Chapter Text
I’ve been at this wretched part for four hours, and I still haven’t caught a glimpse of Gatsby. At first, I think he may be avoiding the crowd on purpose; on the occasion, he’ll slip into a back room with some nameless girl or lounge at his bar for hours on end without moving an inch. But when I hear the rumors circulating-that he’s on a secret mission for the government, or he’s visiting his secret french lover or sipping wine with the King of Spain- that’s when I know that Gatsby is hiding from his own party.
By nothing short of a miracle, I manage to slip away from the endless chatter that surrounds me. It has now been four and a half hours since I’ve arrived, and still no sign of the host himself. Nothing about Gatsby has ever worried before, but to not show his face this far into a party is uncharacteristic. My stomach flips, and it isn’t from the rich food or the copious wine.
I place my hand on the smooth banister, the metal cool underneath my fingertips. I know the one place that Gatsby goes to sulk, from an afternoon spent complaining to me about his loneliness and, for such a myth of a man, it’s shockingly basic. As I wind up the stairs I take one last sweeping glance at the party I’m about to leave behind; it shimmers with the glitz and glam of one of Gatsby’s characteristic parties, and I hear the tinkle of wine glasses below me. The dresses are elegant, the guests radiant, and there is only one element missing to make it a classic party; the host himself.
I hear sniffling from behind Gatsby’s bedroom door and I rap on the wood once, twice, thrice, until I hear a groan, a couple of staggering footsteps, and the door swings open. “Ah, hello, old sport,” Gatsby says. “I see you’ve found me.” He leans heavily against the doorframe and the man who holds more elegance and poise than any other man I’ve seen looks disheveled. His silk nightshirt is rumpled as if he’s been sleeping in it for a week, and he dabs at his red and running nose with a folded-up handkerchief. Dark rings sit underneath his eyes, and a pale flush spreads across his cheeks.
“Gatsby, you look ill,” I say. I don’t mean to be blunt, even though it must come off as such because I mean what I’ve said. The man looks like he might topple over at any second which would be bad because I’m not sure if I could catch him. “Are you alright?”
Gatsby opens his mouth to respond, but he seems overtaken by some invisible force, his eyes fluttering shut and his nose crinkling. He raises the handkerchief to his nose, his breath hitching. The sneeze sounds grating, wrecking his already destroyed throat. He keeps his nose buried in his handkerchief, sniffing wetly as he dabs at his streaming nose. “Excuse me,” he says, his voice taking on a deep, husky quality. “I’ve caught a bit of a cold, but I’ll be-" His voice hitches, and I brace for another one of his harsh sneezes, but the tickle seems to leave as quickly as it had come. "I’ll be fine.”
“Can I at least come in?” I ask. Gatsby shouldn’t be alone; he’s wobbling even though he’s leaning on the door frame. “The party is a bit drab without you there.” This makes a tiny smile perk up on Gatsby’s face, and he moves over, holding the door open wide.
“I suppose there’s no use letting you sit alone in the hallway, is there?” Gatsby says quietly.
“I suppose not,” I say. I step into a room that’s almost as elegant as Gatsby is. A tapestry hangs down from the wall, and sink sheets lay across the bed. A desk sits in the corner, dark oak and expertly carved. But even amid the finery of Gatsby’s bedroom, the man himself is still the most opulent thing in the room, even down with a bad cold.
“I’m sorry you have to see me like this,” Gatsby says, sitting down on his bed and blowing his nose into the handkerchief. “I prefer to be a more refined host, but I suppose my body had other plans for the night.” He smiles meekly at me, his nose red and raw. It runs a bit onto his upper lip and he dabs the snot away.
“You look fine, Gatsby,” I say. “Never a man more elegant.” His hair isn’t styled. I’ve never seen him without his hair styled.
“You’re very kind, Nick, but you mustn’t lie on my behalf,” Gatsby says with a deep sniff. As I draw closer to him he ducks down, folding the handkerchief over his mouth, letting it catch his gravelly coughs. The mucous rattles in his chest, his back trembles, and when he comes out of the handkerchief, beads of sweat dot his brow. I take a seat next to him on the bed, setting my hand on his back. I can feel his muscles tense underneath his shirt as he coughs, and when the fit is finally over, he looks a bit dizzy.
“Gatsby, you poor thing,” I say. “You really are ill, aren’t you?”
“Just a bit, old sport,” Gatsby says. His voice sounds tired.
I reach my hand up to his forehead, pressing my palm flat to his skin. I’m met with a dry heat that makes Gatsby himself feel like a furnace. “You’re a bit warm.”
“That’s to be expected, isn’t it?”
“You’re remarkably upbeat about this whole thing,” I tell him chidingly. I hate feeling like his mother but in times such as these, when he burns with fever and drips with illness, it’s more necessary than I’d like. “You should be asleep. And you shouldn’t have all of these people over.”
“They’re expecting it, old sport, I can’t disappoint,” he says. He sounds as if he’s been gargling gravel all night. It hurts to listen to him speak, and I can’t imagine how it feels for the poor man. “It’s fine, really. I don’t think anyone noticed I was gone.” He shivers, and I draw one of his blankets over his shoulders. The tag says it’s imported from Turkey, and it feels more expensive than my car.
“I noticed you were gone.”
“Yes, well, you’re not quite like the others down there, are you?” Gatsby says. “You know, I’ve often thought-” He doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence when he brings his handkerchief up to his nose, his nostrils twitching as he poises for a sneeze. For a snapshot of time, I can see his smooth skin, sharp jawline, in perfect detail. And then he pitches forward with a volley of sneezes, and his face is buried in his handkerchief. His body trembles with the weight of his sneezes, the tip of his nose still plunged deep into his handkerchief. By the time Gatsby is finished he’s dripping, head slumped as he mops up his nose. His shoulders slump and tremble with illness, and I can’t help but revel in the way that such a poised, near god-like man, can be so completely unraveled by something so simple as a cold.
It is a truly fascinating phenomenon, Gatsby’s unraveling, but there’s one issue; he never finished his sentence. When he’s sufficiently cleaned he pulls his legs onto his bed, slipping underneath his silken sheets. “I’m sorry for being such a poor host, but I must get a bit of rest,” Gatsby says. He sniffs, dabbling at his nose with his handkerchief. The spot of fabric must be so wrecked at this point from dealing with the abuse of Gatsby’s leaky nose but for such a rich man, Gatsby doesn’t seem to have another one. “I shall call you in the morning if I am feeling better, but-” He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. We both know what he means. Even as he talks he grows paler as if life is being sucked out of him by some invisible force. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was bedbound and ill for the next week, trapped by the weight of his fever.
“I suppose I should get going, then?” I say.
“Not if you don’t want to, old sport,” Gatsby says, He sits up, coughing roughly into his handkerchief. “From the sounds of it, it doesn’t sound like you were having much fun with the rest of them. And I’ve got a nice chair and a nightcap. You can stay as long as you’d like.” With his blanket tucked up to his chin and his face flushed with fever, he looks younger. It’s refreshing to see him in such a natural state. I’ve enjoyed my friendship with him greatly, but this is the first I’ve ever seen him without the guise of wealth. He looks like a normal man.
“I’ll have to take you up on that,” I say. I curl my legs up to my chest as I take a seat in Gatsby’s chair; I’m not ready to sleep yet and compared to my natural clock, it’s early. It’s early for Gatsby, too, but this brutal illness seems to be taking a great toll on his body. He drifts off rather quickly, and soon quiet congested snores fill the room. I stay awake, listening to the sounds of the party downstairs. I couldn’t care less about the glittery people downstairs, the rich food or the fine drinks. All I care about is whether or not Gatsby will take solace in the fact that I’ll still be here when he wakes up.