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.