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A part of Nick wishes he’d taken a rain check on dinner with the Buchanans.
It isn’t that he doesn’t enjoy the company, because he does; (it isn’t like he had much else to do today, anyway) it’s just that today, every little thing is too much. Daisy’s laughing a little too loud, the lights are a little too bright, and Nick feels as if his tie is strangling him.
He decides to stay in one of the chairs on the far side, as far from his cousin and the commotion she brings as he can. Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to notice as she carries on her story of something that had apparently happened whilst in France, “Nicky, you should’ve visited us one day, it was so beautiful out there…”
Nick murmurs in reply. The constant overstimulation gets to him, he thinks, as he bounces his leg and runs his hands through his hair in a vain effort to soothe himself. Again, Daisy doesn’t take notice.
Suddenly, Tom comes up from behind Nick and rustles his hair like a father would his son, albeit much rougher, on account of his strength. He suppresses the urge to flinch under the touch.
“Y’know, you really oughta cut your hair, ‘Nicky’. Starting to look like a fairy,” Tom says, and though his voice is filled with jest, the words pierce into Nick’s mind like bullets.
All he offers is a nonchalant hum as he ducks away from his cousin-in-law’s grasp.
…It isn’t that long, Nick thinks. A bit more than Daisy’s or most women he knows, sure, but at least he works hard to style it. (Despite how insistent the back is on not staying slicked back.)
“Oh, let him alone,” Daisy defends, although her tone is more light, as if it’s all one big joke Nick isn’t in on, “he’s always had long hair, he likes it that way.”
(This isn’t true. He has only started growing out his hair in the few years since the war; although he does much prefer it this way.)
The hulking hand moves to his shoulder, and it doesn’t feel any less unpleasant. “You should’ve seen him in our New Haven days,” Tom laughs, loud, almost like Nick suddenly isn’t present in the room at all, “I mean, impersonation, literature, and the parties-”
Abruptly, Nick stands. “I hate to leave on such short notice, but I’ve just remembered I have to start work earlier than usual tomorrow,” he offers all in one breath, shaking Tom’s and Daisy’s hands.
Daisy cries about how she wishes he didn’t have to work so often, while Tom gives him a peculiar look, stormy grey eyes shining with something that makes Nick’s palms sweat with worry. She leads him out, waves him off. Tom stays inside.
As he departs into the cool evening air, Nick can only hope with everything he has that he’ll fade away along with the sun as it sets.
Gatsby’s mansion is much quieter than the Buchanan’s house.
It could just be the sheer size eating up any soundwave it can, like a stray cat given a shred of chicken, but Nick believes it may have something to do with the everlasting feeling of loneliness that claws at you the moment you step foot on the property. (Or perhaps he’s just feeling better than he was the other day. Today, his tie sits with good pressure against his collarbone and his cardigan is just the right amount of itchy.)
Him, Daisy, and Gatsby are all seated on a fine leather sofa in one of the many sprawling lounge areas.
(He’d popped in to ask Gatsby for tea only to realize that today was one of Daisy’s allotted days with his neighbor. But instead of turning him away, Gatsby had ecstatically ushered Nick inside. Now here he sits, feeling an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, as his cousin and her lover lay in each other’s arms.)
Filling the oppressive silence, Daisy airs her many grievances about Tom, and whatever new offense he’s committed this week, “-and then he called Nick a fairy! I mean, how rude can he be, to just-”
Gatsby interrupts, although Daisy continues in the background, “...He called you that, old sport?”
There’s something about the man’s tone that crawls under Nick’s skin, making him itch uncomfortably. It isn’t judgemental, Nick never thought Gatsby to be that type of man, but his voice drips with distaste, and his eyes, dark like the bottom of the ocean, are grim. Nick shudders.
“...Well, uhm.”
What is he supposed to say? That Tom would crush Nick under his boot like the pansy he is if given the chance? That he doesn’t have the slightest clue what Daisy’s on about, call her a liar?
He opts to say nothing, instead.
Having seemingly suddenly caught up on the direction the conversation’s gone, Daisy pipes up once again, “He did! And after you’d gone, he was saying all sorts of crude things about you in college,” she says, pouting her lips.
Nick’s heart drops to his stomach, and he’s glad he skipped lunch. His face must be reflecting the disarray that’s tearing him apart like a lion to a helpless gazelle, because Gatsby reaches a hand out towards him, easily, as if he moves too fast it’ll scare him off.
“You know how Tom is,” Nick says, voice weak, and why he’s defending this man is beyond him, “he jokes.”
Daisy settles further into Gatsby’s arms, muttering something about her husband’s foul attempts at humor. Gatsby retreats, returning to his rightful, virtuous position of holding Daisy close, but his face still paints a picture of concern.
Nick doesn’t speak for the remainder of the afternoon.
“Wait a moment, old sport.”
Startling at the sudden voice, Nick turns to Gatsby, who’s eyeing him curiously. It’s a little unnerving, Nick thinks.
However, he stops just inside the front door as instructed and waves to Daisy as she gets inside her taxi. Gatsby waves her off as well, although his deep brown eyes, dark and gorgeous like mahogany, are still trained on Nick.
“I have to know,” he says, easily, as if asking the time, “are you?”
Fear grips Nick’s heart and clenches, strangling him from the inside out. His blood runs cold.
Mind racing, he tries to rationalize the simple question. Perhaps Gatsby’s just concerned; Nick has been quiet all afternoon. He hadn’t eaten lunch, or taken any offered refreshments. Only sat and listened to his cousin and neighbor talk, fulfilling his ‘duty’ as requested supervisor.
…Besides, nobody knows. Nick has made sure to keep every immodest thought of his close to his chest, bottled up and hidden under the floorboards of his mind. How could Gatsby, of all people, possibly…?
Instead, Nick settles on, “Am I what?”
The taxi drives off toward hallowed East Egg, and with a quick glance outside, Gatsby steps forward and shuts the door. He’s quiet for a moment, almost as if he’s searching for the right words to say, the right tone of voice.
After standing in the foyer for what feels like hours, silence giving way to unease, he finally speaks, “Do you happen to be… just by chance…” His words are quiet, cherry picked so as to cause the least offense possible, nervousness only matched by that fated, far away lunch date with Daisy. Golden hands wring around each other with it, contrasting against the handsome, garish suit he’s put on today.
Eventually, He looks up at Nick, holding all the seriousness in the world with apprehensive eyes. “Nick, are you queer?”
The question sits heavy in the air, suffocating, terrifying. It’s a simple one, only three words, but those three words contain multitudes, everything.
Throat horribly dry, Nick thinks he’s going to be sick. It takes him an embarrassingly prolonged time to answer, “No, no, of course not. Why- what makes you-” Nick swallows, thick and heavy, eyes transfixed on the impossibly clean tiles rather than the man in front of him, “You don’t believe Tom, do you…?”
“I wouldn’t believe a word that comes out of that man’s mouth,” Gatsby replies immediately, and Nick can feel the contempt for Tom in his words.
Quiet finds its way between the pair again. Nick shakes. It isn’t fair.
“I’m not,” he croaks out.
Gatsby takes a breath and holds it. “Of course not,” he says. His boisterous persona fades as the sun would over the horizon. “If you were - which I’m not accusing you, old sport - it’d be alright.”
The ice that steadily crawls along Nick’s skin stabs, burns.
“Alright?” he says, trying to ignore how his voice raises an octave, “how could you say that?”
He can feel Gatsby’s eyes on him, watching him, that beautiful, stifling, understanding air about him squeezing Nick until he pops. He watches as his brilliant, white shoes shuffle closer to him.
“How do you mean?”
“I-” Nick starts. Slowly, near painfully, he forces himself to look up and at Gatsby. “It’s a moral failing, it’s… perversion. I’m not- they’re not…”
He trails off, echoes of his father’s words dying on his tongue. He wishes so desperately that he didn’t believe it, that his family and society had taught him otherwise as Gatsby’s seemingly had.
“Would you say the same if it were me?” Gatsby asks all of a sudden, hand hovering just above Nick’s shoulder before pulling away as if he’s decided better of it, “Or Daisy?”
Nick’s fingers trace his shoulder for a second. He can still feel the remnant of Gatsby’s warmth emanating- Then realization hits, and he stuffs them back into his pockets. He’s trembling.
Whiskey brown eyes gentle and shining, Gatsby gazes at him. Unspoken words dance along his lips, begging to be freed. But he doesn’t say a word.
Tragedy surrounds him everywhere he goes, it seems.
It’s silent again.
“We’re people first and foremost, old sport,” he says at last with a sigh. His voice is soft, words well chosen. “And I know you, your character. Nobody should mind who you…”
You’re a good person, Nick.”
…Nick knows he isn’t. He wishes he were, wishes he were the humble, honest man his father wants him to be.
Instead, he’s a poor, hypocritical failure of a homosexual.
It’s different when it’s him.
Gatsby carries on his point, speaking of poets, artists, scholars, doctors, and other incredible, important people that he knows. How even honorable, brilliant people can just so happen to be homosexuals.
Nick thinks of Mr. McKee. He wonders if he’s doing well.
Then he thinks of Tom. How come he gets to run around with whoever he likes, despite being a married man? Why is it Nick who has to worry about the law, all for the crime of being himself?
The fear turns to bitterness, which leads way into disappointment.
“...What sort of world do we live in?”
“I ask myself that every day, old sport.”
Gatsby says the words softly, somberly, and Nick believes him easily. The one thing he’s been told that isn’t a rousing lie.
Nick swallows again, and he looks around the foyer for any other sign of life.
They’re alone.
“I-I don’t act on it,” he whispers, the pit in his stomach only growing. The feeling of wrong, the idea that Gatsby will abandon him where he stands, persists.
(This is only a half-truth. He’s acted upon the feelings of his plenty of times throughout college, but never more than a fling that lasts a couple days or so. Never a long-term… romantic situation; those are much too dicey and, frankly, humiliating for Nick’s liking.)
Instead of leaving, however, Gatsby smiles that gorgeous, God damned smile. He opens the front door and leads Nick out. His steps are confident, now; it seems that being correct has brought him back to his former glory.
Nick lags behind. He feels more at ease, weight heavier than a train finally lifted from his back, but his mind still screams for him to take it all back.
“Don’t-” he suddenly calls, voice shaking, “don’t tell them. Daisy, Jordan, anyone. Please.”
Stopping where he stands, Gatsby fully pivots in place to look back at Nick. “They don’t know?” he asks, and Nick swears he almost sounds genuinely confused.
“You’re the first.”
“...Even Miss Baker?”
Overwhelm taking over, Nick reaches to run his hand through his hair, but catches himself. He wrings his hands, instead. “It was selfish of me not to tell her,” he murmurs.
Gatsby hums. “You should. I believe you’ll find yourself surprised.”
Come to my party tonight, old sport,” he begins walking away again as he changes the subject completely, “Bring Daisy and her husband, if you can.”
Just like that, Nick is left standing alone on the grand marble staircase. He supposes he has a party to get ready for.
“Sure is quite a…. queer crowd you’ve got here, Gatsby,” Tom slurs, all but hissing the word, like it’s dirty in his mouth. (Nick imagines him washing his mouth out with soap as soon as he gets home, and takes another sip of his liquor to keep from smiling.)
Gatsby replies, taking a drag of the cigar in his hand, “Aren’t we all a little queer, old sport?”
Sitting beside Gatsby, who seems perfectly at ease with the present company despite that afternoon’s topic, are Nick and Jordan. They glance at each other at this exchange. Daisy, seated between Tom and Gatsby, doesn’t seem bothered, however.
Tom doesn’t seem too impressed. He broods, watching as Gatsby’s ‘guests’ make drunken fools of themselves. He makes a point to glare at those of which he especially disapproves of.
“You know,” Jordan speaks up, although she doesn’t look up from her drink to make it clear who knows, “I don’t think Gatsby vets who comes.”
Under his breath, Tom grunts something about “taking over”; no doubt a quote from that book of his.
Gatsby purses his lips at this, leaving the conversation in favor of doing some people watching of his own.
The five are silent for long enough that Nick thinks they’re all going to split up (especially with the way Jordan is eyeing those flapper girls), when Daisy speaks up, “Large parties make me feel ill sometimes, like Nicky,” an understatement, to say the least, “but this is nice, the five of us.”
She looks as though she has more to say as her eyes drift toward Gatsby, but Tom takes the lead yet again. “Oh, yes, remember that party in June, Nick? There were only about five people then.”
Daisy snaps her head to Tom, incredulous. “What party was that?” she demands.
Nick answers quickly, glancing from Tom to his wife, “I believe there were six, actually. Uhm, Daisy-”
“That was it. Say, do you remember Mr. McKee?”
“Oh, I remember him quite well.”
…Nick has always hated eye contact, and this is most certainly no exception.
Tom’s clearly inebriated eyes bore into his, glaring like daggers that skin him alive, fileting him like one of those fancy fish dinners that cost more than Nick makes in a day.
“In fact,” he sneers, and it’s almost as if he’s completely forgotten about the others at the table, “I seem to remember you leaving the apartment with him.”
Scoffing, Nick stands his ground, as much as his intoxicated mind begs him to tear his eyes away or run. “Mr. McKee had more to drink than I had, I was making sure he made it home safe.”
Grey, terrifying eyes narrow. “Without his wife?” Then, without so much as giving Nick the chance to answer, “Is that all you did with that man, Nick?”
Perhaps it’s his words that stab through the air, reminiscent of the bayonets he’d see during the war, or perhaps it’s just the alcohol that muddles his brain; but this doesn’t sit right with Nick. It makes his stomach churn like butter, mixing horribly with the warm alcohol that’s already settled.
He stands abruptly, drinks on the table clattering as he does so. He sways for a moment, but he stands firm despite his shaking legs.
“I don’t think I like what you’re implying here, Tom.”
Gatsby takes hold of Nick’s elbow, gently tugging at the fabric of his jacket. “Alright, old sport, sit down,” he tells him, although Nick can certainly still clearly hear the dislike for Tom in his voice, “you’ve had a lot to drink.”
As she has been since most of the banter started, Daisy sits silent. Her wide eyes flick to whoever speaks, but she seems to be treating it as more entertainment rather than an argument between people she cares about. Across from her, Jordan mumbles something about civilized conversations.
“Yes, ‘old sport’, sit down,” Tom mocks, tone filled with nothing but hostility, despite the way he’s stood as well, “clearly you aren’t thinking straight.”
Nick pulls his arm away with enough force to make him stagger back a couple steps. “No, no,” he says, frustration burning his already flushed face further, “I’d like to know what your problem is.”
Tom walks around the table, wobbling to the side as he does, until he’s standing face to face with Nick. He jeers in a low voice, so only Nick can hear, “My problem is how people like you can show your faces in public, you little fa-”
Frustration simmers to anger boils to rage. Who does Tom Buchanan think he is? Nick’s been nothing but outwardly genial to him, and here he is, embarrassing him in front of his cousin, his “girl”, and his neighbor- his friend.
Nick’s whole body burns, he’s seeing red, and he doesn’t realize that he’s stumbled forward and pushed Tom as hard as he possibly can until it’s already over.
Under normal circumstances, Nick is positive that this would have no effect on the much larger man. However, whether it be from the whiskey he’s been knocking back all night, or perhaps he just wasn’t expecting it, Tom loses his footing and falls backward before catching himself.
In an instant, his face turns red with rage, and in an instant, Nick very much regrets pushing him.
Tom rushes forward with a scream and punches Nick square in the face, pain bursting throughout as red sprays across the lawn, knocking him into the table. Gatsby’s poor glass patio table collapses and shatters under the impact.
The world around Nick spins in such a way that almost makes him sick as he reaches a shaking hand up to his face; it comes back bloody. He can’t breathe through his nose.
Around the group, of which Daisy and Gatsby are standing now, horror clear on their faces, while Jordan continues to sip at her champagne, a few guests gasp. One woman screams. After the initial shock wears off, however, it seems that they all go back to their previous affairs. The drunken haze hanging in the air settles back in, and it’s back to dancing and drinking and making mistakes you’ll forget in the morning.
(Gatsby taps the shoulder of a passing butler and whispers into his ear. The butler turns on his heel and quickly walks away.)
Tom towers over Nick, face still beet red, splatters of blood clinging to his pinstripe suit. Nick coughs. “You hit me like I’m a mistress,” he says, voice hoarse, “what, are you holding back?”
This was also a mistake, but Nick will be damned if it didn’t feel good.
“BE. QUIET,” Tom roars, and he grabs Nick’s collar roughly, pulling him back up so their eyes meet. And again, he brings his fist down upon Nick’s face. This time, the screaming comes from Daisy.
“Stop it, Tom, stop it-”
Nick doesn’t say a word; instead, he stares his cousin’s husband down, like it’ll hold a match to what’s been done to him. He doesn’t think he’s bothered by eye contact anymore.
Raising his fist once again, knuckles smeared with both Nick’s blood and his own, Tom spits, “You freak, I bet you even go around with that inferior-”
“That’s enough, Mr. Buchanan,” Gatsby’s hard voice cuts through the tense air, the backing vocals of the partygoers ever present. His clenched fists shake with thinly veiled fury, and he’s accompanied by two of whom Nick recognizes to be Meyer Wolfsheim’s men.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he continues, a grave, heavy air of professionalism hanging about him like the best cologne money can buy.
Wolfsheim’s men descend upon Tom like vultures to fresh roadkill, standing on either side of him, ready for the order to either take him out or take him out.
“Alright,” Tom growls, “we’re going. Come on, Daisy.”
Daisy hesitates for a moment, glancing from the strange men that surround her husband, to Nick, laying on the ground, to Gatsby, putting his cigar out on the grass; she lingers on him.
“Goodbye, Jordan, Nick,” she says at last, fidgeting with her long, silken gloves, “...Jay.”
They leave.
The party goes on.
Dropping to his knees and, fishing a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, Gatsby leans in and mops up Nick’s blood. Nick hisses in pain at the contact, hand reaching up to claw at Gatsby’s. “I’m sorry, old sport,” he whispers.
Finally, Jordan stands, then she kneels, offering the rest of her drink to Nick. He takes it, downing the rest in one go.
“Are you sure you should be-”
“He can handle it.”
The three don’t speak for a moment while Gatsby continues to fruitlessly attempt to stop the blood pouring from Nick’s nose. (All without hurting him, which it does. A lot.)
“Fights like these don’t happen too often,” Jordan remarks, idly picking up shards of glass from the grass. “Don’t they?”
“Not particularly,” replies Gatsby. He pulls himself up using a chair, leaving the handkerchief with Nick. He runs a tanned hand through his golden hair. “None that I’m aware of, at least…”
Jordan hums.
“Here, I’ll, erm,” Gatsby begins again with a cough, “I’ll escort you both to one of my private bathrooms, so you can… clean up.”
Nick says nothing still as he stares up at the night sky, watches as tiny, twinkling stars are drowned out by the blazing lights of the party.
“...Do you think Daisy will be alright?”
Nick, with his one good eye, glances up and at Jordan through the mirror. Her eyebrows are creased together, and she seems much more interested in the perfectly white, embroidered towels than looking back at her own “man.”
(Of course, Nick had told Jordan earlier that day over dinner. He had indeed found himself surprised, as she had come out as queer as well. While he’d been convinced the two were in a genuine relationship, she’d thought they were a sort of “lavender partnership”. If anything, the whole ordeal had made him realize how little he truly knew about the homosexual world.)
At the question, his mind goes back to that night with Tom and his mistress.
…Surely, however, Daisy wouldn’t allow herself to be treated that way. As spineless as Nick’s cousin can be, and as stubborn as her husband is, he’s sure she’s alright.
“Sure,” is what he says instead, because he has a feeling that if he says more his head will burst and Gatsby’s hospital-clean bathroom will never be free from blood. (More so than it already isn’t.)
He tears his eyes away from her, and looks back to his reflection; Tom sure did a bang-up job of banging up Nick’s face. His nose is most certainly broken, and his left eye is a half step away from needing medical attention, if the twilight color it’s turned is anything to go by.
Nick flinches as he tenderly presses the wet cloth against it, freezing water dripping down his face and mingling with his blood. (Jordan gives him a grossed out look and continues inspecting grout.)
Then, he slips on the wet counter and almost blackens his other eye.
“You’re drunk,” Jordan observes, coming up and placing a soft hand on Nick’s back. He notices how cold she is, much colder than Tom’s fist or the blood running down his face. It’s nice.
“Not enough,” he grates out.
The pair stay like that for a beat, making eye contact through the mirror. The green of Nick’s eyes is dark and glassy, pupils wide, like he isn’t entirely there. His arms shake where he holds himself up on the sink, adrenaline still coursing through his veins.
She sighs.
“I’ll go get us some water.”
And with that, Jordan’s hand leaves Nick and she glides gracefully out of the bathroom.
Outside, the party goes on, unaware of the tumultuous wreck that is Nick Carraway and the ticking time bomb that is his mind, that is him. He cards a bloodied hand through his hair.
Perhaps he should cut his hair.
Nick isn’t sure why he hasn’t left the party already. Jordan’s long since left, having had to go home after “helping” patch him up; she had offered to take him home, but he’d refused. That was around two hours ago, Nick thinks. Time gets fuzzy whilst drunk.
Mostly exhausted now, his whole body lags behind him like streaks behind a shooting star, and the constant stream of alcohol he’s subjected himself to doesn’t seem to be helping.
He sits on the dock, accompanied by Gatsby; their jackets and ties lay abandoned beside them. It’s late now, with the moon starting its slow descent into the sea behind them; the only light is the green of the Buchanan’s dock and the distant ongoing party at the mansion.
Gatsby runs a worried hand through his hair, and it takes Nick a moment to realize that he must have picked up this habit from him; he’s never been too bothered with his own hair, or appearance, for that matter, before.
He almost laughs.
“I apologize for this evening, old sport,” Gatsby remarks, staring out across the bay. “Neither you nor Daisy had a good time, and what with the fight-”
“Are you kidding me?”
Gatsby turns, surprised, to look at Nick. The green light highlights every part of his face, illuminating him where the moon has failed to; swollen eye, broken nose, wild emerald eyes and all. He’s grinning like a madman.
“I haven’t been in a fight since college,” he resumes, “I’ve never felt more alive!”
The light reflects off the dried blood that still clings to his skin under his nose, shifting it to a deep brown. Gently, wordlessly, Gatsby reaches out and cups Nick’s face and wipes it away with his thumb.
He leans into his touch.
The incessant buzz of Gatsby’s party has died down, enough for the waves and crickets to shine through like stars on a foggy night; just barely noticeable. Enough, however, for it to feel as though they’re the only people in the world, even if just for a few blissful seconds.
The night’s endeavors seem to be catching up to Gatsby, exhausting him more than any of his previous parties ever have, because he finds himself staring at Nick, drinking every little detail he can. His hand remains on Nick’s face.
His head, along with every part of him, aches; the pain dulls to an uncomfortable warmth as the two continue to gaze at each other, as Nick leans in, giving Gatsby ample opportunity to pull away and pretend this never happened.
He doesn’t, instead closing the gap between them himself.
It tastes like copper and illegal booze. It isn’t the nicest kiss either has ever had, by any means, but something about it feels right; like finding the last piece of the puzzle on the floor, like coming home after a long day.
Gatsby’s head spins, pleasant warmth blossoming in his chest and reverberating throughout his entire body, and he reluctantly pulls away, just enough to breathe again. Nick follows suit, keeping his flushed forehead flush against Gatsby’s own, keeping himself in any kind of contact with the other man he possibly can.
“I-” Gatsby starts, opening his eyes to see Nick’s glazed, half-lidded ones. He wants nothing more than to stay in this moment forever, to melt into Nick’s trembling touch and kiss him until he can’t think; but he can still smell the alcohol on his breath and reality comes crashing into him like a car. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”
Without a word, Nick grabs Gatsby’s lapels and pulls, kissing him like he’s starving. And in a sense, he is.
The party still carries on behind them. It’s a dangerous thing, doing this near so many people, and the two are more than well aware; there’s a hint of excitement to the affair, racing their hearts and clouding their minds.
After another few euphoric minutes, Gatsby yet again pulls away. He continues to cling to Nick, arms wrapped around his waist.
“Perhaps we should… continue this another time.”
Nick stays where he sits, both hands cupping Gatsby’s face. One reaches up and tangles itself in his already tousled hair, relishing in the way he leans into the touch with his whole body, like he’d never been held his whole life.
They stay like this for a while, burning hands touching burning faces.
“How long?”
“Hm?”
“How long have you…” Nick murmurs, slow and slurring, “felt like that?”
…Honestly, truly, Gatsby has no idea. He’s always found both men and women equally handsome, but Nick is… new. He came, stumbled into Gatsby’s life like a dazzling, red hot flame, burning his skin and filling his lungs with smoke.
He’s not sure when the ache for Daisy faded and the passion for Nick began.
It could have been that night, as Daisy disappeared with Tom without so much as a word to her hurting cousin, or it could have been the afternoon they spent at Nick’s, when he finally saw who she’d become after five years apart. Or any day, any minute between them.
Kissing the palm of Nick’s hand, Gatsby hums as way of answering.
Nick continues, voice quiet, almost afraid of the answer, “What about Daisy?”
Gatsby glimpses at the light that’s haunted him for years out of the corner of his eye. Then he looks back into the beautiful green light sitting in front of him, looking at him expectantly. The light that stayed, despite it all.
He swallows.
“I’m not sure yet.”
One thing he is sure of, however, is that he loves Nick now. And isn’t that enough?