Work Text:
While arranging Jay Gatsby's funeral and settling his affairs, Nick Carraway would often stroll aimlessly around the former's mansion, endlessly reflecting on his time in New York. He'd wander so often that he'd no longer find new rooms to explore or details he'd never noticed. He'd take some things, too—things that he knew wouldn't be in great care of the people Jay had surrounded himself with. Some things he took out of his own selfishness. One of those possessions being Jay's pink suit. The servants hadn't gotten to washing it yet, and after Jay's death and their eventual departure, it lay in the laundry room in a hamper. Nick felt disturbed by his desire to take it, but eventually gave in after repeated visits to that room.
After the funeral, Nick knew he had to stop visiting the mansion. He decided to stay in his own home for a few days before dealing with everything else and continuing life as normal. He felt deeply unsettled no matter where he was. He supposed that was normal for grieving; he hadn't grieved much in his life. The sinking feeling of dread constantly overtook his mind, and sitting alone didn't help much, but he didn't have many options. His disgust for everyone he'd spent time with in New York repelled him from the idea of leaving his house. He tried to keep himself occupied with mundane things. He didn't eat much; he felt too sick, but when he did eat, he would spend some time cooking. He'd think cooking would distract him from the thoughts that plagued his mind, but he'd find himself staring blankly into the flames of his stove and start thinking once more. He'd try to write, but the blank pages incited no inspiration within him. He was not writing about Jay. He'd even try to read, but his mind would drift to darker places.
The realization that Jay was really dead, that he'd never see him again, truly crushed him. It felt so surreal. He often thought about how differently things could've went if he hadn't left him at the pool. Maybe if he'd stayed with him, he could've taken the bullet instead.
Nick sat in his bedroom one late night. Dark thoughts endlessly clawed at his mind and sweat dripped down his body from the visceral, terror-inducing nightmares he'd dreamt up. Imagery of Jay's body at his feet, the blood pillowing in the pool, and men gathered around taking photos and reporting… they all continuously snuck their way into any chance of peaceful sleep he could get. He stared at the wall for quite a while, before his eyes drifted to that pink suit he hadn't touched since he brought it home. He was drawn to it. His mind fell into a trance-like state, and before he knew it, he was tucked in bed once more, the suit clutched in his arms, held closely to his body. It still smelled of Jay. Jay's cologne was subtle, yet distinct. He should've grabbed the bottle while in the mansion, but he supposed he could never go back.
Holding Jay's suit like this incited a feeling of closeness Nick never shared with the man. He felt a great sense of comfort with Jay's suit in his arms; perhaps it'd help him rest easier than he'd been able to. He felt his eyelids become heavier.
Before he knew it, he awoke in his bed. This time, he didn't wake up in a cold sweat, nor screaming, nor from falling or accidentally banging his head on the wall. This time, he was woken up by the harsh rays of sunlight seeping through the space between his curtains. He turned his head and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. When he regained a semblance of consciousness, he looked down at what was in his arms from the night prior. His heart sank and he felt a deep sense of nauseousness. The gentle bliss and ignorance to the grief that overtook him blessed by the initial tiredness of morning was now forgotten; the suit was the stark reminder that Jay was in fact, still gone.
He pressed his face against the suit, squeezing his eyes shut. He barely had the energy to get out of bed, and the feeling Nick had wasn't helping. To Nick, it felt as though Jay's essence was trapped in that suit. There was something in the air that changed when he clung to it. Nick wasn't superstitious and he didn't believe in anything paranormal, but now he felt as though Jay's spirit held his cold, hurting heart in a warm embrace. He hadn't slept as well as he did last night since before the war. The war brought him traumatic nightmares and restless tossing and turning, New York forced him to stay up all night and contemplate his morality, and now Jay's death brought him a deep sense of loneliness and perhaps a combination of everything else.
Jay's death also forced him to reflect, and Nick didn't want to. Nick had almost everything before New York, and now he had nothing. Not only did he lose his friend and his cousin, he lost Jay. He felt hurt by Jay the most, not only because he was reminded of the ever-looming abruptness of life and mortality, but because he felt a strange admiration and appreciation for him. Nick realized how bizarre it was; he'd just met the man in the summertime; it had only been two or three months that they spent time together. Nick wasn't oblivious, either. He'd realized Jay hadn't reciprocated any feeling of friendship or care he had for him. Nick knew he was just a means to an end for Jay. Everything was for Daisy, and Nick was the last piece of the puzzle that fell right into place for Jay's meticulous plan. It took longer than he'd like to realize he was simply a tool for Jay to use, but in the end, he didn't mind. Jay meant so much to him that Nick could not give the same forgiveness to others as he did to him. Many never understood why, especially Tom, but Nick was content with it. He didn't want others to see what he'd begrudgingly come to understand about himself.
While Jay's pure hope and romantic readiness resonated with Nick, there was something else beneath the simple lens of admiration and charm. Nick wanted more, and he loathed himself for it. He refused to let himself come to the conclusion that he needed Jay in a way that was more than simple companionship. Nick's throat would tighten and his heart would race whenever he thought about his suffocating, inescapable desires. He'd force them away. He knew they weren't normal. It was perverted and immoral to think of another male in that sense. Nick was violently disgusted with himself every time his eyes would linger on Jay's body or thought about taking care or him or thought about holding him or spending time with him or God forbid something pertaining to his sexual desires!
In the back of Nick's mind, he knew he had to accept it, or perhaps acknowledge it at the very least. He yearned and longed for almost as long as he knew Jay, and no matter how hard he tried to repress it, it came fighting back, stabbing at his heart and causing tears to prickle at his eyes. Now that he was alone, truly alone, maybe he could acknowledge it. Just this once.
He pressed a gentle kiss to the manifestation of Jay's soul within his arms. He wet it with his tears and he quickly filled the once silent room with short gasps for air. He curled in on himself.
He wasn't going to ever wash this suit.