Chapter Text
It was a cool night in Mongibello, but not unpleasantly so. Marge had gone home, and Tom and Dickie were leaning against the stone railing of Dickie’s balcony, looking out at the water and sharing a bottle of whiskey.
“Why don’t you, you know,” Tom waved his hand in the air, “work?”
“Work?” Dickie laughed, a sound like the ice cubes clinking in his glass. “Why would I?”
“I don’t know,” Tom said, looking into the amber liquid in his own glass. He was drunk. They both were, probably too drunk to be leaning so far over the railing above the cliff, but he didn’t care. That was what made it fun. “To have something to do, something to be proud of.” As if the ‘work’ he did in New York was something to be proud of. Well, he figured, it was, really. Who else could have scammed poor old Mrs. Whats-her-name out of several hundred dollars with just a few phone calls? He thought back to his social circle in the city. Probably quite a few of them could have. But they didn’t, and it’s not like he even took the money. So, yeah, something to be proud of.
“Tom?” he looked up to Dickie waving a hand in front of his face, rings glinting in the moonlight. “You still there?”
“Uh, yeah. I was just… thinking.”
“Okay,” said Dickie, looking at the hand he was still holding inches from Tom’s face, as if he had forgotten what he was doing with it. “You say the strangest things sometimes, you know that?” Then, having finally decided what to do with his hand, Dickie punched him lightly in the shoulder and let his hand sit there for a moment.
Pressed against his shoulder, Tom could feel the warmth of his fist through his shirt. Through Dickie’s shirt, Tom thought, and fought the urge to shiver. “Yeah,” said Tom.
“I- you know…” Dickie said, but Tom wasn’t listening. He wasn’t sure exactly when, but Dickie had unclenched his fist and Tom felt his hand, strong fingers splayed, just laying on his shoulder, almost grasping it. He felt Dickie’s hand move upwards, slowly, towards his neck, as if searching for a boundary, a line to cross. Tom swallowed.
Had Dickie moved? Had Tom moved? He wasn’t sure. But they were so close. He was so close. And the way he was looking at him- Tom couldn’t decipher it. He was sure he was looking at Dickie like a deer in headlights, but he didn’t know what expression he was supposed to be making, so he just kept staring.
He felt Dickie's hand, calloused from months of sailing, brush his collarbone. Just barely at first, and then a more decisive movement. Tom did shiver, this time, at what he thought must be the contrast of the warmth of his hand against the cool breeze.
Then Dickie’s other hand was reaching towards him, and his fingers were in his hair, and Tom was using all of his focus to keep breathing at a regular rhythm, but he was sure it wasn't working.
“Your hair,” Dickie said.
“What?” Tom made the mistake of looking up at his face, at his lips, at his eyes.
“Your hair,” Dickie said again, as if Tom was stupid for asking. He probably was. “It’s a mess.”
“Oh. Okay.” Tom said. They were fully angled towards each other now, and Dickie was looking at him strangely. He had not fulfilled his task of fixing Tom’s hair, and was rather just… holding him, one hand on his neck and one hand on his scalp, fingers threaded through his hair. Tom was no longer certain that he was breathing. “Dickie, what are you-?
“Shut up, Tom.” Dickie said, and suddenly, roughly, Tom was being pulled forward, and he was kissing him.
Dickie was kissing him, and Tom was still, and then Tom was kissing him back. Dickies hand curled into a fist in his hair and his other hand was moving down Tom’s chest now, and Tom’s hands were at his sides, what the fuck was he supposed to do with his hands? He managed to remember the mostly empty glass in his hand just in time to set it down on the wide railing, before Dickie was pushing him backwards, still kissing him, and Tom had to grab onto his arm to keep balance.
Tom’s back hit a pillar, and he gasped into Dickie’s mouth. In response, Dickie used his grip on Tom’s hair to yank his head back and scraped his teeth along his jaw. Tom felt his grip tighten on Dickie’s arm. He’d never done this before, not with- well, ok maybe he’d kissed the odd guy or two in the alley behind a sketchy bar, but it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t Dickie.
Breathing hard, almost panting, Tom tried to speak, not sure what he meant to say. “Dickie-”
“I said shut up,” he growled against Tom’s neck, breaking his hold on his arm to raise his hand to either side of his face and crushing their lips together once again.
The kiss was hard, angry, and Tom tried his best to push back, to keep up with the movements of Dickie’s mouth against his. Emboldened by the intensity, Tom brought his hands to Dickie’s sides, just under his rib cage, causing him to inhale, as if startled. Tom pressed forward, delighted by the sound. Suddenly, with no warning, Dickie pulled away and stepped back, looking blankly at Tom as if he’d played no part in what had just happened.
Tom just looked at him, eyes wide, not knowing what was happening, not knowing what he had done wrong. Dickie turned around, picked up the bottle they’d been drinking from, and drained whatever whiskey was left in one sip. Then, without looking back, he walked away, and a minute later Tom heard the slam of the front door.
***
“Dickie?” Marge said, opening the door. “What are you doing here? What time is it?” She asked, looking past him to the moon hanging in the sky.
“Hi, Marge,” Dickie took a step forward, putting on a smile.
Marge held the door where it was, not opening it enough to let him in, but not shutting him out either. “Dickie, go home, you’re drunk.”
“No, I’m not,” he clumsily tried to push the door open, causing her to take a step back. She was in her pajamas and her feet were bare, as if she’d just gotten out of bed.
“I just-”
Marge sighed, stepping aside to let him in. “What? What was so important it couldn’t wait until the morning?”
“You, Marge, I had to see you. I wanted to see you.” Marge took in a breath, and held it for a moment. Taking this as acceptance, he stepped forward, and leaned in to kiss her.
She stopped him with a hand in front of his face. “Stop it,” she said, and took another shaky breath.
“But I love you,” he said.
“No,” she said. “You don’t.”
“Okay,” he said. “Do you want to go upstairs?”
“No,” Marge said. “I don’t. I don’t know why you do this. Are you really so cruel?”
“What? I’m not doing anything, I just- Marge,” he looked at her pleadingly.
She turned away, unable to look at him anymore. “Can I get you some water?”
“Alright.”
She walked into the kitchen, hearing Dickie’s footsteps behind her. She didn’t turn to look at him as she took a glass from the cabinet and filled it in the sink. There was no ice. She set it on the kitchen table, on the side opposite from her. Then she watched as Dickie sat down and looked at the cup for a moment before picking it up and taking a drink. He seemed somehow like a child that had been reprimanded.
She sat across from him, and didn’t say anything. After a few long minutes, he looked up at her. “I’m sorry,” he said at last.
“Thank you. You know…” she paused. “You don’t have to keep pretending with me.”
“What?” He said, a note of panic entering his voice. “I don’t know what you mean I just-”
“It’s okay,” she said placatingly. “I know you know how I feel about you, and I know you don’t feel the same. That’s why you came here tonight drunk, isn't it? So you wouldn’t have to think too much about it. So you could give me what I wanted, even though you didn’t want to. So you could pretend I was just some random Italian girl from a club.” She didn’t stop the bitterness that entered her voice. Dickie was silent, looking down again into his cup. “But you don’t have to. I don’t want you like this. I don’t want you pretending, I wish you would just talk to me. I don’t want you to act like you love me, I want you to be honest.”
She finished talking, but Dickie didn’t respond. After a moment, she noticed his shoulders were shaking as if- he was crying. She’d never seen him cry. Not when he’d received news of his mother’s illness worsening, never. She’d tried to comfort him, to let him know she was there for him, but he’d always brushed it off, said he was fine, and she’d left it alone. Now she didn’t know what to do.
Marge reached across the table and put a hand over his. He didn’t pull away. “It’s okay,” she said again. After some time, he stopped shaking, and gently moved her hand off his so he could wipe away his tears.
“Uh, I just…” he started to speak, voice rough. “Thank you, Marge. I, um, I’ll go now.” He moved to stand up.
“It’s late. You can sleep here. On the couch.”
He looked for a moment like he was going to decline her offer. “Thank you,” he said finally.
Marge stood up, and went to the linen closet to get a spare pillow and blanket. When she walked into the living room, Dickie was already sitting on the edge of the couch. She handed him the pillow. “Stand up.” He stood, and she unfolded one of the blankets to cover the couch, and laid the other blanket on top. He didn’t say anything during this process, but the silence held none of the tension that it did before. She took the pillow from him and laid it against the armrest. “There you go,” she said, and stepped back to turn out the lights. “I’m going back to bed now.”
“Thank you,” Dickie said, looking at the makeshift bed, and back to Marge. “I’m… sorry. For bothering you. Goodnight.”
Marge smiled slightly towards him. “Goodnight, Dickie,” she said, and went upstairs.