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"Are you a Princeton man?"
Tom looks up as Herbert Greenleaf extends a hand toward him. There is a moment, the briefest of hesitations, before Tom stands and shakes it. "Excellent," Herbert says. "I've been meaning to talk to you."
"Mr. Greenleaf," someone says, and Tom and Herbert turn. Peter Smith-Kingsley smiles disarmingly.
*****
"I'm friends with Dickie's fiancée, and believe me, you don't want to get involved in all that. It's nasty stuff. Family inheritances and backstabbing and whatnot. I'm actually here to ask a favor from you."
"A favor?" Tom says, and Peter smiles.
"We're actually short one man," Peter says, "and we're about to start our tour of Italy. And I see that you're someone with a real knack for the piano."
Tom looks down at his hands.
"Wouldn't you rather hire a real musician?" His hands tighten slightly in his lap, the light scars of his knuckles catching the theater lights. Peter smiles.
"Well," Peter says, rising. "I would be lying if I didn't say there were other reasons."
Tom slowly raises his eyes.
******
The company doesn't pay much. They do provide room and board, though, and the other musicians seem nice enough. "Believe it or not, most of us are working class. Music lets us travel to the upper echelons."
Tom cranes his neck, looks up at the vast theater with red velvet curtains and golden trimming, socialites and high society pouring through the aisles and onto the balconies. Peter smiles.
"You fit right in," Peter says.
******
Sometimes, Tom can't help but think the party where he met Peter was the best thing that's ever happened to him.
They play music in the evenings and rehearse during the day, the other musicians laughing and carousing. They put on their masks just like Tom would do in front of high society, nodding politely as the elite walk up to them in expensive dresses and fitted suits. They're servants, Tom realizes, watching them. They're servants who play music for them, and he finds that he doesn't really mind it.
"You're quiet," Peter says. Tom looks up and sees Peter walking toward him. "All these cities and we haven't spent much time one-on-one. And I'm the man who brought you here."
"Sorry," Tom says, and he glances at his hands, smiling shyly. "I'm not one for talking."
"You study them," Peter says. Tom nods.
"I can't help it," Tom says as Peter sits beside him on the piano bench.
They go to lunch. They sit on an outside terrace and Tom can see the sunlight running through Peter's hair, how his face opens up in a laugh. Peter smiles often and easily, and every so often their eyes will catch.
Tom flushes. He's not used to this. The wind rises and Peter reaches out a hand to push back a hair from Tom's face.
"You have something," Peter says.
"I do?" Tom says. Peter pulls out a leaf from Tom's hair.
"Something," Peter says, and smiles, twirling the stem between his fingers.
*****
They crash onto the bed, something exciting and exhilarating and completely unexpected.
"I've never done this before," Tom says, hair disheveled and breathless from kisses. He touches Peter forehead to forehead.
"What do you mean?" Peter says. His hand rubs Tom's shoulder. "With a man?"
"With anyone."
Peter smiles.
******
Slowly, Tom begins to open up to Peter. "Telling lies, forging signatures. Impersonating almost anybody." Tom smiles, ducking his head. His hands are a loose curl on his lap. "I've never told anyone that before." Peter nods, gravely.
"I'm honored," Peter says, and Tom looks up, hushed. Peter smiles. "I'm honored that you would trust me with that."
"No one's ever--" Tom searches his eyes. "No one's ever known the real me. Just the masks. Just the ways I can slip into high society."
"A coping mechanism," Peter says. Tom nods, looking away from him.
"Yeah."
Peter smiles. He moves close, settling Tom against his chest.
"You're like a hermit crab."
Tom laughs softly against Peter's chest. "What?"
"A soft little animal that hides in different-sized shells." He wraps his arms around Tom, curling around him. Tom smiles, resting on his chest.
"Yeah," Tom says, and Peter smiles and brushes a kiss on Tom's forehead. "Yeah. You're my shell."
Peter smiles. Tom feels warm and safe beneath him.
*****
"Good things about Tom Ripley. This could take me some time. Tom is talented, Tom is tender. Tom is beautiful--"
Tom laughs. "You're such a liar." Peter smiles and pulls a blanket over them.
"Tom has nightmares, and that’s not a good thing. Tom has someone to love him, and that is a good thing. Tom is crushing me," Peter says, smiling, as Tom hugs him tighter and tighter. Tom's face is hidden against Peter's chest and Peter cranes his neck slightly to look at him.
"Tom?" Peter says, but Tom burrows harder against him. "Tom?" He lightly strokes Tom's hair. "Are you okay?"
"I'm happy." Tom looks up, smiling. His eyes are wet beneath his glasses. Quietly Peter pulls off his glasses and sets them on the nightstand.
"Can I tell you something, Tom?"
"What is it, Peter?"
"I tricked you into coming to Italy with me," Peter says. He tenderly brushes his thumb against Tom's cheek. "We didn't need another pianist. I could have easily stepped in."
Tom laughs, ducking his head as Peter smiles and kisses him.