Chapter Text
I wake to an aching back and a burn in my chest unlike any I have ever felt before. My legs, slung over Gatsby’s leather armchair, throb, even though I was so comfortable when I slept last night. I spend a minute in excruciating pain, trying to pinpoint it’s source in my body, when I fold over myself with a series of coughs that make my chest feel as if it has been stabbed.
When the fit subsides I am left with tears in my eyes and when I breathe, I can hear mucous rattling in my chest, spread thick over my lungs. I glance at Gatsby; he sleeps fitfully in his grand bed, hair mussed with sleep and skin shiny from the sheen of fever sweat. With his mouth parted, and the fever flush spread across his cheeks, he is the picture of illness; a virus that he will recover from, no doubt, but one that will leave him bed bound for days. He does not need to watch me suffer along with him, and I slip out from the chair, my legs shaking with the effort to hold up my body. I take a second, to allow my limbs to reawaken, to regain my strength before I take a step. Each one makes me shake and beads of sweat pop up on my forehead, but each time I look at Gatsby’s sleeping form, I know that it is worth it. We will recover better in our respective houses, and as much as it pains me to leave, I know I must.
My hand is on the doorknob when I hear a voice behind me. “Nick, where are you going? You wouldn’t leave a sick man to suffer, would you?”
“I think I should be going, Gatsby,” I say, turning around. “You’d better recover on your own.” I keep my head bent down to the floor; I look dreadful and I know I do, but if Gatsby notices, he would never let me leave. But his brows crease in the middle and he sits up, frowning at me.
“Come over here.”
“Why?”
“You look absolutely awful, old sport.”
“It’s nothing, Gatsby, really,” I say. “A bit of morning congestion, nothing more.”
“Come over here, Nick,” Gatsby repeats sternly. He sits up straighter, and even in the midst of his illness, he looks intimidating. Intimidating and shockingly beautiful. I feel myself unavoidably drawn to him. His eyes are lightly glazed with fever but when he looks at me, softly, my heart jumps into my throat.
When he cups my cheek his skin is soft, and he rubs his skin against the scruff of my chin. His touch is so gentle, and I feel myself melting, unable to resist his gaze. “You’re ill,” he observes. “With the same virus I have, I’d assume. I must apologize- I was truly hoping you wouldn’t catch this, but I suppose I wasn’t careful enough.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Gatsby,” I say. I shiver. “I’ve only been here for a night, anyway. That isn’t enough time for me to-” I pause, coughing into the crook of my arm. Gatsby’s face softens further. “Isn’t enough time for me to fall ill.”
“It could have been at lunch the other day,” Gatsby reminds me. “Or our boating trip, our golf match, our-”
“Alright, Gatsby, I get it,” I say. I hadn’t realized how much time we spend together until he had rattled off the list, of all the places we had gone and all of the things we had done. A shiver runs up my spine, and I can’t be sure whether or not the chills come from my fever or from thinking about the sheer amount of time Gatsby and I spend together.
“Well, get in, then,” Gatsby says, moving over and holding out his silken bedsheets for me to slip underneath. They look soft, warm, and I have to stop myself from laying down and curling up by Gatsby’s side.
“I should really be going,” I say, my breath shaky.
“Nonsense, old sport. I’ve got access to the best doctors in the west egg, and I’ve got help that can take care of us. I won’t have you going back to that little house of yours, not as ill as you are.” My breath catches in my throat and an animalistic urge rises in my chest, one that I have tried to suppress for years. It is interrupted by the raspy coughs that shake me to my core, and while they pain me, I must admit that the pain is better than allowing my urges to roam free.
“If you’d like, I can take up one of the guest rooms, but I can’t intrude upon you like this,” I say. It pains me to talk and my fingers dance across my throat, and I hum quietly, trying to clear the mucous from my throat. I sway gently on my feet. The world around me is hazy, and the edges of Gatsby’s face are softened. I need to sit.
“I won’t hear a word of that, Nick. I got you sick, and it is my responsibility to assure that you heal properly and quickly. Besides, I’m sure that all of my guests rooms are filled with drunkards or lovers. But change before you lie down; your party clothes can’t be comfortable.”
I am aware of Gatsby’s eyes on my back as I change, out of my party clothes and into a soft silken set of pajamas from Gatsby’s closet. They feel too fine for my body and if I close my eyes I can pretend that I am Gatsby himself, swathed in the finest riches in the world.
“Those look nice on you,” Gatsby comments as I slide into bed. Goosebumps pop up on my skin when the sheets hit my bare feet and I shiver. Gatsby rolls closer, and I can feel the smooth skin of his angle against my own. His blue eyes shine, and even flushed with fever, I cannot take my eyes off of him. I am almost grateful for this dreadful illness; while my body has never ached more and my head has never pounded more, it gives me the chance to stay with Gatsby, in his bed, in his clothes, with the excuse to look at him for as long as I wish. “You should keep them.”
“I can’t,” I say. “They’re clearly expensive.”
“Money is just that- money,” Gatsby says. “But I could never wear those half as well as you could. Keep them, and think of me when you wear them.” It’s moments like these when I wonder if there is a chance Gatsby could reciprocate my feelings, when makes those casual comments about my appearance. And then I remind myself that Gatsby is just a flirt, and my feelings will never be reciprocated as someone as grand as he.
I manage out a quiet “thank you,” before there is a tickle in my nose. My mouth parts, I feel my nostrils flare, and my skin crawls as Gatsby watches me in this vulnerable state, held hostage on the brink of this sneeze. I feel his fingers flutter to my back, and they press in harder when my body allows for the release. I sneeze thrice before sniffling wetly, my nose running like a faucet and the bottom of it red and raw. Gatsby passes me an expensive looking handkerchief; even ill, he lives more luxuriously than I could ever imagine.
“Blow,” Gatsby says quietly. “And then we sleep. I’ll ring someone up to bring up a spot of breakfast, but you look exhausted.” I comply, and I blow. My nose soaks the handkerchief, but Gatsby doesn’t seem to care. His fingers still rest on my back, and I fight the urge to ask him to keep them there.
“Should we eat first?” I ask him.
“I’ll have them bring up something cold; it will be there when we wake,” Gatsby says. “But I’m still exhausted, and I’m sure you must be, too.” He lowers his head to the pillow. His nose is ringed red from abrasion, and his cheeks puff out when he coughs. I may be the only person who will ever see him like this; disheveled and ill, with every pore in his body oozing illness. I almost wonder why he let me stay, allowed me to view him in this state, but then I realize; he must trust me, more than most. My chest swells, even as I listen to Gatsby cough up a lung. “Sleep, Nick,” he says quietly. I am lucky enough to have his fingers grace my cheek, even if only to check my temperature. “You’re burning.”
“So are you,” I point out.
“Yes, and that is why I will be sleeping,” Gatsby says. When he takes his fingers away from my cheek, I fight the urge to ask him to keep them. “And you will be, too. As my guest, I refuse to see an unwell person go uncared for. Later, once we’re both properly rested, I’ll send for some medicine, the finest in the country. I’ll have you fixed up by the night’s end.”
“Thank you, Gatsby,” I say quietly. Never have I had someone care so deeply about me. “I mean it.”
“Of course, old sport. You’re my friend,” he says. His voice, gravelly and rough with the ghosts of coughs, is soft, and I shiver at its sound. Although that could just be chills from the fever that has taken my body hostage.
Gatsby curls up, his burning forehead on my shoulder. He breathes out of his mouth and I listen to the mucous rattle in his chest, the little coughs that make his body shake and tremble. I do my best to settle like he does, sink into this shell of illness as effortlessly as Gatsby had, but I find it more difficult. He doesn’t seem to mind that his nose drips onto his upper lip, or that he needs to hide his body underneath a pile of blankets to stay warm. He knows that he is gorgeous no matter the state of his illness but for me, every drip from my nose and every throat-burning cough reminds me of how imperfect I am in his presence, and as Gatsby drifts off underneath a sheen of illness, I ask myself how I could ever compare.
It takes me longer to fall asleep than I would have liked. Every time I am close, I am woken from my half-state of slumber by a cough that makes me shake for minutes after, or a sneeze that scrapes the walls of my throat and makes me cry out in pain. At times Gatsby will murmur in his sleep and I worry that I woke him, but he simply wraps an arm around my waist, and I feel the pain from my fever ease, if only slightly.
Soon, the pain eases more. It could be the feeling of Gatsby’s arm around me, or simply my body fighting off these germs but either way, I am lulled by the sound of Gatsby’s breathing mingling with my own until I drift, ill and pained, into slumber that will take my hurt away, if only for a few hours.