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“I’m afraid we’re going to have to share a bed, old sport.”
The suddenness with which Gatsby said this took me by surprise. His tone was resigned, as if such terms had already been regretfully agreed upon between us.
“Pardon?”
“I’m afraid you and I will have to sleep together.” His eyes fell to the bed before us, its sheets pressed along clean, frosted folds into the king-sized mattress. Beside it were bottles of lavender lotion, meticulously arranged upon the dressing table as if a guest had been expected. “Why, there’s no other choice.”
“I can just go home.”
Gatsby let out a weak laugh. He refused to meet my eyes, seemingly absorbed in the detail of the mahogany bed rest.
“You shouldn’t have to go through the trouble, old sport.”
I turned to the door. “I assure you, no trouble at all.”
Before I could exit, Gatsby ran wildly in front of me and cut off my path.
“Come now, it would be improper of me to send you out on such a night,” he said. “I can’t possibly ask you to go out into the rain.”
I looked outside. The sky wasn’t even faintly cloudy.
“There’s no rain,” I said.
Gatsby’s eyes darted to the window. “Still, it would be terrible if you were to be caught in a storm. Why, I saw in the paper that rain was expected sometime later today.”
He reached over to his desk and showed me a news article claiming it was to rain. Upon closer inspection, I saw that it was dated from nearly two weeks ago.
“I’ll take my chances.” I headed to the door once more, and Gatsby reluctantly stepped aside. He followed me along the winding halls of the house, hovering nervously about.
“Suppose we go out, then? I could take you for dinner.”
“It’s too late.”
We passed into a poolroom, then a study, while Gatsby still hung at my side.
“A drink, perhaps—I have a bottle of the finest Cognac you could ever ask for. Have you ever had Cognac?”
“Never.”
“Well, you ought to.”
Gatsby waited, evidently wishing for me to say something further. I sighed.
“Very well. What room shall I be staying in?”
He brightened, already turning and leading me up the stairs.
“We can stay in my chamber, old sport.”
“Can’t I stay in another room?”
“No,” he said quickly. He cleared his throat, placing a hand on my shoulder. “It won't be possible, my boy, they’re all under cleaning.”
“All of them?”
“All of the bedrooms. They’re being cleaned right now, and I can’t have guests in them.” He half choked out the explanation before hurrying back to the room in question, and I had no choice but to follow.
“If that’s the case, why don’t I sleep on a couch?”
Gatsby waved it off, shutting the door behind him.
“Nonsense, old sport. Besides—“ he fumbled, making a vague gesture—“they’re all occupied.”
There hadn’t been a single soul on our walk through the house. I paused for a moment, then removed my coat and shoes in resignation.
“Where can I put these?” I asked.
Gatsby gestured to the corner where an empty shelf sat. I put my things down, and when I returned, Gatsby was set over a candle, hurriedly attempting to light it. Upon seeing me, he shoved the matchbox into his pocket and clasped his hands together.
“Well then, shall we prepare for bed?”
He drifted with a sort of stiffness to the lightswitch, flicking it off. Darkness filled the room, and the candle’s light rose and danced about the walls. The curtains fell thick with shadows, brushing along the windowsill and the edges of a mahogany desk.
Gatsby dipped beneath the pale moonlight of the window, opening a dresser drawer brimming with shirts.
I cast my gaze to the bed. “I don’t have a nightshirt,” I said.
“I can give you one, old sport.” He pulled out a sleeping set of gleaming satin, throwing it across the bed.
I began unbuttoning my own shirt, slipping it off alongside my pants. Gatsby was staring at me. When I looked up, he made a noise in his throat—sort of a midpoint between a cough and a choke—and pulled his eyes away. I continued undressing, and Gatsby reluctantly followed.
He slipped off his golden shirt, revealing the stark lines of his shoulders. He was a sturdy, well-built man, a thin line of muscle carving the top of his stomach. The manner in which he dressed himself was both elegant and strong, and the fluttering pulse of his throat could only be described as tempting. His chest rose as he drew a long, trembling breath.
My gaze stayed trained on the shape of his arms, which drew down to unbutton his pants. He looked up at me.
My own face had assumed a deep flush, and I reached for the nightshirt to put it on. For half a minute there wasn’t a word spoken between us.
“Alright, old sport?” he finally murmured.
I recovered after a moment and told him the shirt fit me well—he nodded. I felt sure he hadn’t even heard me.
Outside, the wind had picked up, dancing and fluttering through the branches of the oak trees. Moonlight poured in from the window, dappling the image of leaves over the white bedsheets.
The room was filling slowly with perfumes, the scent of the candle drifting forth in pale lavender and jasmine tones. Gatsby was waiting, looking at me with expectant eyes. Aware of the loud beating of my heart, I tried desperately to recall why I had agreed upon staying there, absorbed in thought before Gatsby cleared his throat.
He suddenly clasped his hands together, and, with a certain stiffness, drew back the covers to climb into bed. I had no choice but to do the same.
Gatsby turned on his side to face me. The wavering shadows of the trees still fell upon him, their leaves fluttering in the wind. The candlelight seemed to paint the walls with flickering brushstrokes, illuminating flowering cabinets and portraits and dresser drawers.
Gatsby drew a slow, deliberate breath, his eyes looking searchingly through the dark. I dared not speak. I turned on my back to stare up at the long, gold-flecked ceiling, and by the time I looked over again, Gatsby was asleep.
Again I questioned why I was there. Gatsby’s breathing had already fallen into a soft, rhythmic lull, and I was aware of the delicate rise and fall of the silk sheets, of Gatsby’s head as it creased the pillow. His cheek was white with moonlight, and the eternal quality of his face seemed at once boundless and solemnly dignified.
I thought of the entirety of this intricate, limitless man, so full of dreams beyond his now fluttering lids. In his heart was an endless, twisting ache for life just beyond his grasp, and in that moment, I thought I felt just such a thing.
Beyond the window, the stars glimmered in silent wonder. Something stirred within my heart, once wordlessly buried and forgotten. It lingered for a moment before I sank into the arms of sleep.
I awoke to the gentle stir of the covers, the room still dark beyond my vision. I kept my eyes closed. The candle must have extinguished; its scent was gone.
At once I felt the heat of an arm across my chest, holding me flush against another. Gatsby, his breathing soft at my ear, was enveloping me. Heat bloomed across my face, my heart thick in my throat. For a moment, all was silent and utterly still.
His fingers brushed against mine, their warmth fleeting and soft. I felt consumed by something then—a low, sweet fever. Gatsby’s arm around me tightened, and with it the fresh, lingering scent of smoke and starlight.
He made a sound in his throat. Then he was awake, drawing his arm back upon realizing that I was as well.
“...Sorry, old sport,” he said. “I was… well, I had moved. In my sleep.”
He forced a laugh, and there was a long silence.
“That was—enjoyable. Or—no, not...“ a pause again. “It was bad. I simply tend to… gravitate."
I finally brought myself to look at him. His face was torn and shadowed in the darkness of the room; I could see only his eyes, which shone pearlescent through the night.
The moon drifted in through the window, delicate as it settled across the bed, and the scene was suddenly real. Then abruptly I was up.
I looked once at him, and I could feel my heart racing in my chest, my mind carrying me out of the room and down the cold marble of his halls.
Panic was running through my veins, and as I ran, I could hear the hard steps of Gatsby following, running after me in the dark.
He called to me, and I may have spoken—given voice to some inutterable thing—but as I descended the stairs, he flew down to try and stop me. Suddenly he was toppling down the steps, landing onto the ground with a harsh thud.
I ran down, kneeling over him in shock. He blinked.
“Gatsby—“
“I’m fine, old sport.” He winced, and I helped him up. “It’s—it’s fine. You can leave.”
I stood there, watching his beaten face. The night around us was breathless and utterly still. Gatsby staggered slightly, watching my face for any reaction, and I was struck by a kind of desperation in his eyes. Only then did the situation seem to dawn on me, and then suddenly I was laughing, marveling at this wonder of a man whom I held in my arms. It was Gatsby, Jay Gatsby. I pulled him tighter, close enough to draw him to my face.