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Given Gatsby’s lavish enjoyment of the finer things in life, Nick never thought that he could ever be such a man of simple pleasures. Perhaps not all the time - the parties were still as extraordinary as ever, the music and the dances just as energetic, and the champagne (goodness, the champagne!), but yet here he is, laying on the cropped grass of Gatsby’s vast arcadic garden, the man himself beside him idly picking golden buttercups. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised; Jay created his new life on a boat, after all, thin sails the only shade and with so much hard work - he must be used to the heat. Nick suspects there is a part of Gatsby that still resonates with his childhood memories, before Daisy, before Jay Gatsby, before Dan Cody, a childhood full of uncut wild fields, wildflowers, sprawling oaks with names and dates carved into the wood.
The sunshade and their white deckchairs sit abandoned on the porch, the garden emptier than it had ever been. Guests and servants both absent, the green expanse populated only by brightly colored flowers and the white-clothed couple. Gatsby had insisted on providing shade, rest, drinks, but all had been deserted in favor of a walk around the grounds. The heat had proved too much, and so the pair chose to laze on the lawn, ice cubes left melting into sweet tea.
Hot sun beats down, warming Nick’s hands, and he is thankful for the slight, cooling breeze that flutters his untucked shirt. He rolls onto his side to see Gatsby’s face in profile, lying on his stomach and sprawled across the grass as if he owned not only the garden, but the whole planet.
“I heard on the radio that it’s the hottest day of the year so far,” Nick says, brushing blades of loose grass off of his arms.
Gatsby hums in agreement. “I thought it might be.” Turning to face Nick, he smiles and threads a bright-petalled buttercup through the other man’s top buttonhole, a delicate yellow medal of honor. Nick chuckles, plucks another flower and tucks it behind Gatsby’s ear before leaning in to kiss his warm cheek.
“Don’t, I’ll overheat,” Gatsby jokingly protests, laughing.
“Oh, but it’s so cold!” Nick grins, miming a shiver. “I think I should go get a jacket. A jacket, and a hot drink.”
Gatsby raises his hand to his forehead and squints up at the cloudless sky. “I should think so, old sport. It’ll start snowing any moment now.” His deadpan expression lasts less than a second before he and Nick crack up, relaxing into the soft grass.
“Perhaps we should take a trip on the hydroplane later?” Gatsby asks, after a long, content pause.
“Let’s stay a little longer,” Nick replies, closing his eyes and soaking up the warmth like a cat.
Gatsby takes his hand, pulls it towards him and kisses it gently. “Of course, old sport.”