Chapter Text
He just wanted everything to be perfect. This wasn’t some random, senseless, impulse. Thom had planned it out. He’d spent the last weeks trying up every loose end. Every vocal recorded, every wrong righted, every room of his admittedly small flat meticulously organized and cleaned. Even now, he’d spent nearly an hour writing the note, folding it - making sure the creases were straight and clean, then washing his body and face. He covered up some of the nastier half-healed wounds with plasters. No use subjecting someone to seeing them.
He felt a little embarrassed by them. It seemed so adolescent to cut oneself, but it really did help. It was a calming feeling, to channel all the stress and emotions of the day into a few firm lines across the upper thigh. If anything, most people who condemned self injury were hypocrites to thom. He almost rolled his eyes at thoughts of people denying that alcohol or staying in a shitty job weren’t practically self harm as well. If everything went well, he’d be dead by three am, Friday morning. He chose bleeding out as his method of choice, already having experience with a razor blade. He suspected it would be a relatively easy way to go, but he would find out soon enough. Radiohead had finished up their last recording sessions, and wouldn’t meet up again until Monday. Ideally, someone would need him for something before then, and be forced to look for him, leading them to discover him in the tub. They’d read the note, and know that thom had his reasons, and wasn’t as selfish as everyone thought he was.
Thom stood in the doorway, chewing on his fingernails whilst shifting his eyes around the bathroom, looking for any last things he could organize or prepare. There wasn’t much to do now, as his bathroom was pretty empty. He’d used up the last of his expensive yet useless hair products, the plastic tubes and bottles probably in some overcrowded landfill outside of Oxford. More likely, strangling some poor sea turtle. Thom knew he should have been more eco friendly while he was alive, but one less thing to worry about. He’d emptied the hamper in the corner of the bathroom hours ago and done his last load of wash and wiped up the dried toothpaste off the sink. He had his cleaning products in a cluster on the floor next to the bathtub, ready for whichever unfortunate soul would have to use them. I mean, it was the least he could do, considering the slack his mates would have to pick up after he left. He should at least make it easy for them. He hoped that his blood could be contained in the bathtub, in delicate pools around his wrists, but that wasn’t really in his control. He knew better than anyone of this fact. It was always a hassle when he accidentally hit a vein and the blood would dramatically spurt out of his thigh, speckling his tiles in a Pollock-like way. They did leave the prettiest scars though, a fair trade off in Thom’s mind.
Before placing it on the edge of the tub, Thom reread his note for the umpteenth time. He’d addressed everyone - everyone who mattered, anyway. Horrified at the thought of being an angsty cliche, he made sure to omit the “oh this isn’t your fault, everything is too much, the world is better off without me” laments, just keeping it short and sweet. He wrote out messages to each of his bandmates, full of nostalgic fluff. He enjoyed being able to dwell on the past instead of the present, or even worse - the future. He smiled reading over the story of how he’d had to work up the courage for weeks to ask Phil, the intimidatingly cool year 11 to join the band, and another of watching Ed and Colin in the school plays, poking fun at their pretentious knowledge of Shakespeare.
He read Jonny’s paragraph about how stupid he’d been, resisting Jonny’s addition to the band all those years ago. How he’d went from the annoying little brother who hung around the rehearsal room to fast friends and then to a respected collaborator. He’d had much deliberation over whether he should write about the latest additions to his feelings for Jonny; the ones that gave him butterflies and a desire for something more. Jonny had always understood him, more than anyone else. Thom felt that no matter what, he and Jonny could read each other like books, a talent that was almost as unsettling as it was comforting. It felt nice to Thom to have his needs anticipated for, and gave the two an indescribable closeness. He decided against writing about it however. Jonny would be better off not knowing, whether the feelings were reciprocated or not.
He moved onto the paragraph where he encouraged the continuation of Radiohead, citing each one’s musical talent. He knew himself the be the least talented of the band, and Ed could easily take over vocals. Every time his mind started to conjure up possible disastrous futures for his brothers, he forced his eyes up the page, back to the lighthearted stories of secondary school days. He thought back to the first gigs as a band, when everything was new and exciting. He really had loved making music, and maybe he still did.
Thom forced himself to close the note, getting embarrassingly teary eyed. More than annoyed at having to go back though his newly organized drawers, he dug out some eye drops. The last thing he needed was for someone to see him a teary eyed and bloody mess. Thom tilted his face up toward the light, and felt the cool liquid hitting his eyes, bracing for the slight stinging that always came next.
Everything was ready. Thom breathed a sigh of contentment. The last thing he’d planned was to sit on his balcony, light a cig, and drink. Finally, he had an excuse to bring out the good wine. Thom slinked onto the balcony of his 3rd floor flat, bottle in hand. He curled up into a chair, squirming to find a comfortable position against the itchy cushion. He stared at the stars, feeling oddly calm for the first time in years. No more rehearsals to worry about, no crazy fans and executives harassing him, no more months of endless touring sending him into dissociative spirals. He flicked the lighter, the sparks lighting a flame first try. It had been nearly a decade and probably thousands of cigarettes of thom using this zippo lighter, and it dawned that he’d never once managed a flame first try. He let that thought linger as he exhaled a puff of smoke that trailed out of his lips and was dispersed into the night sky. He followed the smoke that got pushed into spirals by the wind, his eyes following the swirling patterns. Thom wondered if there was anyway he could disappear that way. No noise. No body. No consequences. Just picked up by the wind and gone in a few seconds. That would be the best way out.
Thom just sat still, watching the stars become brighter as the sky darkened and the lights of neighboring flats began to blink off. He wished he had planned to die out on the balcony, not having known that the weather would be perfect and the world would be so quiet. As he inhaled one last time from his cigarette, tossing the stump into the ashtray, he poured himself a glass of wine. He didn’t know why he bothered to clean out the ashtray as he was probably going to fill it again within the next half hour. He took small sips of the wine. It had a pleasant aroma, a bit spicy, almost cinnamon-y, he decided. Not as good as he’d expected, unfortunately. Lighting another cig, first try, again, he scrolled through his contacts to pass the time. There were many he didn’t recognize, probably typed in from random people he’d met on drunken excursions in foreign cities. He chuckled at the three “Heather New York”s trying to remember if they were three different women.
One more scroll put his thumb right above “Jonny”. He had a few other “Jonny”s in his phone but only one needed no last name or location. Suddenly, Thom felt that familiar feeling of unfinished business. Though he’d left it out from the note, maybe he should send Jonny a private text, for his eyes only. He thought for a while, struggling to contain the years of feelings into even a single coherent thought. He could only think about what they could’ve been. Would it be a secret fling? Messy, quick make outs and hookups in bathroom stalls and backstage, their hands eagerly weaving under clothes to find bare skin? Maybe it would be something more romantic. Proper dates to restaurants or museums, where Thom would go on and on about the importance of contemporary art while Jonny retorted with his own feelings about the classics. Snuggling together on couches, swapping movie recommendations and falling asleep in each other’s arms.
Lost in contented thought, Thom didn’t realize when his thumb fell against the screen, triggering a call to Jonny’s phone.