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Thom/Beck	By : VinylTap Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Radiohead Views: 3023 -:- 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
- 28
- 29
- 30
In his mind, Thom had told himself he didn’t want to be the product Mtv and EMI had packaged him into. He’d watched himself on interviews, though, from when they worked on The Bends, and he seemed like a right twat. Like he too obviously didn’t wanna be there, and here they were, a number of their shows sold out. Even if The Bends wasn’t doing all that well, itself. Well— they’d only just released it, there still was time.
It was a daft thing, being a twat to your fans when your shows were sold out, it wasn’t the fans’ fault, was it, that he and his band were whored out this way. He really wanted to be nice on stage, the way his own idols had been, and told himself he would, but the stress of the tour was too much. They’d done well on the first few shows, by the time they’d got to Cambridge, Thom was moody. They had hotel rooms. He was sat cross-legged on his bed, staring at the telly without watching anything, his jacket hanging too big over his thin shoulders. Feeling crap about the whole thing. Wanting to go home.
His whole life for the past two years had felt like it belonged to someone else. The schedule for the tour lay in his hands forgotten, it was crinkled and crumpled from all the times he’d already pulled it out, the next show was the day after tomorrow. He hadn’t eaten in two days. He’d smoked a lot, he and Colin.
Much as they took jabs at each other, Thom and Colin were best mates. And Coz had been a godsend to Thom at these trying times, he had a gentle way about him that calmed Thom down. Thom wished Coz had been there to keep him company now, or Jonny, or anyone else, but he’d been moody before and asked that he not be disturbed. Now he kind of wished he hadn’t said so. Truth was, everyone else was tense, as well, and had little tolerance for Thom’s moods, he knew, and his own disposition had gone back and forth between irritable and affectionate— and he was enough aware to know he didn’t have much control over how long he could sustain either one.
He picked at a thread in his sock; his feet felt cold even with the socks on. Even with the radiator. It was raining outside. The bed was still immaculately made, floral comforter, white pillows, too-tight sheets, a pamphlet at the bedside table where they asked you to rate how everything was. Dim light from the desk lamp that Thom didn’t know where to turn off.
He jumped when there sounded a knock at the door, and was instantly glad for it, he’d been wanting company so much he didn’t mind who it were or why; though he somehow expected Colin. He thought he was willing to undergo any humiliation in the means of apology for his attitude before, it didn’t seem to matter now. He’d been hoping for a drink.
As it were, it was Jonny—who wondered if Thom was aware Jonny would endure Thom’s mood swings with greater grace than the rest. He held up a plastic bag with something inside, eye level with Thom, and quietly offered, “Want something to eat?”
Thom really didn’t. He thought if he ate, he’d be sick, but he was very glad to see Jonny.
“Thanks,” he said, and stepped aside to allow him in, already feeling better. Jonny walked inside, jacket covered with raindrops here and there, hair wet as well. He looked around the room for a place to put down the bag, and Thom motioned to the desk area; he wondered if he should eat anything as a gesture of courtesy.
“You lot go out for dinner,” he asked, proceeding toward the bag and prying at the knot up top; the plastic was also wet from the rain. Jonny watched Thom’s hands at work, secretly glad to have him to himself. He’d been disappointed Thom hadn’t come out with them, and it was his idea to get him takeout.
“Here, I’ll do it—”
he said, his long fingers infinitely gentle with the knot, Thom watched patiently as the realization set he won’t be able to get out of having to eat: Jonny had gone through all this trouble, and now it would seem rude.
“I, um, explained, that it had to be— that is— that you’re vegan,” Jon said without meeting Thom’s gaze, like saying so had made him suddenly shy, “so they had to—”
So they had to prepare it special.
He didn’t say that bit. Thom probably already thought Jonny cared too much.
Thom’s expression brightened, even though now he was certain he’d have to eat, even if he’d barf it up later on. “You did, did you,” he laughed, and now Jonny looked up, surprised, shyly smiling. His dark eyes glittered in the dim light of the desk lamp, he was visibly delighted he’d got Thom to laugh.
“Yeah,” Jonny smiled, “yeah, I did.”
“Well—” Thom said, now fully grinning, so his teeth showed, and he reached inside the bag to get out the styrofoam box. The material rustled and squeaked in his hands; “—well, this ought to be good, then—”
He held the box with one hand and pried it open with the other, peering inside, to make Jonny happy. It seemed like a sandwich. Thom carried it over to the bed and sat down, motioning for Jonny to join him. Jonny was inwardly very glad; he’d seen Thom’s absence at dinner as an opportunity to spend time with him, possibly, by bringing him food.
“You watching telly?” he asked, and it didn’t matter at the slightest whether or not he was, or what he was watching, or that they had to practice all of tomorrow and that they had a show the day after that—
Sitting here like this with Thom was pure pleasure, they hadn’t had a room to themselves since the tour began. He glanced at Thom out the corner of his eye, hoping he liked the sandwich. Thom really didn’t. Not because it was bad per se, but because he already felt ill with stress, he thought he couldn’t taste the food at all and only chewed mechanically, aware he had to make it look like he enjoyed it.
“That’s well nice,” he lied, and Jonny grinned, moderately content he’d managed to please Thom somehow.
They stared at the telly in silence, some news programme, the weather report, adverts after that. Thom wondered absently how much of his sandwich he’d have to down for it to look he’d liked it. He was willing to endure this for Jon’s company, his mood was much improved since he'd arrived.
“Take off your jacket, mate,” he said, mouth full, “you’ve got rain all over.”
“Oh—” Jonny gazed down at his sleeves, “—sorry—”
So like Jonny to apologize for that. He proceeded to pull and tug his jacket off, and he’d got water on Thom’s comforter and the styrofoam container he had for his food, but it was all right. By the time the news was over, Thom had somehow managed to eat the whole thing, he and Jonny were lain on the mattress and watching old reruns of Are You Being Served. Neither really paying attention, each preoccupied with his own thoughts, Thom not really wanting the next day to come.
Jonny wanting badly, badly for Thom to touch him, disciplining himself not to make the first move. It was bollocks, how no matter how intimate they’d got before, it was never a simple, mindless thing to go at it again. Thom was unaware of this, of course, by then he’d been just as much in love with Jon— but for all his self-conscious rumination in Creep, he’d been exasperatingly oblivious to the torment he’d inadvertently made Jon endure.
It was another two hours before finally Thom made a move, he’d probably have done sooner if he knew he was meant to; “Come here, Jonny, kiss me,” he asked, and Jonny felt an electric static wave travel the span of his skin, his pulse quickened, his eyes went large. Finally. Finally.
Thom was a touchy sort of guy. If he liked you, he’d cling to you childlike and hug you in photos, no matter who or what you were, he’d forego personal space and liked being held and shown affection. Jonny didn’t even need to fully come here as Thom asked, because Thom’s arms were already around him, he was smiling and leaning in cutely to kiss Jonny’s nose.
Jonny was quite proud of himself for waiting and not making a move first. This showed Thom wanted to. Jonny thought he didn’t mind bringing him dinner every night for the rest of their lives if it made Thom like him. Thom was such a good kisser, he was attentive, and gentle, and he held you exactly right—
Jonny was only regretful that, after tomorrow, they’d have to return to their bloody tour bus, and their horrible bunks, and being stuck there with everyone for the ride up to Sheffield. Ed had complained his feet protruded out the end of his bunk, and there wasn’t enough room; he had to sleep with his ankles suspended on the metal rail.
“Your hair’s wet,” Thom said, and Jonny apologized for that, too, it came muffled as Thom reached to pull Jonny’s shirt over his head. Jonny very carefully helped Thom out of his jacket, then went on to unbutton his shirt, Thom was cutely trying to kiss him while he did so. Jonny smiled, eyes slowly batting, he didn’t mind; he was good with his hands.
They both tried not to think about tomorrow, or the show after that, or how once they finished touring the UK, they’d have to tour the States, which was far more daunting. Thom lay beneath Jonny with his shirt open, chest exposed, arms still in their sleeves. His hands reached to brush Jonny’s long hair back, to no avail, because it kept falling forward, it was wet here and there in Thom’s hands. Jonny and Colin both had perfect hair—
Jonny turned to kiss Thom’s hand at the side of his face, then his mouth, and he whispered, even though they were alone in the room, “Tell me what you’d like me to do—”
Thom’s eyes scanned Jonny’s face for a moment. “I like everything you do,” he said honestly.
“You do?” Jonny asked, visibly pleased.
Thom nodded, already drawing him toward himself. “Kiss me—”
Just like that, Jonny went completely hard. He was very careful where he placed his limbs, he didn’t want to squish Thom, he loved that he touched him. Their calloused guitar hands on each other. There they were, finally a moment of privacy after all that time on the bus. They just had to do it, surely Thom must think the same, they were gonna do it, right…?
Jonny’s hand brushed over Thom’s naked abdomen, toward the place where his belt held his otherwise loose trousers up, Thom was so hard; it felt pleasant against Jonny’s hand, warm, his fingers closed on the hot insistence of flesh from outside the fabric. Their gazes met, Thom’s lips parted; he was vulnerable but unashamed.
“You’re so hard,” Jonny said, very softly, embarrassed to be heard saying such a thing.
“Yes,” Thom replied, with such complete innocence it was humbling somehow, like Jonny was daft to be embarrassed. He liked the way Jonny touched him. He said, that’s nice.
“You, ah, want me to—” Jonny asked, fingers tentative at Thom’s belt, and Thom replied before he finished speaking, “Yes—”
It came so quick and absolute Jonny raised his gaze, both surprised and pleased, and Thom already was kissing him again so he couldn’t say, okay. It got Thom so hot, Jonny’s fingers brushing outside the denim while he worked at the buckle and belt; Thom’s arms came round his neck, the sounds of metal and lips breaking contact coming distinct; Thom didn’t really care how far they went, he liked being together.
It was cold in the room, even with the radiator, but he didn’t ask they went under the sheets. On stage, if you looked out to the audience, you were blinded enough by stage lights you might not see people at all. You could pretend you were alone, rehearsing— but your body betrayed you regardless, and there you were, overcome by your own sympathetic response.
Maybe this record was a big mistake. They’d feared it so much all along, and there they were now, not ranking so hot on the charts. Thom bit his nails and cried to Nigel, he cried to Greaves, he said he couldn’t do this and needed a break, but they told him he’d be fine.
“Jonny,” he asked, Jon’s hand careful under his jeans, gingerly fingering his member outside his boxers. Jonny didn’t stop. He raised his head enough that they could properly see each other. “Yess?”
Thom didn’t answer at first. The way Jonny touched him was enough arousing he had his attention, but gentle enough it was soothing as well.
“Mate, you scared?”
“Scared?”
“Of doing all these shows.”
Jonny slid the back of his hand softly outside the fabric, absently pressing while he thought; Thom was somehow helpless beneath him.
“Yess,” he said.
Thom reached to take Jonny’s hand and guided him beneath the elastic of his boxers, eyes still open, lips parting with breath. Jonny’s eyelashes batted while he tilted his head, watching Thom’s ministrations, dutifully following.
“Me too,” Thom said.
They regarded each other in silence, Thom’s hand on Jonny’s hand on his member, lips parted, head tilted a little bit back. They exchanged no words as Jonny moved back, a dark silhouette in the dim desk light. His large hands gripped the edge of Thom’s trousers, Thom accommodated by lifting his hips.
No words as Jonny knelt to kiss his flat stomach, long fingers careful on his hips, hair damp. He wanted Thom so much. He laid his head on Thom’s hip, fingering the hard member from outside the fabric, taking it in his mouth with the boxers still on.
“Fuck—”
Thom whispered, eyes closed. One hand in Jonny’s hair, raking slowly, not pressuring because Thom believed you shouldn’t pressure people to give you head. Jonny didn’t need to be pressured, he wanted to do this more badly than Thom wanted to get it.
In the end, Thom and Jonny had carried the record; Thom and Jonny would carry the show. They’d be asked to do acoustic sets together as well, just them two, which they’d vastly dislike— but, like it or not, this was what they were.
Beck had found he didn’t fancy being made to please, either. He had a daunting schedule even before his record was finished halfway, he didn’t do things like this, he never liked being told how to work. He couldn’t be tutored and he couldn’t be taught, he learned on his own and he made his own choices, and he thought stuff out on his own, as well. There was a grid lined out on his kitchen table, with all the stuff he already had scheduled from then till July.
Interviews. TV shows. Recording sessions with people who couldn’t make it any other time. Appearances, magazine shoots. Folks who wanted to ask him stuff he didn’t really wanna answer.
Like no one would let him get up on stage and just go nuts, and trust him that it was all right. Well, if no one would let him, then he wouldn’t allow anyone to work above him to hold him back— but things couldn’t always work out that way. You can’t get a record out completely on your own with no help from anyone else—
Though Beck came pretty close.
So, much as he hated to, he had to act the part. He had to keep up a suffocating schedule while trying to appear human and compassionate all the while, and he felt vastly intruded upon; and there was nothing of which to be ashamed so much as that he just didn’t feel comfortable with that. It’s a stupid thing, then, to enter a public profession when you want nothing revealed.
But so early on, you don’t think stuff you do could ever really matter.
It’s not even that making it in the music business seemed unrealistic so much as that the future seemed light years away, when it really wasn’t.
You’d think he’d feel bad about taking so long to get a record out. You’d think he’d feel something like pressure, staring at the poster for The Bends, but neither he nor Thom envied each other for what both knew both had to endure. God help me, he might whisper—
—but what he believed in, who really knew.
(On to Chapter 30)
- 28
- 29
- 30
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Thom/Beck