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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
- 8
- 9
- 10
Things appeared to take an innocuous turn when Thom and Beck had digressed into a drunken duet of Venus in Furs, Colin observed as he tried to assess whether intervention on his part would be required. If they were just singing, well, no reason Jonny couldn’t hang around, stiff and blatantly sober though he appeared still within Thom’s grasp.
Jonny watched the two singers; he’d seen Thom pissed many times before and very plainly happy, even quirkier than he was sober. His voice would waver, off pitch but enthusiastic, he and Beck appeared quite content in each other’s company. Jonny knew the words. Once he’d got past the initial shock, he began timidly singing along, the only non-singer among them but the only one sober enough to get the notes right.
Beck had given up on the lyrics and took the harmonica to his mouth instead, though harmonica wasn’t exactly right for Venus in Furs. Thom began improvising after that, shiny, shiny, shiny, shiny, shiny…what’s after that…?
“Boots. Shiny boots,” Jonny supplied, partly laughing.
“Shiny, shiny, shiny…. let’s do dirty things to Jon.”
Thom had said it so good-naturedly, so casually, it could be construed as something innocuous or something more, and Jonny was certain by then that he wanted to know where it could go from there.
“My man Jonny G on guitar…!” Beck slurred, now pulling the both of them in, “and the mouth organ—”
Harmonica, Jonny meant to correct, but it issued so quiet he wasn’t sure he’d actually said it at all. Colin watched with a bout of despair; interrupting now would make Jonny feel worse, but this had all the making of trouble. The sort of trouble that was great fun if you were drunk and took it all lightly, but which you could profoundly regret the morning after that.
He couldn’t very well reason with Thom now that he was pissed, he couldn’t warn or threaten him properly, quite compelled though he felt to do so. He desperately wanted to pull Jonny aside and explain that this would not end well, but he could see clearly enough: Jonny really wanted this. Jonny, it occurred to him, had fancied Thom.
And it didn’t matter that Thom may just want to do some stupid drunken thing, Colin knew better than to tell Jonny not to go along with it— because he knew he would have gone for it, himself.
He doesn’t know what to do with a bloke. He doesn’t know what to do with two blokes. He would get his heart broken, no doubt—Thom could be such a right tit when he was drunk. Colin already was planning how he would kill him the next day for what he still hadn’t done.
With so many others around, there was no elegant way to pull Jonny aside and tell him discreetly, here’s what you do, or you lot can have the trailer, I’ll stay with the others and you can come get me if there’s anything you need, or here’s what Thom likes, if you wanna get him going.
For the time being, Jonny appeared content in their company even without being drunk; he’d relaxed curiously into the fact that Thom’s arm was still on him, still securely in place at the small of his back. He was singing along with Thom and Beck through a number of songs by Joy Division and Sonic Youth, and a squeaky rendition of Paula Abdul.
Beck, it would appear, had a lot of energy. He didn’t just look sixteen, he acted sixteen, he couldn’t quite stay in place for long and was jumping while he played, face flushed with excitement. He was bent partway and writing things on his own T-shirt with a ball point pen, and marveled with drunken fascination at how the words came out upside-down.
Jonny was reluctant initially to let him draw on his shirt, as well, but tolerance won and soon he was folding forth timidly, because it quite tickled, and Thom had stopped singing Forever Your Girl long enough to admire Beck’s workmanship.
“That’s well Good,” he remarked, “Let me have a go.”
The crowd had dispersed largely by then, and Colin watched warily from the side, still flanked by Nigel and Phil.
“They’re just having a laugh,” Phil said gently while nursing a beer, “Jon’ll be all right.”
“Yeah,” Colin replied, not at all convinced. Beck was now consulting Thom’s opinion on how ramshackle was spelled. He had bent on one knee in a way that was very disconcerting to Colin, and was writing on the space of abdomen where Jonny’s shirt didn’t quite reach his trousers.
“It’s lyrics to a song,” he explained needlessly to Jonny, “so don’t wash it off.”
Jonny nodded with gentle compliance to indicate he understood, and Thom squinted over Beck to read what he was writing. “What’s flypaper?” he asked, and Beck shrugged, “Dunno.”
Now Thom had knelt down at Beck’s side and was adding illustrations, and it was a good thing the crowd had mostly thinned, because Jonny was helpfully holding his shirt up partway as to give them more room.
“We ought not watch this,” Colin concluded, but he found himself inexplicably glued to the spot with morbid fascination, aware this was somehow profane but unsure exactly as to why. “Right, artists at work,” Nigel coughed, pulling both him and Phil by the arms— because it had become something uncomfortable to bear presence to, something intimate even without being explicitly dirty.
“They’re gonna fuck my brother in that room, Nige,” Colin murmured into his beer, bent partway over into the palm of his hand, “and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Nigel regarded him for several moments, eyes darting across Colin’s face as he tried to decide on something tactful to say.
“I don’t think they’re really gonna. Thom probably forgot he’d even said it.”
“Yeah, maybe not,” there came the reply. But even if they were—they, like, both of them—which was clearly the worst case scenario— maybe it wasn’t that big a deal…? Colin had been to so many parties at uni, he’d done loads of stuff, and it had all been in good fun—maybe Jon would be a bit overwhelmed, but it wasn’t the end of the world…?
Thom— and Beck, for that matter—indeed had forgotten by that point what they had or hadn’t explicitly said; but they hadn’t lost any intention to do it, they’d both autographed Jonny all over his thighs by the time Donita Sparks had the good grace to shut the door to the room.
They were kissing each other without shame. Their handiwork had gone even worse than when they started out, Jonny watched as they restlessly had at each other; they both still had their hands on his hips, arguing incoherently about lyrics, accusing each other of making up words, then they were on about chords after that—
Here was something Jonny had input on. “That’s not the tabs to Just,” he interjected as Thom began scribbling on his hip again, fingers clawing gracelessly at Jonny’s trousers to pull them further down for more room. “You’d got that wrong last time, too, it’s farther down along the neck, seventh fret, Thom—”
Jonny bent partway over, taking the pen from Thom and writing the tablature on his own naked hip. He worked very carefully, as in tremendous relief that for once he was sure about something. He was very content with himself when he finished, because he managed to write it correctly from upside-down, in proper form for Thom and Beck to read from how they were sat.
Thom stared drunkenly at the ink, lips moving as he mouthed to himself. “Jonny, you sure, mate,” he asked, “I think that’s wrong.”
Now Beck was mouthing the tabs too, singing the notes very quietly. He was too drunk to decide whether or not if it was good, but now he followed along with one finger.
“It’s not wrong, Thom, look—” Jonny lifted his gaze to glance around the room, aware everyone had left and he couldn’t borrow a guitar. “Well—I’ll have to show you later,” he finally said.
Thom gazed up at Jonny, pointing one finger to emphasize the significance of what he had to say, “Don’t wash this off, Jon,” he warned, “until we properly copy it down on paper.”
“He’s like… a human music sheet…” Beck marveled, staring blankly at Jonny’s abdomen and hips, “I think they had those in the Renaissance…”
Thom regarded him with one eyebrow quirked. “They didn’t have that in the Renaissance.”
“No, I’m pretty sure they did,” Beck insisted, now tracing his finger along the illustrations Thom drew before, “Like, for the lute…”
He appeared genuinely consumed in thought, which had Thom and even Jonny giving it serious consideration.
“I think that’s utter bollocks,” Thom finally said, and Jonny had been hoping it wasn’t, because he thought it sounded interesting when Beck had brought it up before.
“No, man, I’m telling you…” Beck said, but he trailed off when Thom began kissing him. His hair brushed softly against Jonny’s bare stomach, and Jonny shivered, thinking how nice it felt.
“Thom,” he asked, then flushed straight away when Thom and Beck broke the kiss, both turning to look at him slowly.
Thom wiped absently at his bottom lip with his thumb. “Yes?” he asked.
Beck brushed his own hair back behind his ears, but it fell messily back in his face.
“Reckon you could kiss me, too?” Jonny asked.
Thom blinked; his lazy eye always seemed to go slow when he did that. He regarded him with absolute innocence. “Yes,” he said again.
Jonny felt his throat go dry; his heart went fast all at once, his lips parted.
His hands rose absently at his sides, partway to nowhere, then stayed dumbly there when Thom reached toward him, still on his knees. Beck watched as Jonny accommodated, bending forth partway while Thom’s hands came on both sides of his face and he pulled him in.
Jonny’s eyes were closed, but his eyelashes still fluttered; his entire body stilled when Thom kissed him.
(On to chapter 10)
- 8
- 9
- 10
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Thom/Beck