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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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- 24
At around 1 PM, Channing walked into the kitchen in his pajamas, rubbing sleepily at his eyes and headed in the general direction of the fridge.
He didn’t live with their mom anymore, either.
“Dude, shouldn’t you be at, you know, work—” Beck mumbled around his spoon, still helping Lucky on his journey through the maze.
Channing stood before the open fridge, hair still sticking oddly to one side in what must have been an impression of his pillow. He stared absently inward as though trying to figure out what he was doing there in the first place.
He turned his head toward Beck, thought for a moment, closed the fridge door, and then proceeded to the table. “Oh, you have the cereal,” he said in a moment of clarity, pulling a chair out and taking the box from his brother. Beck’s hand remained midair where once he was holding the box. He watched Channing fumble with the plastic bag inside, then stick his hand in.
He regarded him with disgust, but that was kid brothers for ya. “Dude, at least get a bowl,” he said, as Channing now began picking out the marshmallows and eating only them, the other bits falling here and there between his fingers.
“Hear it’s going well with Gizmo and Mike,” Channing said, referring to the Dust Brothers, who were helping Beck with production.
“Yeah, it’s all right.” Beck held up his spoon and tipped the bowl to his mouth for the milk. “How come you’re here?”
“How come you are?”
“Dunno.”
“Mom treat you better than Leigh?”
“Fuck off.”
“Better than Justin?”
“That’s it—”
Beck punched Channing on the arm the way only brothers did: much harder than the crime warranted, and without remorse.
The cereal spilled out of Channing’s hand, there issued the scrape of chair legs on linoleum as both scooted back, and within moments they were tugging and pulling at each other as though they weren’t twenty-four and twenty-two, but ten and eight.
“Ow! Ow, get off me…!” Channing squeaked beneath Beck when he’d been pinned on the floor, Beck had one of his arms twisted behind him, hair disheveled in his face and triumphantly panting.
“If I hear one more fag joke—”
“Fag! Fa—ow…!”
Off by the fridge, the phone began ringing; both brothers looked up. Chan used the opportunity now that Beck was distracted to try and make a break for it, but Beck gripped him in time. He pulled him gracelessly from the floor, arm still behind his back, other arm round his front, and dragged him to where the phone was without letting him go. This too was a very brotherly thing.
Channing struggled and cursed all the while, and Beck pressed one hand over his mouth as he answered the phone. He made a show of sounding extra polite and civil, fighting to hold Chan in place.
It was someone calling for their mom. Beck was taking a message, fighting to keep Chan in place as he reached for a notepad and batted it closer, lips pursed, well-practiced at this from years of experience.
Channing bit his hand. Beck elbowed him in the abdomen. Chan curled momentarily in pain, then kicked Beck in the shin. Beck dodged. He had Channing against the counter, and didn’t let go even after hanging up.
“Who are you jealous about, which one of them?” Beck asked, out of breath, voice strained.
Channing snickered even as he struggled to get free. “Justin, obviously, boy has it going on…”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, he does, doesn’t he.”
“Send him to my pad, tell him I’m better than you.”
Channing gave a spasm of attempt at escape, but Beck was well-versed at this sort of thing, he’d been blocking his brother since before either of them started school.
“Are you really?” Beck asked.
“Really what?”
Silence.
The fridge humming. The clock on the wall. Stuff you don’t hear until you pay attention. The mailbox out in front of the house coming open and closed, the mail truck driving away.
“Who are you jealous about, really?” Beck asked.
A garage door opening somewhere down the street, the definitive thud when it came to a halt.
Through the kitchen window, you could vaguely see them turn toward each other, Beck’s long hair sliding forth and obscuring Chan’s face.
***
For John Leckie’s personal benefit, Thom had helpfully clarified exactly what forms of cruelty the harvesting of silk entailed. “And it’s not even something you need, really,” he said, “it’s all just bollocks.”
His eyes glittered with genuine frustration.
John wondered if getting Thom talking about veganism was a good or bad thing— that is, whether it would alleviate tensions or just make them worse. He didn’t want anyone going in the auxiliary room, where Jonny had closed himself up with his equipment all morning, and vague sounds were heard if you walked past. He could tell a number of them had got visibly frustrated with Jon, who didn’t seem stirred that he was taking much longer than anyone anticipated to get his sound the way he liked.
“Jonny, it’s fine,” Nigel seethed through his teeth, three rooms away from where Jonny was actually working, where he couldn’t hear. Ed sighed, running one hand through his hair as he leaned on the sofa, murmuring under his breath about how they’ll never get anything done at this rate. They were all very careful not to bring too much attention to it, because no one wanted to deal more with Thom than they already had; even he appeared to grow exhausted with himself.
Thom’s attention appeared momentarily taken when Colin began saying something about Jonny and all his wires, and John quickly spoke up before Thom could respond,
“That’s terrible,” he said, “do they have to kill the larva, though? Can’t they just wait for it to leave the cocoon and take the silk then?”
Thom turned back to John, distracted. “That’s not the larva, that’s the pupa. And they can’t because—”
He was distracted again, head turning dangerously toward the door. Nigel and John exchanged pensive glances, Ed had looked up.
“What in bloody…” Thom murmured, plea for silkworm welfare momentarily forgotten. John couldn’t quite stop him in time before Thom briskly made way for the entrance. They could all hear it, sounds loud enough they got past the door to the auxiliary room and all the way down the hall to where they were sat— and vague enough that you couldn’t quite make out what in the hell it all was.
The others followed in Thom’s tracks, Ed and Colin moderately amused, like they could use the cheap thrill of now what amidst the tension. Whatever it was, the way Thom was striding through the corridor boded well for no one, and Jonny in particular, but everyone was curious about the music by then.
As expected, with the door coming open the music emanated much louder than before, like it washed them over. Jonny was stood with his back to the entrance and didn’t seem to notice them there, he had headphones on, he had his guitar and was bent over what looked like an organ, wires running like black spider webs all through the room. Next to the organ was a second organ almost completely obscured by more wires, and a piano next to that, and two amps, with most of those other guitars still up against the wall.
There were sounds like shattering heartstrings and electronic gusts of silver, liquid and crystalline with rich, reverberating light. It was some recording of some recording of something, guitar in its core and glossy impact shimmering incandescent throughout.
Thom stood entirely still, hand forgotten on the doorknob, vaguely aware of the others in tow. Something inside him burst open like a heavy metal door, weighted iron gears sparking with friction and rust on each other with unmistakable purpose, the mechanism sliding into alignment in blinding luminescence and overbearing force.
This was Jonny.
Thom’s heart bled with the most tender sorrow.

(On to chapter 24)
- 22
- 23
- 24
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Thom/Beck