Work Text:
In the gleaming lights of the party, there stood its beloved host, Jay Gatsby.
I never knew what was so mystic about him. What made people so obsessed with his approval, his gain, or even their name uttered in his mouth.
At least, that was what I thought of this enigmatic man until he once visited me in the middle of the night and bared his heart, soul, and body out to me, like a cry for help. Or, more accurately, a cry of forgiveness. To what? I don’t know.
But I know one thing. If you look closer into his face, under the spotlight, you start noticing the little things. His hazel eyes, his ebony hair, his high cheekbones, and his face that always display an expression that no one understands. A mix of resentment, wounded pride, and restraint altogether. His jaw always clenched with a sort of jealousy that I can’t manage to articulate. His chin always lifted, watching the crowd as if it weren’t for him at all. His eyes narrowed as if he were simultaneously a stranger and a god in his own crowd.
And if you look closely—close enough that the mask breaks to your gaze—you’ll find out that his skin reflects a rosy, slightly darker tone under the catch of light. It’s why he prefers to stay in the shadows. One glance from the Nordics' descent of New York and its over. It’ll all crumble for him. Like a blow to a house of cards.
At least that’s what he told me one night, shirtless under the sheets and breathless after I’ve finished admiring his sunken, beautiful cheekbones up close. The closest and the farthest a man can ever be.
Until the enigmatic Jay Gatsby leaves you with twice more the questions that you had before.