Fic: Still Life (Ripley)

Book/Author: The Talented Mr Ripley by Patricia Highsmith
Story Title: Still Life
Characters: Tom Ripley/Dickie Greenleaf
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Dickie paints Tom. For a prompt about illusions.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Patricia Highsmith.


‘Stay still,’ Dickie laughs, disappearing behind his easel again.

‘I can’t help it,’ Tom complains, trying to settle back on his elbows on Dickie’s bed, the sheets impossibly silken beneath his bare, goose-fleshed skin. ‘It’s not like I’m used to being painted in the nude.’

‘It’s not like you’re used to being painted at all.’ Dickie’s voice has that thoughtless lilt in it, the one that means I’m better than you and we both know it, and for a moment, Tom is glad that the easel is in front of Dickie’s face, so their eyes can’t meet.

Dickie bends over to pick up a tube of paint from the floor, showing off his glorious backside, wearing his nudity with the kind of effortless confidence that Tom will never have. The thought brings an easy clarity with it, reminding him that this is an illusion, that he’ll never be rich or bored or artsy. He’ll never be Dickie.

Dickie’s shadow falls across the bed, across Tom, as he leans over to rearrange his model. ‘Just lie back,’ Dickie murmurs, his eyes intent on the lines of Tom’s body. His fingertips glide over Tom’s bare shoulder, adjusting his posture slightly. Tom stills under his touch, watching the way the sunlight streaming through the window catches Dickie’s hair. Dickie’s fingers run rapidly through Tom’s hair, pushing some of it back, pulling a few strands over his forehead. ‘What’s with your hair?’ he says irritably. ‘You parting it differently, or something? It looks more like mine, now.’

‘I’m not trying to look like you,’ Tom says, too quickly.

‘Didn’t say you were,’ Dickie says absently, only mildly interested in what Tom’s saying. His hand cups Tom’s chin, turns his head a little to the left. The better to catch the light with, Tom supposes. He keeps his eyes on Dickie’s face, the offhand comment about his hair beginning to gather weight and settle in his mind like silt. They do look remarkably alike with similar hairstyles.

‘What?’ Dickie asks, sensing his gaze. It’s not an annoyed what, but a softer, half-amused, half-defensive one.

‘Paint me,’ Tom says, and holds his breath.

‘That’s what I’m trying to—’

Tom curls his fingers around Dickie’s wrist. ‘No. Paint me.’

‘Well, well,’ Dickie whispers, eyes dancing. ‘Looks like our Mister Ripley’s not quite as repressed as he appears to be.’ He lifts the paintbrush to his mouth and deliberately wets it with his tongue, making a show of it.

And just for the moment, everything is fine. The illusion is restored, and Tom isn’t such a fool that he won’t take it.