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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
- 26
- 27
- 28
“Hey, Beck,” Leigh said, brow furrowed, hair scattered as she lay on her back on the rug, newspaper folded partway in her hand. “Isn’t that the guy you got with?”
From over on the sofa, Justin didn’t bat an eye. He reached into the bag of Fritos between him and Channing, where there only were crumbs left, he had to hold it up with one hand to get the broken bits from the corner. “I’m in the paper?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the TV.
“I’m in the paper?” Channing asked, not taking his eyes off the TV, either.
Beck rolled onto his stomach, crawling by his elbows to look at where Leigh was pointing in the Calendar section of the LA Times. Justin brushed crumbs that fell on his shirt from the bag when he’d tipped the corner up to his mouth, chin tilted down.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Beck said, smoothing the paper out on the floor, it crinkled under his fingers. Radiohead The Bends, out in March.
Beck’s eyes darted across the page, he grinned unbeknownst to himself. “Cool,” he said, lying back down on his back with the paper up in both hands. It went transparent in the blue light from the TV, hard to read. Leigh rested her head on his chest so she could read, too, but found it useless.
“Put down the paper, I can’t see anything.”
“Dude, they got a record out before you,” Channing said.
“Fuck off.”
It meant they’re gonna tour.
“Put the paper down.”
“Sorry, here.”
He felt bad for getting happy over something like that; touring sucked. It was draining and exhausting emotionally, it stuck you on a bus and separated you for ages from everyone you loved. He wasn’t doing a festival with them this time around, he’d do some punk rock shows on his own when he was done recording. Folks didn’t tell you, but the artist was lowest on the food chain where the music industry was concerned.
He’d already rolled Leigh beneath him and was making out with her when it occurred to him he’d got hot because he was thinking back to the tour last year, and then it occurred to him that she must have known that’s what got him hot. His long hair fell on either side of her face, Channing was making gagging sounds from the sofa and telling them to get a room.
“I don’t mind,” she whispered, she was watching the TV from under the bony protrusion of his shoulder, upside down on her back on the rug.
It was something that made his heart ache in the most curious way, electric like a battery on your tongue, like salt, like how water made you salivate. Like desperation, something faceless in a dream, please don’t go when no one was leaving.
Jealousy.
So real it was something almost physical, human beings are so good at feeling stuff, and so crap at explaining what it is or why.
What he was jealous of, he didn’t know. Leave an artist alone with his thoughts and he’ll paint a world by himself, it wasn’t what he deliberately designed; it was what came to him.
***
Having a record done didn’t make things easier. You had interviews scheduled, and meetings and appearances, and that was even before you began work on video clips or saw how your tour would be laid out. Being a band back in school was one thing; it had long since stopped being fanciful. Thom would watch an interview they had done and grimace at what a complete twat he seemed, he didn’t like the way he came across.
February wasn’t a good time to be outside. Thom was all wrapped in a jacket and scarf, he could hear Colin speaking to Jonny from somewhere inside the house.
“Your socks, mate, they’re mismatched.”
Cause Jonny was red-green colorblind.
Thom watched his expiration float smoky white before dissipating, cars swishing past in the street now and then on the rain-slicked road. The calm before the storm. The breather between the record and the hell it would unleash. Everyone was so afraid they’d fuck it up.
From within the house, “They’ve been mismatched all day then, who cares.”
Jonny’s voice got louder because of vicinity, Thom turned on impulse when the door handle clicked. Jonny was fighting to look like he wasn’t smiling. Head tilted down, hair hiding his face. He brushed it back by accident, let it fall back, straightened a little. He’d been planning his excuse for some time, about why he’d come out, but now didn’t know when the right time to say it would be.
“We’re, ah, sorting out— books— old books, so, if you, that is…” it sounded daft now. Come back in the house, if you wanna have a look through them…?
Jonny bit his lip, flushing under his hair. It was no big deal to Thom, naturally, he’d only given it half a thought. If Colin were there, he’d hit Thom at the back of the head and indicate it were Jonny’s attempt at getting his attention, and no one cared if Thom wanted old books. He wouldn’t get any of them anyway because Colin wouldn’t waste them on him, Colin would say, in a way that was really affection.
Thom did smile at Jonny, though, because he liked that he came outside. Jonny could feel his arm brush idly against his, the heavy fabric of his jacket where his shoulder was, Thom’s gloved fingers wove through his. Jonny’s fingers closed tightly back. Night air that was like water suspended, somewhere between mist and fog, your hair and your scarf going wet but not exactly.
Thom bounced a little in place because he was cold, and Jonny thought he should ask him to come back inside, but he liked being out there with him. The stone steps were damp, the metal banister curling. The wet scent of pavement, night breeze far off, branches swaying, a buckeye echoing through the hollow street as it fell to the earth.
Thom’s hand in his, human and real. The woven fabric of his glove.
Jonny’s eyes darted sideward to Thom, subtly as he could look without turning his head.
On the front step, all those years ago. Do you remember? I’d wanted you so bad. You were so fucking beautiful.
Thom’s eyes batted sideward and up toward him.
Yess— you took me inside and made me—
—made you play guitar.
—yess— while you touched me.
You were so innocent.
I was never innocent, Thom.
Jonny, you’re still innocent now.
On the frozen step, there issued the low screech of shoes on pavement, Thom pulling Jonny closer, tugging his hand, Jonny’s hair swinging when he leaned in. Close enough their noses brushed clumsily, audible breath, shy laughter. People looked different close up. It was the most brilliant sort of anticipation, hesitation laden with impatience unspoken, Jonny grinned when he saw Thom gaze at his lips, Thom stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
Sound of lips breaking contact. Jonny’s fingers trembling on Thom’s mandible, the angular joint, stubble, hot skin that gave way to his scarf.
Thom’s eyes were mischief that was distinctly boy, they glinted knowingly, just far enough away that Jonny knew wanna go inside meant something dirty.
Jonny didn’t hide his smile; hand tight in Thom’s, he nodded, both making for the door.
Thom had him with his tele on the bed, unplugged, the sound stringy and metallic, kissing his neck while he played. Hand outside his trousers, singing, voice rich and low.
Colin had threatened Thom, you break his heart, I—
No one came charging in at the sound. Jonny’s scratchy guitar, Thom’s voice muffled in his neck, something lewd and implicit that colored the melody vivid and fleshed it in all three dimensions, beautiful and terrible.
Intended, at least, with love.
But so early on, you don’t think stuff you do could ever really matter, it doesn’t occur to you it’s something you might have to apologize for— and it's too late when you're finally sorry.
Jonny had quite kept it up. He played despite Thom’s hand on him, fingers clever on the frets, hair pouring brilliant forth. By the time they’d reached the song’s conclusion, Jonny had got in his lap, they were kissing, rain collecting on the frosted window in night-colored rivulets.
There’s no rain in LA. In February— okay, sometimes. 8 PM at Oxford is noon LA time, the sunlight streamed in clear through Leigh’s bedroom window, washing through the blinds, painting stripes across the carpet and bed. They’d been up so late they’d slept all morning, Beck lay passed out beside her, angelic to all the world and naked as the day he was born.
He was so warm when he slept. He had morning wood and was so profoundly asleep he didn’t even know, there never really was enough room in Leigh’s bed for two, and here they talked about three.
Don’t try to act innocent, you told me you did that on the tour.
I've never tried to act innocent.
You don’t have to, you are innocent.
He moaned in his sleep when her hand came on him, she was pressed against him from behind, forearm over the bony protrusion at his hip, fingers wet on his member. So hard. She could fuck him in his sleep and he wouldn’t even know. Channing was still passed out in the living room, would it be so bad to have him along? I wanna get with you, only you—
“Well, I don’t know what to put on the cover for the album,” Beck said when they gazed at the poster for The Bends at Tower Records the next day, “Maybe a robot or something.”
“Didn't you already have a robot for the last one?” Leigh asked.
“Yeah, a robot with a skull and a dildo, you can’t really top that. Fuck, I dunno, I’ll figure something out.”
(On to chapter 28)
A/N: Song: Debra by Beck (Midnite Vultures 1999)
- 26
- 27
- 28
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Thom/Beck