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“What have I ever done to her? Did you ask her that? When have I ever been anything but kind to her...”
“Shh, shh, it’s alright,” said Peter, pressing the bandage down on Tom’s hand. He dressed the cut with the tenderness of a mother—not that Tom would know what that was like, really. Peter went on, saying something about how Marge was just heartbroken, and of course she wanted to blame someone, but Tom wasn’t really listening. He was done with Marge—finished. To him, she was dead. It was a pity she wasn’t dead for real, he thought. Damn Peter; he was just about to—
But it was hard to be angry at Peter. Peter was so kind and sweet, so trusting, that it almost made Tom pity him.
“I was shaving,” Tom had told him while the gentle man held his bloody palm. “Marge just came in and started screaming, all these disgusting allegations...I was so caught off guard, Peter, I cut myself—”
“Either get a safety razor or grow a beard,” said Peter now, a mischievous gleam in his eye. But Tom couldn’t grow a beard; he didn’t even have to shave at all, which was one of the many, many, countless things he loathed about Tom Ripley—Dickie Greenleaf had to shave—
The day Peter stood behind him while he sat at the piano—placed a warm cheek right against his own to slap the keys—squeezed his shoulders—and pled with Tom to confide in him, Tom shivered and thought about Dickie. Not about being Dickie, but about being touched by him. He hadn’t thought about that since the day in the boat. He was thinking about Dickie now. He didn’t want to be.
Peter was looking right into his eyes, so deeply and with such concern that Tom feared he’d dig through his eye sockets and see into his brain, his soul. Tom looked away. At the opera, the first time they’d met, Peter stared at him and he stared back. Peter looked him up and down, slowly. It was something that boys in America never did—they'd be called names or maybe even jumped if they pulled a thing like that. It was a stare that, Tom was sure, meant what he thought it meant—but then, he’d been sure about Dickie, too—
“Tom,” said Peter now, softly, quietly. Tom looked back up at him. What did he want? He was just staring...
“Tom,” he repeated, “I asked you if you’re okay to be alone...I should go home and check on Marge...talk to her, you know.”
Tom’s face got hot. Damn her! What else did she have to take from him?! He wanted to protest, but Peter spoke again before he had to.
“I’m worried about your nightmares, Tom,” he whispered, like there was a whole crowd of people here that he didn’t want to hear this. “I don’t know if you’re okay to stay alone. And your poor hand...” He took it, and Tom was painfully aware of how small it was, enclosed in Peter’s large, long, smooth fingers. Musician’s fingers, proper musician’s fingers. Tom closed his eyes without meaning to; he felt Peter’s lips against his palm, the parts that weren’t covered by the bandage. Then there was another soft kiss on his wrist, which Tom wasn’t expecting. It made him shudder.
“You alright?” Peter checked in, his voice impossibly concerned. Tom opened his eyes and looked straight into the other man’s. So blue, like Dickie’s...
Tom wanted his glasses so he didn’t have to squint, but he dare not move lest it give Peter time to change his mind, like everybody else changed their minds. Peter watched him sweetly, patiently, like he would wait forever. Who was he?
Tom was still in only his bathrobe. It was the sole thing separating them. No one had ever seen him naked; he’d only seen one person naked. He was thinking about that night they played chess. The bath water was so warm.
He pressed his lips to Peter’s suddenly. He didn’t know what to do; he’d never kissed anyone. Peter did not push him away, but pressed himself closer, further into Tom’s mouth. He knew what to do. Tom wondered how many boys he had kissed, or more.
Peter pulled away and Tom was disappointed until he felt warm, soft lips against his jaw, his ear, his neck. Tom cried out frantically; his legs were writhing. Peter nudged him back against the couch cushions and climbed onto Tom’s lap, his gangly legs on either side of him. He opened Tom’s bathrobe and pulled it away, kissing everywhere that was revealed to him, moving down Tom’s body. Tom wasn’t nervous anymore; he didn’t have time to think about that. He was whining softly, shaking tremendously.
“God, you’re beautiful,” Peter said, and Tom’s eyes filled instantly with tears. “Tom, have you ever seen yourself? Oh my God...” He sat up and kissed his lips again, and Tom held both sides of his face so hard and so tight he felt he might have crushed the bones in Peter’s cheeks. Peter did not struggle. “Sweet darling, you’re beautiful...” He said again.
“Stay with me,” pleaded Tom, the tears rolling down his cheeks, and he knew he sounded pathetic but he couldn’t make himself care. Peter kissed the tears from his eyelashes, his cheeks, his nose, kissed a stray one that escaped onto his neck.
“Try getting me to leave now,” he growled, and Tom let out a loud, high sound that was somewhere between a moan and a sob. “Don’t really grow a beard, Tom,” Peter teased, kissing his smooth chin. “Tom, sweetheart, come, let’s go get in bed.”
They went down the hall together. Peter was still dressed and Tom was naked. Late that night, Peter curled Tom in his arms and whispered to him, asking him to come to Greece with him for his next concert, revealing how much he’d wanted him at the opera and when he’d heard his piano-playing, saying he loved him. Tom did not love Peter, but he loved what he said about him. At least—for the most part—he was not thinking about Dickie.