Rated R, just to be safe.
Pairing: Peter/Tom
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of this story. Anthony Minghella, Paramount Pictures and Patricia Highsmith do. No infringement intended.
Notes: Written by me within three weeks, beta-read by Gail within hardly an hour. I think we need an international "Hug your beta-reader"-day. Thank you. :-)
Website: The Unholy Trinity at http://www.strangeplaces.net/trinity/main.htm
Archive: Yes to CKOS, WWOMB, Querstrich, Rareslash archive. If you want it, just ask.
"Tom is talented," Peter whispered. "Tom is tender. Tom is beautiful."
Tom closed his eyes. Tears were streaming down his face. "You are such a liar."
"Tom is a mystery."
He breathed against the shirt Peter was wearing, against the skin under that shirt, spreading warmth and making Peter shiver slightly.
"Tom is not a nobody," Peter went on softly. "Tom has secrets he doesn't want to tell me, and I wish he would."
He couldn't stop himself. He know he should, he should just do it, that *thing* he had to do, but it was impossible. He felt himself move up Peter's body.
"Tom has nightmares," that voice went on. "That's not a good thing. Tom has someone to love him. That is a good thing. Tom is crushing me." A laugh.
He put his hands with the rope in them beside both sides of Peter`s upper back and was now lying fully on the other man's body, his head against Peter's, his chest against Peter's back.
He breathed against Peter's neck, drawing goosebumps, and he kissed the skin and made it better.
Why had he never dared this before? I had he never?
"Tom is crushing me," Peter sighed.
Tom flickered his tongue out and tasted. The hairline, full of softness. One hand let go of the rope, and instead he let it glide through the silky blackness under him, all that soft dark hair, from Peter's neck forward to his scalp, again and again, mixed with little kisses on the head and besides the ear.
"Tom is tender," Peter repeated softly. "Tom is so tender."
With a push, Tom brought himself further up Peter's body and his weight farther onto Peter. He was gripping the rope fiercely with one hand now, unable to let go. Underneath him, Peter was whispering his name, again and again - like a mantra - or a caress.
Tom's free hand pushed down and under Peter's shirt, pulling it a bit up and baring the skin. A shudder ran through Peter's body.
"Tom is doing things to me, and I don't want him to stop."
He let out a whimper, and to stop himself, Tom pressed his mouth against Peter's neck, burying the sound and the tears that were still streaming down his face there.
His shoulders shuddered violently from his crying, and Peter was softly talking to him, words of love and caring, meant to calm him down and make him stop mourning for something Peter hadn't even begun to understand, and between sobs, the push of Tom's groin against the body under him was harsher this time, making the other man groan aloud.
"Stop, please. Please. Stop." He wanted to say it, wanted to, although he didn't know if it was meant to stop himself from touching Peter or Peter from responding to him. But it didn't matter anyway, because the words never left his mind, they never came out, they only went on tormenting him from the inside, making his hand with the rope in it shake, making the free hand on Peter's naked stomach shudder.
He could feel Peter's harsh breathing. The skin under his hand was moving violently with every quick breath Peter took.
Softness. Warm skin and little hairs, pressing against his fingers. He stilled his body totally, only moving his fingertips back and forth, back and forth over Peter's body, losing himself in its aliveness, the *breathing*.
He wanted to say Peter's name, but all he could get out was a soft sigh, and he was holding the other man, holding him hard, never letting him go, just pressing against him and caressing his naked stomach, and Peter let him. He just lay there, unmoving, and let Tom hold him, let him lose himself in the feeling of being safe and loved, while at the very same time, the truth was that his world was crushing down around him.
He couldn't stop it, couldn't keep it from happening. If the world had been a perfect place, it would have let him live his life; it would have swallowed the truth and stored it in the basement, in the dark, like every other truth about Tom Ripley had been stored in there before to never see the light of day again.
But the world wasn't a perfect place, because Peter still believed in him. Peter trusted him and loved him. Peter was holding the key to the basement, the key to everything Tom was, and he would never come to use it. Peter, who was writhing under his body now, asking for touch, trying to make the fingers on his stomach wander. Tom closed his eyes and laid his cheek on Peter's back. His fingertips caressed the naked skin of Peter's body.
Meredith was here. Meredith was on this ship, and she had brought her family, and he couldn't kill them all.
He just - couldn't - kill ... them - all.
Everything inside of him was frozen, his sanity only held in place by ice. And that was all that kept him from just jumping off that bed and what kept him from screaming and screaming and screaming, because it just - wasn't - fair. It wasn't fair. Not now. Not NOW. Not when he had found Peter, not when Peter loved him for being Tom Ripley, for being just that. Not a fraud. Not a fake Princeton-Graduate of `56, not a fake Dickie Greenleaf, but just TOM with all his dark secrets stored in an even darker basement.
But he couldn't - he couldn't go back to being - he couldn't face those secrets. The demons that were haunting him. He was lost. He was stuck and lost and haunted. Alone with his lies. And he couldn't free himself and just tell the truth. He couldn't go back. Couldn't face Peter and tell him about Dickie. Couldn't face those eyes - eyes of people who could find out what he had done and the disgust in their eyes, the same disgust he could see in his own eyes when he looked in the mirror very closely. He couldn't go through that. In the end, he was too afraid to.
His eyes weren't dry yet, but would be soon. He knew that. They always were.
He tried to be soft when he caressed Peter's body, pushing his arm further around his slim hips until he had his arm all around him, but he was holding him hard to his own body. Nearly crushing him.
A hushing sound came out of Tom's mouth, as if Peter was the one who was crying.
"Peter." he whispered. "Peter."
"yes. Tom please. Tom. I love you, Tom. I love you."
He held the rope, strongly now, without the earlier shudders. Strong and hard in his hand and he freed the other hand from under Peter's body, and he whispered.
"Close your eyes, Peter. Everything will be fine. Everything will be fine."
Hushing, shooing sounds into Peter's ear, turning into sobs and there were more tears, more tears and words, coming from him. Tom was holding the rope in both of his hands now and settled himself further on Peter, making it unable for him to move. Peter was trying to turn to him, maybe to hold him and to wash the tears away. But Tom stopped him. And finally, finally, the rope found its way around Peter's neck and he was pulling hard and crying and whimpering and whispering words, again and again oh god oh god oh god, and Peter was fighting him now Tom you are crushing me and he couldn't breathe, but Tom kept on pulling, taking away Peter's air.
Crushing Peter. Crushing his own world.
And when Peter was just lying there very still, Tom was very still, too, suddenly, holding Peter in his arms, his body full of ice. He was cold. Cold and dark and alone. And nothing was making sense. Nothing was making sense at all.
Why was he caught in this nightmare.
...end...
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