the entrance, arms crossed moodily over his chest as he watched the other singer proceed to the balcony.
Truth was, Beck looked nice from behind. He’d not put on a pound of weight since he first set foot on stage, and his long hair had a gentle swing that looked almost natural, if only it weren’t so Hollywood blond. But image was bollocks, and Thom had the half-beard to prove it.
“He didn’t do it specifically to irritate you,” Jonny whispered, and Thom glared, arms still crossed. He began whispering to Jonny about all the horrible things the Church did, counting on his fingers, getting really into it.
“I can hear you,” Beck called from not too far off, where he was uselessly trying to arrange the broken pieces of his once-phone into nothing in particular in his hands.
“Can you?” Thom asked with mock amusement, and Jonny whispered to him, “He’s done nothing now.”
Thom had always been moody. He’d always been a little crazy, but he was really such a good guy, or believed that he was, or had really tried his best to be. If you went to a Beck show, your money may well be going to support the Church, he said, and Beck held his tongue and never argued that it wasn’t a cult but a religion, but he didn’t argue the other way, either, and didn’t really talk very much about it at all— and that irritated Thom, too.
Truth was, Beck thought Radiohead put on an amazing show. He’d covered them a little now and again, but switched to Debra after that. He’d have liked to still be friends—but he’d have liked a lot of things. Either way, there were things he couldn’t afford to tell; not everything was about what other people thought, after all.
1994 was only yesterday. Beck was a loser at twenty-four; Thom was a creep at twenty-six. And the world had no idea how awesome either of them was going to get. They made out backstage because Thom liked experimenting and Beck was a little drunk, the both of them wondering if this was what rock stars did, now that they were actually recording music and being interviewed on Mtv. It was before Thom became untouchably famous, and the official spokesperson for tree-hugging and peace; and before Beck realized there ever would come a time that he’d have to become serious, instead of mocking what serious was.
He’d always been serious, truth be told; you don’t make yourself heard in the music industry without trying time and again and again, and it hadn’t been easy for Beck. He’d been serious and odd since childhood, he started singing crazy lines because no one paid attention if he didn’t.
Making out with another dude was gay, but whatever Thom’s hand was doing under his shirt felt really nice. He called Thom a fag even as he pressed his hips hard into him, hard, because for some reason feeling another guy’s cock against your own was really hot. Fag wasn’t really what English people used to describe what the both of them were acting like, but Thom was too into it to explain to Beck properly. He laughed against his mouth, such the good guy even then.
Nigel Godrich gave a sideward glance, hand coming over Colin Greenwood’s eyes; Don’t look now, that’s artists at work. Colin chuckled, flicking his cigarette still burning to the earth, who was that grungy kid Thom was getting with? From that angle, Colin couldn’t make out if he was fit or not.
“What’s your trailer like?” Thom asked, voice breathless and low, before he ever started singing so high-pitched. He was already stroking Beck openly, the coarse sound of fabric issuing from somewhere below, biting Beck’s lip and sounding so English. “Cause my trailer’s got two other guys in it, so unless you like an audience…”
Beck laughed, helpless against his ministrations, hips moving of their own accord to meet Thom’s hand. “No way, man,” he said, eyes fluttering shut, “I’m not taking you in my trailer. To do…God… only… knows what—”
The last word came in a momentary gasp, and Thom leaned in very close, lips moving just at Beck’s ear, “Or I could get you off here in the open, your call.”
“Yeah, okay—”
Beck barely managed, “It’s—it’s that way—”
It took him a few moments to orient himself as to where exactly that way was, but after that he was breathlessly doing his fly, frustrated, wet and hard behind the restraint of his jeans, and he tried not to think about what he was really agreeing to do.
Thom’s face was flushed. Yeah, it was frustrating, but there was something about the exhilaration of moments before that made it all fun, when they got in Beck’s trailer, Thom asked if he could roll them a joint. Beck snickered and hit Thom on the shoulder, his mom never let him do that, and Thom had a field day making fun of him when he heard.
Several fuck yous later, Beck finally did roll them one, and Thom laughed that he’d call up his mom and tell on him, and also he pushed him back on the sofa, joint still in hand, taking a long draw even while he held the other singer down.
“You owe me one,” Beck said, now reaching to take the joint back from Thom, and he had a long, quiet draw.
“Ever go all the way with another bloke?” Thom asked, and Beck nearly choked on his joint. “No,” he said, with so much emphasis that Thom could tell he meant no as in no way in hell am I doing that, while no I have not gone all the way with another bloke went without saying.
“Me neither,” there came the reply, and Beck could tell he meant but I’m curious.
They regarded each other for several moments without saying a word, before it occurred to both they’d gone too long without going back to what they were doing before. It was Beck who pulled Thom in, joint burning forgotten between his fingers off on the side of the couch. He held him tight by the collar, too tight, but Thom let him. His bleached yellow hair fell on either side of Beck’s face when they kissed, and no matter how fucked up Beck kept saying it was, he kept going, because he was curious, too.
And kissing another bloke was actually really nice. Or maybe it was the joint. Or maybe it was the fact that they actually had trailers, and were actually sort of famous, and had both finally gotten their break.
They already were clumsily disrobing each other, laughing, sort of kissing, Thom’s slender legs gracelessly entangled in Beck’s because there wasn’t nearly enough room on the couch to be doing the totally gay things they were sort of doing and sort of not.
“How far have you gone with a guy, then,” Beck asked, genuinely curious, and Thom snickered, one eyebrow arched as he finally got Beck out of his shirt (wasn’t easy, joint and all).
“Not telling you,” he said, then gave him a look of incredulity, because Beck had a much hairier chest than you’d think. He could tell by the look Beck was giving him that he was trying to gauge how far. Thom was much less hairy; they were both very thin.
“Then you’re probably no good at it,” Beck concluded, now reaching to pull at the other boy’s shirt.
“Then you’re definitely no good at it,” there came the reply, and the fuck you that came after that never fully made it past Beck’s lips, because they were at it again, Thom barely getting his shirt off before they were kissing.
(On to chapter 3)
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Thom/Beck