Hi guys. Not a happy story.

Warnings: Implied slash, implied insanity

Shamelessly ripped of this quote from the Talented Mr. Ripley (which you should all see) "Good things about Tom Ripley? Could take some time!... Tom is talented. Tom is tender... Tom is beautiful...Tom is a mystery"

"You're such a liar."

"Tom is not a nobody. Tom has secrets he doesn't want to tell me, and I wish he would. Tom has nightmares. That's not a good thing. Tom has someone to love him. That is a good thing! Tom is crushing me. Tom is crushing me. Tom, you're crushing me!"

Tom Riddle was in love. When asked, he claimed that he was simply in love with his hair. The gentle waves of black, the uneven cut of his fringe, and way it fell about his, framing his pale skin in sloping curls. His eyes were of an unnaturally shiny blue, that made him look perpetually on the verge of tears.

The apartment they had moved into immediately following graduation was cramped and always either ridiculously cold or hellishly warm, mimicking (and sometimes outdoing) the temperature outdoors. Tom referred to it as the Lair, but his lover simply called it Home. In a fit of paranoia, he had insisted only his lover's name be on the deed, and his lover had consented. He was kind to Tom, even in the midst of his manic attacks, which endeared him to Tom when he was rational, and irritated him when he was manic.

He could tell it would be one of those days from the minute he woke up. Tom was lounging on their bed, very obviously watching him sleep. Tom raked a hand through his hair slowly, and his lover groaned his approval. Tom was devilishly handsome, but rarely confidant for the show he was now putting on.

"Love you, Tom." His voice was slightly croaky, so he cleared his throat, for a moment unnerved as he watched Tom's eyes catch on his neck and stare.

The stare lifted and met his lover's shinning blue eyes and trailed a hand down his own muscled chest. "What do you love about me?"

"That you're a complete twit," he lover murmured, pressing a chaste kiss to Tom's unwilling lips.

"Good things. Please. About Tom Riddle."

"Good things about Tom Riddle? Could take some time!" His lover said with a laugh, leaning into Tom's body. "Tom is talented. Tom is tender." He leaned in for another kiss and Tom indulged him. He pulled back, smiling almost impishly. Yesterday it had been cute. Today, it grated on his last nerve,

"Tom is beautiful." His lover's voice was become clearer as the sleep wore off. He was pressing open mouthed kisses to Tom's tight chest lovingly. "Tom is a mystery." Tom placed a hand on his lover's neck, rubbing the spot where his neck and shoulders met. His lover shivered, and Tom grinned. The trepidation that he had felt returned with that grin, but he continued nonetheless.

"You're such a liar," Tom whispered, kissing his adam's apple gently.

"Tom is not a nobody." Tom pressed his lover into the sheets, straddling his waist and greedily kissing his mouth, but his hand never strayed from his lover's neck. "Tom has secrets he doesn't want to tell me, and I wish he would. Tom has nightmares," he was gasping, already almost in the throes of passion. "That's not a good thing. Tom has someone to love him." Tom looked up at that, and his grip on his neck tightened. "That is a good thing!"

The weight of Tom on his chest seemed to increase, almost, and his lover moaned breathily, trying to catch his breath. "Tom is crushing me." The grip on his neck tightened more, and he struggled against Tom's larger body. "Tom is crushing me." He couldn't breathe! "Tom, you're crushing me!"

Tom Riddle was panting, fingers digging into the throat of his lover, watching as his eyes closed, listening to the panicked struggles ceased. He sat, straddling his cold lover's body, panting from exertion.

In ten minutes he would come to himself, in a panic, and quietly accio the bleach from under the sink. Then he would scrub every inch of the Lair—no, of home, until no trace of him remained. He would thank the stars that his name was not on the lease, and he would flush all of his medication down the toilet. Then he would torch the place. After all, he had been chosen, and his meds had just held him back.

In forty years he would forget his lover's name, his face, even his voice. He would remember his hair, soft and black, and his eyes, wet and blue, and would recite his lover's list before he slept each night. Tom Riddle is…Tom Riddle is…

For the moment, though, he was staring at his lover's still form. "I hate you," he said. For a moment he didn't hate his meds, because they let him love the beautiful boy lying still for him. "Tell me something good about Tom Riddle." Silence met his plea, and he slumped back, hovering inches above his lover's cold face.

"That's what I thought."

fin.