Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It was a beautiful night, just perfect. His feet didn't even slip when he walked further out onto the dock. It was a cool breeze out, not at all chilly. It was a nice night. He feared it wouldn't be— with the rain and all yesterday- but the sky cleared up nicely, just like the paper said it would. The Journal was his favorite after all. They did have nice things to say about him, always inquiring on what nice things he had. He liked having those things, those nice, modern things.

On these nights he'd come out for hours, just to watch—just to look. The wide open night, endless with its field of burning stars—but not this night. Tonight the dark was cleared out, not a star in sight. The sky was voided of light. Even the moon seemed to be playing this childish game of hide and seek.

But tonight, like every night he searched for something else— something of more promise and splendor than that can ever be given by a simple flaming star or cool moon. This was the thing he in fact lived for, what helped his life to go on, to inspire him to accomplish more great things, more prominent and nice things. This gave him everything, and for that he was grateful. He was, maybe even, in love with it. It had a power on a person, a great power to turn heads when looked at. It ached a peak at its wonder from the occasional mailman and passerby.

In a way, it was Daisy. He dreamt of her, late at night, whenever he closed his eyes, really. She was always on his mind, which he loved. Most nights he couldn't even sleep just thinking of the life they'll one day have together, and what they'd do together. That last thought varied in its meaning, but got down to the most beautiful of things they could accomplish, what they could make- what they could have in the form of the tiny patter of feet and a wail to be fed.

Tonight he felt close, so unbelievably close to her at that moment. She left this evening and he held onto her hand only for her to pull away and promise she'd be back. Her hand left his but it was his mind that remained without as much luck.

This led to nights of aimless wandering and giddy thoughts that led to smiling, deep breaths and then he would look up to find it. It greeted him in slow, timed, blinks.

A simple lifting of the arm and he could reach up to try and grasp it. He'd stay like that for a while, but then something happened and the timing stopped. It didn't blink anymore and he waited. It still didn't blink and he still waited, and then—

He stood there in something close to a shock, his outstretched hand was frozen in front of him. That wasn't at all right. Surely he must have been seeing things, but there was the problem. He wasn't seeing anything at all. He saw a heavy darkness spread out before him and all of nothing.

Gatsby closed his hand and slowly set it down to fall at his side. He looked down to his feet, shifting his weight on the wooden boards. He looked up again, hopefully. Maybe the poor thing was just stuck. It'll start back up again, he just had to be patient, of course.

So he waited, rocking back and forth on his heels, hands in his pockets. After meaningless glances at his clock in which after each glance he wasn't even really looking at the hash marks, a few seconds of failing to whistle a tune, tugging on the collar of his suit that was suddenly too tight and patting out wrinkles just in case he was to be seen by someone for some reason. However, minutes passed before he looked up again.

His silence echoed through the quiet of the night, he turned away from the water just thinking—but found that he couldn't. He was a bit surprised only seconds later when a thought came to mind.

The old ground keep's cottage stood peacefully in the shadows of his palace and a name registered slowly into his thoughts until it became a force that beat out into the open. "Nick."