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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
- 24
- 25
- 26
Leigh did not disappoint. That afternoon, they walked out of the 99-Cent mart on La Brea and Willoughby, Beck coolly content as he tested his plastic hammer on Leigh’s head. It made a nice squeak on the left, but didn’t quite work on the right, Beck seemed concerned as his long fingers pried at the accordion plastic that was too wrinkled to properly sound on compression.
“Here, I’ll fix it,” Leigh said, but Beck held it away, “I wanna do it.”
She’d got a bag of Jolly Ranchers and was ripping open the top, fishing through for a red one. The cellophane was too sickly stuck to the candy, which was molten and clearly too old. She had to pull the wrapper off bit by torn bit, grossed out as her fingers got sticky. Still tasted good.
“What color do you want?” she asked.
“I want…” he looked over toward her, having partway fixed the plastic right half of his hammer. He peered into the bag.
“I want red.”
“Red’s the best kind.”
Soon he was struggling with the wrapper, too, muttering as sticky pieces tore off. He threw them one by one into the shopping bag instead of in the street, then saw Leigh stop before a toy shop window.
“Look, dinosaurs,” she said, the Jolly Rancher protruding squarely in her cheek. Their reflection was vaguely visible in the specular surface of the glass, Leigh’s hair a little frizzy at the top, and she tried to smooth it out. Beck felt tall next to her. He hit her over the head with the hammer a few more times before they went in.
Toy shops don’t stop being fun once you get to your twenties. You make a beeline for stuff you used to like when you were little, with this sense of all-encompassing control now that you can buy things on your own without having to ask. You sputter with disgust at the new versions of things that used to be better when you were a kid, because whatever they have now seems like commercialized crap while your own childhood toys were magical.
“Check it,” Beck grinned, visibly amused by something obnoxiously pink he found in the doll aisle. Leigh looked up from the plastic farm animals, Beck had a Barbie box in his hands and appeared vastly entertained by the fact that it boasted to “say over 100,000 things.” The box was bent in on the back, where others already had pressed the button that said Try Me, and Beck was excitedly pressing it, too, hard so it would work through the cardboard.
Leigh quirked an eyebrow. “You’ve never seen one of these before?” She asked impatiently.
“Let’s…get ice cream…with…our new friends…!” Barbie said, which Beck found very funny. Leigh could tell he wasn’t going to stop.
“Let’s…get together…and drive to…the mall…!”
“All right, okay…” Leigh said, already heading back to the toy animal aisle.
“I know… let’s…get pizza…after school on Friday…with my sister!”
That did it. Beck was in hysterics. He was laughing so hard he couldn’t hold the box up anymore, his whole face was contorted with laughter and people were starting to stare. It occurred to Leigh here was something he was going to sample into something he was working on. These days, he wanted to sample everything he came across.
“All right, Beck,” she said, patting his back as she pulled him along, “we’ll get you the Barbie.”
He annoyed the living crap out of her on the drive back, she should’ve seen it coming. Unfortunately, Super Talk Barbie really did appear to have over 100,000 things to say, which seemed comprised of combinations and permutations of ideas Mattel must have thought would enchant preteen girls. And Beck was going to make Leigh endure all 100,000 on the drive, she was beginning to plan out her week so that she wouldn’t come visit him at the studio.
“Can’t you go back to playing with your hammer?” She asked hopefully, because even being hit over the head with that was less annoying.
“I’d love to…go dancing…with Ken…tonight…!”
“I can’t hit you with the hammer while you’re driving,” Beck said like it were ridiculous of her to even ask.
“Hit yourself.”
He behaved himself properly for the rest of the drive. Leigh dropped him off at the studio later, aware of what he was about to inflict on the others; she’d have stayed but had her own work to do. She kissed him before watching him depart, bony thin under his flannel, the plastic bag dangling from one of his hands. She really had loved him.
***
It was never that Jonny hadn’t known exactly what he was doing; it was that, entirely of his own accord, Jonny would follow Thom to the ends of the earth. Jonny’s hands worked a guitar with manual dexterity that came programmed in him, it was something beyond his conscious control but subject no less to deliberate manipulation. He tinkered with instruments with almost dark, perverse pleasure, something grotesque behind closed doors, like he never had thought it would be met with gentle regard and certainly not admiration.
He knew the way he worked was not normal. He was aware he was awkward and young, Thom, himself, had mouthed him off plenty in the past few weeks alone about how odd he had been. Jonny had spent the last several days shut off by himself after advice from Nigel and John, who felt empathy for the abuse he’d received from the others. It’s not like Jonny could help it. They could tell this was just how he did things, and especially when everyone had got so edgy and tired, he just really wanted to work in peace. He’d closed himself in the farthest room in the studio and spread out over several days with equipment gradually piling, and after no one had come in to give him a piece of their mind, he’d eased into awareness that he might be all right.
He’d not expected Thom at all. He was no longer particularly afraid of him, or maybe he told himself so because it helped him relax. He’d not really had time to think of it much before Thom’s hands were on him and his intentions were clear.
He went rock hard, just like that.
Thom had not touched him since the tour. He was going to fuck him. Didn’t matter why, but he was going to, and Jonny would let him do whatever he wanted— professionally or intimately, on or offstage, even eighteen years after.
Jonny had intrinsic proficiency with the most complex and discerning auditory execution, he would readily whore himself to Thom in this regard too if it were what Thom fancied.
It would become overwhelming. You would watch him one day as he stepped with infinite innocence onto the lead of an orchestra, like he’d always been blind to the impact combusting and glittering live in his wake. You’d bleed broken inside without knowing why.
This was the time Thom understood what they had on their hands. He’d been instantly possessive, like he’d been penetrated profoundly with a tuned metal gauge, fiber by fiber unfurling into electric awareness. Every tread on the blind glass of floor imprinted a thermal impression, every slow rebound of volatile tactile progression of pain.
Wet inside, like marrow. Jealous like it made him alive.
This was what animals felt, but he got there on sheer higher cognitive function, and that’s what music really was.
He was all eyelashes. His breath echoed silent between them, lips brushing on Jonny’s, forehead to forehead, hands on Jonny’s hands on Thom’s cheeks on all his stubble, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted something so much.
“You’re pretty when you play,” Thom mouthed, too aggressive as he drew on Jonny’s lip, and Jonny’s first thought was that he was being humored. You’re pretty was something people threw around too loosely, especially when they snogged you. He didn’t want to fall into the trap of hanging on Thom’s every word, he’d been too far affected as it were.
“If I play my cards right, Thom’ll shag me, that it?”
Thom breathed, he’d stopped somewhere between them, expiration audible, fingers just at Jonny’s briefs.
You unbelievable, arrogant twat.
“Yess,” Jonny said, “That not why you’re here?”
It came so much laden with innocence it was childish somehow, Thom moved a touch back to regard him.
“Yeah,” he said, “That’s why I’m here.”
Jonny knew better than to ask why. Thom was crazy. He was moody one moment and giddily happy the next, and now he’d come in here like he was starving, and it hadn’t occurred to Jonny it were because Thom finally saw what Jonny was— because Jonny knew what he were all along, and it hadn’t occurred to him that might be something Thom liked.
It certainly hadn’t occurred to him this was when things would change permanently, because Jonny had been ready for Thom years before. Really, Jonny wouldn’t need to play his cards right from that moment onward— but he’d keep trying to anyway.
His eyes fixed on Thom’s, Jonny guided his fingers where they rested on his fly, hands larger than Thom’s but frightfully delicate, very gentle as he made him pull his trousers and briefs down. Even Jonny’s eyelashes were silk. Even his eyebrows. His face was so much pained with humility Thom wondered how he couldn’t know— but it never was that Jonny hadn’t known.
They wrote the words to Planet Telex that night while Thom had him. They would record it two weeks from then, when Thom was piss drunk on wine and lying on his back on the studio floor. It was still called Planet Xerox then.
Funny how Thom had such a voice. It was chilling to hear him mouth lyrics between them so privately, like he were some kid singing along with something a real band wrote— but there were hints and whispers of the caliber that was Thom singing on stage.
He had Jonny uncomfortably up against the wall facing him, briefs and trousers entirely off, in his socks, one leg painfully up. Thom with his jeans sagging just enough from behind that you could tell his belt and fly were undone, the rhythmic and unmistakably lewd sequence of maneuvers that was sex.
All of Jonny’s muscles rigidly tight as he fought for balance, sore, humid, he paid less attention to the way his shoulder blades pressed into the wall because of the way Thom felt inside him.
But still
Everything is
—no, there was nothing broken about any of that; that night was brilliant. They’d fallen in love with each other. Jonny’s hair swayed rhythmically against Thom’s face, he tried to steady himself as best he could but couldn’t quite kiss him right with all the moving. Their lips and teeth slid gracelessly on each other, breath and stubble and skin, Jonny’s fingers at the hot nape of Thom’s neck where now his hair was shorter, still thready-soft with the spikes.
He liked the way Thom’s face bent with exertion when he gripped him, when he moved inside, angling, something graceless and raw. The way he was out of breath when he sang now was like how he was after losing his mind dancing on stage.
(On to chapter 26)
Song: Planet Telex by Radiohead (The Bends 1995)

Super Talk Barbie by Mattel (TM 1994)
- 24
- 25
- 26
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Thom/Beck