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Thom/Beck - Part 2	By : VinylTap Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Radiohead Views: 1975 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not know Beck or any of the members of Radiohead, Sonic Youth, or REM. This story is a work of fiction, and I make no money or profit from it.

Chapter List
- 6
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- 8
Somewhere beneath, Colin still had his hand on Thom’s member. Profanely wet, the slick sounds of sex issuing dirty and raw, something that became hot when you were so far aroused. Thom’s hand came on Colin’s hand, cause Colin had gone momentarily slower, and it wasn’t enough.
Jonny’s large palms hard on Col’s cheeks as he kissed him, holding him firmly in place with intensity he only reserved for Thom and for his tele. Naturally, this was for Thom. Intense enough Col couldn’t get out of it, but he was trying. He ripped himself from Jon’s grasp and shoved him backward, gasping for air, asking if he was mental.
Jonny recoiled breathlessly, he got his hands on Col’s shoulders and pushed him unto his back.
“Dickhead, you’re doing this because of Thom,” Colin said, part wrestling, part curious to see where it’ll go.
“Yeah,” Jonny breathed, tightly holding Coz down by the wrists, leaning to kiss him again.
Thom was sat with his back to the headboard, openly stroking himself, vastly amused.
At the end of the day, Jonny was taller than Colin; he had him down good, and Colin wasn’t getting out of that. “He’s not worth it,” Col said against Jonny’s mouth, and Thom called good-naturedly, “I am!”
“Thomas, no one asked you.”
“Shut up and keep snogging.”
“Not snogging for you.”
Jonny was trying to kiss him all the while, but the struggle of it was a good enough show by itself.
“Blimey, he’s liking this, too,” Coz rolled his eyes; he pointed one finger at Thom, wrist still in Jon’s grip. “You’re dead,” he informed Thom, “you’re a dead man.”
“You had a laugh about the woman at the bar,” Thom said defensively, still touching himself, “that’s what you get.”
Colin snickered, voice breathy now that Jonny had at his neck, “That’s cause you were a fucking pussy.”
Thom’s eyebrows rose to his hairline, lips agape, still stroking somehow.
“That’s it,” he said conclusively, “have at him, Jon-Jon, do your worst.”
Colin huffed. “He’s not your trained animal.”
Jonny looked up from Colin’s neck. “I am,” he said.
Thom chuckled amicably, he actually leaned forth to muss Jonny’s hair. “You are not,” he said, “but really, suck his cock or something.”
Jonny shot Thom a gaze of surprise, it sounded so hot when Thom said it.
Colin glared murderously, finger still pointing. “You know he’ll do it,” he warned.
Jon turned his face from Colin to Thom, “Want me to?” he asked, and Thom nodded, “Yeah.”
Colin sighed, restrained beneath Jonny but not much upset by it. “Jonny, you don’t have to do absolutely everything he says.”
“He's got to do this, though,” Thom reasoned, and Jonny nodded like it were sound logic.
“Don’t worry, Coz,” Thom said, “Told you he’s good at it.”
“I already know he is.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Colin exhaled with vast resignation. “All right, Jonny,” he said, “have at it, for Thom’s perverse amusement.”
“Thank you,” Thom smiled.
“You think I’m good at it, really?” Jonny brightened, now trying to maneuver both Colin’s wrists into one of his hands, he didn’t trust him to stay put if he’d let go. He’d begun to fumble with Col’s belt after that.
“Course I do,” Thom grinned, now crawling in their direction to help with Colin’s wrists.
“You don’t need to hold down my wrists,” Colin said.
“Pretty sure we do,” Jon replied, he thanked Thom briefly for his assistance, now he had both hands free to deal with Col’s fly.
“He’s right,” Thom said, smiling fully now that he had Colin sorted.
“I could get out of your grip easy, Thom, always have.”
Jon finally looked up with impatience. “Fuck’s sake, Cozzie, shouldn’t you be enjoying this?”
“Not if it’s to entertain Thom.”
“I’m not entertained, honest.”
“Bollocks.”
“I’ll have my eyes closed the whole time. Closed, see?”
“Don’t close your eyes, you mental?” Jonny asked, now with his hands at the edge of Col’s trousers, and Colin called out, “Told you.”
Thom had ignored him, he struggled to hold Col in place while mouthing to Jonny, just do it.
--
You weren’t meant to know, but Leigh was utterly devastated when she lost her job. She didn’t cry about it openly, because that made it real. Everything fell apart after that, and she’d tried best she could not to see that. It became a dark secret she kept first from herself, and then from potential employers.
Then from people who wouldn’t understand, and would judge her based on that. Only Beck and her parents knew, and now you, as well. By the time Beck would return to the States, she’d have cleaned her apartment, she’d make room for his stuff, she’d find a temporary position till she got back her pride—
—or that was the plan, anyway.
There was this betraying paralysis in her that made it impossible to act, once you knew the raw reality of failure, you could see very well how it followed you around. She’d been under the pretense she’d be all right till she was mere hours from picking Beck up at the airport, and realized she’d got nothing done.
The temptation to escape had been so profound she couldn’t get herself to do the littlest things; her place was an utter mess.
Beck didn’t mind; he’d wanted desperately to be with her. He didn’t care if they slept in her twin-size bed for the rest of their days, having someone who loved you was priceless.
He’d stopped recording. There were things like interviews and meetings he couldn’t get out of, but any motivation for the record was entirely lost. Justin had dragged him forcibly to rehearsals and to arrangements for Lollapalooza, but Beck had been visibly deflated all through.
“I’ve gotta get a job,” Leigh said, they were broke enough as it were— but the prospect of interviews terrified her now that she couldn’t recite her skills with confidence.
“I’ve got a job,” Justin said, he had a mop and bucket in hand and had assigned himself the task of mopping Leigh’s kitchen. Leigh and Beck’s kitchen, now.
He’d never been properly paid whoring himself out as bassist, so he also worked for Beck’s dad, and he also worked at a coffee shop.
There came the sound of water splashing messily, then the grotesque splat of the mop on the linoleum floor, he had his jeans rolled to the calves and stood barefoot, mopping serenely.
There was no way to keep it from him, that she wasn’t working at the fashion house anymore, but she never said outright why. She felt like saying something about how special for you, but couldn’t very well tease Justin now that he was cleaning their mess unabashedly out of concern.
“I can ask, if you’re interested,” he said.
Leigh looked up from the couch cushion she was picking apart. Now with her college degree and fashion business experience, she could make coffee for a living. Why not. She already knew, no job was beneath you.
Asking Justin for favors wasn’t beneath her, either, now; he’d worked as studio janitor when he’d met Beck’s dad, at the age of nineteen.
“You mean it?” she asked, and somewhere inside she felt tremendous relief at the prospect of some lighthearted job— where no one would know who she were, and it didn’t matter for your resume, and folks didn’t try to one-up you all the time.
Her job had been her identity, though; she would learn to keep that identity inside her even if no one else saw it, and if no one wanted to hire her; she was a designer because this was what she knew and loved.
Beck had been an artist, all the same.
“Not working your ass off isn’t you,” Justin said, “seeing you guys home like this is creeping me out.”
“Yeah, all right,” Leigh said, “If you could ask for me, I’d really appreciate it.”
Justin was done with the kitchen and proceeded to carry his bucket toward the bathroom, to dump the water out there.
“Here, let me get the door,” Leigh said, putting her cushion aside and following along. They squeezed through the doorway together, Justin put the bucket down with almost too much impact, the water splashing, getting on his jeans. He gripped Leigh by the forearms and held her firmly in place.
“I saw your designs,” he said, “the ones you did for Beck.”
Leigh glared, ripping herself from his grip and shoving him backward; Justin didn’t back off. They were stood less than one foot apart, staring each other down. Justin’s eyes were bright and blue, there was something about him—
“I didn’t believe you really made that, when I saw,” he said.
“Yeah, fuck you, buddy.”
Justin rolled his eyes.
“Listen, Leigh— I’m serious. Not everyone can do that—”
“What the hell do you know about what everyone can do?”
“All I’m saying is—”
“Don’t preach to me like you understand—”
“All right—” Justin resigned; he gazed in surrender. “I don’t understand how it is in your line of work. All I’m saying is that as someone who wears clothes—”
“Dude, look—” Leigh said, “I know you’re trying to be nice. But, just— this is my business, okay?” It was all really too personal, she was embarrassed to be seen in her most wretched hour. Either way, you couldn’t relax into the temptation of thinking you were talented and everyone else was just dumb: much as it stung, you had to listen to feedback from employers, because they called the shots, and you didn’t get anywhere without accommodating to them. The less you took it personally, the better off you were.
They regarded each other a bit longer before Justin nodded, moving slowly toward where he placed the bucket, in order to dump the water out. Leigh cleared the way so he had more room, she stepped out and quietly thanked him again for cleaning the kitchen.
“Just—” he said as she turned to leave, and Leigh stopped again, staring back tiredly, just please let’s drop it; Justin’s voice came very soft, like he didn’t want Beck to hear in the other room. “Just make those outfits for us. I’m helping you with the job, so…”
She was about to say something about how not being a jerk wasn’t him, except that he wasn’t not being a jerk; he wasn’t trying to patronize or make her feel better. Tempting as it were to revel in self-deprecation, it felt very nice to be told she had talent. She should have been nicer to Justin, the one time he’d been inadvertently kind. She should have been grateful, because he’d complimented her with genuine earnest, where she liked to be complimented most. But, all the while, there was something very dangerous she might comfortably sink into.
I’m not going to spend my life as Beck and Justin’s little seamstress, she thought, and it was this rigid irritation that had her at her word processor, the LA Times at her side, Classified section; all the business classes she’d been made to take for her degree came to mind, and she knew there was no glamor or glory, but she wouldn’t be satisfied unless she’d tried.
Executive summary. The words laden in anticipation on the white monitor screen, she felt she was kidding herself, she felt overwhelmed, but there she started her draft. Vision and objectives.
Years of work at a fashion house left a bitter taste in her mouth because of her failure, but, despite it, she relied with utter humility on what she learned there, who she had watched, those who’d said I wish you luck at something that isn’t fashion design and those who’d said I don’t want to see you give up your goal just yet.
By sometime around three in the morning, she had a really pathetic business plan. By sometime after that, she had an ad for the paper, for a business partner, which she’d read a dozen times through. She wondered if she was really gonna do this.
She climbed into bed exhausted, oddly consoled, Beck was sleepily lain there and she gently squeezed in at his side. “Sorry about all the typing,” she whispered, aware he may not be awake; sorry as she were, she would’ve done it either way. Beck grinned, eyes closed, his arms came around the small of her back. He was cutely warm, visibly glad for her company, he really did feel so much better with her. He didn’t ask what she’d been typing, he knew her well enough to know it was work, even if she wasn’t at work anymore.
Beck never cared if she hadn’t shaved her legs, if her hair was in curlers, if she’d not done her makeup; he’d stayed beside her when she’d been entirely bedridden and sick, held her hair back when she threw up. He never thought to make her his little seamstress, he’d thought no less of her for losing her job, he’d loved her profoundly, profoundly, but Beck was the sort of person who needed someone to love.
Like doing things his way had left him too much alone.
He’d always had girlfriends. He’d always wanted to live with them. He thought he was gonna marry Leigh someday, and then they were gonna have kids.
Then he would pass unto them what Al had passed unto him and Channing, so they’d know what he knew, and see the colors he saw, of this he was certain—
—but so early on, you don’t think stuff you do could ever really matter.
What are you willing to sacrifice?

(On to Chapter 8)
- 6
- 7
- 8
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Thom/Beck - Part 2