Work Text:
I followed behind, and an overwhelming sense of emptiness seemed to settle over the scene before us. The excess of laughter and gaiety that abounded mere hours before seemed at once a hollow and distant memory. Empty glasses littered the garden tables, and the only movement was of a faint wind that swept mourningly through the trees. I watched the long shadows of their branches pass over Gatsby’s face, darkening as we walked the path to the house.
The servants were long gone, and I grew aware of how truly alone we were, the silence settling like death into the air.
Gatsby paused at the end of the walkway. I felt an urge to reach out to him, yet I couldn’t bring myself to do so. There was an air of striking solemnity to him now, and he was hushed in a way I’d never seen him before. Even now there was a quiet dignity to his sadness, and I watched the graceful curve of his shoulder, the luster of his pink suit in the ashen light. His eyes drew slowly to the dock on the horizon, above which sat a small sliver of new moon.
As we stared out to the water I ventured to suggest that he retire for the night—he gave no reply. He seemed restless, and I could sense his deepening despair, a silent anguish as he grappled with the reality of his position. I believe it was finally starting to dawn on him that his dream no longer rested in that light; that perhaps it had died long ago.
“She used to be different,” he repeated quietly, and turned past tables of champagne bottles and glass flutes into the courtyard.
We made our way up the path. Gatsby’s eyes seemed to linger upon every stretch of ground that Daisy had stood upon, every chair and table once graced by her presence. Here there were more bottle caps and rinds strewn about the bushes, and he seemed to regard each of them with silent misery, as though they were further proof of his now lavishly expended dream.
It was already half past one, yet I didn’t wish to leave him in such a state. I believe he sensed my reluctance to go, for he eventually pulled himself from his brooding and suggested we go inside. We made our way towards the steps of the house, and as we did I looked up at its ghastly, towering figure, its enormous windows swallowed wholly in darkness.
We turned and paused for a moment at the top stair, looking out beyond the garden and the black shores of the beach. Daisy’s name hung unspoken between us, her presence looming like a specter above the desolate lawn.
The air had grown cool, and he seemed to take in the breeze from the water, exhaling slowly. We lingered for another moment before stepping inside.
We walked through the entryway and past the main hall, our footsteps stark across the marble floors. The silence here was near oppressive, and the high ceilings of the rooms seemed to echo the enormous emptiness of the space. Through each doorway we passed I could discern only the shadows of portraits and mantelpieces on the walls, their figures looming in black, indistinct forms. Empty glasses and bottles littered the dim pool tables and countertops, and occasionally the shape of a forgotten coat or bag could be discerned in the dark. The overhead lights had long been extinguished, and only a scattering of dim table lamps remained lit to guide us.
Eventually we arrived at the library. It seemed the only room that had remained untouched, as the chairs had been preserved from the previous night’s cleaning. High, intricate shelves surrounded us on three sides, filled with volumes that stretched up to a white stone fireplace. From the eastern wall towered an enormous window, framed in ornately carved oak and topped with a Gothic archway. Outside the shore stretched dark and motionless, and a whisper of clouds now obscured the light of Daisy’s dock from view. A long stretch of moonlight dusted the great table, and Gatsby passed beneath it in search of a corner lamp. He turned it on, and the walls brightened suddenly in amber light.
“Take a seat,” said Gatsby.
There was a large, velvet couch beneath the window, and I obliged by settling onto it. I watched as he came to a liquor cabinet on the far wall, surveying it a moment before removing a bottle of wine. He poured it into two glasses and came to sit beside me.
“I don’t usually drink, old sport, but tonight it seems appropriate.”
I nodded and accepted the glass. He swirled the small amount he poured for himself, looking forlornly to the shore.
“There’s something so—different about her now,” he said. “Everything is different. And I don’t know what to make of it.”
He was still troubled, yet something had begun to shift within him—a sense of resignation, perhaps, at the fact that he had spent years chasing starlight in vain. Doubtless the reality of the situation was difficult to accept at once; yet I believe this realization had been dawning on him for some time, and tonight’s party was merely the final piece in shattering his illusion.
“See, I just thought—I wanted...”
“It’s all right,” I said quietly; yet the thought of Daisy having already grown tired of him left a bitter taste in my mouth.
He began to recount their history together—the glistening summer days that they had spent in love, her head upon his lap. I listened as I always did, at times giving an affirmative hum; yet the fact was that it had made me stricken by my own sense of longing, and some part of me yearned to be wanted in such a way as he’d described.
I took a long sip of my drink, and he did the same, holding my gaze.
“I appreciate you staying with me, old sport,” he said softly. I blinked, taken aback by the sincerity of his words.
“Why, of course.” It was no inconvenience to me; I was always grateful to witness this more private side of him. It had become habit for me to stay after his parties, and the conversations we shared among the balcony stars were more rewarding than anything I’d known outside of them. There was something undeniably special to being the last of Gatsby’s guests—a mutual intimacy enjoyed only in moments such as these. I felt a certain pride in being entrusted with his most private thoughts, small glimpses of himself beyond his typical formality. Witnessing such genuine vulnerability only made me admire him all the more.
He sipped his drink again, regarding me earnestly.
“Would you care to stay the night?” he asked softly.
I swallowed. “I don’t want to impose upon you—I’ll just stay a short while longer.”
He nodded, and an easy silence passed between us. When I finished my glass he offered me a second, and soon I was beginning to feel a warm, pleasant buzz in the air. The scene around us seemed to take on new color, tender and alive with possibility.
Gatsby’s face was soft and golden in the lamplight. I watched the curve of his mouth, parting as he raised his glass to his lips. Again a quiet ache seemed caught in my throat—whispers of some greater longing within me, stirred only in the blur between sleep and waking.
He leaned closer to me, his eyes taking on a new gleam.
“We should go for a dip in the pool, old sport.”
I couldn’t help but smile at this. “It’s rather late for that, don’t you think?”
“Well, why don’t you come with me on my plane tomorrow? Or perhaps we’ll take a drive into town?”
“I have work until 5.”
It dawned on me to check the time; it was growing rather late. I was about to voice this concern when Gatsby suddenly spoke.
“You know, old sport, I really do wish you’d accept my invitation. To work with me, that is.”
I blinked at the unexpected remark.
“If I may ask, why extend such an offer in the first place?”
“Because I have no doubt in your character,” said Gatsby plainly. He took a long sip of his wine, regarding me for a moment. “Though, truthfully, my boy, I’ve always enjoyed your company. I’d want you there regardless.”
I was touched by this; his words held a sincerity I was scarcely accustomed to. In that moment I felt as though he was the only person I’d known to have ever truly seen me, known me for who I was and all I ever had been. And I felt as though I understood him just the same.
“I enjoy your company as well,” I found myself saying.
“Is that so?” he asked.
“Of course.”
He smiled, his brown eyes considering mine. I have always appreciated being the object of that gaze, for its unwavering sincerity was unlike any I had ever known. It had a quality of radiant, irresistible hope, a warmth that promised bright and beautiful things to all it fixed upon. In its shining depths was an appreciation for the wondrous, imperceptible allure of life itself, and it brought this tender sentimentality to everything it touched. In that instant I was stricken by its enchanting magic, and to think that it belonged to another almost made me envious.
I finished my wine, setting the glass upon the table.
“When do you start in the office?” Gatsby asked.
“Nine o’clock.”
He nodded, and a strange expression crossed his features.
“Daisy might call then.”
I grew annoyed at this. “I don’t want to talk about Daisy anymore,” I said.
He blinked, setting down his wine. “Right. I apologize.”
Again a silence fell between us, and our gazes turned mutually to the window. Gatsby sighed.
“Old sport… I’ve been thinking about all of this. And in truth it feels—like my whole life I’ve chased these sorts of things in vain.”
And as he stared at the green light below I knew exactly what he spoke of—wild, fantastic dreams that haunted the hearts of men, calling like a deathless song. In my younger years I, too, seemed to always be chasing some fresh vision of glory—illusions bright and fleeting, promising an end to some insatiable thirst.
“Daisy isn’t the answer to this… feeling. This wanting of—impossible things.”
For a moment his eyes caught mine. And suddenly my heart thrummed, for there was a small, hopeful part of me that believed there was something more within that gaze; that perhaps he spoke of something much simpler.
“In truth... I’ve always searched for something to ground myself to,” said Gatsby. “And really, my boy, I feel as though you’ve given that to me.”
“In that case, I’ll be here,” I found myself saying. “As long as you’ll have me.”
He turned to face me; he was looking at me differently, now. His expression held a grave, cautious sort of hope, and his eyes conveyed an emotion that I couldn't quite name.
My heart beat faster. And I was supposed to be in love with a tennis player, one that I had kissed among the stars on a cool summer night; yet all I could think about was how, as we had dipped beneath that pale stretch of lamplight, some part of me had wished I were holding someone else.
And I could no longer deny that same part of myself kept repeating a name, that every time I heard it the world seemed briefly golden and alive. The truth was that I had given up on my ambitions when Gatsby entered my life; it was as if all my dreams had condensed, were made smaller and sharper until they rested solely in the man before me.
Gatsby laughed. “You’re too good to me, old sport,” he whispered; and again there was that irresistible smile, like Heaven itself.
Finally I understood what was meant of falling in love, something I’d been stranger to all my life. Love was something that existed only in the realm of novels and film, something known to me only as motions on a script; yet it was at this moment that I could finally acknowledge I truly loved Gatsby. At last could I bring name to such a thing—this love for the man before me. A feeling so simple, and desperate, and human. And I felt it so dearly that I ached.
Gatsby seemed to regard me as though I were the only thing in existence, and for a moment I, too, felt as though my very being were suspended in the depths of that gaze, and I may as well not have existed beyond it.
He was leaning closer to me now, and I was suddenly aware of the short distance between us. I wanted to move, but I no longer felt in control of my body; I was utterly motionless as he drew near.
He paused; I wished he would touch me.
“Can I...” he began, before trailing off. I wanted desperately to reply, but I was afraid to speak, to even dare breathe.
He leaned closer, a reluctance crossing his features. Then he kissed me, quick and soft, before pulling away. To say I was shocked would be an understatement; every part of me was alight with warmth. I stared wordlessly, wishing only that he might repeat the action.
My lips parted to speak, and as our eyes met again he seemed to understand, and almost impulsively pulled me into another kiss.
At once I was taken by the suddenness of his lips against mine, their warmth pouring through me. We kissed deeply, held in what felt like an eternity of pleasure I could not begin to describe. I was utterly spellbound by the soft honey of that mouth, so sweet and golden it was; it seemed to draw an ever deeper ache from within my being, and the fluttering beat of my heart crescendoed with that awakening feeling.
With gentle hesitancy he touched my cheek, drawing away.
Our eyes met once more; we both were utterly still, suspended by each other and too breathless to speak.
After a long moment, Gatsby cleared his throat.
“Are you—alright? Old sport?”
I nodded, and he started to say something before falling silent once more. We sat, and slowly he drew towards me, shifting closer until his thigh just grazed mine. I could feel the heat of him at my side, the thrumming of my own pulse. He swallowed.
“May I… touch you? Would it be—“
“Yes,” I breathed out.
He watched me with a sort of tender, uncertain hope.
“You’d—like that?” he asked.
And truthfully every part of me longed for it.
“Yes,” I said, quieter still; and my breath stopped as he reached for me.
Silently his hands slipped beneath my jacket, trailing along my sides. They caressed me with unbearable tenderness, their warmth a low, sweet fever on my skin. I closed my eyes, savoring the gentle press of his touch, the way he drew across my body.
I slid my jacket off, and Gatsby did the same; he looked as though he wanted me to touch him, so I did. My hand drew to his chest, and he quickly took me into another kiss, pulling me nearly onto his lap. His mouth was the sweetest thing I had ever tasted. Every part of me longed to be closer, begged for his touch.
His hands took to my waist, trailing slowly downward until they rested upon my thighs. I became aware of the stiffness of my trousers, the heat of his palm mere inches from where I strained.
He made a low noise in his throat, pulling me closer. When I shifted I could feel his own want, pressing just as hard against me; that Gatsby was in such a state was unbearably arousing, a heat rising on my skin at the very thought.
He drew me to his face, and again I was mesmerized by the softness of that golden mouth. When we separated his cheeks seemed flush with new color, and his eyes were soft and dark with want; they fixed on me above him in a look of silent admiration.
“Would you—mind if I unbuttoned my shirt?” I finally asked.
Gatsby blinked.
“Why—not at all.”
I opened my collar, for I was burning at the neck. Gatsby watched me before following suit; he took to loosening his tie, unfastening his shirt.
I caught sight of his collarbone beneath, colored by the flush of his chest. The sight of him so fully undone was making me feverish; all that I had ever wanted was now somehow before me, yielding to my touch.
Feeling drunk with warmth, I gave into the urge to reach for Gatsby’s waistband, placing my hand upon where his hardness strained.
“…May I?” I asked, looking up. Gatsby nodded, and watched as I set to unfastening the buttons.
“I’ve—not much experience with this, my boy,” said Gatsby suddenly. “I mean, with men.”
I was about to reply, but the words died in my throat as I freed him from his trousers. At once the thick, flushed length of his want stood before me. The head was colored a deep pink, and a bead of wetness ran heavy from the tip, shining as it trailed his frenulum.
My mouth inexplicably watered; I wanted very dearly to feel it. My hand ventured forward before drawing away again, for I was suddenly somewhat nervous regarding my capacity to please him.
Gatsby looked up at me, his eyes soft with a sort of gentle desperation.
“Please,” he managed.
My mind was at once utterly blank; how I was able to maintain some semblance of composure was beyond me. I brought myself to reach for him once more; as I took him he let out a gentle sigh, his want thick and heavy at my palm.
“Can—” I began, before trailing off. Gatsby nodded. Slowly, I began to move my hand along him, caressing him in gentle strokes.
His breath caught slightly as my thumb brushed the tip, trailing its wetness along the shaft.
Gatsby made a noise in his throat, and I repeated the action, teasing my finger against the slit. I was burning with warmth, my arousal growing at each shiver and catch of his breath.
He spread his legs, and I stroked him slightly faster, pressing myself into him.
“That’s—that’s very good, my boy,” he managed.
A gasp escaped him as I worked him further, teasing the dark head. He pulled me closer, and I exhaled, drawing my hips against him—wanting more of his skin upon me, wanting to feel everything at once. He panted, reaching for my pants with trembling fingers.
“Here,” I breathed, unbuttoning myself. Gatsby stared as I freed my own arousal, now flush and aching to be touched.
He watched me searchingly; then I reached for him, wordlessly took his flesh to my own. My hand wrapped around us both, and without thinking I began to shift against him.
A soft, sweet, pleasure arose with the motion. I thrust into him, and he urged me further with a raise of his hips, pushing against me in turn. There was nothing I thought of except the warm press and slide of his skin to mine; we moved in soft and clumsy rhythm, both of us grasping at each other in unspoken need. In the quiet of the room I could hear only the hard beating of my heart, the mingled catch of our breaths and our panting into the air.
I felt as though I were seeing him anew, cleaved open before me. He was no longer a man defined by enormous mansions or extravagant parties but the unyielding tenderness with which he touched me, the white moonlight as it dusted his cheek.
He grabbed my shoulder, gasping softly. We must have looked so foolish, then—shifting into each other as messily as teenagers, grasping at each other in quiet need. I began to stroke us both, and I could feel the thrumming of his pulse beneath me, the warmth of his skin against my own. My pleasure irresistibly grew, and I could sense Gatsby’s rearing in turn; I stroked more fervently, dizzied by the heat of his mouth, his hurried breaths as they beat at my neck.
He shuddered, and I felt a small thrill as he groaned into my skin, his grip tightening on my shoulder.
“Nick,” he gasped, quick and desperate as he spilled across my hand.
I was then beside myself; my pleasure peaked at once, and I clung to him in turn, tense and trembling through my release.
I continued stroking until we were spent. A long moment passed before I came to myself, still lightheaded with lingering warmth. My cheeks burned, and my heart still raced as Gatsby’s eyes met mine. We were both breathless, and in the washed light of the window his eyes seemed to glimmer in silent reverence.
“Nick,” he breathed, softer this time. I had never had my name said in such a way; I never wanted to hear it in any other. I felt overwhelmed then by an emotion I couldn’t quite name; I could only kiss him, fully and utterly taken, alight from the inside out.
When we pulled away he seemed almost in disbelief.
“I’d never thought we’d… it’s unreal,” he said, laughing to himself.
He exhaled, and, as if only then realizing the mess between us, dazedly reached into his pocket to retrieve a handkerchief. He cleaned the remains from us, and when it was done we gradually fixed our clothing, retucking our shirts; still we were entirely absorbed by one another, and his hand trailed my cheek as we dressed.
“I have work,” I remarked softly. Gatsby did not reply; he only broke into a smile, a glowing, irresistible thing, and drew me into his face.
“Forget work,” he murmured softly, and kissed me again. I closed my eyes to the slow, languid warmth of his mouth, sweet and honeyed on my throat. It held me there until the first rays of dawn had begun to slip above the water.
He drew me closer, his heart beating into mine, and I knew then that it would always be us against the world, for as long as it would let us.
And perhaps the both of us had women to return to, but there was nothing I cared for except this radiant, extraordinary man that I held in my arms, who dealt not in cynicism but in the gorgeous sentimentality of his living, breathing dreams. And as he held me, I felt a new conviction rising in my throat—that I loved this man, and that by some incredible miracle he loved me in the same.
Outside the lights glimmered across the sound; the clouds had parted and cleared into the soft black morning, and the sky seemed to open with the pink rays of the horizon. I looked out to the abounding sea and the ruffling water, and I could feel my life opening, an excitement rising in the blooming dawn and the thrumming of my pulse.
His lips brushed mine, and as I closed my eyes the world stilled to the very warmth of his touch.