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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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“You gonna tell Cozzie?” Thom asked, on his back beneath Jon, both their hands on both their members, together, completely slick, the wet sounds an uncomfortable familiar, the reality of sex.
“That I fucked you?” Jonny asked, with such innocence Thom laughed.
“Yeah, yes,” he said, “That… that you fucked me. Are you? Are you going to, that is?”
As in, are you going to fuck me, not are you gonna tell Coz.
Jonny’s hand went a little more slowly, like he didn’t have an answer prepared. “Well—” he stuttered, gaze flicking down to their hands’ ministrations, then back to Thom’s face, “—we’re already…”
Thom laughed again; their voices came strained with the effect of it. Jonny was different from Colin, but he had a way of calming Thom down, as well.
“Yeah, okay. You’re right,” Thom said, very subtly smiling, the white of his chest delicate under his unbuttoned shirt. “Guess we are already…”
“Or did you fancy doing it to me—”
Jonny asked before he could stop himself, and he flushed straight away, aware now that he’d spoken how daft he’d been.
Thom took him totally seriously. His eyes twinkled in the low light as he regarded Jon, deep in thought, as though mentally weighing the pros against the cons. He liked it either way.
“What do you reckon Coz would kill me for more?” He asked, still on his back, still slightly smiling. Voice brittle. Hips rising to meet Jonny’s hand.
“He’d kill you more if you did it to me,” Jonny said, “he’d kill you either way.”
“You are gonna tell him, then.”
“Yeah,” Jonny smiled, trying in vain to flip back his hair, “I’m gonna tell him.”
Jonny could say, because otherwise he’ll assume worse. But it was really because it was pure pleasure to talk about Thom. Somewhere inside, Jonny felt something like triumph that now he too were part of things, and here Thom was his, too, because he and Thom would not do stuff like this otherwise, would they, and Thom would not have kissed him of his own accord.
Thom propped himself by his elbows, voice still strained with sex, eyes smiling with mischief. “You want Coz to beat me up again,” he asked, “like that time last year?”
Last year on the tour, Colin had got Thom pretty good. There was nothing fanciful about it, Thom was in bad form for a week.
Now Jonny grinned back, timidly, knowingly, guilty because both he and Thom knew Jonny did, how humanly, childishly flawed Jon had been in his jealousy, yes, he wanted Col to get mad.
You know exactly what you’re doing, you clever little fuck.
“Fair enough,” Thom said, “want me to do it to you, then?”
“If you want.”
“To make your brother kill me.”
Jonny smiled.
“He’ll kill you if—”
You break his heart, I—
“All right, then, Jonny, since you fancy seeing me in pain.”
“I don’t—”
“You do it, then.”
“If you want.”
“What do you want?”
Silence.
“Right, then, Thom, lie back down.”
***
Six in the evening. Beck had told Leigh he was still at the studio, she could drop by if she wasn’t too tired from work. They had Krispy Kreme if she wanted, and pizza from Round Table. He warned her Channing had said he’d spit on one of the slices, though, and it might be true.
“Even better,” Leigh said without really listening, she was finishing reports while on the phone. She’d drop by in a bit, she promised, though traffic would suck. She really ought to stay later. She can’t make minimum hours, there’s no way to get everything done like that. It wasn’t in her nature to be organized and on the ball, but she forced herself. She wanted to stand out. There was one thing she wanted to make of herself, and this was it— it was worth whatever she could put in.
She’d go see Beck at the studio, then later come back to work and finish up. She got him some Pez at the gas station on the way.
She already was accustomed to the drive, the excruciating left turn into the studio, practically impossible at rush hour; you’d have to sneak in past the oncoming stream of cars, which wasn’t so fast, really, because the roads were jammed in all directions. Bars on the studio windows, cracks in the road— all these buildings that were luxuriant and elegant once.
Like Lincoln Park.
LA didn’t really have that much history, did it, not like stuff on the east coast. That’s what Beck had said.
She’d changed into sneakers in the car, her feet hurt from her work shoes; she’d take them off to drive, barefoot with stockings on the gas pedal. By the end of the work day, your back hurt, your knees hurt, your feet hurt, your scalp hurt from your hair being up, your makeup was oily on your face, your bra was too tight. Would’ve been nicer to go straight home, but it warmed her heart to go see him.
She locked her car and passed through the parking lot where only several cars remained, the sun already setting, winter in LA. The plastic bag with Pez rustling and dangling from her hand. Once inside, she could hear vague voices from somewhere down, low music, probably stuff they recorded before.
“Hey…!” She called on her journey down the carpeted hall, and she could hear Beck vaguely saying, Leigh’s here, then he called to her, “Hey!”
Too happily. They already were at the point in the session where they were screwing around. With Beck, you couldn’t really tell, though, you might think he was screwing around, but there he was, listening all along, dreaming ideas, suddenly lunging in the direction of his guitar.
Happened at night, too, when you thought he was sleeping.
Walking in, she supposed it could very well happen now, now that he was sat half dazed, possibly buzzed, at an office chair, Channing and Justin both on their knees, heads in his lap, also possibly buzzed.
Possibly.
It was the sort of thing all three of them would have done entirely sober, mid-recording, and snapped out of spontaneously with the prospect of ideas.
He chuckled affectionately when she stepped in, I missed you, and she couldn’t help smiling back. You really are such a whore. The ends of her fingers toyed with the crinkling plastic of her bag. “Got you Pez,” she said, flushing, crossing her ankles while stood.
His eyes twinkled with childlike enthusiasm that she was finally there, even while he couldn’t hold his expression straight, even while his chest heaved despite him, she could see the denim edge of his jeans somewhere mid-thigh, a flash of the white of his skin—
“Hey, Leigh,” Justin said, turning partway around, he was such a bastard, he always talked like he was amused by the absurdity of stuff he, himself, said. Channing waved to her, too, his still-long hair draping Beck’s thighs, Justin was murmuring something to him she couldn’t hear, asking him with impatient politeness to move cause it was his turn.
She knew it wasn’t what Beck did all day. She knew he knew she liked to watch. He’d been so embarrassed she knew about him and Channing— but she’d found it so honestly compelling he’d been coaxed to tell.
“Which one did you spit on, Chan?” She asked on approaching the open pizza box; there were three slices left, all cheese.
Channing withdrew from Beck’s member long enough to respond; he chuckled sheepishly, brushing back his hair. “I didn’t really,” he said, “just eat whichever one.”
“Oh, too bad,” she said, “that’s the one I was gonna eat.”
“Haha, sorry, I could still spit on it if you want.”
“Nah, that’s all right.”
“Channing, dude, you’re so gross,” Justin said, his fingers woven in-between Chan’s on Beck’s member, they were both trying to have at him now.
“Fuck you, man, I said I didn’t spit on it.”
Leigh sat cross-legged on a folding chair by the desk, arching forth her back, everything hurt. The pizza was cold, but still nice. Pizza was one of those things that was nearly always good.
There’s nothing romantic about being broke, don’t get that idea— there’s nothing fun about not having air conditioning when it’s hot out, or having to hear people’s kids run around outside your apartment at night, or the washer and dryer from the building next door. Or looking out your window at the beer bottles collecting on your neighbor’s pane a few yards away, or out your porch at the buildings upon buildings laid out in the smog grid of LA beneath thick black telephone wires, liquor stores, taco stands. All your shelf furniture that you got at Target, the linoleum imperfections of your bathroom floor.
“If I make it, I’ll buy you a house,” Leigh said to Beck, so he won’t underestimate her just cause she was small. “With central A/C.”
“Yeah?” Beck asked, so she’ll know he wasn’t.
“Yeah.”
“Can I get a tremolo harmonica? I saw this one at Guitar Center—”
“I’m not getting you more stuff that makes noise.” She learned after the Barbie.
“I’m a rock ‘n roll singer, making noise is my job.”
“What’s a tremolo harmonica, anyway,” she asked, unsure if she was terribly interested in the answer, but she knew well enough he’d enjoy explaining.
She would really have liked to succeed. She would really have liked to make it, but who knew how things would pan out, the fashion industry was risky business, she was told. Adulthood always seemed ages away, it felt safe to say if I make it, I’ll buy you a house because it seemed like there was so much time between if I make it and now.
Beck’s memories dating back to boyhood, being made to have dinner at the baby table with Channing and the Ribisi twins; why do I have to sit with them, everyone saying how cute he was with his pink cheeks, Beck knew well how bad it sucked to look younger than you were, to be small. He took Leigh very seriously.
Channing had been nice to everyone even in boyhood. He’d played nice with Marissa and Giovanni like they weren’t stupid babies, he never had a problem being baby brother, himself. When people asked what’s wrong with your brother, Channing, he’d laugh and say, I don’t know. Bek would glare at the grown-ups from over at the baby table, because everyone always sat him there and everyone talked baby talk to him like he was half the age he were. He really just wanted to be alone in his room.
His and Channing’s room, cause they shared— which also was totally stupid.
“It’s all right,” Bibbe Hansen had said to the company, “he likes being alone.”
It’s a stage, everyone else was so understanding, kids go through stuff like this.
Leigh cracked her back as she watched Beck tiredly, grinning, appreciative because Beck had hoped so much he’d done what she liked. She climbed down from her chair, pizza greasy in one hand, hair in a frizzy mess. Dark circles under her eyes that showed now that her makeup had worn off, she leaned across over Justin and Channing and kissed Beck lightly on the mouth, he had a good heart.
“Fuck this, Chan, let’s go,” Justin sulked, they were pressed for space and became too aware of their general function as decoration. But neither got up, their knees burned on the carpet, their faces pressed to Beck’s abdomen, their large hands wet on his member, fingers interwoven. Neither really minded that much.
Somewhere inside, Leigh was glad Beck was close to Channing and Justin, because he didn’t get close to a lot of people. She couldn’t devote evenings to him these days, because of work. She’d take care of him someday, she thought, someday when it all worked out and she’d made it, and it would all have been worthwhile, and they could have everything they wanted, like central A/C.
(On to Chapter 31)
- 29
- 30
- 31
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Thom/Beck