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Chapter Text

Tom hadn't even cared to look back. Let Marge see that he had slammed her gate closed! He ran, scrambling and banging his feet on the pavement, the whole way to Dickie's gate. He stopped for a few moments before opening it, resting his face against the cool metal as he panted and huffed.

His mind was stunned, blank. That in no way—that kiss! It could not have been the first he and Marge shared! And Dickie's hand around her waist, that was too much.

With a rough swing, Tom opened Dickie's gate. He didn't bother to close it behind him. He made his way to Dickie's studio and paused at Dickie's couch, almost collapsing on it. He sat leaning on the arm.

What could Dickie possibly owe Marge? Being American? There wasn't another American she could find? At all?

Almost at once, Tom's disgust for Marge turned into rage. He leapt from the couch and paced around. As if his body was out of control, without his command, his arms began reaching for Dickie's erasers, pencils, charcoal fragments, and whatever else was close enough. He threw them all around the room, barely hearing the sounds that made smashing against the walls and windows.

Tom took a quick survey of the studio, his hands on his hips and his breath coming in quick, hard. He turned away and closed the studio door, not slamming it but gently. He walked upstairs to Dickie's bedroom.

He couldn't even look at the bed. Had Marge and Dickie ever slept in it together? The idea made him sick. When was Dickie coming back? Tonight? Tomorrow morning? Was he going to sleep with her this afternoon? Is that why he had told Tom that there was no need for him to wait?

Tom took a few steps towards Dickie's window. Maybe he should just jump out. Maybe he should dance on the street for Dickie when he gets back, if he ever gets back. The flat, empty surface gave Tom a pause. Maybe he should leave a red splat for Dickie.

He went to Dickie's closet, softly opening the door. He scanned Dickie's clothes, thinking of times he had seen Dickie in all of the wonderful things he had to wear. Tom spotted a freshly pressed, new-looking grey flannel suit that he couldn't recall ever seeing Dickie in. He pulled it out and laid it on the bed.

Tom shuffled out of his shorts and pulled on Dickie's pants. He reached into one of Dickie's drawers and took out a clean white blue-striped shirt and put that on too. As he kicked off his own shoes, he reached for a dark blue satin tie of Dickie's and knotted it tightly. He looked around for Dickie shoes and slipped them on.

"Marge, you must understand that I don't love you," Tom said, turning to Dickie's full-length mirror. He donned Dickie's voice, higher-pitched than his own. He tried to emulate the soft growl that so often punctuated the end of Dickie's sentences. It switched from warm to icy, pleasant to unpleasant, depending on Dickie's ever changing mood. He parted his hair in the mirror, to the right like Dickie's. Tom looked forward to when he received Dickie's initmate tone, especially after an afternoon full of Dickie being cold toward him.

Tom turned suddenly away from the mirror. "Marge, stop it!" He grabbed the air as if it was Marge's throat and tightened his hands to strangle her. He tackled her to the ground and left her limp body on the ground.

He was flushed and sweating when he straightened himself out. He groped for his handkerchief, then realizing he was in Dickie's clothes decided to reach in Dickie's drawer. Tom turned back to the mirror. He wiped his forehead dry the same way Dickie always did. His breathing was still labored and as he gazed at his reflection he couldn't help but see someone who looked a lot like Dickie. Even the way Tom's jaw was dropped as he caught his breath, the way Dickie's did after swimming, and his lower teeth were exposed were similar.

"You know why I had to do that," he rasped, "You were interfering between Tom and me—Nno, not that! But there is a bond between us!"

Again turning away from the mirror, Tom stepped over Marge and looked out of the window again. He could see, distantly, the steps up to Marge's house. No Dickie. Surely if Dickie was just going to check on her, he would be back now or Tom would see him walking towards the house.

They were sleeping together. Tom couldn't see a reason why Dickie would be there so long. His rage twisted again into disgust. Of course Marge would love it. It would probably be bumbling and awkward, and there was no way Dickie would be satisfied by it. What did that matter to Marge? She'd love it even if Dickie spat and slapped her!

Willing his temper down, Tom ran both his hands down himself, smoothing out Dickie's clothes on him. It was odd how much they looked alike. He craned his neck to look for a hat and, finding Dickie's little grey Tyrolian hat with a green and white feather, put it on. With the top part of his face covered, the two really did look alike, Tom thought as he peered again at the mirror. Dickie's hair was much lighter than his but that wasn't noticeable with the hat on. Tom moved his eyebrows, trying to perfect how Dickie rested his.

Tom swiftly turned away from the mirror and then faced it again. He only kept his eyes on his body and away from his face. Was Marge at least pleasuring Dickie? Or was she making Dickie do all the work?

Without thinking, Tom lowered his hand to his groin. He watched his hand in the mirror move up and down Dickie's pants at the thigh. His body gave an involuntary shiver when he touched himself. Who would know how to make Dickie feel better? Himself or Marge? The answer seemed simple.

Tom stayed like this for a few minutes, teasing Dickie in the mirror and working himself up. He felt sweat starting to make Dickie's shirt stick to his back. He felt the warmth begin to boil in his cheeks and didn't need to look up at his own face to know that they were dark.

His head fell back and he stepped backwards in a drunken stumble to the edge of Dickie's bed. He sat at the edge, holding onto himself through his pants. Tom let himself fall back onto the bed. He threw Dickie's tie over his shoulder and unbuckled his pants. With a brief glance at the door, Tom lowered Dickie's pants and underwear.

Half uncaring if Dickie, or anyone else, walked in at the moment, and half completely and utterly ashamed, Tom began to slide his hand up and down his length. He couldn't decide on a pace, switching from antsy and quick to methodically slow and deliberate. Tom wasn't sure if he wanted to savor it or finish before Dickie arrived home.

Tom turned his head to the side, letting his eyes close. His mouth was agape as he panted, envisioning Dickie coming out of the water and opening his mouth to suck in air. Did he look that way when pulling away from a pair of lips?

Dickie's name was tumbling out of his mouth without him realizing it. Over and over again, "Dickie, Dickie, Dickie," he muttered. "Gah—-ah—-God...Dickie, just like that..."

Unconsciously, Tom's hips spasmodically jerked forward, crashing his cock against his own hand. He took his hand off himself for a brief moment, his hips still moving, and spat on his hand. Again his hand returned.

Tom was utterly breathless. He used his free hand to caress his own thigh, imagining it as Dickie's. The soft sound of his hand against the fabric drove him crazy. In the silent house, it was amplified and it was the only thing Tom could hear over his own breath.

A moan slipped out before he could close his mouth. Abruptly, Tom sat up, his hat fallen atop Dickie's duvet. He stood up off the bed, shook his pants and underwear to his ankles, and kneeled in front of it. Again Tom closed his eyes. He resumed touching himself and pushed his face onto the duvet. The spot was warm from his own body heat.

"Let...me...taste...you..." Tom huffed out, muffled against the bed. He opened his mouth against the duvet. "Let me take care of you."

Tom's tongue darted out of his mouth. His tongue barely registered the taste of the duvet, thinking only of Dickie. With no prior experience to use, Tom allowed his passion to take over. His hand moved quicker on his cock.

"You like that, huh?" he whispered, unsure if he was asking Dickie or himself. "Why would you need anyone but me?"

Tom's thighs were trembling as he got closer. Again his tongue came out of his mouth, writhing against the bed.

Suddenly, abruptly, Tom straightened his back, whining with need. His face tightened as he squeezed his eyes shut further. He came onto the hardwood floor, moaning open-mouthed against Dickie's duvet.

Tom stayed where he was for a few moments. His heart and mind were racing. He thought immaturely that his heart would jump right out of his chest and maybe make its way to Marge's house to find Dickie.

After catching his breath a bit, Tom lifted his head. There was a wet spot on the bed from his saliva. He looked at it for a few moments before moving his eyes down to the semen on the floor. Dickie's pants and his own underwear still around his ankles, Tom twisted his body to search for Dickie's hankerchief. He wasn't sure when he dropped it but it sat in front of the mirror on the floor. Clumsily, Tom crawled on his knees to the handkerchief. He wiped his face first, salvia all over the place, and then wiped his groin. He dropped the handkerchief as he pulled the clothes back up on his waist.

With some shame and some pride, Tom wiped the floor with Dickie's hankerchief. He had half a mind to put it back in Dickie's drawer as is. Leave his passion for Dickie to find—

"What're you doing?"

Tom whirled. He faced Dickie, putting his hands guiltily behind his back, and could only hope his flush wasn't so noticeable. Dickie was standing at the doorway, his mouth pressed into a firm line. Tom found his own mouth mirroring Dickie's.

"Sorry, Dickie," he said quietly.

Dickie opened and closed his mouth. It was as if anger was not allowing him to produce any words. Tom felt as if Dickie had roared at him. Dickie stepped into the room.

"Dickie, I'm sorry if it—"

The slam of the door stopped Tom abruptly. Dickie was opening his shirt as if Tom wasn't standing there at all. After all, why should Tom be standing here, in Dickie's room. Tom was frozen with fear, only able to move his gaze to watch Dickie.

"I wish you'd get out of my clothes," Dickie said.

Tom moved to begin undressing but he quickly moved his hands behind his back again. The handkerchief! Where was he supposed to put it? He stuffed it quickly into the back pocket of Dickie's pants and began to hastily undress. His sweaty fingers were stumbling with mortification. He was shocked. Dickie never minded Tom wearing his clothes, encouraging even, wear this, wear that. There would be no more of that, Tom realized sourly.

Dickie's eyes dropped down to Tom's feet. "Shoes, too? Are you crazy?"

"No," said Tom, almost defensively but it came out meager. He tried to calm his hands as he began to work on his clothes. In a flash, Tom reached for Dickie's hat on the bed. With the shirt away and hat hung, Tom's eyes darted around the room for what else he needed to clean up. The still wet spot at the bottom of Dickie's bed looked illuminated to Tom. Did Dickie notice that? Tom sat at the edge of the bed. He wished he could hide himself and undress. He tried to ask casually, "Did you make it up with Marge?"

"Marge and I are fine," Dickie spat. He had put a wall between Tom and them. "I'm not queer. I don't know if you have the idea that I am or not."

"Queer?" Tom rasped. He tried to smile. He felt faint. "I never thought you were queer."

Dickie opened his mouth to say one thing but decided against it. He straightened himself out, his shirt off now. Tom's eyes fell briefly to his ribs against his dark skin. "Well, Marge thinks you are."

"Why?" Tom asked, trying to keep panic out of his voice. If he was worried about flushing before...that didn't matter now as all the blood drained from his face. He feebly kicked off Dickie's other shoe. "Why should she? What've I ever done?" It wasn't something completely foreign to Tom. No one had ever so unabashedly said it to him, not in this way.

"It's just the way you act," Dickie growled. He went out of the room.

Tom rushed out of Dickie's pants and jumped into his shorts. He scrambled to put on his shirt. Following Dickie was the natural thing to do but he stalled. He took his time hanging the suit back into the closet. Tom felt insane. He checked himself in the mirror. Did Dickie notice the change in his hair? Would he notice if he changed it back?

All because Dickie liked him, Marge flung her dirty accusations out. From the sound of it, Dickie hadn't even defended him! Hadn't even stood up for him. Did Dickie even try to deny it for a second?

Tom went downstairs, keeping his footsteps light, and found Dickie making himself a drink on the terrace. "Dickie, I want to get this straight," he started. "I'm not queer either, and I don't want anybody thinking I am."

Dickie didn't offer Tom a drink. He just growled, "All right."

Dickie's tone was similar to when Tom had asked if he knew this person and that person in New York, some of whom were queer. Tom had had the feeling Dickie was lying when he shook his head at those names—deliberating denying those in particular. All right! Why did it matter? Who was making an issue of this anyway? Not Tom! Dickie was. Tom hesitated, wracking his head for things he may have said;bitter things, conciliatory things, grateful and hostile. He thought about who he knew in New York and felt ashamed for ever even knowing them, even if they were all dropped by now. It was only because Tom amused them that he was kept around. And okay! There was the couple that made a pass at him but he turned them down! Still, Tom thought, embarrassed, he did fetch them ice for their drinks and get them a taxi when it was out of his way. But that was only because he worried they might start to dislike him.

Tom thought of the mortifying, humiliating night Vic Simmons had said, "Oh, for Christ sake, Tommie, shut up!" when Tom repeated a joke. All he had said was, "I can't make up my mind whether I like men or women, so I'm thinking of giving them both up." When everyone had said they were seeing an analyst, Tom pretended he was too. He humored and entertained everyone with his outlandish stories about the analyst. After Simmons had told him for Christ sake to shut up, Tom hadn't repeated that joke again, or brought up the analyst again, now that he considered it.

As a matter of fact, there was a lot of truth in it, Tom thought. Tom figured himself to be quite clean-minded. That's what made this deal with Dickie so ironic.

Tom tried to start, "I feel as if I've—" but Dickie wasn't listening. Dickie's face was grim and he moved to the corner of the terrace. Tom advanced methodically, unsure what Dickie's reaction would be. Maybe he would pick Tom up and throw him off or instead, whip around and tell him to get the hell out of the house. Tom asked quietly, "Are you in love with Marge, Dickie?"

"No, but I feel sorry for her. I care about her. She's been very nice to me. We've had some good times together. You don't seem to be able to understand that."

"I do understand. That was my original feeling about you and her—that it was a platonic thing as far as you were concerned, and that she was probably in love with you."

"She is. You go out of your way not to hurt people who're in love with you, you know"

"Of course." Tom paused. He didn't want his voice to tremble with relief. Dickie wasn't angry with him anymore. He wasn't going to kick him out. Tom gathered himself and spoke. "I can imagine that if you both were in New York you wouldn't have seen her nearly so often—or at all—but this village being so lonely—'”

"That's exactly right. I haven't been to bed with her and I don't intend to, but I do intend to keep her friendship."

Tom hid his reprieve. "Well, have I done anything to prevent you? I told you, Dickie, I'd rather leave than do anything to break up your friendship with Marge."

"No, you haven't done anything, specifically, but it's obvious you don't like her around. Whenever you make an effort to say anything nice to her, it's so obviously an effort."

"I'm sorry," said Tom falsely. He surely wasn't sorry that he hadn't made more of an effort but was sorry he had feigned it poorly.

"Well, let's let it go. Marge and I are okay," Dickie said. He turned and looked out at the water but Tom kept his eyes on him for a few moments before leaving to the kitchen.

Tom made himself boiled coffee. He wanted to use the espresso machine but Dickie didn't like anyone touching it but him, and Tom clearly had already overstepped. Maybe he'd have it in his room and study some Italian before Fausto came. Tom turned away from the coffee. This wasn't the right time to apologize to Dickie. He had his pride. Tom didn't mind. The rest of the afternoon, Dickie would be icy to him and Tom would just have to suffer through it. Then when the warm afternoon turned to a cool evening, the two could dine and it would be as if the whole clothing thing never even happened.

At least one thing was clear, Dickie still wanted Tom around. Clearly, Dickie was bored by himself and Marge bored him as well. Tom knew he still had around three hundred dollars from Dickie's father. The two would go on a spree. Without Marge. Dickie was stunned to know that Tom hadn't seen more than a window's view of Paris; he had been amazed at that, Tom recalled.

While the coffee was boiling, Tom sullenly put away the food that he and Dickie would have had for lunch. Dickie wanted a refrigerator badly, and wanted to use his father's money to buy it. Tom hoped not. Then the two wouldn't be able to travel as much in that case. Dickie had his own money but he could be very cautious about it. In bars, though, he gave generous tips and easily doled out five-hundred-lire bills to whatever beggar asked for it.

By five o'clock, Dickie was warm again. Tom had heard whistling coming from his studio. He stiffened at the whistling, remembering how he had thrown Dickie's things around, but relaxed when Dickie didn't come thundering down the stairs to scream at him. Tom had been on the terrace, going over his Italian grammar when Dickie appeared.

"They don't always say ' voglio ' so clearly," Dickie said. “They say 'io vo' presentare mia amica Marge, per esempio." Dickie always moved his hands about when he spoke Italian, as if he was singing an opera or leading an orchestra, but Tom was fixated on his mouth. "You'd better listen to Fausto more and read that grammar less. I picked my Italian up off the streets." Dickie smiled. He walked off and down the garden path as Fausto was arriving.

Tom struggled to understand their conversation, laughing and pleasant. They might as well have been speaking Swedish, Tom felt.

When Fausto came out onto the terrace, he relaxed and put his feet up on the parapet. He was always only smiling or frowning, much like Dickie, hot or cold, and Dickie had told Tom he was the only person who didn't speak in a Southern dialect. Fausto always came punctually, three times a week, and he and Tom sipped coffee or wine as they talked. He was also a card-carrying communist and Dickie had mentioned to Tom that he was always willing to produce it to shock Americans. Tom was making great progress, as Italian was the only thing he studied dutifully. He wanted his Italian to sound like Dickie's, and with a month of good practice, it easily could.

Chapter Text

Tom rapped at Dickie's studio door. He didn't wait to be allowed in. Dickie was leaning over a painting and turned his head to look at Tom.

"I thought we could have lunch on the beach," said Tom.

"Sure. Find a nice wine, one from the icebox. I'll be downstairs in two minutes."

Tom closed the studio door behind him, nodding as if it meant nothing to him. He changed into swimming shorts and a loose shirt then skipped down the steps. It didn't really matter what they had for lunch to Tom, nor did the wine matter much.

Dickie came down as he had just finished putting everything in the basket. Tom didn't mention that he had been beyond two minutes because Dickie smiled at him, his sunglasses low on his nose so Tom could see his eyes.

"I've got it," he said, grabbing the basket.

The two walked down to the beach in comfortable silence. Tom looked at the way Dickie's free arm swung loosely when he walked, his other arm tight from carrying the heavy basket. Tom couldn't mirror it without looking deranged, at least not right now.

"One for each of us?" Dickie teased, taking the two bottles of wine out of the basket.

Tom just shrugged. He waited for Dickie to take off his shirt before taking off his own; he did it the same way, sliding the loose shirt off instead of unbuttoning it. Dickie folded his into a pillow for himself and Tom did the same.

The cool water soothed Tom's flushed skin. Dickie instantly dove into the water and popped out, throwing his hair back. Tom dunked himself under and pushed his hair back with his hands. Tom watched Dickie swim back and forth as he kept himself afloat.

When they were back at the blanket, Dickie bent over and laughed because Tom said he forgot glasses.

"I guess there's no reason we need them," Dickie said, still bubbling with laughter. He uncorked the bottle, drank deeply, and handed the bottle to Tom. Tom looked at the bottle, where Dickie had put his wet mouth, and took a gulp from there.

Dickie laid down on his belly and Tom sat as they ate. Dickie, sunglasses on top of his head and covered from the sun by Tom, looked up as they spoke. Tom was glad he was shielding the sun and Dickie didn't want to wear his sunglasses. He reached over, quickly and as if Dickie wouldn't notice, and pulled Dickie's sunglasses off his head. He put them on his own face as Dickie spoke to him in Italian.

Tom nodded along, hardly understanding because Dickie was speaking too fast. He asked him to slow down but Dickie said that wasn't any way to learn; Italian people spoke fast and Tom had better get used to it.

The first bottle of wine went fast. Tom wasn't sure if Dickie realized how little his sips were compared to his own long pulls from the bottle. Dickie was flushed from sun, food, and drink. Tom was flushed from sun, food, and Dickie.

Dickie's speech got slower, his eyes droopier, as he lowered his head onto folded arms. He closed his eyes as Tom watched his breathing get slower, slower, his back rising up and down, up and down.

Dickie was facing away from the water. Tom laid down, also laying his head on top of arms. He put Dickie's sunglasses on the blanket so he could see Dickie's true colors. He wasn't quite as tan as Dickie, at least not yet. When was the last time Dickie was pale? Tom found it hard to envision him with lighter skin.

Tom dragged his eyes over Dickie's smooth back, his hips, his behind and his long legs where his feet were crossed at the ankle. Dickie was able to maintain his physique with all the swimming and walking he did but Tom admired that Dickie obviously was wealthy enough to indulge in the foods and drinks he liked. Tom couldn't swim as well as Dickie, but maybe soon.

With Dickie asleep, Tom thought he might reach out and touch Dickie. What would be the harm in running a quick hand over his back? Or thigh? Or both? Tom couldn't see any.

He moved his arm slowly and hovered it over Dickie's back. Tom held his breath and he lowered his hand, ever so lightly, onto Dickie's back. He waited to see if Dickie would stir. He didn't. Tom grazed Dickie's back. Afraid Dickie would suddenly wake up, without indication, Tom withdrew his hand quickly. He moved it under his own body, right under his groin.

Tom took a quick glance around the beach, lifting his head up slightly. He lowered his head back down onto the little pillow he made with his shirt and slowly moved his hips into and away from his own hand.

He was unsure how much time passed by. It couldn't have been more than twenty minutes or Tom would've had a mess on his hands. Or in his swim shorts. He was hard against the soft sand. Before he could cause himself any embarrassment, Tom took his hand out from under himself and brought it back under his cheek. He whimpered quietly, scared of waking Dickie up with too much noise, and was tempted to run to Dickie's house to relieve himself.

Even without his hand under himself, Tom's hips kept that same, slow rhythm. He just couldn't help himself. He knew he should stop before there was something to clean up, but it only felt natural. Tom's hips crashed into the sand under the blanket as the waves crashed into the shore.

Tom gave in and allowed his eyes to roll back, but he closed his lids. His mouth was open slightly as he panted softly.

When he opened his eyes, Dickie was looking at him as he blinked and stretched himself awake. Tom stopped suddenly.

"I fell asleep," Dickie said unnecessarily, smiling. "Did you?"

"No. I was going over Italian."

Dickie laughed, assuming Tom was joking. Tom willed his own body to relax, go soft, but he had to wait. Dickie squinted at Tom's face in the sun, hopefully thinking his flush and sweat was just from the heat of the day. He sat up and drank some wine.

Tom waited. He simply put his head back down. How long had Dickie been awake? It couldn't have been more than just a few seconds.

Finally Tom was able to sit up as well. Dickie passed him the wine and Tom was about to decline but a look at the mouth of the bottle made him change his mind.

He started, "I thought we—"

A woman's shriek tore Tom and Dickie's eyes away from each other. Dickie jumped to his feet, looking this way and that way to find the source of the screaming. Tom pointed at a woman by the shore who was bent over a young man. Dickie ran to her and Tom followed.

"Help me! Help me!" She was screaming. "He's not breathing! Please, you have to help me!"

Dickie calmly pushed her aside and kneeled by the man. Tom watched as he parted the man's lips, drew in a breath, and lowered his face to cover the man's mouth with his own. He repeated this motion until the young man was sputtering and the woman was crying her thanks.

Dickie only smiled and waved his hand in a "no big deal" fashion. Tom gaped at him in awe. How many times had he done that before? Tom asked him that as the two made their way back up to their blanket.

"It's important to know when you're around water as much as I am," replied Dickie.

Tom was around water as much as Dickie was because he was always around Dickie. He opened his mouth to ask a question but closed it. Dickie looked down at the wine and rose his brows.

"Let's finish that and head back up."

Dickie fell into the blanket with a sigh. He offered Tom the wine first. Now Tom took a gulp mimicking the ones Dickie had been taking this afternoon. Tom never felt that alcohol was "liquid courage", but that's what people called it, right?

When Tom pulled away from the bottle, Dickie's eyes were wide, his mouth amused, but he didn't say anything. He only reached for the bottle and took a large gulp himself.

They talked about where they might dinner and what Dickie was painting as they finished the second bottle. Dickie's eyes looked alert (even if they were glassy) but his drowsy way of talking, both in tone and disposition, gave him away. Tom finished the rest of the bottle and slowly stood up. He reached out for Dickie's hand and pulled him up too.

Tom put away the food that was left over and Dickie folded the blanket after slipping his shirt over his head. Tom put his own shirt over his arm and held the basket at the inside of his elbow.

They didn't talk much on the way up back to Dickie's house. To Tom it felt as if he was talking a mile a minute with all the thoughts that were running into his head. If Dickie knew mouth-to-mouth, Tom wanted to learn how to do mouth-to-mouth.

"That was impressive," Tom mumbled.

Dickie looked at him. His eyes jumped to the top of Tom's head where his own sunglasses still were. With a small chuckle, he took them back and put them on his face, low on his nose.

"Like I said, if you're around water enough—"

Tom stopped walking. "Could you teach me?"

Dickie stopped. Tom had gone too far. He was already shaking his head and opened his mouth to take it back but Dickie turned his head around.

"Sure," he said with a smile. He nodded up at the house. "You want to learn? I'll teach you. We can do it when we get inside."

"Thanks," Tom said daftly, stunned. "Thank you."

Dickie shrugged and kept walking. Tom took a few quick steps to catch up to him and slowed down. It took everything in him, every particle of his being, not to make a mad dash to the house and lay on the floor with his mouth open for Dickie. He matched Dickie's gait.

Dickie silently went up to his room as Tom anxiously put the leftovers away, threw away the empty bottles of wine, and put his shirt back on. He buzzed as he tried to make himself look calm.

Down the stairs came Dickie with a smile. He told Tom to sit down and that it was actually very easy to give someone mouth-to-mouth.

"Okay," Tom said, keeping his voice from wavering. "It doesn't look hard."

"It's really not." Dickie sat next to him and began to explain. Tom watched his lips the whole time. "Got it? Want to try?"

Tom raised his shoulders in a cool shrug. "Sure."

Dickie instructed Tom to lay on his back on the floor. "On the rug," he said. "No use in being on the cold, hard wood." He kneeled by Tom the same way he had kneeled next to the young man on the beach.

"It's going to be a little awkward since you're still breathing," said Dickie. Funny. Tom would have sworn he had completely stopped breathing. "But I'll do my best."

Tom only nodded. He closed his eyes briefly, opened them and kept his lips together, not wanting to seem eager. Dickie laughed and pulled them apart by grabbing Tom's chin and nose.

"Just take in some air," he said. Then Dickie theatrically sucked in air. "And give it to them."

Tom wasn't sure whether or not to close his eyes. Dickie closed his so Tom figured he could keep his own open. Dickie lowered his face to Tom's and met his mouth, their open mouths opposite each other.

Dickie spoke against Tom's mouth, "Just blow," and he huffed air into Tom. Hot air rushed into Tom's mouth and he tried to close his throat so a moan didn't slip into Dickie's mouth. Dickie pulled away a little bit.

"And then you keep doing that," he said. "Until they start coughing or something."

Tom only looked up at Dickie's shining face. He blinked and Dickie laughed and sucked in air again. He lowered his mouth once again to Tom's. Tom turned his head so their lips were parallel, and not perpendicular. Dickie didn't say anything, didn't do anything. He only closed his mouth against Tom's so Tom closed his own into a kiss.

Dickie pulled away again. He was blushing. "Force of habit?"

"Something like that," mumbled Tom, humiliated.

A grin stretched Dickie's face. "You got it. You're a natural."

Dickie made to stand up but Tom grabbed his arm. "I think I could use some more practice."

Surprisingly, Dickie only laughed and lowered his head again. Tom's eyes fluttered closed. Dickie's lips only brushed his. Tom aimlessly tried to catch his lips, raising his head off the floor.

"What happened to my handkerchief?"

Tom's eyes shot open. Dickie's face was hovering over his, wearing an expression of mild curiosity. Tom let his head fall onto the floor behind him, hard. He tried to mirror Dickie's expression.

"What handkerchief?" Was all he could reply.

Dickie sat up straight. He put his hands on his thighs.

"One of mine," he said. "I'm missing one of them."

"What the hell would I know about that? Well—I'm only saying because I haven't—"

"You were in my room with my clothes on. You didn't use one?"

Tom pushed Dickie aside as he sat up. He wanted to put a hand to his chest to relax his heart's thumping but didn't. What was Dickie expecting him to say? Did he only know he was missing one, or did he know where it was? Tom hid his cards.

"I really don't know what you're talking about."

"Why won't you just tell me?" Tom opened his mouth to reply but Dickie plunged on. "I wasn't accusing you of being dishonest or stealing it. I thought maybe you took it and forgot about it."

"I'm not going to tell you I took something when I didn't. You probably just misplaced it. Why would I steal one of your handkerchiefs?"

Dickie scoffed. "Why would you try on my clothes?"

Stunned, Tom rose from the ground. He looked down at Dickie and Dickie blinked up at him.

"If you don't want to tell me, fine," he spat, standing up. He went toward the terrace. "But I know I didn't lose one."

Dickie stepped outside as Tom stood gaping in the living room. Tom felt some relief knowing that it didn't appear that Dickie really knew what happened with the handkerchief. Tom watched Dickie for a few moments; he paced and then stood watching the water. Tom ran upstairs to Dickie's room, panting as he looked through Dickie's suit.

He found the blue suit he had taken out before and groped at the pockets. He found it! The handkerchief! Tom stuffed it into his waistband, dashed to the bathroom, and tried to wash it in the sink. He rubbed at the handkerchief mercilessly.

Thank God Dickie hadn't found it. Unless he left it there, to pull out and humiliate Tom. Well, he couldn't really think about that. What Tom really had to consider was where to leave the handkerchief so that Dickie would think that he had just dropped it somewhere.

As Tom scrubbed away, he wondered what Dickie's angle was. What the hell was that about? Dickie had, what? Pinned him down so he would be forced to answer? Why not ask him normally?

Tom wasn't sure if he should be glad Dickie wasn't upset he had closed their lips together. But...hadn't Dickie done it first, Tom thought, hadn't he?

The handkerchief seemed fine enough at this point so Tom began to dry it with a towel. He brought it back to his room and put it in between the window and sill, closing the window so it wouldn't blow away. Maybe he could get into Dickie's room and leave it somewhere under his dresser, or chest?

Tom went downstairs and saw Dickie was no longer on the terrace but instead in the kitchen. He was making an espresso. He looked over his shoulder, saw Tom, and looked aloof. Tom wondered if Dickie was still upset. He'd rather have Dickie come to him and apologize for accusing him of lying than go and grovel.

The sun was drying the handkerchief fast, Tom knew. He just needed a few minutes longer before he put it back in Dickie's room. Tom wasn't sure where to go. He didn't want to hide away, afraid he would look suspicious, but he didn't want to hang around Dickie and further annoy him, if he was annoyed.

He went out on the terrace. Tom wanted to turn his head to peer at Dickie but instead look at the water.

Dickie was out of his mind! How long had he been keeping that in his pocket? If Tom hadn't asked him to teach him mouth-to-mouth, would Dickie have just kept it to himself?

None of this mattered anyway. Tom was going to return the handkerchief and Dickie was going to have to apologize. Tom wondered what was going through Dickie's head now. The clothes, now this! If only Marge hadn't spat on their relationship. What was he thinking right now? What would he be thinking if only Marge hadn't hurled that dirty word his way?

Tom puttered as he paced on the terrace. He wanted to make a drink but he was too tired from all the wine before. Tom craned his neck to try and see his bedroom window but he was unable to. He went inside, surprised to see Dickie was somewhere else, and went upstairs to his room.

After fetching the now dry handkerchief, Tom silently crept down the hall. He noticed Dickie's door was closed. He went to see about his studio. That door was closed too.

Either room would be fine, Tom supposed. It just mattered that Dickie wasn't in it right now. Tom would rather not see Dickie before the handkerchief was placed somewhere, so he leaned by Dickie's studio to see what he could hear. There wasn't any whistling but that didn't tell Tom much. Dickie was in a poor mood, uninspired, or both. Tom didn't want to knock but he raised his hand anyway.

There was a clang behind the door. Then, "Dammit!"

Dickie! As quietly but quickly as he could, Tom bolted to Dickie's room. His eyes darted all around the room. Under the dresser? Was that the best place? If he played it cool, it didn't matter where the damn handkerchief went. Tom placed it under the dresser, turned around, left the room, and came back. It looked natural enough. Noticeable for Dickie if he was looking for it but not if he wasn't.

Tom grabbed his Italian books and ran back down to the terrace. He sat with his feet up on the parapet and waited for what Dickie was going to do. Were they still going to get dinner? Tom didn't mind going alone but he'd wish Dickie would just get over the handkerchief so they could go together.

He popped into the kitchen intermittently, listening for whistling. Suddenly, it came. The whistling grew louder as Dickie left his studio. Tom dashed around, grabbing his Italian books from the terrace and put them in the living room. He made himself some coffee.

The whistling stopped and a few minutes passed. Tom had his coffee in the living room and glanced up as Dickie descended down the stairs. He had changed outfits.

"Tom," he said. "I think you need more practice."

"Listen to the people on the street, I know. I—"

"No," Dickie said. He came to the couch and took Tom's coffee. In his shirt pocket was the handkerchief. "You never gave me mouth-to-mouth."

Tom closed his book. He looked up at Dickie with an air of indifference as he stood up. Dickie smirked and Tom told him to get on the floor.

"Remember what I said," Dickie started. "It's easier than it looks."

Tom nodded as Dickie lowered himself onto the floor. Tom kneeled. He and Dickie looked at each other for a few moments, Tom's face set serious and Dickie wearing a coy smile.

"It's going to be a little awkward since you're still breathing," Tom said. He raised his leg, moving it over Dickie.

Dickie laughed as Tom lowered himself so he was sitting at Dickie's groin, his legs at each of Dickie's hips. "I'm sure that—"

Dickie's voice stopped. Tom had seized his throat and caught his breath. Dickie gaped up at Tom, gasping.

"I'll try my best," rasped Tom.

He smashed their lips together. Dickie choked against his mouth. Tom loosened his grip and Dickie huffed hot air into his mouth. Tom closed his mouth into a kiss and Dickie followed his lead. Tom opened his mouth again, taking a chance. With only a few moment's thought, Dickie did the same.

Tom plunged his tongue into Dickie's mouth and, shockingly to Tom, Dickie responded with a groan that vibrated through Tom's skull. As the two opened and closed their mouths against each other's, Tom thought daftly about how pleasurable French kissing in the American sense was, but how he loathed the silly actual French kissing with the pecks on the cheeks.

Tom was too anxious to move his hands, afraid if he disturbed their position, he would disturb the moment. Dickie, though, brought his arms up and his hands came to Tom's back. Tom stifled any noise. Dickie gave a moan and lifted his hips to adjust himself. Tom was sure he felt Dickie growing hard under him. He pulled away and left Dickie's lips groping the air, searching for Tom's.

Dickie blinked his eyes open and looked at Tom. His face was flushed and his eyes hazy.

"I think I got it," said Tom, lifting himself off of Dickie. He ignored Dickie's crotch at all costs. "Thanks."

Dickie laid on the floor, boneless and confused, as Tom gathered his books and bounced upstairs. Books to his chest like a schoolgirl in love, Tom peered at the living room from behind the wall. Dickie had sat up. He sat there with a hand to his groin and his other splayed on the floor. When he shifted, as though about to get up, Tom dashed to his room. He waited for Dickie to go to his own room before exiting his.

Well. Was Dickie going to relieve himself? Tom waited silently by his bedroom door. He had been mortified to be pinned down in such a way and asked about some silly handkerchief! How was Dickie feeling just now? Tom listened for any noise and, hearing a soft, wet slapping sound, smiled to himself and returned to his bedroom.

Tom closed his bedroom door behind him, brimming with arousal. He kept his lights off and laid on his bed. Dickie was pleasuring himself. After sharing that passionate moment with him. With that thought in his heart and head, Tom was finished in no time.

After cleaning up, Dickie startled Tom as he was leaving his bedroom. Dickie was positively glowing. Do I, thought Tom, have that same light?

"Dinner," he said. "We never decided on somewhere."

Tom shrugged. "I don't mind where we go."

Dickie looked over Tom's shoulder, at Tom's bed. "Me neither. Get dressed and we'll go."

Tom wanted to give another shrug but hadn't. He only nodded and turned away, leaving the door open. With Dickie still in the doorway, he began to undress.

With his shirt off, Tom looked at him. "Say, something else?"

Dickie's eyes were focused on his own. "No."

Dickie held his gaze for a few moments before turning away. Tom pushed down his swim shorts and slipped on comfortable pants and a loose sweater. Maybe they could have espressos at a coffee house tonight. Usually when Dickie and Tom went to dinner, Tom was too tired for espresso. He'd usually go up to bed while Dickie stayed somewhere in town, or, if he did go, he would be unable to boost his sour mood. Surely Dickie had to be tired.

When Tom went downstairs, Dickie was sitting with his feet up on the coffee table. He had his legs crossed at the ankle and smiled at Tom when he appeared.

"Thought we'd invite Marge," he said. "Don't you think?"

Tom stopped halfway down the stairs. "Marge?" he said daftly.

"Sure. Why not?"

"I'd rather—" Tom stopped. He went down the rest of the steps and looked down at Dickie on the couch. What was he doing?

"Rather what? Rather her not be there?"

Tom sat down with a sigh. "No! No, it's not that. It's..."

Dickie raised his brows expectantly. His smile was coy, like before. What was Dickie honestly expecting him to say? Don't invite her, she doesn't like me, Tom thought, she doesn't like us.

"Tom?"

Tom looked at Dickie. He started to move his mouth to respond but stopped himself. Dickie wasn't going to win this hand. Not by a long shot.

"You two can go," said Tom, standing up. "I'll just have our leftovers from lunch."

"Why go out at all?" Dickie stammered? That's what it sounded like. "We could both have the leftovers."

"There's really not enough for the two of us. Go with Marge. Have fun."

Tom was smiling now, while Dickie was frowning at him. Tom moved to the kitchen and bent over to the icebox. Dickie came behind him.

"What's the problem?" He asked. "Marge?"

Tom didn't look over his shoulder and instead peered in the icebox at nothing in particular. "No. I just thought I'd have this instead."

"You—" Dickie cut himself off and narrowed his eyes at Tom. "This is about Marge, isn't it?"

"Am I dishonest?" Tom asked. He almost laughed. "I would just tell you I didn't want to go with Marge."

"Well, you were all ready to go before I mentioned it."

"I came downstairs to tell you," said Tom.

"You changed! Why would you change—"

"I was wearing swim shorts, why wouldn't I change out of them?"

Tom stayed bent over, waiting for Dickie to leave the kitchen. Dickie lingered a few minutes longer so Tom kept shifting things around in the icebox. With a loud scoff, Dickie turned and left the kitchen. He stood up straight, finally.

Let him go with Marge! Let Marge throw whatever accusations his way, how could Dickie possibly respond to her now? If he was going to continue his friendship with Marge, he could tell her what he had done this afternoon.

Dickie was out on the terrace now, smoking a cigarette. Tom peered out at him. Was he sulking? Waiting for Tom to beg to come? He stepped outside.

Without turning around, Dickie said, "Let's just have it be me and you."

That was certainly quicker than Tom had thought it would be. Tom smiled but let it fall flat when Dickie turned around. He advanced to Dickie as he held a cigarette out for Tom.

"Just go with Marge," Tom said, sticking the cigarette in his mouth. "I don't mind."

Dickie held up his lighter for Tom to grab but Tom leaned over and made Dickie use it.

"No, I want..." Dickie trailed off. "Tom."

Tom sucked in as Dickie held his lighter to the cigarette. He looked into Dickie's eyes, only a few inches away from his own. Dickie gazed back, looking at Tom through his thick lashes.

"I'd rather it was just me and you," he said.

Tom pulled away, blowing out smoke. He couldn't bite back a smile. He wondered if Dickie had asked Marge already and would have to tell her that he didn't want her there. Or would he just say Tom didn't want her there?

"Sure," said Tom. "I'll go put the leftovers back in the icebox."

As Tom fiddled around in the icebox, Dickie was puttering around in the living room. What was Dickie's plan? Had he wanted Tom to say that instead? But why had he folded so quickly?

Dickie was smoothing his shirt out, rubbing his hands down himself, when Tom appeared again in the living room. Dickie moved to the front door, opened it, and grinned at Tom.

Chapter Text

Fausto had just left. Tom was finishing his wine on the terrace as Dickie showed him the way out. Dickie came back up and stepped onto the terrace. He lit a cigarette.

"I'm going to step out for a bit," he said. "I'll probably have dinner somewhere so you'll be by yourself."

Tom raised a brow at him. It felt like Dickie was talking to his son rather than his friend, or roommate, or whatever Tom was. He shrugged and looked back down at his Italian book.

"Alright," Tom replied.

Dickie looked like he was waiting for Tom to say more. Tom thought Dickie was going to say more. Dickie just sat down at the table and rested his feet up on the parapet.

Tom reached for his own pack of cigarettes and lit one. Dickie was looking out and over at the water. Where was he going today? Where was he going that he wasn't inviting Tom? Not with Marge? Dickie probably didn't want Tom coming because he would upset Marge by not trying hard enough to be pleasant to her. Has he ever been short with her? Tom couldn't recall.

When Dickie finished his cigarette, Tom waited for him to leave the house. He jumped from his seat and ran to the front room, watching at the window as Dickie descended down the garden path. Tom opened the window and heard Dickie's whistling fading away as he became smaller and smaller.

When Dickie was out of sight, Tom slipped out of the house. He crept towards the gate, opened it slightly, and tapped it shut. Tom slid away from the house and toward Dickie. Dickie had a hand in his pocket and one was holding a cigarette. He had expected him to stop and turn into Marge's house but he walked right past it. There was someone else he was seeing?

Tom hesitated as Dickie kept walking on. If it wasn't Marge's house that Dickie was going to, then Tom didn't really care, he realized. At least not enough to risk getting caught following him. He turned around and went back to the house.

Home, Tom went up to Dickie's room. He snooped around in Dickie's drawers and chest, for nothing in particular. God knows what Dickie would do if something went missing again. He looked into Dickie's mirror at himself.

He had begun parting his hair to the right, like Dickie. He hadn't made a comment about it. Not yet at least. Tom examined his hair. He wanted to lighten it but Dickie would definitely have a comment about that.

Tom opened Dickie's closet and looked inside. He still hadn't seen Dickie wear this suit but he had worn the handkerchief that Tom had stuffed in there. What would Dickie think about that? If he knew what had really happened to the handkerchief? Tom had the wild urge to dirty it again. He searched the room for it, high and low, and was surprised to find it in Dickie's nightstand. He took it out and then lowered his hand and took himself out.

With no gauge of long Dickie was going to take, Tom quickly pushed his pants and underwear down and laid atop of Dickie's duvet. He turned his head, letting it loll on his shoulder. The duvet smelled like Dickie. He turned on his side and inhaled deeply, taking in Dickie's scent.

He moaned, rolling again onto his back. Tom looked up at the ceiling, thinking that this would be the view he had if he was in bed with Dickie. Tom bucked his hips, Dickie's ghost crashing into him. He moaned again, crassly, loudly, unabashedly. Tom's mouth stretched open as if he was yawning, so each small sound he made slipped out into the open air. In his left hand, Tom squeezed the handkerchief.

What could Dickie possibly say to Marge at this point? If they shared this passion, this electricity, Dickie would have no reason to even continue his friendship with Marge. You go out of your way not to hurt people who're in love with you, Dickie had said. Is that why he was acting so restrained?

"What about me?" Tom gasped, quickening his pace. He had thought to tease himself, go slow, but all bets were off now that his hand was on himself.

Muttering, drooling, and panting Tom rose to his climax with a groan. He came into the handkerchief and sat up as he huffed. What would Marge have to say about this? She would probably just call Tom queer again, dismissing anything Dickie had done in some fantasyland she had conjured up for herself.

Carefully, Tom opened Dickie's nightstand and placed the handkerchief inside. He hesitated before closing it. It wasn't hard to envision Dickie's crimson, raging face as he thundered at Tom. It also wasn't hard to imagine Dickie ignoring it and forcing Tom to ask about it. Tom left Dickie's room. He walked downstairs, sifted through Dickie's records and put one on. He made himself a drink and sat on the couch, waiting for Dickie.

Where could he be? Tom regretted not following him. Even if he wasn't with Marge, who was to say he wasn't with some other woman? Well, actually Dickie was. Dickie hadn't ever even mentioned another woman, Tom was thinking, save for his housekeeper. Even when Tom had just arrived from America, Dickie hadn't mentioned any woman. Tom wondered if he did that for Marge's sake. Though, what was the reason he wouldn't mention a woman to Tom?

There was nothing Tom had even particularly wanted for dinner but he pulled himself off the couch to go to the kitchen. Dickie was maybe five, ten pounds more than himself. He had already decided to put on those five or ten pounds so Tom figured he should find something to eat anyway.

As Tom sat alone, he realized that he wished Dickie was home. What was keeping him? Who was keeping him? Tom chewed thoughtfully. Maybe Dickie had just seen enough of Tom for the time being. Tom couldn't think of half an hour that the two had been separated when they were sleeping. It was possible that Dickie had had his fill of Tom and didn't know how to give him the boot.

Was what he thinking? If Dickie wanted to kick him out, he would have no problem doing so. Maybe Dickie just needed a break. Even though he had begun to wish Dickie would just be home already, Tom couldn't say he felt the complete opposite.

Tom was out on the terrace when Dickie arrived home. He heard Dickie call, "honey, I'm home!" and then laughed when Tom came into the living room. Dickie was holding shopping bags.

"I've been clothes shopping," Dickie explained as if the bags didn't. "I thought you could use some clothes."

"I could?"

Dickie sat on the couch and bent over to look in the bag. He was saying, "Well, I thought since you liked my clothes so much, I'd get you some."

Tom's face burned. "You didn't have to do that. I have my own clothes."

"I know." Dickie glanced up at Tom. "But—well, I just thought you'd like nice in these."

Dickie reached into the bag and took out a loose shirt and pants. "Here," he said. "Give these a try."

Tom took them and made to go upstairs to his bedroom. Dickie called his name.

"Just change here," Dickie said. "There's quite a bit to try on. No use in running up and down the stairs."

Without anything to say, Tom began undressing self-consciously. He avoided Dickie's eyes but felt his gaze searing onto his flesh. Tom slipped on the shirt and pants and looked up at Dickie, who was sitting wide-legged, slouched on the couch, his hands hanging between his legs.

"Mmm," he hummed slowly. "Linen. Feels nice, doesn't it?"

Tom nodded. He walked over to Dickie and put his arm out. Dickie reached out and, instead of touching Tom's arm like he thought, touched the bottom of the shirt, feeling the fabric between his fingers.

"Nice and cool for the summer," he said. "Isn't it?"

Tom nodded again and Dickie reached in the bag. He handed Tom another outfit and slouched back on the couch again. Tom turned around this time to change. He wondered what Dickie was really trying to do. Had he really just been out all this time to buy clothes for Tom? And what was with this fashion show?

Dickie's eyes were at Tom's feet. He dragged them up slowly to Tom's face, all the while Tom had the sudden urge to cover himself with his hands, even if he was fully dressed.

"How do you like that one?" Dickie asked. "Fits okay?"

Tom looked down at himself. "Actually I think it fits real well."

"I'll say," mumbled Dickie. "Now take it off."

Tom could only hope his cheeks weren't as red as they felt. He sputtered, "What?"

Again Dickie bent over to reach into the bag again. He pulled out a thick sweater. "Put this on," he said. "Nice for the evening."

Tom only looked at Dickie, suddenly too anxious to take off his shirt. It felt Dickie was staring a hole straight through it, straight through him, and if Tom looked down at himself, he'd be able to see the stairs behind him. Dickie was looking up at him. He looked drowsy. Drunk, Tom noticed.

"You've been drinking?" Tom asked, taking off the shirt. He pulled the sweater on.

"What? No." Dickie laughed. "Why are you asking me that?"

"You're acting funny," said Tom. "How's the sweater look?"

"Come here. I can't really see it."

"I'm a few feet away."

"Tom," Dickie said. "Come here."

Tom advanced slowly to Dickie. Dickie let himself fall back onto the couch and spread his knees. He motioned for Tom to stand in between them. Tom hesitated but did it anyway. He looked down at Dickie's smiling face. Dickie had his hands splayed on his thighs.

"How's it feel?"

"Fine," Tom rasped.

"Fine?" Dickie laughed. "That's cashmere!"

Tom leaned down. "Must have been quite expensive," he said. "You wanna feel it?"

Dickie nodded and put his hand out to reach for Tom's chest. He grazed his fingers over the fabric, down Tom's chest and torso.

"Feels real nice," he mumbled, "right up against your skin like that. Doesn't that feel nice, Tom?"

Tom's head was spinning. He nodded with his mouth agape, stupidly thinking Dickie had meant his touching felt nice. Dickie slowly ran his hand back and forth from Tom's chest to his torso as Tom's eyes followed his hand up and down. He made a strangled noise.

"Take it off," Dickie said quietly. "I have something else."

Tom almost began to laugh. That or he was going to be sick, or something else would come out of his mouth if he opened it. He thought if he looked down at Dickie, his dinner would come back up all over Dickie and his couch.

"Okay," he managed to whisper finally.

Before Tom could pull the sweater off, Dickie started yanking it up. Tom was going to stop him but let Dickie do what he wanted. All Tom did was raise his hands over his head so Dickie could pull the sweater completely off.

"I say jump," Dickie mumbled, smiling. He eyed Tom. "You're looking quite tan."

"I have been spending a lot of time at the beach."

"With me."

"With you," Tom said. "So what?"

Tom noticed his heart was thumping more than usual. It felt like his heart was crashing against the inside of his chest. He worried stupidly that Dickie would be able to hear it as it felt like it was thundering in his ears.

"Nothing," said Dickie coyly. "Keep it up and you'll be as dark as me soon."

Tom didn't want to tell Dickie that was the goal so he said nothing. Dickie was inspecting Tom.

"You've put on some weight," Dickie mumbled. "Your hair is different too."

Tom wasn't sure why but he was embarrassed. No, mortified. It felt like when Dickie had caught him in his clothes. Dickie's hands moved down to Tom's soft ones.

"You never wear any rings, why's that?"

"I don't know," said Tom. "I never wanted to."

"Hmm. Is that so?" Dickie smiled again and bent down, leaning over to reach into the bag at his foot again. Dickie mumbled, "he asks how high." He pulled out a woman's blouse.

"I'm not putting that on," Tom said sternly. What Dickie said hit his ears now. "What?"

Dickie threw his back, barking out a laugh. Tom still stood awkwardly between Dickie's knees as Dickie closed them as he laughed wildly, holding Tom there. Tom could only look at Dickie.

"You wouldn't want to put this on for me?" he asked.

"No. Why the hell would I put that on?" Tom felt trapped in between Dickie's legs. "I'd tear it trying to put it on."

"You think so?"

Tom finally got away from Dickie, jumping a few inches back. He stood there, shirtless and flushing. Dickie was still holding the blouse. Tom raised a brow.

"Who is that really for?"

"Who do you think?" Dickie asked. "Think she'll like it?"

She'd like if you gave her a potato sack, Tom wanted to say. He could only raise his shoulders into a shrug. He started to get back into his clothes.

"You're not jealous, are you, Tom?"

Tom whirled. "Why...would I be jealous of Marge?"

"That's a good question," said Dickie. "Why?"

"I'm not!" Tom realized how loud his voice had gotten. "I'm not," he said again. "I really couldn't care less what gaudy things you buy for her."

Dickie looked at the blouse. "Gaudy, huh?"

"Did you want me to put it on?" Tom asked quietly, heat boiling in his cheeks. He glanced at Dickie.

Dickie growled, hungrily looking up at Tom, "Yes."

"I'm not doing that!" Tom spun around, his face away from Dickie’s. "Are you trying to embarrass me?"

"No," said Dickie. "Just try it, Tommie."

Tom closed his eyes, embarrassed. He was thankful he was still turned around and not facing him. Didn't Dickie know he hated being called that? Wouldn't he have introduced himself as "Tommie" if he wanted to be called that stupid, childish nickname? Tom finally turned to face Dickie, who had a hand splayed on his thigh. His hand was moving but stopped abruptly when Tom looked at him.
Dickie was smiling that easy, lopsided smile Tom had seen a thousand times. Each time still, his breath caught in his throat. He would do anything to keep it there, to be able to take it off and wear it himself. Tom reached for the blouse, ashamed, as Dickie looked up at him.

The blouse slid over his head easily. It slipped over his arms and shoulders easily too. Tom made a show of putting his arms in, tightening his arms and hands as he shoved them in through the fabric.

For Marge? He had bought this Marge? Then why was he asking Tom to try it on? He should go over there right now and tell her what was happening! What insult would she catapult his way after that? There was a loud tear.

Dickie was blushing, his hand still on his thigh unmoving, when Tom looked at him.

"Whoops," he said. "Guess you can't give it to Marge now."

Dickie gaped at him. Tom couldn't be sure if his face was burnt with anger, or something else. Dickie squirmed on the couch, still holding himself. He stammered.

"That's fine," he said. "No big deal."

"No?" Tom tore the shirt further, ripping through to expose his chest. The buttons fell to the floor like hail. "She won't be jealous of all the stuff you bought for me?"

"Why..." Dickie rasped, "would Marge be jealous of you?"

Tom advanced to Dickie. He leaned down and placed his hand over Dickie's. "I don't know, I thought I might go over there and show her everything you bought for me. Everything you thought I'd look good in."

Dickie sputtered, gaping like a fish. Whatever he thought was going to happen, Tom had just ruined. What was the incessant need to embarrass Tom? Dickie liked humiliation so much, fine.

Tom moved to the arm on the couch, sitting on it and letting his feet rest next to Dickie's thigh. Dickie turned his head and Tom wasn't sure if his eyes were full of desire or hate. Tom leaned down and reached for Dickie's hair. Dickie's eyebrows raised as he looked up at Tom's hand on his head. He moved Dickie's part towards the left.

"Why did you buy me all this stuff, Dick?"

"Dickie," whispered Dickie. "Just call me Dickie."

Tom let his hand drop to Dickie's jaw. He spoke hoarsely. "Don't call me Tommie...and you didn't answer me."
"I just thought..." Dickie trailed off. "If you wanted to wear my clothes so badly, I should buy you some."

Tom laughed. "So all that stuff about me looking nice...?"

Dickie scoffed and rolled his eyes. With Tom's hand on his jaw, he couldn't turn his head, so he only moved his gaze. Leaning over his own lap, Tom could smell that no, Dickie hadn't been drinking. He probably wished he had been now.

"I just thought I'd do something nice for you," Dickie said.

Tom let his eyes drop to Dickie's hand, still on his thigh, on himself. When Tom looked back at Dickie's face, Dickie was looking back at him.

"Move your hand," he said.

"No," Dickie said sternly. "Let go of my face."

"Dickie. Move your hand off your leg."

"It's not—no, Tom."

"Why not?"

"I can't," Dickie pleaded as Tom removed his hand from his face. "I can't, Tom. Don't make me."

"I can't make you do anything," Tom said, feigning an air of innocence. "Remember that Dickie. Everything you do, everything you've done up to this point, and everything you will do is your choice."

Dickie nodded, his lips parted slightly.

Abruptly, Tom leaned forward again and put his lips to Dickie's. Dickie instantly leaned his head back to accept Tom and Tom peeked through an open eye that Dickie had adjusted himself, pushing his hips forward.

Dickie's eyes were closed so Tom took the chance to scan Dickie's body. His hand was moving, finally, again on his thigh. Tom smiled against Dickie's mouth and Dickie panted. Tom pulled away suddenly, conjuring disgust on his face.

"Stop touching yourself," he said. "It's very unpleasant."

"I am not!" Dickie shouted, both hands flying to his groin like a child who wet his pants. His face was bright red in a way Tom had never seen, never thought he would see. He spoke through clenched teeth, "What are you trying to do to me, Tom?"

Tom shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about. What are you trying to do to me? Making me try on women's clothes..."

"You didn't have to," Dickie said. "I was just joking."

"Joking. Is that so?"

Dickie nodded. Liar.

Tom let himself fall onto Dickie, forcing Dickie to lay under his weight. Dickie felt warm up against him; his hard length rubbed against Tom's thigh.

The pair's lips crashed into each other again. Tom wasn't even sure if he or Dickie had made the initial move. Dickie, it was definitely Dickie. Tom would have known if it was himself. Didn't matter now anyway. Not with the way Dickie was grabbing and clawing at him feverishly. Tom had to keep himself calm, his body calm. He thought how bad the steak was two nights ago, how the cappuccino he had earlier was too creamy, how bitter the espresso Dickie made sometimes was, how loud Dickie blew his nose in the morning. No matter how hard he tried, how listless his thoughts were, they always returned to Dickie.

A groan from Dickie broke Tom from his thoughts. Tom forced a moan out of himself and into Dickie's mouth. Dickie accepted it graciously. Tom knew if he didn't stop now then he was going to be the one embarrassed but he just couldn't. Not when Dickie was pawing at him so passionately, so hungrily.

All this time, Tom was still too afraid to move his hands. He could only lay his hands on Dickie's chest. He wanted to tear Dickie's shirt off, let the buttons fly like the blouse. Tom wanted to explore Dickie's tan, hard body. He wanted to have their naked flesh up against each other's, feeling Dickie's body heat.

As if Dickie read his mind, his hands moved to undo his own shirt. His hands moved awkwardly.

"Take," he rasped, "yours off."

Tom's heart was thumping, his head swimming. He bumbled about, trying to pull his loose shirt over his head. It was stuck over his head. Dickie threw his shirt on the floor and helped Tom with his own shirt. With it off, Dickie's eyes roamed over Tom's body.

"Tom..." Dickie heaved. "You're..."

"I'm, what?" Tom asked, unable to stop his hips from rocking. "What am I, Dickie?"

Dickie let out a startling, unsettling laugh. Tom could only raise a brow to hide his embarrassment.

"Sorry," Dickie said, laughter still simmering in his throat. "I'm sorry. This is just—"

And then Tom was laughing too. He fell onto Dickie, their bare chests vibrating against each other's. Nothing was funny to Tom. Maybe he was delirious. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he—

There was a loud knock at the door; Tom and Dickie froze against each other. Dickie clutched onto Tom.

"Dickie! Why is the door locked?"

It was Marge. Dickie pushed Tom off of him and he fell onto the ground with a thud. Dickie scrambled to put on his shirt but mistakenly put on Tom's. Tom just slipped Dickie's shirt on.

Dickie was huffing and flushed as he shoved the clothes for Tom into the bags. Tom moved the blouse away with his foot. Dickie quickly surveyed the room before moving towards the door. He moved away.

"Tell her I'll be right down," Dickie said before dashing up the stairs.

Tom looked down at himself and, seeing he was still presentable, went to answer the door. He unlocked it and swung it open.

"I'm not sure why he locked it," he said. "He—"

"Does Dickie know you're wearing that?"

Again Tom looked down at himself. Had Dickie told Marge what happened in his bedroom? What could she possibly be thinking? All Tom could hear was scornful jealousy. He looked back up at her with a smile.

"Yes?" he said as if it was a question. Tom laughed. "I just needed something to throw on after we—well, never mind. Come in, Marge. A drink?"

Marge nodded slowly, confusion all over her face. As soon as she stepped in she began looking around, for Dickie of course. Tom went to the bar cart, unsure of what to make Marge.

"What can I get—"

"Where's Dickie?" she asked, standing in the middle of the living room.

"Upstairs. He'll be right down, I'm sure. What can I get you?"

"Wine is fine, or whatever you're having."

Tom wasn't going to have anything but he poured three glasses of wine. He went into the leaving room, leaving one glass on the bar cart. Tom held out Marge's glass for her but her head was bent down, looking at the floor. It looked like she was looking right at the torn blouse. Tom set the glasses down on the coffee table, bent down, picked up the blouse, and shoved it into one of the bags.

"Sorry," he mumbled, trying to hide a smile. "We were in the middle of—"

"Marge!" Dickie's voice came ringing from the top of the stairs. Tom and Marge both looked up at him. He was glowing as he descended down the stairs. Tom was pleased to see he hadn't changed out of his shirt. "How is the book coming along?"

Tom averted his eyes as Dickie and Marge embraced. Dickie picked up the bag and moved it by the staircase. Marge was smiling. Of course she was. Clueless Marge. It didn't matter to her that they were wearing each other's shirts. She wouldn't ask Dickie about wearing Tom's shirt like she had asked Tom. Oh no, she didn't want the answer to that question. She would just pretend. Dickie has always worn that shirt. She's seen him in it countless times.

"That's why I'm over here," said Marge. "I think I've been by myself for too long."

"Is that so?" asked Dickie. "Tom and I were just about to step out and get some espresso and dessert. Would you care to join us?"

Marge shot a dagger Tom's way. He was preening, almost standing on his toes.

"No, thanks. I just came to say hello." Marge drank her wine. "You boys enjoy yourselves."

Tom wanted to open his mouth and say something but knew Dickie would scold him after Marge left. Marge couldn't have looked more envious if she tried, Tom thought, Well, that was too bad. If she didn't want to be around Dickie when Tom was there, she was going to have a hard time being around Dickie at all.

"Are you sure?" Dickie asked. Tom hid his irritation behind a sip of wine. "We'd love to have you."

We, Tom thought, him and I. No longer was "we" to mean Marge and Dickie.

"I'm sure," Marge spat. She finished her wine and cleared her throat, obviously trying to sound pleasant. "I just wanted to say hello, like I said."

"Alright, Marge, but—"

"I really should be getting back," she interrupted, almost slamming her glass down but stopped at the last moment. "Thank you, Dickie."

Not so much as a look toward Tom as she turned to leave. Dickie walked her to the door and offered to walk her home. She declined. If she wanted to sulk her whole way home, what business was it of Tom or Dickie's?

Dickie came back into the living room, relieved Marge was gone. He pointed to the bag at the bottom of the stairs.

"Put that in your room," he said. "We can go, if you want."

Tom nodded and picked up his bags. He ran them upstairs and gave himself a quick once over in the mirror. Downstairs, he noticed Dickie's hair was parted back to the right. Had he done that just now, or before Marge had come in? Tom couldn't recall.

As the two walked down to the coffee bar, they didn't talk. Dickie whistled and offered Tom a cigarette, which he declined and took out one of his Gitanes instead. Dickie was odd. Tom wouldn't be surprised if Dickie were to simply sweep everything under the rug and make Tom hold it up for him.

Chapter Text

Marge had been around less and less lately. Dickie would offhandedly mention that he might pop over to say hello to her but he hadn't as of yet. Each time she came, Dickie would tell her that he and Tom were just about to eat, or lie on the beach, or study Italian. It was usually true; more than half the time. Tom wondered why Dickie lied at all. Isn't he the one who said you don't hurt someone who is in love with you?

As Tom expected, Dickie was back to his hot and cold attitude with seemingly nothing prompting him to switch between the two. They hadn't talked about what happened after Tom tried on the clothes Dickie had bought for him, but Tom's shirt was in Dickie's drawer and Dickie's was in Tom's. Mum was the word, even when it came to the handkerchief, which Dickie had to have seen by now.

To placate Marge, Tom made himself scarce. He made a big, theatrical show of waving wildly to Marge as he passed by her house. Not even as soon Tom was past did Marge bounce over to Dickie's house. Tom smiled to himself. Let marge say whatever she wants; his spot was secure.

Tom spent the day window shopping, at the museum, and ended it at the coffee bar. He studied all the people that came and went. He thought surely Marge would have gone home by now, but she'd probably need to be dragged by her hair away from Dickie. He finished his second coffee, paid the bill, and made his way back to Dickie's. Tom glanced at his watch. Just in time for dinner.

To Tom's surprise, both Dickie and Marge were out of the house. Tom looked up and down, on the terrace, in his studio, everywhere. He left the house and slithered towards Marge's. He stepped quietly to Marge's steps, gently opening her gate. He searched for a rock to hold it open and, finding one, stretched his leg out to bring it to the gate. Tom crouched as he walked through Marge's garden. He stopped when he could see up into her living room window.

Dickie had an arm wrapped around her waist and the two were...holding hands? Dancing, it looked like? Did Dickie just latch onto whoever gave him the most attention? Dickie should have just been honest and told Tom what was going on with Marge. Why had they bothered to even leave Dickie's house?

Tom stomped away when Marge and Dickie pulled each other into an embrace while laughing, at least it looked like. If he saw them kiss, he didn't know if he could stop himself from hurling a rock through her window and hitting Marge square in the forehead.

Before Tom could reach the gate, though, he turned back around and looked into the window again. They were kissing! Yes, a small one, but still, that didn't stop the bile from rising in his throat. Tom swallowed and turned around. Quietly, gently, he closed Marge's gate and walked back to Dickie's house. It felt as if he was Frankenstein's monster—all of his limbs operating as though they existed alone and independent of one another.

Tom stopped himself from slamming Dickie's gate, and his door, and the door to Dickie's bedroom. He wanted to throw things. He wanted to take a car and drive it over a cliff. Maybe with Dickie in the passenger seat and Marge in the trunk. He took a breath.

Opening Dickie's closet, he saw again the suit that Dickie had still yet to wear. He pulled it out, examined it, and switched out of his clothes and into Dickie's. The handkerchief was hopefully lying in Dickie's nightstand, tainted with his passion, or had Dickie washed it? Tom didn't want to look just yet.

Tom looked around for Dickie's hat—the gray Tyrolian with the feathers. He found it and put it down on his head, lowering it to cover his forehead. He gazed in the mirror.

It was really just like Dickie was looking back at him. Tom lowered himself to the ground and sat on the floor, on his legs. He inspected himself in the mirror, unconsciously leaning closer as he did so. It felt like if he just...leaned...forward...he and Dickie...could...

Tom's lips met the cold, hard glass of the mirror as he closed his eyes. They fluttered open briefly to see Dickie kissing him back. If Tom kept his eyes closed, he could easily pretend the cold mirror was Dickie. Tom's hot breath steamed the mirror as he panted against it. He wanted to reach down and touch himself but didn't. He left himself alone. Tom reached his hands up but touching the unyielding mirror almost broke him out of it so he put them back down. He didn't want to open his eyes but he wanted to see Dickie.

"Gah," he huffed, fogging the mirror, unthinking. "God."

Finally, Tom let his eyes open. He could barely see his reflection through the steam on the mirror from his hot breath. He watched Dickie's cheeks and mouth against his own. Tom opened his mouth and cocked his head to one side. Dickie mirrored it. Tom closed his eyes again, pushing himself forward, his nose smushed against the mirror.

His eyes briefly, momentarily, swiftly, quickly fluttered open to catch a glimpse of Dickie. Dickie standing behind him. Tom pulled away from the mirror and froze, unable to even bring his eyes up to look at Dickie's reflection.

"What's the matter?" Dickie asked, lowering himself to Tom. "You don't want to keep going?"

At last Tom brought his eyes to Dickie's reflection. He saw that Dickie was looking at his reflection too.

"Dickie, I—I can explain-"

Tom's words were cut short when Dickie pushed him in the mirror, just short of smashing it against Tom's face. He held the nape of Tom's neck. Tom was powerless.

"Who's on the other side of the mirror?" Dickie asked, his voice slightly higher than a whisper. Tom simply let his mouth sit open against the mirror and he whined, humiliated, in reply. "Hmm? Why stop on account of me?"

It felt like hours that Dickie held Tom up to the mirror, panting and gasping. His jaw ached from holding it open but the way Dickie had him pushed on the mirror didn't allow him to close it. Tom didn't know whether it was worse to have his open or closed. He didn't want to see his reflection, or Dickie. If his eyes were closed, who was to say Dickie wouldn't take the chance to smash his skull right through the mirror. He left them open and unfocused.

"Keep going," said Dickie.

"Dickie," Tom moaned, drooling. He tried to suck some saliva back in with no avail. "I'm sorry."

Dickie was crouched next to Tom, his breath hot on Tom's neck. "You really do love yourself that much, huh?"

Tom shut his eyes now. This had to be a dream. No, a nightmare is more likely. Tom had the childish idea that if he just kept his eyes closed then Dickie would disappear, vanish when he opened his eyes again. Keep your eyes closed and they won't see you.

Dickie was muttering at Tom's ear. "Come on, Tom," he was saying. "Show me just how much you love yourself."

Muffled by the hard mirror, Tom started to say, "It's not that—"

When Tom opened his eyes again, he was surprised to see that Dickie was flushed, his mouth hanging open. "Come on," he said again. "Who's on the other side?"

Not only could Tom not even move his lips to form the word "you" in the position he was stuck in, it would be completely horrifying to verbalize that. Or thrilling? Tom wasn't sure what exactly he was feeling. Arousal or dread? Both rested deep, low in his belly like an anvil.

"Show me how good that mouth works," Dickie rasped. "Show me what I taught you so well."

Reluctantly, Tom went to close his mouth, looking up to Dickie for permission. Dickie released him slightly, softening his grip on Tom's nape. Now Tom was able to open and close his mouth against the mirror, as he was doing before Dickie came into the room. Tom kissed his reflection, gazing at Dickie, begging him to just let go.

"Tom," murmured Dickie. "Is it you who's on that other side of that mirror?"

Tom shook his head, still working his mouth, still gazing at Dickie.

"Who is it?" Dickie asked. Tom moaned incoherently. "Hmm? What's that, Tom? I can't hear you."

Dickie's hand massaged Tom's nape. Tom noticed Dickie's eyes flickering between Tom and his reflection. Dickie's flickering slowed, slowed, Tom, reflection, Tom, reflection. He raised a brow humorously.

"You look like me with that hat on," he said good-naturedly. As if he wasn't forcing Tom's mouth on himself. "Don't you think so?"

"Uh...uh-huh..." Tom cried, bordering on a sob. Dickie's reassuring hand on his neck, his pleasant tone, his dizzying cologne, and his smile gave Tom a new fervor. He spoke against the mirror, his mouth opening and closing between every couple of words, "I've always thought we looked similar."

Tom could feel himself growing hard and he let out a groan. He wanted nothing more than to see if Dickie was too, ask if Dickie was too. There wasn't anything Tom could think of that made him feel more pathetic, not even his Aunt Dottie could stoop anywhere near this low. He wondered what Dickie was feeling.

Dickie was biting his lip, watching Tom as if he was looking at a painting. Tom couldn't exactly read the expression. Thoughtful? Pained? He moved his face only inches away from Tom's, no longer glancing at the mirror and only focusing on Tom.

"Tom," Dickie said huskily.

Tom stopped his mouth, letting it stay open. Slowly, he moved his gaze to the side, to Dickie. Dickie's eyes fell to his suit and climbed slowly back to Tom's face.

"That's my suit," he said. Dickie tightened his grip on Tom once more as he grabbed him to move him away from the mirror. "The same one you were wearing before."

Tom said defensively, "You've never worn it."

"So? It's not yours."

Tom shut his mouth finally, jaw aching. He realized suddenly that his feet were asleep under him and wasn't sure if he could stand to walk away from Dickie. He licked his lips.

Dickie's hand was still at his neck. "I don't like what you make me," he growled. "I don't like what you make me do."

Tom cleared his throat, having half a mind to ask Dickie to stop whatever this was and fetch him some water. "I told you," he started, "I don't make you do anything. It's all your—"

Dickie smashed his lips into Tom's, Tom instantly let himself melt into Dickie, let his tongue crash into Dickie's. He listlessly thought of how dry his mouth must feel to Dickie. He leaned forward, falling into Dickie, who let himself fall onto his back. Dickie gave a short wheeze against Tom's mouth as his back hit the floor; a soft moan followed.

Abruptly, without any notice, Dickie pushed Tom off, bracing his hands on Tom's shoulders. Tom opened his eyes to see Dickie flushed with arousal. No, thought Tom, rage.

Dickie now pushed Tom onto his back and Tom parroted Dickie's wheeze as his back now hit the floor. Tom opened his mouth to protest, to ask what Dickie was doing, but Dickie's hands came to his throat, stealing the words from him. Tom gasped, looking up at Dickie's face.

"I hate what you do to me," Dickie hissed.

"I don't," Tom tried to say, choking out the words. "You—"

Dickie tightened his grip, swiftly lifting Tom's head by his neck and then slamming it back on the ground. Dickie groaned with effort as Tom groped his arms and tried to pry him off. Dickie relented and, before Tom could even suck in his first breath, threw a punch to Tom's jaw.

With the wind squeezed out of him, his jaw hot with pain, Tom managed to lift himself off the ground and shove Dickie back.

"What," he panted, "is your problem?"

"You're my problem!" Dickie bellowed. "I hate that you—"

And again Dickie was on his back with Tom on top of him, straddling him. Without much thought, Tom threw a punch of his own at Dickie, to shut him up. Dickie put his arms up to stop Tom from doing it again but all Tom did was grab them. The two wrestled, Dickie trying to get Tom off and Tom trying to get Dickie to stay in his place. Dickie should have been able to overpower Tom, especially with the rage flowing through him, but Tom didn't let that happen, couldn't let that happen. He was too afraid that Dickie would run and tell Marge what he had walked into and, of course, he would lie about his part in it all.

Dickie finally stopped fighting and let his arms go limp. Tom held onto them for a few moments, doubtful that Dickie was truly surrendering. Tom let himself fall forward, straddling Dickie and bringing his hands to Dickie's wrists and then holding them above his head. He brought his head down, Dickie and his face's only centimeters apart.

"What do you want me to do?" Tom asked.

Dickie shut his lips tightly, his expression unreadable. Abruptly, he spat onto Tom's face and Tom could only scrunch his face. He didn't move to wipe it, not wanting to let go of Dickie's wrists. Tom moved to put his mouth on Dickie's and he wasn't surprised that Dickie opened his mouth to accept him. Dickie moaned softly against Tom's mouth.

Tom tried to keep himself from grinding against Dickie. He wanted the upperhand. No chance was he going to let Dickie know he was enjoying this, no chance he was going to give Dickie arms to use with Marge. Dickie clearly couldn't help himself. Tom was slightly surprised to feel Dickie's arousal under him; it didn't take much for Dickie, he supposed.

"You hate what I do to you," Tom panted. "What's that?"

Tom closed his mouth into a kiss again and as he opened it against Dickie's, Dickie took the chance to spit in his mouth.

"Stop doing that!" Tom shouted, exasperated, his eyes popping open. "You want me to spit in your mouth?"

Dickie looked up at Tom, his eyes pleading, his mouth telling Tom he was embarrassed without ever opening it. Tom smiled.

"Open up," he said.

Dickie shook his head, humming a decline childishly behind his tightly closed lips. Tom laughed and Dickie relented, closing his eyes and opening his mouth. Tom spat and Dickie choked briefly before Tom crashed their lips back together. Dickie's hips bucked against Tom.

"I hate you being here," Dickie whispered, moaning. "I'm not the same."

"Why's that?"

"I've never..." Dickie trailed off, his hips bucking again as he softly groaned. "Wanna touch you...my arms are tired..."

Tom pulled away from Dickie and laid his head on Dickie's shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut, whimpering quietly. Dickie was testing him. He had to be.

"Which one is it?" he asked, picking his head back up.

"Wanna touch you," Dickie repeated quietly.

Tom let go of Dickie's wrists. Dickie sighed in relief before bringing his arms to Tom's back, reaching under the suit jacket. Tom eased into his touch, allowing DIckie to soothe his back. Tom inhaled sharply before arching his back and bracing his hands on Dickie's chest. He rocked his hips slowly. Dickie was responding well, Tom could feel it.

"What were you doing with Marge?" Tom asked suddenly.

Dickie gasped, sputtered and blinked his eyes open. He stopped moving, his hands frozen on Tom's back.

"What?" he replied. "What are you talking about?"

Tom leaned down and kissed at Dickie's jaw. "This afternoon," he said. "I saw you two."

"Saw us, what?"

"Dancing," Tom whispered. "Kissing."

Dickie laughed awkwardly. "Kissing? I just gave her a peck—how did you see that?"

Tom didn't allow himself to be bothered. He closed his eyes and moved his lips to Dickie's neck. "When you weren't here...I peered into Marge's house."

"That's—" A moan slipped out from Dickie's mouth and cut him off. "There's nothing going on between us. You know that."

Tom quickly pulled away, looking into Dickie's eyes. "Does she?"

Dickie's hands moved again. He started to take the suit jacket off Tom; Tom shrugged it off with his help and tossed it on the floor. Dickie was looking up at him, just begging for Tom's lips on his. Tom lowered himself once again but stopped. He opened his mouth to repeat himself but Dickie spoke instead.

"What's the harm in letting her live in a fantasy?" Dickie asked quietly.

"Let her move on. It's depressing."

Dickie frowned. "How is being in love depressing?"

Tom finally put his lips on Dickie's. He spoke in between kisses. "When it's unrequited, it can be quite depressing."

"You would—" Dickie stopped himself. "And just what am I supposed to tell her?"

"Nothing," said Tom. "Just stop pretending like there's something there. She'll get the hint."

"Hmm," was all Dickie said.

Tom was fine to let the topic be dropped. Why let Marge ruin this when she wasn't even here? Dickie's hands felt so good on his back. It felt so good to let his weight fall onto Dickie. His back must be aching, Tom thought, against that hard floor.

Dickie was pulling on the back of his shirt, to yank it off. Tom wasn't much help. He wanted Dickie pawing at him, he wanted Dickie to be wanting. Tom finally allowed himself to feel Dickie. He ran his hand down Dickie, down his chest to his abdomen but stopped there. He wanted to reach his hands behind Dickie and hold him but with Dickie on the ground, he couldn't. Tom almost asked Dickie to sit up so they could move to the bed, or at least move off the floor and somewhere else. But, Tom had the gnawing feeling that if Dickie was moved out of the position he was in right now, he could come to his senses and push Tom away, or kick him out.

Tom's shirt came out from his waistband with all of Dickie's pulling. Now Tom took a moment to unbutton it and slip it off. Dickie put his hands out to reach Tom's bare arms. Dickie's eyes singed into Tom and even with his undershirt on, Tom felt completely naked.

"Voglio che tu mi divori," Dickie muttered, running his hands up and down Tom's arms.

Tom's lips moved without speaking, without realizing he was even doing it. Want...you...I...I want you to...? He averted his gaze away from Dickie to try and focus. Had he seen that word before? He didn't think so but really couldn't be sure.

"What?" he asked daftly.

Dickie only smiled and pulled Tom back down to him. Tom wanted to ask again what he said but Dickie pressed their lips together. Tom's mouth moved mechanically against Dickie's as he groped his mind for what "divori" meant. Did Dickie expect him to know what he was saying? Then why hadn't he just said it in English? He probably didn't want Tom to know what he was saying, or he was playing some stupid game to see if Tom could understand him. He knew Tom couldn't understand him. Dickie probably just wanted Tom to beg, ask him over and over again what he said. Well, Tom wasn't going to do that.

The two stayed like this for maybe fifteen minutes, if Tom's estimation was right. Dickie was clearly, obviously antsy to move further. Tom was content where they were. He pulled away, desperate for air.

"I'm starving," whispered Dickie. Tom was too. "Let's get something to eat."

Tom blinked at Dickie as he gently pushed Tom off. Judging by the swell at Dickie's groin, he was a little more than starving. He only sat up once Tom was off him.

"I'll..." Dickie trailed off, moving his eyes away from Tom. "I'll clean up. You can get changed. In your room." Tom opened his mouth but Dickie continued, "You're right. I never wear that suit. Why don't you keep it?"

Tom just nodded. He pulled himself off the floor, too confused to even have a thought about feeling ashamed. He looked at Dickie, looked at Dickie's nightstand, and left the room without a word. In his bedroom, Tom sat at the edge of his bed after lighting a Gitane. Was it possible that Dickie was anxious? Hadn't he thought that Tom might feel the same way? He certainly didn't seem anxious when he was ramming Tom's head into the mirror, or when he was asking who was on the other side of the mirror. Dickie was hungry, alright, but for what? Dickie completely lost any bravado when push came to shove but he clearly loved towing that line.

When Dickie had said that he and Marge had never slept together, Tom had to wonder what exactly that meant. Dickie could honestly say that he and Tom had never slept together but that was hiding something, like the blue suit Tom was wearing, tucked away in the closet. If Dickie were to say that Tom and he had never slept together, does it mean something different than when he says that he and Marge had never slept together? And just how the hell was Tom supposed to get an answer to that.

There was solace in the fact that if Marge had gotten even an inch of what Tom had she would be shouting it from the rooftops. Tom would have heard of it already. Still, the kissing. That had to end. Tom worried that if Dickie didn't stop like he suggested then he was going to have to intervene. That wouldn't be good for anyone.

Tom got changed. He passed by Dickie's room. The door was closed so he raised his fist to softly rap.

"I'm changed," Dickie said. "You can come in."

The door whined as Tom pushed it open slowly. Dickie was standing at his mirror, wearing the hat that Tom never even realized fell off.

"You're wearing that?"

Dickie laughed. "No. I'm just looking at myself. Odd how we look alike. Imagine we share a mother?"

Tom briefly closed his eyes at the mortifying thought. "I assure you we don't."

"I'm kidding!" Dickie took the hat off and hung it up. "I thought we'd drive somewhere. How do you like the sound of that?"

"Sure," said Tom. "Where were you thinking?"

"Somewhere far," mumbled Dickie, straightening his shirt out in the mirror. "Somewhere where no one knows us."

"No one knows me here."

"But everyone knows me here," Dickie said. "I want to be anonymous. Incognito."

Tom raised a brow. "Wherever you want is fine with me."

Dickie just reached for his sunglasses on his dresser and smiled as he walked out of his bedroom. Tom followed him downstairs and out to Dickie's car. In the cool air, he took a quick glance at Marge's house. Tom could just imagine her obsessively replaying her and Dickie's kiss. He could see her on her bed, like a young girl, preening with delusions. Tom grew disgusted at the thought of Marge touching herself at the thought of Dickie. She would too. He lit a cigarette. Dickie made a motion for Tom to light one for him too. He lit it, blew out the smoke, and handed it to Dickie.

Chapter Text

"How do you feel about seafood?" Dickie asked. "This place has great lobster."

Dickie went on and on about the lobster. Tom turned to face the lowered window, holding his cigarette to his lips but not inhaling. He despised the way lobsters were cooked—just dropped alive in hot, boiling water. It made Tom incredibly uneasy. At least he wasn't going to be in the kitchen. The crisp air soothed Tom.

"The tilapia is phenomenal too," Dickie said. Tom suppressed the urge to ask who else he had been to this restaurant with. "Don't even get me started on the deserts. Coffee's great too."

Tom only hummed in reply, the lobster sufficiently pushed far enough away in his brain. He looked over at Dickie, who left his cigarette hanging out of his mouth even though one of his hands was free on his lap anyway. Dickie whistled past his cigarette; he seemed happy and like he wanted Tom around, a far cry from the tune he was carrying before. What was all that about anyway, Tom wondered. He'd have to find a way to ask about that. Tom peered at Dickie's foot on the gas pedal, applying pressure and releasing, applying, releasing, slowly. Tom couldn't feel the difference even if he tried; Dickie kept a smooth, fast speed. Every face was a blur but Tom could make out the stores and restaurants easily.

When the two arrived at the restaurant, they had been driving for over an hour. Incognito, Dickie had said. This was one way of doing it. It was bustling. Tom wondered if they'd even get a seat.

It was valet only and when the valet came to collect Dickie's keys and car, Dickie held out the keys but swiftly pulled them back when the valet reached for it.

"Make sure she comes back in one piece," he said in Italian, smiling. Tom smiled too, but only because he was happy to understand. Dickie handed the keys over finally and put his hand at the small of Tom's back, leading him towards the door and through the sea of people. Tom almost felt like a woman. He glanced around. Dickie whispered in his ear. "Who are you looking for?"

"As if I'd know anyone," Tom mumbled. He wanted to shove Dickie's hand off but was too caught up in all the people, in the night, in Dickie. "Lots of people."

Dickie winked. "We'll get a seat."

With his hand still on Tom's back, Dickie spoke with the host, right against his ear. Dickie laughed, reached into his pocket, and slipped his hand into the pocket of the host. The host backed away from Dickie, craned his neck to look at the restaurant, and turned back to Dickie with a smile. He began to lead the two back and Tom felt a sudden, eerie chill when Dickie took his hand off his back.

The host getured to a dark, secluded, half-circle booth. Tom slid in first and Dickie after. He waited until the host walked away from the table before scooching closer to Tom, pressing their thighs together.

"What do you think you are going to eat?" Tom asked in Italian.

Dickie laughed. He spoke in English. "You sound like a textbook. Listen to the people here. How many people are speaking in English?"

Tom didn't have to listen to know that no one was speaking English. He looked away from Dickie briefly and in that short time, Dickie put his arm behind Tom, not around him but on the booth. When Tom turned back to face him, Dickie was close.

"How many people here do you think know English?"

Tom felt inexplicably nervous. "Plenty of Itlians speak English," he said uneasily.

"Not here they don't," Dickie said. He picked up one of the wide, fat menus from the table and as he opened it, he said, giggling, "What do you think you are going to eat?"

It was a wall, completely separating Tom and Dickie from the rest of the restaurant. Tom's heart lurched, pounding, as he felt himself leaning into Dickie. Dickie only smiled and opened his mouth as they fell into each other. Almost instantly, a groan erupted from Tom and plunged itself into Dickie's mouth. Antsily, feverishly, hungrily, Tom and Dickie's mouths worked against each other's but Dickie's hand held the menu and Tom's laid boneless on his lap.

Dickie noisily pulled away, letting the menu drop on the table with a loud thud. Tom wanted to pick it back up and hide behind it with Dickie forever. He put his hand to his cheek, as if checking for a fever, while Dickie waved down a waitress.

"We'll both have the lobster," said Dickie in Italian. "And a bottle of..."

He trailed off and looked at Tom. Tom looked at the waitress, then Dickie, waitress, Dickie. He felt unable to open his mouth, afraid if he did then all the things he truly wanted, all his desires, would come tumbling right out.

"Waitress' choice?" Dickie said with a chuckle. Tom felt drunk already. He didn't miss the way Dickie's eyes followed the waitress' behind as she walked away from the table. Dickie turned back to Tom. "Have you been drinking?"

Tom came out of it, shaking with exasperation. He blurted, "What?"

"Got into my wine?" Dickie teased. "What's got you so flushed?"

"Hot in here," Tom mumbled, almost incoherently, listlessly. "You're very close to me."

He wasn't thinking straight; he couldn't think straight. If Tom didn't watch himself he was going to get himself a smack in the mouth from Dickie. He could feel when his chain was being tugged on but he felt completely powerless. Completely helpless when it came to Dickie, when Dickie was in such proximity to him.

"It's a small booth," Dickie said, even though it wasn't. "You didn't leave me much room."

Tom wanted to turn his head to his right, to look at the empty space next to him, but his gaze felt glued on Dickie. Dickie, smiling coyly. Dickie, whose body heat was against Tom. Dickie, whose lips were so close to his still. Tom wanted to close that gap. He leaned toward Dickie again but Dickie didn't fall towards him. Tom was overflowing, ready to tip over and let it spill onto Dickie.

Abruptly, Dickie inched slightly away from Tom, still smiling. He began to look around the restaurant. Everyone at their own tables, eating, drinking, smoking, laughing. Not paying Tom and Dickie any mind. Tom noticed the menus were still left on the table. He wanted to reach for it. Dickie, reading his mind, picked up and opened it wide, but still didn't lean towards Tom.

"Why are you still in Italy?" Dickie asked.

Tom's lips moved to respond, forming a small "o". He stopped himself and tried again.

"I feel very at home," replied Tom. "New York is too fast for me. Always moving. For what?"

"I feel the same way. That's why I came here," said Dickie. "And there's nothing to paint in New York."

Tom wanted to say that with Dickie's skill, or lack of it, it didn't particularly matter what he was painting—Mongibello and New York would look the same.

Dickie's gaze dropped to Tom's mouth, inching yet again towards Tom. He didn't let their lips meet. Tom mirrored him, leaning closer. Still with the menu up, Dickie moved his face away from Tom's with a smile. Tom knew Dickie wanted Tom to ask for it, to beg for it.

Dickie continued, "Despite what my father thinks is best." He laughed, "Paying for a hotel for someone just to convince me to come home...why would you agree to do something like that?"

"I knew I wouldn't be able to convince you to go back to New York," replied Tom, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat. "I figured I'd get a paid trip to Italy."

Dickie laughed again. Tom wanted to laugh too but nothing was humorous right now. Tom licked his lips when Dickie looked at them again. He was not going to lean in, not let himself fall into Dickie. Tom didn't want to preen when he realized Dickie was moving in but found himself doing it anyway. Tom also found himself moaning without meaning to do so.

Why wasn't Dickie making any sounds? Nothing at all? Was he waiting for Tom to do something...? Even with his lips on Dickie's, Tom found himself stumped. It didn't take much to get Dickie antsy so why was he suddenly able to be so cool now?

Tom picked up his arms, heavy as stones, and moved a hand to Dickie's leg. He was desperate to make Dickie desperate but, without moving his mouth off Tom's, Dickie swatted Tom's hand off. Tom didn't want to try again. What he wanted was to hear Dickie.

There wasn't anyone Tom could think of that he had kissed like this, with both of his arms at his sides. Tom was aching, maddeningly waiting for Dickie to reach out and touch him, even if only a little. Tom felt like he was pushed up against Dickie's mirror again, only able to keep opening and closing his mouth.

Dickie's tongue rammed its way into Tom's mouth. It took everything in Tom not to make a sound. Then, Dickie put his hand on Tom's leg, walking his fingers up and down his thigh. Tom closed his mouth against Dickie's and opened his eyes. Dickie only smiled and pulled away, keeping his hand where it was. Tom was about to say something but Dickie dropped the menu and suddenly the waitress was back with wine. She poured two glasses and Dickie told her to leave the bottle.

"Remember the night we got drunk and fell asleep outside?" Dickie asked when the waitress left.

Tom remembered feeling weird when Dickie had said "Thank you, Mr. Greenleaf" to him. Why had he done that? Tom never asked, never had the courage to. He took a gulp of his wine.

"Yeah. I'm not up for a repeat of it," he said, though he wouldn't say what part.

Dickie laughed. "Oh, neither am I! I'd never. Not here."

"Then why are you asking?"

"Just reminiscing," said Dickie. "You'd never be up for round two of that?"

"I think it was something that..." Tom's voice trailed, a short huff of air came from his mouth. Dickie's hand was still moving on his thigh. He didn't, no, couldn't let Dickie know it was getting to him. "It was one of those things that was spur of the moment. Not something you can recreate."

"Is that so?"

Tom nodded slowly.

Dickie's hand retreated and Tom felt momentary relief before a wave of grief came over him. Dickie's touch was an aboslute pleasure but here, in front of people, was abstract torture. Without thinking, Tom reached for Dickie's hand to bring it back to his thigh, but Dickie just took a hold of it. Dickie must have felt like he was holding a fish.

"How's the wine?" he asked.

Tom used his free hand, his right hand, to take another large sip. He already felt dizzy, wine was the last thing he needed. "Refreshing," he said, wishing it was true. "She picked a nice one."

Dickie held his hand under the table, tightly. He just nodded, smiled at Tom, and rubbed his thumb along the back of Tom's hand. Tom had the urge to snatch his hand back, rub it dry on his shirt, and give it back to Dickie. Though, something told him that if he took his hand away, Dickie wouldn't want it back.

With a quick crane of his neck, Dickie took a glance around the restaurant. Before Tom could realize it, Dickie leaned over and pecked a kiss on Tom's jaw. Was it too foolish to hope that Dickie would think his flush was from the wine, Tom thought, yes, it was. Dickie had made that asinine joke earlier. He knew he was driving Tom crazy, Tom was at least aware of that, but he couldn't figure out why.

"What are you doing?" Tom asked breathlessly, looking down at his wine glass. Anywhere but Dickie.

"What am I doing?"

"You're going to make me—"

"I can't make you do anything," said Dickie. "Everything you do, everything you've done up to this point, and everything you will do is your choice."

So that was it! Dickie wanted to...what? Make Tom do something he'd regret? Something he'd be embarrassed about? If either of them had anything to be embarrassed about tonight, it was certainly Dickie. Dickie was the one being all touchy. Tom hadn't even made one move.

Well, he had reached for Dickie's hand. But, that was only to finish what Dickie started.

Dickie let go of Tom's hand and Tom almost expected him to dry it off before reaching for his wine. He took a long, slow sip with his left hand while his right arm reached around Tom, over his shoulders. Tom turned his head to look at Dickie.

"Okay," said Tom, swallowing. "Everything I will do...you want me to tell you or would you like it to be a surprise?"

"Make it a—"

Tom gently pushed Dickie back so his top half was laying on the booth. He took the tablecloth, ducked under it, and tossed it over. This way, he was laying on his side on top of Dickie and the two were covered.

"I think you made me pull something," Dickie said, rubbing at his hip. He stretched one of his legs out and then let it fall back to the floor with a slam.

"Shut up." Tom pressed his lips onto Dickie's. His hands groped Dickie, unlike any other time when Tom was too afraid to move his hands. It was awkward and clumsy and hot but Tom persevered. He palmed Dickie through his pants. He wasn't sure if he was surprised or not that Dickie was already hard under his clothes. "Make some noise already."

"You want me to shut up or make noise?" Dickie asked stupidly. "You're saying two different things."

"Stop talking," Tom said through grit teeth, his hand still working at Dickie's groin. "I'll make you—"

Dickie gave a strangled sound, not quite a moan, not quite an anything. Tom stopped when he saw a pair of womens' shoes from under the table. He tried to sit up quickly but banged his head on the table and cursed. Dickie managed to get out from under the table cloth and sit up.

"Thank you," he heard Dickie say in Italian. "We're alright. Thank you."

Rubbing the back of his head, Tom sat up straight. The waitress had left and the table looked the same. He thought the food would be at the table but supposed he would have smelt if that was the case.

"What was she here for?" he asked Dickie.

"Just checking on us. What the hell was that?"

Tom shrugged.

Dickie was flushed, his hair a disaster. Tom reached out and ran his hand through it, patting it down at the back. Dickie was unpredictable. Tom had expected him to shoo his hand away but he just allowed Tom to fix his hair. Tom glanced down and saw Dickie was holding a hand over his groin.

"So much for keeping my composure," Dickie mumbled sheepishly. "I wish I had thought to order salad. Do you want salad?"

"Sure."

Dickie waved down the waitress again and ordered the salad. She refilled Tom's wine while she was at the table. Tom reached for it and drank the whole thing down. The waitress laughed and filled it again, then emptied the bottle into Dickie's glass.

"Bring another?" Tom asked in English. The waitress smiled at him, puzzled but polite. Dickie repeated in Italian. She nodded and walked away but this time Dickie didn't watch. He turned to Tom, resting his chin on his hands.

"Did you still want to go to Greece?" he asked.

Tom nodded, positioning himself impossibly closer to Dickie. His thigh was practically resting on Dickie's. He took another sip of wine.

"Yeah," said Tom. "Unless you got something planned with Marge."

Dickie frowned. "What would I have planned with Marge?"

Tom shrugged. He kept his chin to Dickie but averted his eyes. It wasn't like he was trying to start an argument per se...but Tom didn't want to go to Greece with Dickie because he had nothing better to do. He wanted Dickie to want to go. Tom knew whether or not Dickie wanted to go, that if he was willing to go then Tom wasn't going to turn him down. How could he? It'd be foolish not to go.

"I want to move to Greece," Tom blurted. "What would be the point of visiting Greece?"

Dickie raised a brow. He parroted Tom. "What would be the point of visiting Greece...you wouldn't like to see it?"

"Think of all the things you could paint there!" Tom looked at Dickie again finally. "I'm sure you've done all you can of Italy."

Dickie's eyebrows jumped to his hairline. "You really want to move to Greece?"

"I just said that, and I hadn't planned on staying in Italy."

"Is that so? Seems like you've made quite the home for yourself here," said Dickie with a smile. "I like Italy a lot. Didn't we just talk about this? I like the way the Italians live. I don't want to live with the Greeks."

Tom smiled. "You like living close to Marge, I understand."

"I never said that! Why do you insist on bringing her up? Tonight is about you and me."

Tom's mouth moved to repeat the words "you and me" but he only got so far as curving them before he stopped. Dickie briefly put his arms around Tom to pull him closer. He reached for his wine and put an arm around Tom's shoulder.

"I'm going to start thinking you have a thing for Marge if you keep bringing her up," said Dickie. "You brought her up in Naples. For no good reason. After we walked that girl home."

"I was just saying that—"

"I know what you were saying. Three's a crowd."

The word crowd made Tom take a quick scan of the restaurant to make sure no one was looking at them. No one was. He looked back at Dickie.

"Are we going to Greece or not?"

"We can visit Greece," Dickie said. "I'm not ready to leave Italy just yet."

Tom let his shoulders fall, dejected. He opened his mouth to object and suddenly Dickie was pushing him away. The waitress was coming with salad and more wine.

"Just leave the bottle, beautiful," Dickie said in Italian. Tom knew at least that word. It made the waitress blush.

Dickie didn't go to pull Tom back. Tom pretended to not even notice, simply serving Dickie salad. Dickie ate slowly and Tom just watched.

"Changed your mind?"

"What?"

"About the salad," Dickie said. "You don't want it?"

"No, I—" Tom stopped himself and served himself some. "I was just thinking."

"About Marge?"

Tom couldn't hide his disgust. "About Greece."

"I thought you were—never mind. We're not moving to Greece," said Dickie. "We can visit."

"You said."

Tom began eating salad and Dickie stopped. He could feel Dickie's eyes on him but paid no mind. The salad was fine and if he wasn't with Dickie, he probably would have stopped eating it.

It did sound quite nice when Dickie said "we" to refer to them, Tom thought. As if their trips had to be decided together, as if Tom couldn't go without Dickie or vice versa. Dickie had decided, neither of them were moving to Greece. He had said it so matter-of-factly too, they were not moving to Greece. Dickie spoke as if Tom could not move and live independently from Dickie.

"Have I said something wrong?" Dickie asked. "You seem...upset."

"Upset how?"

"Angry, mad, I don't know," mumbled Dickie. "Have you ever even been to Greece? Why wouldn't we at least visit first? You—"

"I'm not upset about Greece."

"But you're upset?"

Was Tom upset? He wasn't sure. He couldn't shake the idea that if it weren't for Marge, Dickie would be more likely to want to go to Greece. Maybe not. He did seem to have found his place in Italy. Had Marge and Dickie been here together?

"I'm fine," said Tom. "This salad is...not great."

"Really? I like it. What don't you like?"

"I don't know." Tom pushed his plate away. He drank some of his wine. "You can have the rest of it."

Dickie looked at him. "You are upset. Why?"

Tom realized he was behaving like Dickie. Suddenly his mood was sour and he was giving Dickie a cool attitude, much like the way Dickie often was, for seemingly no reason. He moved himself closer to Dickie, but only under the table as he didn't want to be pushed away again. Dickie raised a brow humorously at him, smiling.

"Is that the reason you're so upset?" Dickie asked, pulling Tom's thigh on top of his own and patting it. "You're not getting enough attention from me. Is that it?"

Tom blushed. He wanted to look away from Dickie but he didn't want to look further embarrassed. He took a quick glance to make sure the waitress wasn't around before putting his hand on Dickie's arm, right above his elbow.

Dickie was using his thumb to soothe Tom's thigh. He was looking down at his hand and Tom was looking at him. Dickie looked relaxed, content.

"Or maybe you're just hungry," Dickie said. "Are you hungry, Tom? I didn't think lobsters could take so long to cook."

"I would have rather the tilapia."

Dickie frowned. "You should have said. Why did you let me order for you if—do you want me to tell the waitress?"

"Now? No," said Tom. He wasn't even sure why he had said that. It was true, but too late now. He blurted, "Have you been here with Marge?"

Dickie laughed, a deep, full-throated sound, and threw his head back. "No," he said. "Is that what's got you so bothered? You think I've been here with her before?"

"So you haven't?"

"I said no. You can ask her and she'll say the same thing." Dickie poured his wine into Tom's glass. "I've been here...twice, I think. Never with a woman."

"That doesn't—" Tom stopped himself.

Was there a way to ask about who Dickie was with, if it was anything like the night he was having with Tom, without coming off as crude? Or jealous? Well, Tom supposed, that ship had sailed already. Tom decided there wasn't a proper way to ask about who Dickie had been here with.

It seemed like Dickie was going to say something but the waitress came back to the table. Tom was prepared for Dickie to take his hand off his thigh but he hadn't. Dickie just smiled up at the waitress and thanked her when she filled Dickie's wine glass from the second bottle.

"Looks great, huh?" Dickie said, his hand still on Tom's leg. Just how was he planning to eat lobster with one hand? "Why don't you have a bite?"

Tom clumsily cracked the shell and used the fork to serve himself a bite. "I hate," he started weakly, "looking at the full thing."

"Full, what? The full lobster?" Dickie laughed. "Why?"

Tom picked up another forkful and hovered it around Dickie's mouth. "I prefer to pretend I'm not eating something that was living ten minutes ago."

Dickie laughed again. He bit down on the fork, locking eyes with Tom. "Juicy," he said around a mouthful.

Tom went back and forth like that, feeding himself, then Dickie, then himself again. Dickie all the while kneading his thumb into Tom's thigh. Tom pretended not to notice, pretending Dickie wasn't getting to him, but his own body began to give him away.

"Put the fork down," said Dickie, picking up the menu. "Hold this."

It felt like Tom was suddenly running a fever. He was hot and cold all over. With a shaky hand he hoped Dickie didn't notice, Tom picked up the menu and held it up. He already knew what was coming but still found himself surprised when Dickie pressed their lips together. Tom could barely close his mouth against Dickie's before Dickie moved his mouth to Tom's jaw. Tom gave an embarrassing whimper as Dickie brought his lips down Tom's neck and brought his hand to Tom's chest.

Tom could have wept. He could have died right here in the booth and be content. He let his eyes flutter closed, too overwhelmed to even set his gaze on Dickie for a second longer.

"I hate what you do to me," Dickie rasped. He had said that earlier too, but this time Dickie's tone seemed desperate, pleading. Tom felt his cock twitch. "I can't help myself."

"I..." Tom's voice gave out pathetically. He couldn't form words with Dickie's lips at his neck. His brain was scrambled. The wine, this booth, Dickie, it was all sending Tom to a boiling point. Soon, he knew he'd boil right over the edge of the pot.

Dickie was going to leave a mark, Tom knew that. He imagined Marge seeing it. She'd do anything but believe Dickie was the one who left it, or tell herself that Tom had forced Dickie to do it. Dickie began to pull away slightly, probably having the same thoughts as Tom, but Tom used his free hand to force Dickie to keep his mouth where it was.

"Voglio," Tom muttered. It was the only word that came to his brain. Dickie laughed against his neck. Tom flushed and whispered, "Dai a me."

Dickie snickered, his breath hot against Tom's neck. He sucked gingerly at Tom's neck. Tom's head fell back, lolling against the booth. He wanted to put the menu down and let the whole restaurant see what Dickie was doing. Just the idea of Marge spotting the bruise was exciting enough to Tom. It was summer, still. What, was Dickie going to force him to wear a turtleneck?

With Dickie's hand at his chest and his lips at his neck, Tom was drowning. He closed his mouth, pushing a feminine moan against his lips. His pants were tight with his desire. Dickie licked Tom's neck as he pulled away.

"You want me to," Dickie started, a giggle bubbling in his throat, "mark you?"

Tom was too aroused to even consider being embarrassed. "Did you?" Tom asked, exasperated and uncaring. "Or what?"

Dickie laughed again. "Yes, Tom. You'll have quite a time trying to explain that."

Dickie pushed the menu down as Tom opened his eyes and came back to. Dickie went to cracking his own lobster and picking up a bite on his fork.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"I'm," Tom started, his voice strangled with arousal. It was an effort to speak, "Ravenous."

Dickie smiled, offering Tom the bite. Tom opened his mouth slowly and bit down on the fork. Dickie hummed in delight and gave himself a bite. Tom's hand flew to his groin.

"Not now," said Dickie, even though his hand was in the same spot. "Wait until later."

Tom only whined quietly and writhed against his own hand. He was desperate and unthinking. He would have cut off his own hand just for some relief. Dickie was just smirking suggestively at him, pressing on himself but clearly doing better a job at composing himself than Tom.

"I can't," Tom whispered. "I can't wait."

"You will," said Dickie. "I'm—"

"Voglio che," Tom babbled, "tu mi divori..."

"Look who's finally learning some Italian," Dickie said, smiling. He put his arm around Tom. "What's it mean?"

Tom wracked his brain. Divori, divori, divori, just what the hell did it mean? His mouth moved wordlessly.

"I'll give you a hint," started Dickie. "You just did it to the lobster...well, some of it."

Maybe if Tom wasn't ready to strangle or kiss Dickie, he could think! Just for a second, if he could just think for just a second. Before he could try and answer Dickie laughed.

"Devour," he said slowly. He drank some of his wine and giggled, patting Tom's back. "You want me to devour you? Oh, Thomas..."

Tom wanted to argue that Dickie had said it first. Did he know Tom would repeat it back to him? Dickie finished his wine and poured himself some more, and then drank that too.

"Hold up that menu," he said, his hand stiffening on Tom's back, and leaned in. Tom reflexively stuck his chin up, offering his neck again to Dickie.

On top of the sensitive bruise, Dickie took a small, gentle bite. Tom breathed out, a small yelp escaping from his throat. He was burning all over. Tom wasn't sure if he was feeling shame or excitement, or maybe it was excitement at the shame? Either way, his throat was tight with tension and his cheeks boiled.

Dickie's left hand moved to cover Tom's at his groin. He forced Tom's hand to palm himself through pants. Tom groaned louder than he had wanted to and Dickie laughed quietly. As he moved Tom's hand, he licked the bruise, where he had bitten, to soothe it.

"Dickie," Tom managed. "If you don't stop..."

Dickie spoke against his neck. "What? If I don't stop, what?"

Tom wanted to scream. He wanted to grab Dickie by the neck and shake him, tell him to stop, tell him to never stop. It didn't matter who was looking or how humiliated Tom would be when it was time to leave.

Dickie stopped abruptly, taking back his hand and moving away from Tom. Tom held the menu up daftly.

"Did you want dessert?" Dickie asked. Tom nodded, stupidly thinking that Dickie was making an innuendo. "Why don't we get dessert someplace else? You didn't want coffee, did you?"

Tom shook his head, even though the wine was making him drowsy and he could have used it.

"Finish your wine," Dickie told him. "I'll go pay."

Dickie slid from the booth and Tom's eyes darted to his crotch. Tom wasn't sure if he could get up from the table without making a complete embarrassment of himself but Dickie had cooled himself down.

With Dickie away from the table, Tom gulped down the rest of his wine even if he was dizzy enough already. He let his head fall forward, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth. Tom kept his hand at his groin. He was so desperate for release he could have cried. He wasn't even sure if what he was experiencing was painful or pleasurable.

Dickie came back to the table with an easy smile. He didn't sit down. He motioned for Tom to stand but Tom shook his head. Dickie glanced under the table.

"Hmm," he said. "That's quite the predicament."

Tom was suddenly very aware that he was in public. He looked up at Dickie, helplessly. He didn't even have a coat or jacket to hold over himself. Dickie looked at his watch.

"I suppose we'll wait—"

Tom adjusted himself under the table, antsy to at least be in the car. Just what did Dickie have in mind for dessert?

"Relax, Tom," said Dickie, sitting down at the booth now. "You'll only work yourself up further."

"Work myself up?" Tom cried. "I told you—forget it. Just be quiet for a few minutes."

Dickie giggled quietly and lit a cigarette as Tom willed his body to go soft. He put his head back down, closing his eyes again. He thought of his Aunt Dottie, he thought of Marge, he thought of anything but Dickie. It felt as though he was waiting for half an hour but when he lifted his head, relaxed finally, Dickie hadn't even finished his cigarette.

Tom thought he could use a cigarette himself at this point and pulled out one of his Gitanes. Dickie leaned over and lit it with his cigarette.

"Alright," said Dickie after a few minutes. "Let's get some dessert."

Tom slid out of the booth. Even if Tom had willed himself to decency, he still felt himself blush as they walked through the restaurant. As Dickie had done when they walked in, he kept his hand on the small of Tom's back. While the two waited for Dickie's car, Dickie was tapping his fingers softly against Tom's back. When Tom turned to look at him, Dickie was grinning.

Dickie tipped the valet and they got into the car. Dickie quickly leaned over the console and pecked at Tom's jaw.

"Warm night," Dickie said as he began to drive. Not really. "I was thinking maybe gelato."

Tom shrugged, still reeling from the wine and what happened in the booth. He lit another cigarette and offered one to Dickie but he refused. With the window lowered, Tom laid his head on the headrest and closed his eyes. The cool air was helping to bring him back down, lower his temperature. He took long, slow drags from his cigarette and, too tired to keep holding up his hand, stuck the cigarette between his teeth and let his hands sit in his lap.

It was a quiet ride, other than Dickie's whistling and the soft whoosh of the wind passing the windows. Tom could feel himself drifting, a pleasant warmth in his chest despite the cool air hitting his face.

The filter of the cigarette dampened between Tom's teeth as he let it hang from his mouth. He was so exhausted that he had to think about closing his mouth around it and taking a hit. Suddenly, it was pulled from his mouth and Tom opened his eyes to see Dickie taking a drag of it. He tossed it out the window as he pulled over.

"This is the spot," he said. "Tired?"

Tom nodded, letting his eyes drift closed again. He heard Dickie turn off the car and roll his window up. There was some shifting as Dickie leaned over and closed Tom's window too. Tom opened his eyes and Dickie smiled at him.

"Espresso?" Dickie asked. He gave Tom a quick kiss and suddenly Tom was alert. He shook his head. "Come on. Get out."

They both got out of the car and Tom looked down at his weaving feet. He tried to estimate how much wine Dickie had because he was wide-awake and walking straight. He put his arm around Tom as they walked down the street.

"What flavor do you like?"

"Hazelnut," Tom mumbled. Was he slurring? It sounded like maybe he was slurring. "I think."

Dickie laughed. "You think? But me too. Wanna share?"

Tom raised a brow and Dickie laughed again.

In the shop, Dickie ordered in Italian. Tom thought he misunderstood when he heard Dickie order the gelato in a cone but the young man behind the counter presented a cone to Dickie. He paid and they walked back onto the street. It was a quiet, empty night.

Dickie offered it to Tom with a smile, holding the cone up to Tom's mouth. Tom didn't reach for it but he instead darted his tongue out to have a taste.

"Good?" Dickie asked, taking a taste for himself. "We'll take a walk as we eat it."

Dickie put his arm around Tom again and used his free hand to hold the cone for the two of them. Tom stumbled, Dickie laughed, but they kept walking. Tom's clumsy way of walking pushed the cone into Dickie's cheek. Tom turned his head and licked it off. Dickie blushed, or was he already blushing?

There was an alley that Dickie turned Tom into. He licked the cone a few times before holding it out for Tom.

"Show me what that mouth does," Dickie said quietly as Tom licked the gelato. He giggled. Maybe he was drunk. "I'll give you something else to put your mouth on. How do you like the sound of that?"

Dickie held onto Tom's face as he ate the gelato. He pulled it away for a few moments to have some himself. Tom felt like he was going to collapse, like his legs would buckle right under him. He leaned in to put his lips to Dickie's but Dickie's pulled away, smiling.

"Not quite what I was thinking," said Dickie. "Finish that."

Tom took the cone from Dickie but didn't continue eating. He just blinked back at him. Dickie took the cone back and began eating it himself.

"It's good, huh?" he said, realizing that he hadn't spoken since they were in the car. He was practically bouncing his leg as he waited for Dickie to be done.

"Very good," Dickie replied, biting into the cone. "Very refreshing. I was boiling in the restaurant."

"Me too," Tom whispered, his heart lurching. He leaned against the bricks behind him. "Let me taste it again."

Dickie took some of the gelato into his mouth and put his lips onto Tom's. Tom tasted the hazelnut on Dickie's lips. Dickie pushed Tom harder against the wall behind him. Impatiently, Tom smacked the cone out of Dickie's hand and they watched it fall to the ground.

"Now why would you do something like that?" said Dickie.

Again, Dickie crashed their lips together and Tom moaned at the back of his throat. Tom moved his hands to Dickie's chest as Dickie embraced him, pulling him close. Dickie's big hands felt good on his back. Tom brought a hand to the back of Dickie's head to hold him close.

Dickie put his leg in between Tom's and Tom allowed Dickie to hold some of his weight on his thigh. He had half a mind to force Dickie's hand onto himself or bluntly ask him to touch him. Dickie was going too slow, teasing Tom, and he was falling for it. Dickie's thigh was against Tom's cock and he was sure Dickie could feel himself growing hard all over again.

Dickie pulled away. "Let's get you home."

Tom closed his eyes and groaned.

"Come on! I have a nice wine we can have," said Dickie. "Unless you're drunk already."

Despite himself, Tom argued. "No! No, I'm not."

"I think I might be," Dickie said quietly. "But you make it so I can hardly think straight."

Tom wanted to say he felt the same but was more surprised Dickie even felt that way in the first place. Then why was he kissing Marge earlier? Didn't he think of Tom in moments like that, or did Marge make it hard for him to think straight too?

"I hardly believe that," he said instead.

Dickie frowned. "That's too bad. Let me show you what you do to me."

Tom quirked up a brow as Dickie grabbed ahold of one of his hands. Dickie put Tom's hand to his groin, pressing it into his hardening arousal. Tom gasped.

"Can't lie about that, can I?" Dickie rasped. "Wouldn't you say I've taken care of you tonight? Nice dinner, dessert..."

Tom nodded, his mouth hanging open. Dickie continued.

"Now I want you to take care of me," Dickie growled. "But home. I want to be home."

Tom's hand felt suspended in the air. Dickie wasn't holding it tightly but Tom felt like his hand was glued to Dickie's crotch. He gazed into Dickie's eyes as he palmed him. Dickie's eyes rolled back briefly.

"Home," he whispered. "I told you at home."

Ignoring him, Tom pushed Dickie towards the other building of the alley. Dickie grunted as his back connected to the bricks behind him.

"Wait," he started breathlessly, "I—"

Tom shut him up by smashing their lips together. His fingers worked at Dickie's belt. Dickie groaned unpleasantly against his mouth but Tom just opened his mouth to take it in.

"You've been teasing me all night," Tom muttered, using one hand to slip off Dickie's belt while his other pushed on Dickie's chest. "I don't think you could possibly handle what my mouth could do for you."

Dickie's eyes blew wide but his mouth didn't stop working against Tom's. Tom took Dickie's belt off finally and wrestled Dickie for his hands.

"Wait!" Dickie shrieked. "Not here! Please, God, don't let it be here. Let's get back home."

Tom scoffed. "I knew you couldn't handle it," he said, giving Dickie his belt. "You just like playing around, don't you?"

Dickie slipped his belt back on silently, ducking his head the whole while. Embarrassed, Tom thought. Why shouldn't he be? Tom took him by the arm and walked him back to the car. He was really using Dickie to stabilize himself but Dickie allowed himself to be led. Sullenly, Dickie started the car, put his window down, and lit a cigarette. Tom watched as he lifted his hips, presumably trying to make himself comfortable. His arousal was obvious. Tom smiled.

What would the drive home be like, Tom wondered. Wordlessly, he laid down on the bench seat and laid his head on Dickie's lap. Dickie's leg jerked as Tom felt Dickie's cock convulse under his cheek. Dickie didn't say anything, only gave a soft grunt and put his hand on Tom's head, patting the hair on his nape. Dickie glanced down at Tom.

"Tom," he said between clamped teeth, his cigarette stuck between, "Please..."

Tom turned his head so his mouth was on Dickie's cock through his pants. Dickie jerked again, grabbing a tuft of Tom's hair. Tom just laughed against Dickie's cock. Dickie adjusted himself again, lifting his hips slightly. He groaned softly.

"Can't you wait? Tom, why don't you—"

Tom bit down and Dickie cut himself off with a yowl. Tom laughed again as Dickie pulled his head up.

"Are you trying to kill us?" he asked, glancing down at Tom again. "I'm trying to drive!"

"Sorry," said Tom. "Sorry. I'll behave."

Dickie released Tom's hair and Tom laid it back down on Dickie's lap. He brushed the hair on the back of Tom's head with the fingers on his right hand as he used his left to drive. Tom again felt like he was drifting so he closed his eyes and allowed himself to doze.

What was Marge up to at this hour? Sitting alone? Tom felt the ghost of a smile lingering on his lips. It'd be just like after Naples! She'd know they were up to no good but would rather keep her questions to herself so she didn't get answers. The deep, dark bruise on Tom's neck would answer all her questions. She'd probably concoct some explanation that made her feel better.

Abruptly, Dickie was shaking him awake. Tom lifted his head slowly, still feeling buzzed from the wine but more drowsy than anything else. He moved slowly, rising from the bench as he stretched. Dickie got out of the car silently and went to Tom's side. Tom found himself surprised to see a smile glowing on Dickie's face. Dickie put his arm out for Tom to latch onto so he could lead him up the garden path. Tom wondered if Marge was looking out her window.

In the dark front room, Dickie let go of Tom and, while walking backwards towards the kitchen, asked, "So, did you want that—"

Tom pounced on him, pressing his lips to Dickie's. He pushed and Dickie stumbled backwards, falling onto the coffee table with a soft wheeze. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the teasing all night, but Tom ran his hands all over Dickie, exploring each inch of him. Dickie laid sprawled on the coffee table, his feet planted on the floor. Tom absolutely demolished him, not letting his lips leave Dickie's for a moment. Dickie was utterly powerless, his arms laying at his sides, as Tom groped him all over.

"You've been driving me crazy all night," rasped Tom, picking Dickie up by the collar of his shirt. He slammed him down and brought his knee up to Dickie's groin. "Give it to me, Dickie."

"Give..." Dickie was rambling, breathless. "You what?"

"Stop acting so dense!" Tom pulled him up again but didn't slam him back down this time. He screamed into Dickie's face. "You know what I'm talking about!" Tom threw Dickie onto the couch.

Dickie barely had time to scramble before Tom was climbing on top of him. Dickie shoved against him, pushing onto Tom's heaving chest. Tom struggled against Dickie's force, against Dickie pushing him onto his back on the couch.

"Fine," Dickie growled, hovering over Tom. He was obviously, gloriously hard. Tom felt a zip of anticipation. "You want me so bad, don't you?"

Tom wanted to say that Dickie's body was betraying him, his body was telling him just how bad Dickie wanted him. Before Tom could open his mouth, Dickie grabbed the front of Tom's shirt and pulled him into a kiss. Tom melted as Dickie hungrily worked their mouths together. Dickie's breathing was labored but Tom didn't think it was desire.

"I'll give it to you, you want it so bad," Dickie spat, thrusting himself into Tom. Tom whined from the force of it. "I hate what you do to me."

There he goes again, Tom thought listlessly. He wrapped his arms around Dickie to roam the expanse of his back. Tom's hands moved lovingly, soothing as Dickie's hands pinned him down. Dickie's wrath was palpable. Tom knew Dickie was only angry at himself, at his lack of control.

Dickie's hands moved to Tom's pants finally. Tom relented, allowing Dickie to unbutton his pants and lower them just a bit. With a grunt of irritation, Dickie forced Tom onto his stomach, his arousal hard against the back of Tom's thigh.

Dickie spoke into Tom's ear as Tom moaned into the couch. "Tell me what you want from me...who were you kissing in that mirror?"

"You," Tom whined pathetically. "It was you."

"I knew it," Dickie murmured. "I knew you weren't that obsessed with yourself. You're obsessed with me, aren't you?"

Tom squeezed his eyes shut, too ashamed to answer. Dickie pressed his erection onto Tom, groaning into Tom's ear. Slowly, Dickie rocked his hips as Tom shivered beneath him.

"Dickie..."

"Tom," gasped Dickie. "I want..."

"Anything, Dickie. I'll give you anything."

Tom was completely and utterly breathless. He could barely choke out his words. Dickie braced himself on Tom as he continued to slide his hips back and forth. Tom was uncomfortably hard against the couch.

"I'm tired," Dickie whispered. Tom wasn't sure he heard him right. Dickie stopped moving, letting his weight collapse onto Tom. He panted softly. "I want to go to bed."

Tom only moaned in reply. Then he realized what Dickie had said. He blinked, turned his head, and looked at Dickie.

"What?"

"I'm tired," Dickie said again, moving off of Tom. "I want to go to bed. The wine makes me tired."

"Wine? But—" Tom stopped and sat up as Dickie got off the couch, his arousal still obvious. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm," Dickie said, but it came out as a sigh. "I'm tired, Tom. Good night."

Tom watched as Dickie turned around slowly and wordlessly walked up the stairs. He was stunned. He wanted to run upstairs and yell at Dickie to finish what he started, but Tom was so hard it was borderline painful. Tom let himself fall back onto the couch as he palmed his erection.

Dickie was scared. He was angry and afraid. It wasn't like Tom had ever done anything like this! Did Dickie think he had? If he did, it was most certainly because of what Marge said. It had to be.

As Tom softly humped his own hand as he laid on his stomach, he thought of Dickie lying in bed doing the same. Would Dickie allow himself the pleasure? Did Dickie really believe Tom was obsessed with him or was that his deranged way of talking dirty? It went back to Marge anyway. He would have never said that if she didn't cast her stone.

Maybe that wasn't true. It wasn't as if Marge had forced him to stroke himself to the thought of Dickie and leave the evidence in Dickie's nightstand. Or wear Dickie's clothes. Tom certainly had made it quite easy for Marge to call him queer, had given her plenty of ammunition against himself.

Tom lifted his head slightly, listening for Dickie. As much as he wished Dickie would appear at the top of the staircase, he knew he wasn't going to. Still, there was a lingering wish, a fear, really, as Tom lowered his pants and underwear down.

When he was thinking of Dickie, everything felt natural. It didn't feel like there was a second thought needed when Dickie was the first one. All the dirty things Tom did to himself would have never come to his brain if it weren't for Dickie. Tom had never had much of a libido. Sex had always been something he could take or leave, usually opting to leave it. He had never wanted something as much, as badly as he wanted Dickie.

Slowly, Tom's right hand went to his cock. He lifted his hips slightly, giving himself the room to stroke his length. He whined quietly behind closed lips. He brought his left hand to his mouth to try and stifle the sounds he was making.

Unthinking, Tom allowed two of his fingers to slip into his mouth. Dickie was in his mind, the only thing in his mind. Tom moved his tongue around his own fingers, tasting Dickie's cock in his mouth. He panted against his own hand, so distracted by the thought of Dickie's cock in his mouth that he had unconsciously stopped moving the hand at his groin.

Dickie wouldn't be able to have another woman after me, Tom thought. Not Marge, not anyone. No one could possibly make Dickie feel as good as I could. Tom's tongue worked on his own fingers, saliva pooling at the palm of his hand. His hips began to move on their own, bucking softly against the soft couch.

Wildly, Tom envisioned Dickie on top of him, felt the phantom of Dickie inside of him. Sweating, Tom was humping his own right hand again. He pulled his fingers from his mouth, a trail of salvia between his hand and mouth, and reached behind himself. Unable to bear what he was about to do, Tom laid his head on the couch and closed his eyes.

Cautiously, Tom brought his hand down his back under his shirt—a small, wet trail being left in its wake. He reached his rear and sucked in a breath as he inserted one finger. Tom groaned crassly, loudly, as he silently prayed Dickie was asleep now. He worked his finger in and out slightly, his body rocking back and forth slowly.

"Dickie," he babbled. Over and over again Dickie's name poured out of his mouth breathlessly. Tom inserted another finger, groaning uncomfortably at the stretching sensation but sighing in pleasure once it was fully in. Dickie was there, thrusting against him. Tom could feel the warmth of Dickie inside of him. Tom unwittingly slammed his own fingers into himself, his cock crashing against the couch.

The friction of his cock against the couch was bringing him close. Whispering and muttering to himself, Tom begged Dickie to pleasure him, to let him finish, to let him pant in ecstasy. He bit down, grinding his teeth together, as he began moving his hands and hips faster.

"Ah..." he breathed out. He whispered through grit teeth, "Come on, Dickie, come on..."

With a jerk and spasm, Tom came onto the couch. He slipped his fingers out of himself, his breathing heavy. He laid for a few moments, huffing and overwhelmingly tired now. Tom lifted his head and dragged his gaze to the staircase. He froze.

A shadow had moved, had scurried away. Tom laid there, limp and paralyzed with fear and mortification. Surely Dickie had just used the bathroom...? Surely he had just passed by.

Tom was filled with energy suddenly as leapt from the couch, pulled up his pants, and ran to the kitchen. He grabbed the towel by the stove and dashed back to the front room to clean his mess. Stupid, stupid, he kept telling himself, why didn't you just go to bed?

Looking at the couch with his heaving chest, Tom put his hands on his hips. If Dickie had seen him, it didn't even matter if the couch looked clean, Dickie would know it was dirty. If Dickie did see and Tom was lucky, Dicky would simply ignore like he had done with the handkerchief. Though, the thought of that made Tom frown. What was the reason for that? Why hadn't Dickie held his back against the wall and demanded an answer for Tom had left it there? Tom felt offended, almost. It didn't seem like a possibility that Dickie hadn't seen it.

When was the last time Tom had opened his nightstand? He couldn't recall. Maybe it was possible that Dickie hadn't even seen the dirty handkerchief. Maybe it was possible that Dickie hadn't seen him just now.

Tom crept upstairs to his bedroom. He paused when he got to Dickie's room, listening for any sound. He raised his hand to knock but thought better of it. It was better to just go to bed. Better to just let Dickie forget this whole thing—let him keep it in his nightstand drawer never to be opened.

There were no dreams that came to Tom as he slept. He was awoken by Dickie at his bedroom door.

"Out of espresso," he said. "Believe that? I'll be back in a little while."

And before Tom could respond he was gone. Tom sat up, feeling disgusted, head clanging from the wine, and thought maybe a shower ought to do the trick.

Chapter Text

People watching always humored Tom. One of his favorite things to do during the day was sit in a coffee bar and watch all the people come and go. The women who came by themselves to sip on a cappuccino as they read. The men who quickly grabbed an espresso before rushing off. The couples who came, drank their coffees, and laughed. Dickie always encouraged him to listen to the way Italians talk. Even if he just sat, drank coffee, and smoked a few Gitanes, Tom went back to the house feeling accomplished.

There was no talk of the night out they had or what had happened afterwards. Ashamed, Tom hadn't wanted to bring any part of the night, too afraid that Dickie would confess he had watched Tom on the couch that night. Even if hell froze over and Dickie hadn't seen Tom on the couch, Tom thought Dickie was probably feeling shame of his own.

He rubbed at his neck, feeling the small bruise Dickie had left. Marge hadn't been around, and it seemed as though Dickie was making sure of that.

Dickie surprised Tom by suggesting they go to dinner again, somewhere far away, incognito, as Dickie said. Only it couldn't be the same restaurant as last time.

"Can't we take a car?" Tom asked as he peered into the icebox for something to eat. He had just come back from town and Dickie had come back from the beach.

"Why would we do that?"

Tom wanted to tell Dickie that he wanted Dickie to be able to have wine. He wanted the both of them to be able to have wine, and a lot of it.

"I'm nostalgic for Naples," said Tom, still bent over the icebox. "Thought maybe we'd have another go at it."

"I thought you said that wasn't something you could plan."

Tom shrugged. "I just meant walking at night. Feels private but you're still outside."

Dickie laughed. "Like a fishbowl! Why would you want to do something like that."

Tom didn't have a reply so he didn't.

"I don't see a reason why we can't take a car, but I'm not sleeping in a park," said Dickie. He laughed again. "Sometimes you say the damnedest things."

"You're one to talk," Tom mumbled.

When Tom stood up and looked back at Dickie, he was smiling. Tom wanted to say something else but nothing came to mind before Dickie turned around and walked towards the terrace.

Tom walked out the kitchen and looked towards the terrace. Dickie was lighting a cigarette.

"Nothing to eat," Tom said, stepping out onto the terrace.

"Hmm? I thought there was—"

"Maybe I'll step out, get something for us and Marge."

Dickie let his hand fall from his mouth. "Marge? Why would we invite Marge?"

"It'd be nice to catch up, no?" Tom advanced to Dickie. He pulled out his Gitanes and stretched his neck to Dickie. Dickie's eyes went to his neck briefly before he lit Tom's cigarette with his own.

"I suppose, but she..." Dickie trailed off. Tom raised his brows expectantly. "She wouldn't wanna come, I don't think. She's probably busy with her novel. I don't think that she—"

"We haven't had her over in a while," said Tom innocently. "I'm starting to miss her. Is there a reason you don't want her to come?"

"Well, no, I-no, it's not that," Dickie stammered. "I don't know if she'd want—never mind. Sure, Tom, sounds like a great idea. I'll give her a call."

He smiled and turned to look at the water. He shifted his gaze to look at Dickie as he smoked. Dickie's eyes seemed glazed over and he hovered his cigarette by his mouth. He knew just what Dickie was worried about, what he was worried about Marge seeing. It's too bad that Dickie couldn't just be upfront about it.

Tom snuffed out his cigarette and went back inside. He went upstairs to Dickie's room and looked for an ascot or cravat to wear. It was a little too hot for one but Tom was always sucker for a nice reveal. He found a nice light blue ascot and decided to borrow some of Dickie's clothes; they would match better anyway.

Back downstairs, Tom poked his head out on the terrace. Dickie turned around and his relief was palpable.

"Oh," he said, sighing. "You go. Let me call Marge."

Tom winked and turned around. It wasn't until he passed Marge's house that he became weary of leaving the two alone together. He didn't know who to be more worried about. Marge clearly had restrained herself for sometime but Dickie had a much harder time doing so. What about Marge could possibly make Dickie lose his cool? That big rump of hers that Tom had seen Dickie graze his hand over before? The thought disgusted Tom.

Maybe fish, thought Tom. He realized he couldn't recall a single thing that Marge liked to eat, what she enjoyed. Oh well, it didn't matter. Who didn't like fish?

Not wanting to take too long, Tom rushed around the market. He had a growing fear he would go back to Dickie's house to see Dickie's and Marge's lips connected. If Tom ever had to face that, in the living room, in any room of Dickie's house, he would strangle Marge. She'd be asking for it. Certainly she knew better than to do something like that right in Tom's face, in the home where he sleeps.

When Tom was about to pass Marge's house, there was something telling him to go inside. He knew Marge rarely locked her door, especially if she was only at Dickie's house. Before he even realized he was doing it, Tom was opening Marge's gate. Just a hair, just enough for him to slip past. He hadn't even stopped to consider that Marge had declined Dickie's invitation, or that Dickie hadn't invited her at all.

Marge wasn't inside, not in the front room at least. Tom stepped quietly down the hall, looking for her bedroom. From what he could recall through the window, he thought he knew just where it was.

The door to her bedroom was completely wide-open. He stepped in and went to her desk, glancing at her typewriter. Tom quickly read over the paper that was still stuck in it. Her writing seemed juvenile but romantic. Tom could at least appreciate that. He snooped in and on her bedside table and saw lipstick on top of it and a small book on the inside. He pulled out the book and opened it.

How stupid could someone be! To keep a diary! As if someone couldn't open and read it at any time.

Tom flipped through some of the pages and wasn't at all surprised to see Dickie's name in it more than once. He saw his own name there too a couple of times and paused his flipping to read.

I don't see why Dickie has become so infatuated with Tom...he's a creep. Is it because they're both men? Has Dickie been waiting for a male companion? I'm not sure, but I am sure that Tom is bad news. I'm having trouble getting a grasp of him but I'm sure he has feelings for Dickie. I don't even know what kind of feelings. He's been keeping Dickie from me. What does he have over Dickie?

Tom wasn't sure if he wanted to hurl or throw things. That stupid bitch! Didn't she think, for one fraction of a second, that anyone could open this book and read what she had written about him. Marge was probably hoping someone would, probably hoping Dickie would stumble upon it. Tom wanted to rip the page out and swallow it.

He put the book back in the drawer, swallowing thickly. Let her write her stories, that's what she liked to do anyway. Tom made his way out her house, afraid if he stayed any longer he'd be unable to control himself. Then Tom made his way up Dickie's garden path.

"We're out here!" Dickie called from the terrace.

Tom went out to the terrace and saw Dickie, sitting with his feet up on the parapet facing away from Marge, and Marge sitting at the other side of the table. They were drinking wine. Dickie had the same relief on his face but Marge was smiling.

"Thought I'd make salmon," said Tom. "Should be ready shortly."

"Want some help?" Marge asked.

"No, thanks."

Tom went back inside, prepared the salmon, and put them in the oven. He stepped back out on the terrace and sat on the parapet next to Dickie's feet. Dickie was smoking now. He fished out his pack of Gitanes from his pocket and groped his pants.

"My lighter," Tom said. He stood up and leaned over Dickie. "Light it for me?"

Dickie tilted his head up but stopped himself from leaning forward to touch his cigarette to Tom's. He glanced at Marge. Dickie took the cigarette from Tom's mouth, lit it at the end of his own, and handed it back.

Marge was grinding her teeth. Where had that smile gone? Right to Tom's own mouth.

"How's the book?" Tom asked.

"I was just telling Dickie," she started, "that I feel like I've hit a bit of a snag."

Tom took a drag from his cigarette and blew it towards Dickie. He rested his elbow on Dickie's feet. "Uninspired?

Marge looked between Dickie and Tom. "You could say that."

"Too bad," said Tom. "Maybe you should go down to the coffee bar, or the beach, and watch all the people. Always inspires me."

"To do what, exactly?"

Dickie whipped his head to look at Marge. "Marge! What kind of question is that?"

"What? I was just—"

"Sounded like you were trying to insult him," Dickie said. "Sometimes Tom paints, you know."

Tom looked towards the water, feeling his cheeks warm.

"I didn't know that," Marge said quietly. She changed her tone to one that was light, fluffy. "What do you like to paint, Tom?"

Tom slowly turned his head to look at Dickie, then Marge. He smiled. "I should go check on the salmon. Start the salad."

Marge sat up, ready to respond but Tom just went back inside the house, closing the door. He went to the side of the door to the terrace and glanced out. It was a little hard to hear.

"What was that?" Dickie asked. "Can't you try and be a little nicer?"

"I thought I was being nice."

Dickie just rolled his eyes and looked away from her again. He sipped on his wine as Marge put her head down, ashamed. Tom bounced to the kitchen. He liked that, Dickie defending him. It was hard to hide his smile when he stepped back on the terrace to ask for help carrying everything outside. Marge offered but Dickie told her to stay seated, almost barking at her. Tom bit his lip.

"She's in a mood," Dickie said once they were back inside. "Tell me why you wanted to invite her again?"

Tom shrugged, handing Dickie the salad and a new bottle of wine. "I just thought it'd be nice. We haven't seen much of her lately."

Dickie made a displeased noise at the back of his throat. He followed Tom outside. Marge stood and took the salad from Dickie.

"It looks great, Tom," she said with a smile. "Really."

"Thank you." Tom sat down and looked at Marge and Dickie. Dickie was sitting closer to him than Marge. "So, the book?"

Marge took some salad for herself. "What about it?"

"I know you've said it's set here in Mongibello, but I really don't know much else about it."

"If it helps, neither do I," Dickie mumbled. "She can be quite secretive about it."

Leaving it out for anyone to read didn't sound very secretive. About as secretive as hiding a diary in your bedside table.

"You'll just have to wait for it to be finished," Marge said coyly, smiling. "I can't promise either of you will like it very much though."

"Why's that?" Tom asked.

"It's romance, not a very...masculine genre."

Tom laughed, reaching out to touch Dickie's forearm. Dickie tensed but didn't shake it off. "What's not to like about romance?"

Marge was staring at Tom's hand, her smile strained now. It was clearly a big effort to keep her face stretched that way. Tom's smile came quite naturally to him.

"Well I..." she trailed off. "I suppose maybe you'll like it."

Tom only grinned. That drivel? Please.

The meal was pleasant. Once Tom had moved his hand off Dickie, Marge had relaxed a little. Tom supposed it was easier to pretend that way. Afterwards, Tom and Dickie plucked out cigarettes.

"Ah, my lighter, still can't find it," Tom mumbled. Dickie had already lit his. He leaned over and this time touched their cigarettes together to light Tom's. Dickie was glancing at Marge but Tom thought he sensed pride.

Marge took one of Dickie's cigarettes. She leaned over the table and Dickie handed her a lighter.

"Thanks," she said quietly, lighting her cigarette.

As they smoked and gabbed, Dickie said something mildly humorous and Tom burst out into laughter, latching onto Dickie's arm. Marge chuckled quietly, awkwardly. Her mood was hard to read at this point; she didn't seem angry but it was at least clear she was beginning to feel ostracized.

Under the table, Tom stretched his legs out, crossed them at the ankle, and rested them over Dickie's feet. Dickie responded by resting a hand on Tom's thigh. Marge seemed unaware.

Tom lit another cigarette and blew the smoke directly in Dickie's face. Dickie laughed and snatched the cigarette from Tom's hand. Tom looked at Marge as Dickie took her a few puffs; she was gaping at them. Dickie blew smoke into Tom's face, laughing, before handing Tom his cigarette back. Marge sipped on her wine.

"I'll be right back," said Dickie, pushing his chair out. Tom watched as he left. He turned back to Marge.

"So, how long do I have to wait before I get a chance to read your book?"

Marge shrugged. "Maybe a couple of months or—"

Tom was tugging off Dickie's ascot. Marge stayed suspended in dialogue, her mouth still curved to form her sentence. She blinked at Tom as her eyes lowered to his neck.

"I don't know what I was thinking," he said. "Too hot for this. What were you saying?"

Marge made a few sounds, stammering. Tom wasn't sure if he was reading disgust or betrayal on her face. Her eyes were stuck on Tom's neck, wide and unblinking.

"Marge? Something the matter?"

"I..." Marge hung her mouth open. "Did..."

"Hmm?"

Tom looked over Marge's shoulder to see that Dickie was about to come back outside. He slipped the ascot back around his neck. Marge's gaze didn't move, still stuck on the same spot. She didn't even turn her head when Dickie stepped back out on the terrace. Dickie looked at Marge, then Tom.

"I should be going," Marge rasped. She stumbled out of her chair, knocking over her wine glass and shattering it. "Sorry, I—"

"I got it," said Dickie, holding his hands out to steady Marge. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. I just really need to get going."

Before Dickie, or Tom, could say anything else, Marge scrambled out, rushing into the house. Dickie looked down at the broken glass.

"What happened?" he asked. "I don't even know if I should follow her. She's not drunk, is she?"

Tom shrugged. "I don't know. She's in a mood."

Dickie crouched down and started gently picking up the pieces. Tom held out his hand for Dickie to put the pieces in.

"I'll talk to her later," he said but he didn't.

After cleaning the glass, Tom and Dickie spent the afternoon in the living room. They talked in Italian so Tom could practice as they sipped some more wine. Dickie sat on the couch and Tom looked up at him from the floor. He had discarded the ascot and made a point to stretch out his neck.

Finally, Dickie switched back to English and said, "Anyone make a comment about your little mark?"

"No. I think maybe people are too afraid. I've seen people look."

Dickie smiled. "You wear it like a badge of honor, huh?"

"I suppose it's—"

"More like a badge of shame," Dickie said but he was still smiling. Smirking, really. "But it's our little secret."

Tom put his hands on Dickie's knee and rested his head down. Sighing, "Pretty loud secret."

"But still a secret nonetheless," said Dickie. "Between only us."

They held each other's eyes for a few moments. To Tom, it could have been hours. It had begun to feel quite domestic here with Dickie. Dickie put his hand in Tom's hair, scratching Tom's scalp softly. Tom wanted to get up and put on a record but didn't want to pause this even for a moment. He let his eyes close, an easy breeze from outside and the wine making him pleasantly tired.

Tom moved his hand slowly up and down Dickie's thigh. Dickie adjusted himself, lowering himself further onto the couch as Tom heard him sigh through his nose. Were they capable of doing things slowly? Gently? Tom thought maybe he could start like that but he knew he'd be unable to control himself. Dickie never seemed to want to be gentle.

When Tom glanced up at Dickie, he was letting his head fall back onto the couch. His breathing was starting to pick up as he closed his eyes. Tom put his mouth on Dickie's thigh, letting his mouth hang open and blowing hot air onto Dickie's pants.

Dickie looked down at Tom, then leaned over and looked at his feet.

"Mmm. My shoes look kinda dirty, no?"

Tom looked up at Dickie's face first, startled. He looked down at Dickie's shoes. "No. They look fine to me."

As Tom was about to turn his face back to Dickie's leg, Dickie forced his head to stay turned toward his feet.

"You don't think so," said Dickie. He hummed for a few moments, loosening his grip on Tom but splaying his hand over Tom's cheek so his head stayed turned. "Looks like they could use a cleaning."

Dickie raised his hand to let Tom look up at him. Tom raised his brow and Dickie's expectant face. Dickie licked his top teeth, slowly, and Tom looked at him for a few moments before furrowing his brows when what Dickie wanted to do finally came to him.

"I'm not doing that. Do it yourself."

Dickie bent forward as Tom raised his head. "Do it," he started, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "And I'll give you whatever you want."

Tom swallowed. "Anything?"

"Anything, mia dolce metà," Dickie said softly, stroking Tom's cheek. Tom melted into his hand. "Anything you ask for."

Tom sat up and looked down at Dickie's feet again. He knew Dickie loved his little power plays and there wasn't even a choice anymore. He licked his dry lips and moved from Dickie's lap.

"Okay," Tom said uneasily. He lowered his head to one of Dickie's feet.

Dickie was still bent down, hunched over his own lap. He was watching Tom hungrily. "Go ahead."

Slowly, wearily, Tom opened his mouth and darted his tongue out. He ran his tongue over the side of Dickie's shoe, cringing at the tart taste of the leather. He pulled away briefly to spit on the toe of the shoe before placing his tongue there.

"There you go," Dickie rasped. Tom glanced up to see Dickie was touching himself through his pants. He sighed languidly. "Make them nice and shiny for me."

Tom whined behind closed lips, against Dickie's shoe. He squeezed his eyes shut as he moved his tongue back and forth. He swirled his tongue on the very edge of Dickie's shoe. He heard Dickie's panting and soft moans, thinking of if he'd enjoy this as much as Dickie if the roles were swapped.

Tom switched to Dickie's other shoe, trying to make a show of the slow, smooth licks he was doing. He spat again to make the shoes slick with his saliva.

When Tom glanced up again, Dickie's hand had moved away from his groin. He was gripping the side of his thigh.

"Okay," he said breathlessly. "Okay. I can't take anymore. What do you want, Tom?"

Wordlessly, Tom moved his head back to Dickie's lap. He rested his chin in the space between Dickie's thighs. His wishes were trapped behind his lips and attached to Dickie's cock. He turned his head to touch his mouth there, hard under his pants. He moved his tongue.

"Tom, I want you to tell me."

Tom moaned softly, gently closing his mouth around Dickie.

"No," Dickie said sternly. He picked Tom's head up by his hair. "Tell me. No more of this underhanded stuff. Tell me exactly what it is you want."

Tom sighed, letting his eyes close, "I..."

Dickie was one to talk about underhanded. Tom supposed he was too. Up front was foreign to him. He was so used to getting what he wanted from lying or manipulating, but never from asking for it.

"Thomas," Dickie growled. "Tell me what it—"

"I want to suck your cock," Tom blurted, the words tumbling out of his mouth. When he opened his eyes again, Dickie was raising a corner of his lips.

"It's here for you," Dickie mumbled. Tom thought he could almost hear a tremble in Dickie's voice, "It's ready for you."

Tom's hands felt like they were a thousand pounds each. His gaze had fallen to Dickie's zipper but he couldn't move his arms. Dickie moved his hand to his button and Tom watched as he slipped it through.

"Go ahead," Dickie said. "I don't bite."

I might, Tom thought deliriously. He smiled. With a great effort, Tom put his fingers on Dickie's zipper, relishing in the sound it made as he pulled it down. It was like unwrapping a gift; more exciting than anything he had ever opened at Christmas. Dickie helped Tom lower his pants and Tom couldn't hold in his gasp when his eyes finally came upon Dickie's cock. Dickie's chest heaved as he looked down at Tom.

"Put your mouth on it," Dickie said, sighing. Those words went right to Tom's groin.

Tom's mouth moved to say he didn't know how to do this, had never done this before, but Dickie softly pushed his head down and bucked his hips forward. Dickie groaned crassly almost as soon as Tom put his mouth on it. He worked his tongue similarly to how he had on Dickie's shoe, on Dickie's duvet. That felt like years ago now.

Tom couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious but Dickie's soft moans and pants helped him feel like he was doing a good job. He kept a hand at Dickie's hip while the other went to palming himself. He wanted Dickie's mouth on him so badly. Dickie's bucking hips made it so he kept hitting the back of Tom's throat and tears welled in his eyes.

"Tom," Dickie panted. "Come on, I'm almost—ah!"

Dickie jerked then tensed as he released, groaning with his face pinched. He didn't take himself out of Tom's mouth, forcing him to swallow it down. Tom pulled himself off, flushed and gasping. He looked up at Dickie, the back of his hair awry, sweat sprouting at his temples, and a bright blush on his cheeks.

Tom wanted to ask him if Marge ever made him feel that good but didn't want to ruin the moment. Dickie huffed as Tom slowly rose from the ground to get a towel. He was so hard he wasn't sure what to do with himself. Tom grabbed a towel, one hand attached to his groin, and came back to a blissed-out Dickie, eyes closed.

"I'll clean up," he said, reaching a hand out. Tom gave him the towel and Dickie smiled at him. "Seems like you've got quite a problem there. What are you going to do about it?"

Tom stood above Dickie as he cleaned himself up then pulled his pants back up. He wanted to parrot Dickie's question back at him, tell Dickie that he was going to have to do something about it, tell Dickie he was going to put his mouth on that problem there.

But Tom only unbuckled his pants and took himself out. Dickie's eyes blew wide and he laughed. Tom put his hand on himself.

"I'll show you what I'm going to do about it," he said, his voice strained towards the end. "And you're going to watch."

"You're going to kill me..."

Tom straddled Dickie, pinning him onto the couch. Dickie started to put his head back but Tom forced him to make eye-contact. Tom would have sworn he'd seen his own reflection in Dickie's pupils, saw his mouth hanging open in a pant, saw his eyes half-lidded. He stroked himself as he moved his lips to Dickie's jaw.

"Want your own little mark? A badge of shame?"

Dickie moaned a dissent but tilted his chin up still.

"Why should you feel any shame?" he whispered, hot against Dickie's neck. "Why should pleasure be shameful?"

"It's not that..." Dickie's voice faded. He sighed out a moan. "Tom, what are you doing to me?"

"Making you-ah, making you feel good." Tom was having trouble speaking, his chest and throat tight. "I want everyone to see how well I take care of you."

Dickie still had his head back, offering his neck to Tom, but he put his hand on Tom's chest. Dickie made a futile effort to push Tom away as he pushed softly but clutched onto Tom's shirt.

"I'm gonna...all over again..."

Tom smiled to himself. Wouldn't that be a treat? He could feel himself getting closer and moved away slightly from Dickie, to see if a bruise had started to form or not. He took his hand off himself, afraid of finishing too quickly. Tom wanted to grab one of Dickie's hands and put it on his arousal. That would scare Dickie. He would send Tom flying and crashing into the coffee table. That would have to wait.

As if he was sucking lobster's meat from its shell, Tom worked on Dickie's neck. Dickie's arms had stopped fighting, now coming to wrap themselves around Tom. Once Tom was pleased by his work, he gently got off Dickie. Dickie panted, looking up at him confused.

Without a word, Tom lowered himself on the ground again. It only took a few, quick pumps before he released himself onto Dickie's shoes. Dickie gasped.

"I'm not," Tom panted, "cleaning that."

Dickie laughed half-heartedly and collapsed onto the couch. Tom cleaned himself and laid his head back on Dickie's thigh. No harm, no foul. It was almost as if nothing had even happened. The only evidence being Tom and Dickie's flush, their ragged breaths, and Dickie's new badge.

Still wishing he had put on a record, Tom let his eyes close and let the soft breeze lull him. Before he himself began to doze, Tom could hear Dickie's soft snoring.

Dickie arose first. He patted Tom's hair and awoke him. Dickie yawned, blinking as Tom looked up at him. He grinned at Tom.

"We fell asleep," he said unnecessarily. "Time is it?"

"I'm a clock?" Tom teased. He craned his neck to look at the clock. "Quarter to four."

"Mmm. Coffee?"

"Sure. We'll go down to the—"

"No, here. We'll have it here," Dickie said quickly. That figured. He patted Tom's cheek to get him off, and Tom moved. "I'll shower and start it. Few minutes."

Tom watched as Dickie picked up the towel and walked upstairs. He touched his own badge of shame. Did Dickie expect to stay inside, behind closed doors, until his faded away? Why, that would certainly be fine with Tom.

Chapter Text

"Make my hair shorter, it's been too long since I've had it cut."

Tom was sitting in an armchair in Dickie's studio. Dickie stood behind his easel, peaking out his head every few moments to glance at Tom. Even though Tom's legs and arms were aching, he stayed as still as possible. He thought at least if he was unmoving, it would be easier for Dickie. Tom already knew it wasn't going to come out great but he felt honored that Dickie wanted to paint him.

Dickie's hair was pushed back, the first few buttons of his shirt undone. Tom liked that, like seeing Dickie come apart. He was so focused that he hadn't spoken in forty minutes, if Tom's estimation was right. He wondered if Dickie had ever painted Marge.

By this time, both Tom's and Dickie's bruises had faded. Dickie had taken to wearing make-up over his. Although Tom knew better than to think that Dickie would flaunt his, he found himself disappointed in seeing that he was covering it up. It was the only way that Dickie would leave the house.

That's why it had surprised Tom so much when Dickie asked to paint him. Would he keep it only to himself? Tom supposed it wasn't that strange; Dickie wasn't particularly someone who enjoyed showing off his art necessarily. When Tom had asked Dickie why he wanted to paint him, Dickie had just shrugged and said he was feeling uninspired. However, Tom noticed that Dickie was whistling as he painted.

Dickie paused in his painting and stretched. He asked if Tom wanted any coffee, that he would go downstairs and make it. Tom said yes, almost nodding but stopping himself. When Dickie left the room, Tom tried to stretch his body without changing his position which of course failed.

When Dickie came back into the room, he laughed.

"You stayed like that the whole time?"

"Well, yeah, I—"

Dickie laughed again. He motioned for Tom to relax and he did, stretching his arms over his head and behind his back. Dickie sat on Tom's lap, putting his weight on one of Tom's thighs as he stretched his legs out.

"I have your pose done," he said, handing Tom his coffee. "It should be easy enough to set you back up."

"How long until you're done?"

"I'm not sure," said Dickie. "I thought maybe we'd take a break, go down to the beach? Have lunch?"

"Sure." Tom's eyes lowered to the fading bruise on Dickie's neck. Tom's was faded completely at this point and no one would know what Dickie's was except for himself and Tom. Tom almost liked it that way. He looked at Dickie with his chin up, begging for Dickie's lips. "I'm sore all over."

"I could believe that," Dickie said quietly. Tom noticed Dickie's lips fell to his lips then slowly went back up to his eyes. "You sat so well for me, Tom."

Tom felt his cheeks get warm. "Well, it's hard to paint something that's moving."

"I know, but," Dickie paused, pecking a soft kiss to Tom's jaw. "I wanna do something for you."

Tom whispered, asking. "What's that?"

"You tell me," said Dickie. "What do you want?"

Tom looked daftly at Dickie with parted lips. How could ever begin to explain to Dickie what he wanted. Dickie was smiling at him expectantly, a slight blush on his cheeks. Tom let his eyes drift down to Dickie's lips. Slowly, he went to put his lips to Dickie's.

"A kiss?" Dickie asked against Tom's mouth. "That's all you wanted from me?"

Tom could only whine softly, unable to form a reply. He put a hand at Dickie's nape to pull him in, forcing his tongue into Dickie's mouth. Dickie giggled quietly then gave an abrupt groan. Tom had to move his hips to get comfortable, gently moving Dickie.

"I want..." Tom gasped. "Give me all of you."

Dickie slightly backed away from Tom, panting and flushed. "All of me, huh? I don't think you can handle that..."

Tom wanted to argue, to beg, that he could. That he could take whatever Dickie was willing to give him. He licked his lips and opened his mouth to reply but had nothing to say. Dickie patted Tom's thigh.

"Let's go down to the beach," he said softly, moving off of Tom. "Go get changed."

Tom stood up. He should push Dickie down onto the couch, whip out what he wanted and put his mouth on it. Dickie was just smiling, begging for him to do it. Instead, Tom turned around and went to his room and left Dickie wanting.

In his room, Tom looked in his mirror. He pushed his hair out of his face briefly before parting it to the right. Dickie was nervous to take Tom, he knew that. He wanted Tom, Tom could feel it, he knew it. He wanted Dickie, but did Dickie want him as badly? Tom could almost believe that Dickie wanted him more; the way he gaped at Tom hungrily and was always the first to press his lips to Tom—anywhere.

Dickie was just too afraid to ask for Tom, too afraid to ask for Tom's mouth. Tom could feel a twitch at his groin thinking about his mouth on Dickie's warm, hot cock. Still looking at his face in the mirror, Tom unzipped his pants and let them, and his underwear, fall to his ankle. He put his hand on himself, almost instantly gasping and moaning. Dickie was watching him, staring back at him.

"Ask for me, Dickie," Tom was whispering, his teeth gritted. "Ask for my...ah..."

Tom worked on himself faster, suddenly very worried that Dickie would burst into the room. Almost as soon as the thought brought fear, it instead elicited excitement. Let Dickie catch him! He'd have no choice but to be faced with Tom's passion. He would drop to his knees, lick Dickie's feet, beg him for another chance at his cock, plead for his cock, cry for his passion. Tom's knees trembled as he felt himself getting closer. He would do anything, clean Dickie's whole body with his tongue, just for another opportunity to taste his passion, to force Dickie to release himself into Tom's mouth. Or somewhere else, Tom added to himself. Please, let it be. All he had to do was ask.

Tom quickly brought the crook his elbow to his mouth as he climaxed, groaning crudely, loudly. He kept it there and panted harshly, blowing hot air onto his shirt.

Tom had released himself onto the floor. Once he caught his breath, he reached into his top drawer and took out a handkerchief. After cleaning himself and the floor, he changed into swim shorts and a loose shirt.

Dickie was waiting for him downstairs, standing at the bottom of the stairs with the picnic basket at the inside of his elbow. He looked Tom up and down. Tom almost splayed his hands over himself.

"I don't know what I was expecting," Dickie said, laughing quietly. "I thought maybe you were...perfecting your outfit."

Tom raised a brow. "Outfit? It's swim shorts."

"I know that. I just wasn't sure what was taking so long. I almost thought you were taking a bath."

Tom forced a laugh and made his way to the door. When the two were outside in the sun, making their way to the beach, Dickie squinted at him. His face glowed.

"Forgot my sunglasses," he mumbled. "Was planning on lying on my back too."

Tom was about to offer to go back but of course Dickie already knew they could go back if he wanted them so badly. He was also going to say that if Dickie was suntanning, he didn't need his sunglasses as his eyes would be closed. He probably knew that too so Tom said nothing.

When they were at the beach, Dickie threw the blanket down. When he slipped off his shirt, Tom noticed finally that Dickie hadn't put any type of cosmetics on his neck. Why should he? It didn't look like much of a love bite at this point. But if Tom were to put his lips there again...? If Tom were to suck sweetly at that tender spot so Dickie formed a new bruise at his neck. Tom never wanted it to disappear. He wanted to be able to leave one forever. Would Dickie cover that everyday with cosmetics? Refuse to leave the house? Tom realized he was staring at Dickie's neck and turned his gaze.

"I'm starving," Dickie said, lowering himself onto the blanket. "What about you?"

"You don't even know the half of it." Tom laid down on his belly after removing his own shirt, stretching like a house cat before relaxing his head on crossed arms. "But I need to lie down for a bit."

"You sat like a statue for me," Dickie said quietly as Tom closed his eyes. "You still didn't quite tell me what you wanted." Dickie said this with a laugh.

Tom was glad his eyes were closed, afraid his ravenous gaze would give him away. Dickie was begging for him to ask, begging for Tom to ask for him. Tom felt disappointed. No, that wasn't it, but he couldn't place it. There was excitement that a dull shame lingered around...or maybe it was a shame that brought dull excitement with it. Either way.

Dickie would have to do better than that. Sure when Tom was aching for release it was easy to tell himself that he'd do anything, but in a clearer mind, on the beach, he realized he wanted Dickie to do something. Say something.

Tom only gave an unceremonious hum before turning his head away from Dickie. He heard Dickie uncork wine and then felt the cold bottle on his arm. Dickie pulled it back slightly when Tom looked at him again and then held it out for him. Even from the brief contact, there was some condensation on Tom. Before Tom could reach for the bottle, Dickie quickly leaned over and licked the condensation off Tom. Dickie smiled coyly as Tom took the bottle. He raised himself slightly to take a gulp and handed it back to Dickie. Dickie was sitting on his legs. He took the bottle of wine back and rested it against the basket.

"I'm not sure where I want to put the painting," Dickie said and Tom turned his head away again. "What do you think?"

"I didn't think you were putting it anywhere," Tom mumbled.

"You don't want me to?"

"I don't care," Tom said, casually. "Put it wherever you'd like. Put it in your bedroom."

What Tom really wanted to say was that Dickie could put it in the front room, it didn't matter; no one would be able to tell it was Tom anyway. He wanted to look at Dickie's expression but was too tired to even pick up his head again.

Dickie had forced Tom to bluntly ask for what he wanted. Tom was sure Dickie would come around, learn to ask for Tom. It was obvious that Dickie enjoyed being pursued, took pleasure in Tom's desperation. Tom thought it'd be nice to see Dickie desperate.

Tom heard Dickie reach into the picnic basket but didn't hear him open any of the food they brought. He sighed and laid next to Tom, on his back like he said. Tom waited a few minutes before taking a look at Dickie, waited until he was sure Dickie's eyes would be closed.

Dickie had a hand behind his head and his other arm laid next to him. Tom scanned his body. Jealousy stirred. Tom felt envious of all the spots and expanses that the sun had kissed, wishing his lips had done it instead. He allowed himself a small smile at the thought that he had put his mouth where the sun hadn't.

Looking away again, Tom wished he brought a book. Or at least wished he could talk to Dickie, but he knew if he opened his mouth, unfulfilled wishes would tumble out. That, or his lips would find their ways to Dickie's. Why shouldn't Dickie be the one wanting for once? Tom wanted Dickie. Obviously Marge wanted Dickie. Let Dickie be the one left holding open the bag.

With his head away from Dickie and his eyes closed, Tom began to wonder if Dickie would pop an eye open to look at him. Dickie never noticed, Tom hoped, whenever he stole glances at Dickie, captured by his body or face. Had Dickie ever done the same, and Tom just never noticed it?

Wishful thinking, Tom told himself.

Maybe an hour or so had gone by, Dickie had taken a few pulls from the warming wine intermittently. He didn't offer any to Tom until Tom rolled onto his back.

Dickie was back sitting on his legs after taking the wine back from Tom. He smiled and reached into the basket. He took out brie and green grapes. Tom didn't move to take any. Dickie gave him an open-mouthed smile, then widened it.

"Ahh..."

Tom parted his lips slightly. Dickie placed a small piece of brie and a grape in his mouth. He giggled and fed himself. Again Dickie gave Tom an open-mouthed smile.

"Should have painted you like this," Dickie said as Tom chewed. Dickie wore a coquettish, small smile. He held out another grape for Tom but took his hand back when Tom opened his mouth. Dickie popped it into his own mouth and drank some wine.

As Dickie fed him another piece of brie and a grape, Tom asked, "How's that?"

"Like a king." Dickie grinned and ate another grape. "Have some wine."

Tom sat up and went to grab the bottle but Dickie picked it up. He took a swallow himself before putting the mouth of the bottle to Tom's lips. Confused, Tom allowed Dickie to pour some wine into his mouth.

"It's good, huh?" said Dickie. "Be better if it was still cool."

Tom wiped his mouth with his hand. He couldn't be sure what exactly was on Dickie's mind. Somehow, Tom still felt he had the upper hand; though, Dickie was probably thinking the same thing. Just what was on Dickie's mind?

Again Dickie was passing the bottle to Tom, or rather, trying to pour more wine into Tom's mouth.

"What, are you trying to get me drunk?" Tom asked.

"No, of course not!" Dickie laughed. "Is it working?"

"Not yet," said Tom. "Give me some more."

Dickie gave Tom a little more wine. He was smiling, giggling to himself as he pushed the wine bottle into the sand to make it stand. Tom was about to ask what was so funny when Dickie began reaching into the basket. He quickly glanced around them, popped a grape into his mouth, and was leaning towards Tom. Without thinking, Tom was leaning too. Dickie opened his mouth against Tom's; Tom expected Dickie's tongue but was met with a grape instead. Tom took it into his mouth, chewed against Dickie's mouth, swallowed, and closed his lips into a kiss. Dickie laughed quietly, pulling away slightly.

"Uccellino," Dickie said quietly. Tom blushed. Dickie pushed Tom's hair out of his face. "You look so—"

"So what?" Tom rasped.

Dickie was lounging on the blanket, partially on his side, his weight on his hip, and propping himself up with his arm. Tom mirrored him.

"Bella," said Dickie. After a quick glance, he pecked Tom's jaw. "Molto Bella."

"Bello," Tom said sheepishly. "Or am I wrong?"

"You tell me." Dickie gave him another quick peck but on the cheek this time. "Bella or bello, Tom?"

Tom considered it. His cheeks felt hot but he wasn't sure it was solely from embarrassment. There was something charming about Dickie using the feminine adjectives for Tom, even if it felt humiliating at the same time. But humiliating, why? It wasn't as if anyone could hear them.

"Bella," Tom whispered, leaning in for a kiss Dickie didn't return. "Or are you making fun of me?"

Dickie laughed. "I would never, Tom."

"I don't believe that for a second," Tom mumbled. "Something tells me you like seeing me squirm."

"Me? Never!" Dickie reached for the wine. He handed it to Tom this time. "Maybe you're more drunk than you thought."

Tom took a few, deep gulps of wine. Dickie snatched the bottle and mirrored Tom's gulps. Dickie passed the bottle again to Tom but he waved his hand. Tom already felt out of control enough in front of Dickie; no use in adding day-drinking to the mix. Too late now, Tom supposed. Tom's mouth moved without him realizing.

"I'm wondering if—"

A small hum from Dickie as he turned his head stopped Tom abruptly. Dickie only laughed and raised a brow. Wondering if people are looking at us, Tom finished the question in his thoughts. A brief but slow look around told him his answer.

"Wondering what?" asked Dickie.

"Wondering if you would keep feeding me," Tom said quietly, lying back down. He propped himself up on his elbows and opened his mouth slightly. Dickie giggled and reached into the basket. He ripped off a piece of brie and fed it to Tom.

"Bella," Dickie said with a smile. "I'm going to run to the house for some ice. Want me to get another wine?"

"I don't care either way."

Dickie jumped to his feet and walked off. The house, Tom said to himself, that sounded quite nice. He watched as Dickie got smaller and smaller and then rolled onto his stomach again. He laid Dickie's shirt on his head as he dozed.

Tom wasn't sure what was odd when it came to Dickie anymore. In a lot of ways, it felt like Dickie was taking the lead, but Tom knew it was only because he was allowing it. Just how far would Tom have to push Dickie for him to make a real move?

Tom wasn't stupid. He knew Dickie wanted plausible deniability. He wanted to act as if all this was Tom's idea and he was only playing along. Maybe he shouldn't have asked Dickie to keep feeding him.

"Dickie?"

It was Marge's voice. Tom thought he was asleep and in the middle of a nightmare until he pulled Dickie's shirt off his head and looked up at Marge. Marge's lips parted slightly.

"Oh, Tom, I—oh, I thought you were Dickie," she said, blushing. "You looked just like him laying there."

"He's at the house," Tom said, keeping the excitement from his voice. "He's just grabbing us some ice."

Marge looked at the blanket, then the basket, then back at Tom with a frown she was doing a terrible job of hiding. "Oh," she said quietly. "You two were just...you and Dickie."

"What about us?" Tom asked.

He desperately wanted Marge to make a comment or accusation to him. Tom would just smile innocently and ask her just what could she possibly be talking about. Marge stood there, touching her fingertips to each other nervously.

"I'll maybe be by later," she said. "Maybe."

Tom smiled. "We'd love to have you."

Marge nodded, slowly, listlessly. She turned around as if in a daze and Tom put his head back down.

We, we, we, we, echoed in his head over and over. Tom knew it must be echoing in Marge's head too, clanging like a church bell. No, she wouldn't be by later; Tom had just made sure of that.

Before Dickie came back, Tom reached into the picnic basket. He popped a few grapes into his mouth and drank down some wine. Dickie called out his name and waved wildly to him. Dickie plopped down on the blanket, holding two glasses filled to the brim with ice and a bottle of wine. He set the bottle of wine in the basket and held out the glasses for Tom to fill.

Tom wanted to mention Marge but thought better of it.

"I was thinking," Dickie started. "Maybe we'd go out for dinner."

"Incognito?"

Dickie laughed. "Why? You want to?"

Tom stifled the urge to turn his head and look around the beach. He leaned towards Dickie and spoke quietly. "No. What's wrong with some place around here?"

"Well, nothing's wrong but—"

Tom pressed his lips to Dickie's. Dickie fell into it briefly before pushing Tom away, his face flushed to his ears.

"Knock that off!" Dickie's head was turning this way and that. "Don't do stuff like that here!"

"Like what?"

"You know what," Dickie growled. He sipped his wine. "More people are coming onto the beach."

"Oh. I get it."

"Get what?"

Tom drained his wine and wished he hadn't but wanted to put the glass down. He laid down on the towel and put his arms behind his head, smiling. Smirking, really.

"Why would we drive an hour for dinner?" asked Tom. "That's what."

Dickie was sitting on his legs again, his wine warming in his hand. He was gazing at Tom's bare chest, his eyes slightly glazed. If Dickie's eyes were anywhere else, Tom would have just thought Dickie was lost in his thoughts, some place else.

As Tom put his knees up, he felt sweat drip down the back of his thighs. Dickie was biting the inside of his lower lip, his chest rising and falling slowly. Tom raised his brows when Dickie looked up at his face.

"Dickie? Why should we—"

Dickie fell onto his hands, now on all fours. He swallowed thickly as he stared into Tom's eyes, leaning forward slowly. Tom thought Dickie probably didn't even realize he was still getting closer to him. Maybe Dickie would fall right over, right on top of him, right into Tom's blown pupils.

"What do you want from me?" Dickie asked, rasping. "Anything you want, Tom. Tell me what it is."

Tom closed his eyes. He was afraid if he kept them open he would lose this hand.

"I don't know," he said. "I'll have to think about it. Maybe I'll have you pose and I can paint you."

Tom heard Dickie sigh. Dickie touched Tom's chest briefly before pulling it away, as if his hand got burnt. Tom opened his eyes.

"I want you..." Tom trailed off, letting his voice hang like Dickie's mouth was now. Dickie's eyes got wide and dropped to Tom's lips. "To tell me what's on your mind."

"I'm thinking about dinner," Dickie said quietly. "Where we should go for dinner. Maybe we could—"

"You want to go somewhere far? Somewhere secluded?"

Dickie nodded slowly.

"Why?" Tom asked.

"I like it better that way," Dickie said uneasily. "I told you that. It's better that way."

"Mmm," was all Tom replied before closing his eyes again.

Tom could sense, could feel, Dickie's unmoving gaze. He knew Dickie was going to wait for him to open his eyes again, that Dickie was wracking his brain for how to push Tom against the wall. Tom breathed easily, a small smile coming to his face. How long had he and Dickie been playing this game...what was a little while longer?

Finally, Tom felt Dickie move away from him. He heard as Dickie filled his wine glass again and felt as Dickie laid down next to him. He peeked quickly to see that Dickie was lying on his belly, propping his upper half up on his elbows. He was glowering, but what else was new?

Tom closed his eyes again and waited for sleep to come. He knew Dickie would come to him in his dreams; that the Dickie in his dreams wouldn't make him beg for the smallest things. It was too bad that Dickie was so self-conscious, or ashamed, or whatever it is that he was feeling. Dickie had driven Tom almost to the point of being completely uncaring. Still, though, Tom had to exhibit at least some control. He didn't want to completely lose it, on the beach or in the house. Tom was sure if he kept tugging that Dickie would come completely unraveled.

Dickie was shaking Tom awake, suddenly but gently. Tom blinked himself awake, unsure if he even fully fell asleep or not. Dickie was smiling and blocking the sun from Tom's face.

"Tired, uccellino?" he asked. Tom nodded. "I'm going to work on my painting. I think I could do some work without you. Do you want to stay here or walk back to the house? I can come get you when it's time for dinner."

Tom sat up, carefully pushing Dickie out of his way. "We barely had lunch. A few grapes and some cheese hardly counts as lunch."

"Uccellino is hungry?" Dickie asked and then laughed. "Have some more brie, bella."

Tom simply laid back down and opened his mouth. Wordlessly, Dickie fed him. He took a few bites for himself but fed most of it to Tom. He gave Tom a little bit of the warm wine.

"Better?" he asked once the brie and grapes were finished. "Have a nap at home, Tom. Come on."

Tom felt as if he weighed a ton. The wine and hot sun had made him overpoweringly tired; sleeping right here seemed irresistible. If he had been alone, there wouldn't have even been a second thought. Tom would have simply closed his eyes again and listened to the ocean. Dickie seemed to have something in mind, a reason to bring Tom in that house, and Tom wanted to find out what it was. He allowed himself to be pulled up by Dickie.

After they slid their shirts on and Dickie picked up the basket and blanket, the two made the walk back up to the house. Tom's eyes repeatedly threatened to close; he felt he could topple right over and sleep on the sidewalk.

"Sleep in my bed," Dickie said once they were in the house. "Open the window in there. It'll take you right back to where you were, or did you want espresso?"

Tom shook his head and made his way upstairs, Dickie trailing behind him. Dickie watched as Tom stripped to his underwear and then picked up the duvet for Tom to lay under. Tom quietly laid down, spreading himself out on the cool sheets. He didn't stop himself from taking a deep breath, sucking in Dickie's aroma.

Dickie opened the window and an easy, cool breeze came into the room. He came over by the bed again and ran his fingers through Tom's hair a few times. Tom looked up at him.

"I'll be in my studio, bella," said Dickie quietly. "Maybe I'll bring you some coffee in a little. I'm tired too."

Without thinking, Tom said, "Lay with me."

Dickie's hand stopped in Tom's hair briefly before moving to the back of his head. He chuckled, "Don't tempt me."

"Why not?" Tom asked. "Paint later."

Dickie gave a coy smile before he started undressing, taking off his shirt and swim shorts as Tom had. He lifted the duvet and slid under next to Tom. He was on his back and, with Tom on his stomach, pulled Tom gently so his head was on Dickie's bare chest. Tom raised his hand so it could also rest there.

"Maybe the second bottle of wine was a bad idea," Dickie mumbled, closing his eyes. Tom looked up at his tanned face. "It always makes me so tired."

Tom was stuck between wanting to let himself drift off to sleep, stare at Dickie, or explore Dickie's body. He kept his eyes open but moved his gaze towards the open window.

As badly as Tom wanted Dickie, he laid still, listening to the soft thump of Dickie's heartbeat. Couldn't it always be like this? Just the two of them and the soft breeze? Tom felt, in this moment, even if died right now, he'd feel satisfied. It felt like it took all the control in the world not to raise his head and put his lips on Dickie. He didn't want this moment to be tainted. Weren't at least some of his feelings innocent?

To think, Tom had been so close to turning Dickie's father down. Or, to think, he had mostly agreed because Dickie's father was paying for his hotel. A free trip to Italy was all he thought he was agreeing to. He still wasn't sure what had given him the impression that Dickie and Tom got along as well as he had thought. What would Dickie's father think of their relationship now?

Dickie's life seemed so wonderful here in Mongibello. Tom almost found it hard to believe that Dickie had been living here all this time and that he himself had been living in New York, Dickie not a thought in his brain. Now it felt like Dickie was the only thought in his brain. It felt like his life in New York had been lived by someone completely different, a Tom unknown to him now. Tom could almost believe that Dickie hadn't really been living here all this time, that he had only materialized once Tom had gotten off the ship and walked on the beach for the first time.

Tom heard Dickie snoring quietly and closed his eyes. Slowly, easily, he moved his leg and laid it on top of Dickie's so their legs were intertwined. Just like their lives now.

Tom's breathing slowed and a smile burned onto his face. He melted impossibly further into Dickie and let himself be lulled to sleep by Dickie's heartbeat.