You’re completely insane, you know that, right?
It echoed in his mind, like the aftershocks of a gong struck. Oh, no, not insane. Drunk, perhaps. Drunk on Italy, Italian wine, on Dickie. The hazy thrown-back head of a giggling high woman, the pink-cheeked flush of good humor hadn’t dissipated once save for–
It had been late afternoon and Fausto had just finished giving Tom some Italian lessons, and Dickie was with Mia or Myah or Mariano, and the letter came on the porch from Marge, who didn’t need to be writing him letters, for she lived just up the sloped hill overlooking the sea, about a seven-minute walk away from Dickie’s home.
He’d fed his anger and his amusement by circling the room, using Marge’s falsetto, a perfect imitation of a woman, hand flourishing effeminately in a showy fabrication of her own movements. He’d been laughing angrily between it, crumpling the lavender paper, delicately scented with her perfume:
My dearest Dickie —- By now you have probably received my past two notes. It is in our best interest that we rethink the trip to Turin until your new friend informs your father of your plans (or lack thereof) and he departs for America. He is wonderful, don’t get me wrong. [Tom had bitterly laughed here.] But I think it would make all three of us uncomfortable to share a hotel room in the expanse of more than one day.
I cannot wait to see Basilica of Superga. [Tom wanted to see it, too!] I cannot wait to smell the incense burning there and see the dome. I cannot wait to experience the nightlife with you–hand-in-hand. I know you think I’m a bit stuck-up when it comes to that sort of thing, but I am willing to delve into the culture if you’d be so willing to invite me.
[…It got boring here. Something or other about her book.]
I anticipate going with you in late November. I love you.
Truly, Marge
When Tom was done, he read it again, silently. It was so stupid–utterly and fully stupid. Marge was a nice girl, but she was a dim one, who couldn’t see past Dickie’s charm, mistaking it for love. Tom didn’t do that. He already had Dickie’s love–or he would. And they didn’t have to exchange these gooey pleasantries. No doubt Dickie would be exhausted in replying to it, struggling to make up the courtesy she’d extended equally. So he did them both a favor, and ripped it to bits, letting the handful out the window as some summer breeze picked it up the bits and led them towards the sea, a scripted snowfall in the hottest Italian season, like those flurries you see outside a train car in winter.
“Never,” Tom agreed, grin enormous as Dickie kissed his cheeks. He didn’t want to attribute this to the drink, but if that was the case, he’d feel inclined to enjoy it regardless of the inciter. “Never, I don’t even want to think of New York. I’d stay here my whole life with you. I think I will, Dickie!”
The waiter brought them pagnottini–Italian sweet rolls. “Grazie,” Tom said, and when he turned, Dickie reached across to hold Dickie’s hand, squeezing it once and looking very seriously into his eyes. “We should go to Turin,” he suggested eagerly. He was going to usurp Marge or die trying.
“Tonight. Stay a few days. You and I.”
It was moments like these that made Dickie question himself. Question himself, question Tom and question what he was doing with him. Without a doubt, there was a spark between the two. Both of them joined at the hips ever since they met. Dickie hasn’t let Tom leave his side. There was something about him that brightened the room, brightens the path he walks in and brightens Dickie’s life. Although, yes, Tom could be creepy. He could get a little touchy-feely and at first, Dickie wasn’t sure what to think because Dickie himself could get very touchy-feely but there was something different about being on the receiving end.
But now, when Tom grabbed his hands, or his face or knocked up against him ‘accidentally’, he liked it. He liked it very much. He liked it.. too much. He was always wanting for him to brush against him. There was only so many times Dickie could touch him before it became obvious.
Dickie wasn’t gay. He wasn’t. He wasn’t... or was he? He didn’t even think of another man before Tom. It never crossed his mind. And even now, he doesn’t think of other men, apart from Tom.
Goddammit. What the hell has this beautiful blonde with teeth so bright they could light up a city, done to him?
“Turin?” He repeated and raised a brow. He leaned across the table to meet Tom half way. Both his hands in his and he squeezed them back in return. His stare hard on Tom. It was easy to see the adoration he had for him. As much as Dickie tried to hide it, he couldn’t.
“Marge and I had planned to go either this week or next wee--.” Dickie turned his attention to a couple of young ladies, short skirts, long legs who had walked into the restaurant. He flashed them a grin and then remembered he was in mid-sentence and turned his attention back to Tom.
Dickie shook his head and grinned a wide tooth smile, “Fuck it,” Dickie laughed and squeezed his hands again, “Lets do it. You and me. I’ll tell Marge...I don’t know, I’ll make something up on the way.” He pulled his hands back and leaned back on his chair. The same grin plastered on his face.
“Let’s go, now.” Okay, so they’d only ordered their food and Dickie was starving, but he was excited. If it wasn’t one thing it was the other. He couldn’t focus on just one thing. “Oh, Tom..” Dickie grabbed one of the rolls from the table and broke it apart and stuffed it into his mouth and spoke with his mouth full of food:
“We’ve gotta’ pack. Let’s GO.”
He pulled his wallet from his pocket and paid for the food, they did not eat before grabbing Tom by the hand and pulling him off his chair. Both of them acting like like a bunch of teenagers in love who are running away from their problems, from their real life.
