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"I think he would have acknowledged anything now, without reserve."
The first time Jordan kissed Nick she had idly drawn him close amongst the turbulent chatter of one of Gatsby's numerous parties, and Nick had clumsily leaned into her touch, spilling his sixth drink on the floor. Her every move was calculated, her fingertips cool against Nick's cheek, and his own flailing hands felt out of place, resting on her shoulder, her back, not sure where to go. It was not that Nick hadn't kissed girls before - not just girls, either - but Jordan was practically unstirred. She was like no one Nick had ever kissed before, which perhaps is what drew him to her in the first place - her unknowability, her ethereal mystery. Coincidentally, it was this mystery that had also drawn him to Gatsby.
Even from their first meeting, he was enchanted. Nick remembers knocking back another glass and studying the curve of his lips, the line of his jaw, from across a crowded room - but while he was attractive it was the mystery that had enthralled him. Gatsby was an enigma. Nick should have known better than to think he ever truly understood the man, as for every fact he knew - or thought he knew - there were a dozen others hidden, a dozen glimpses of James Gatz through the shimmering silver veil of Jay Gatsby. There would not have been enough time in the world for Nick to truly know him. Gatsby contained infinite universes and Nick was enamoured with every glittering speck he could see, not to mention the ones he couldn't. Ironically, the iridescent source of Gatsby's infinite wonder was his boundless hope, his pursuit of Daisy that left Nick a wistful bystander, and when Gatsby stayed up all night to wait for her call, Nick stayed with him.
They sat on the porch together, trails of smoke from their cigarettes winding their way into the night sky. Nick looked out over the endless expanse of water and the reflection of the green light, further away now than ever, a tiny, glowing reminder that they were not the only people in the world. The moonlight lit up Gatsby's face silver as he told Nick everything. every voyage with Cody, every crooked dollar, every moment with Daisy he could steal away, like a magpie collecting precious things. Nick wondered if Daisy had been as enamoured with the man as he was.
"There I was, getting deeper in love every minute," Gatsby continued, snapping Nick out of his brief introspection. "And all of a sudden I didn't care." He leaned back, breathed smoke through pursed lips. Nick watched, silently caught up in his own imagination, thinking of the hands that so gracefully held a cigarette gently touching Daisy's fingertips, her cheek pressed to his blonde hair the day before he left for the war, the magical contentment of it all, and how he’d love to have been in her position, his hand brushing Gatsby’s face... Something about him constantly inspired Nick's imagination to run rampant, every second becoming more beautiful for his presence.
And perhaps it was the cigarette, or the lack of sleep, but suddenly Nick didn't care and he was leaning in and pressing his mouth to Gatsby's, tasting bitter tobacco, his hand resting gently on the other man's face as he let out a little hum of surprise, dropping his cigarette.
Nick half expected Gatsby to pull away instantly, to be disgusted, perhaps (if he was lucky) not at his deviancy - he was a more modern man, after all - but at the sullying of his fragile relationship with Daisy. He hesitated, but his hand slowly came to rest on the back of Nick's neck, gently, curiously, leaning ever so slightly into Nick's touch. The kiss was slow and experimental, an idea with shaky foundations but somehow Nick felt like if he waited any longer it would be too late.
Nick drew back, watched Gatsby's eyes flutter open and then blink, in something akin to confusion or shock but not quite, as if he didn't even know how to react, both overcome by the spontaneity of the moment. In that moment he imagined he could see every thought going through Gatsby's head in his slow movements, every cog turning.
“Sorry,” Nick blurted, instinctively, instantly regretting it for breaking the moment.
Gatsby shook his head almost imperceptibly. “No, it’s… alright, old sport.” He spoke as if even he were surprised by the words. His gaze flit across Nick’s face, studying the curve of his nose and the jut of his cheekbones, and Nick was suddenly very aware of how much he resembled his cousin.
Gatsby had spent his whole life following in Daisy’s footsteps, Nick realised, and no amount of closeness between the two men could ever negate those years. The man in front of him, the warm light from the house turning his face gold under the night sky, had committed himself to the following of a grail, and that great commitment must be respected. Nick looked down, taking a last drag of his cigarette before letting it drop to the floor to lay beside Gatsby’s, the embers glowing and fading. Gatsby’s hand was still resting on the back on his neck. Nick almost shrugged him off, but his very presence was so addictive, so overwhelming, he couldn't quite bring himself to do so.
“I’m sorry,” Nick repeated, looking despondently into his lap. “You have Daisy, I shouldn’t...” He trailed off, unsure of how to phrase everything that was wrong with what he had done (because there were so many things that were right.)
Gatsby’s eyes kept burning into his face. “Don’t be,” he says, softly. “No, I uh - ” he paused. Somehow, this was only the second time Nick had heard him lost for words, and just being witness to it felt like something incredibly personal and intimate in itself. “If things were different...” he mumbled, the hand on Nick’s nape slowly starting to card fingers through the close-cropped dark hair, a silent gesture of affection.
Hesitantly, Nick looked up, unconsciously chewing on his lip.. “The sun hasn’t risen yet.” he said. “Just until she calls?”
Gatsby’s eyes lit up, and he allowed himself a smile, even though he really shouldn’t because Daisy but also there’s this diffident, hopeful man, his beautiful neighbour - but just for now, this is their moment, while the light is still beyond the horizon the green light can be a speck in the distance and one day they can pass it off as distant, sleep-drunk dreams, so the hand curled in Nick’s hair gently pulled him in.
Nick smiled into the kiss, recognising the same tobacco taste he had been so enchanted by the first time, burnt and hot. If the first time had been like every magical story he had heard about the man then this was a thousand times better, a thousand times more intense, and Nick fancied he could feel every glittering star in those hundreds of universes. He didn’t need his eyes open to know that Gatsby glowed, radiated heat and warmth and vitality from the fingers in his hair to the pressure on his lips, electrifying just like his myriad parties.
They stayed close to each other until the sun began to cast a hot red glow over the garden, Gatsby pausing between kisses to ask if what he was doing was okay -
“I’ve never - not with a man, you see, old sport,” he had said, and Nick had nodded, dumbstruck, because God if he wasn’t a natural at this sort of thing, and had gladly let the other man bite gently at his lips.
When they were tired and their lips swollen Nick had gently guided Gatsby’s head to lay on his shoulder, watching his slightly red-rimmed eyes flutter shut from lack of sleep as he rested. He took the other man’s free hand and slowly linked their fingers together, feeling the warm metal of Gatsby’s signet ring against his palm. He half considered saying something - he gathered Gatsby already knew what he meant, what he felt about him, but maybe he should say it out loud.
Nick’s eye caught the green light, bright as ever against the yellowing sky. No, he thought, maybe it was for the best that they just had this one night. But if he was ever offered a chance to repeat this moment he’d be damned if he wouldn’t take it, the taste of this incredible man still lingering in his mouth and his head fitting perfectly into the curve of Nick’s neck. He wondered whether Gatsby would remember this night in such perfect clarity, too, remember grabbing Nick’s collar and the feel of Nick’s lips against his jaw. Whether he would remember it far in the future, if everything with Daisy somehow worked out, whether he would remember his next door neighbour who had been so smitten with him.
As it happened, Gatsby never got a chance to remember. He didn't even see the next day’s sunrise.