Tom played Bach's Toccata with burning intensity while Peter set the table and picked up odds and ends in his flat to keep it orderly.

"The tone has switched from bleak to furious," remarked Peter as he put the kettle on. "Is peppermint tea okay? I'm clean out of English breakfast. One can never find PG Tips around here."

"Peppermint's fine," said Tom in a short, clipped manner. Peter was a bit taken aback by Tom's shortness of temper, but did his best to keep the conversation light.

"It's better here than it is in America, though. No offense to you Tom, your home country is lovely, but you do not know how to do tea. It's all stems and cast-offs. Ghastly. Your coffee is usually quite nice, though the Italians probably do it best."

Tom inhaled sharply and played louder. Peter noticed Tom's ferocity growing and dropped the pretense.

"You know, it's very hard to keep conversation with you when I have to shout over the piano!"

Tom stopped and turned toward Peter.

"Thank you," Peter said. He then sat on the piano bench beside Tom. "What's the matter? You're hardly said a word since we returned. Did I do something wrong?"

Tom stiffened. He never, in a million years, thought he could be so angry with Peter. The idea of anyone being angry with gentle Peter seemed almost unfathomable. However, at that moment, he ground his teeth so hard that he was sure he wore chips in them. And he wasn't entirely sure where this anger came from. Peter didn't do anything wrong, necessarily, but seeing Peter and Meredith discuss Tom's lies in plain sight was more than Tom could bear.

"It looked like you and Meredith were having a pretty riveting conversation," Tom finally said. Peter put his hand on Tom's shoulder.

"We were."

"About what?"

"Well, about you, Tom."

"I knew it."

Peter sighed. "You've confused us both. You've...hurt us both," he said, punctuating the word hurt. "Meredith has believed for some time now that she's been having a love affair with Dickie, thinking you're Dickie. Why did you lie to her? Why did you tell her you were him?"

"I don't know, Peter. Meredith and I met at the airport on our way here. I wasn't even thinking when I made that lie. And I couldn't get away from it at that point."

Peter handled the next question with as much grace as a person could. "Are you...really Tom Ripley?"

Tom scoffed. "Yes, I'm really Tom Ripley, Peter. What a stupid question. Why would you ask that?"

"I don't know. It just seems a little odd to me that you would tell one person you're Tom and another person you're Dickie. Who you really are is kind of...lost in the shuffle."

Tom inhaled sharply again. Peter retreated.

"I apologize, Tom. I'm out of line here. I just know you're keeping things from me and I wish you wouldn't."

"Peter...I want to tell you everything. I do. It's just not the right time yet."

"Is it ever going to be the right time?"

"I don't know."

The kettle screeched and Peter poured the tea into cups. He offered Tom a glass and he sipped in, allowing the steam to coat a throat that felt raw, as if he had been screaming. Peter gave Tom the look of sweet sadness that Tom once found attractive but suddenly found maddening. He placed the tea cup back on the table and glared back at Peter.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" said Peter, thoroughly confused.

"Like a wounded puppy. I'm not ready and no amount of guilt tripping is going to make me ready."

"I'm sorry," whispered Peter, though the wounded puppy expression didn't disappear. He simply walked out of the room and let Tom collect his thoughts. Tom balled his hands into fists, took a few deep breaths, turned back towards the piano, unclenched his fists, and played a requiem of his own creation. Peter stopped in the threshold, contemplating whether or not to reassure Tom, ultimately deciding against it.