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“It’s been twenty minutes, Gatsby. She might not be coming,” stated Nick simply from the kitchen, busying himself with refreshing a vase of flowers while Gatsby stood impatiently at the window, never once tearing his eyes from the driveway as if expecting Daisy to fall from the sky suddenly. The light rain outside had intensified to a storm, and thunder echoed distantly now as he waited for the woman to arrive.
“Old sport, how can you say that? Really, after all we’ve done to prepare for her arrival!” His usually proper voice cracked under the pressure and he cleared his throat anxiously.
“After all you’ve done,” Nick reminded him gently, suppressing a chuckle. He’d never seen Gatsby more nervous than today, when he single-handedly transformed Nick’s perfectly acceptable cottage into a lush, romantic garden decorated rather obnoxiously. These were the exceptional measures to which Gatsby went for the simplest of things, like winning over Nick’s cousin Daisy.
Nick had to admit, Daisy was a wonderful, charming woman. But he couldn’t imagine creating a spectacle like this for anyone, not even for somebody he loved dearly. He found the gestures of the rich to be very amusing, though, and so endured Gatsby’s shenanigans whenever he could.
Gatsby had started to pace around the room, nearly tripping over a rug numerous times in a row. “You’re right, old sport, this is far too much. She’d be crazy to show up this late, anyways. Right?” He whirled to Nick, presumably looking for some kind of affirmation from the man.
“Absolutely right, Gatsby.” Nick told him assuredly. “You’d best be getting home before this rain gets any worse.” He tried to politely hint that Gatsby had far overstayed his welcome and overwhelmed Nick enough for one day. As if the skies had heard him and decided to further their entertainment, a loud clap of thunder boomed above, startling Gatsby into flinching away from the window. “Perhaps not, then.”
“Old sport, what if this weather’s the reason she didn’t show? Maybe the roads were flooded and she got caught up in it! She may have even drowned in the streets of East Egg!” Gatsby wailed disheartenedly, moving away from the window to sit in an armchair. Rain pattered the house, rustling the foliage outside as Nick sighed exasperatedly and moved into the living room, leaning on the side of the sofa.
“Gatsby, she did not drown in East Egg, for god’s sake, pull yourself together! How does one even drown in a city, anyways?” This whole thing was preposterous, Nick thought; for being a self-proclaimed Oxford man, in his passionate episodes Gatsby could be quite ridiculous.
“Yes, old sport, good thinking. Well, she probably won’t come now, anyway.” He exhaled and leaned back into the chair, still fiddling with the buttons on his jacket and glancing behind him through the glass.
“You’re welcome to wait, if you think she’ll show,” Nick said, internally irritated at Gatsby’s persistence. No woman could possibly be worth waiting hours for, he thought to himself, though he’d never say it out loud as the notion would crush Gatsby entirely.
Gatsby sat up quickly. “Really? You mean I can wait here a little longer?” There was no way that Nick could say no when pure happiness was so clearly written across Gatsby’s face.
“Of course, Gatsby. Are you sure you want to wait? This rain may not stop for a while,” Nick said, gesturing outside. Raindrops pelted the house, rhythmically pattering against the glass, and Nick sank into the sofa to listen to the sounds of the storm. He loved rain, and long summer storms always lulled him peacefully into a state of calm.
“Yes, old sport. I’ll wait.” Gatsby, too, made himself comfortable in the chair, though with every clap of thunder he jumped a little.
“Are you quite alright?” Nick asked him, raising an eyebrow. This was unusual behavior even for Gatsby’s nervousness.
“Hm? Yes, just a lot of rain, don’t you think?” His eyes shifted away from the windows.
“I suppose so.” They sat in silence for a moment longer, Nick closing his eyes and Gatsby tapping his fingers on the table beside him. After a particularly bright flash of lightning, Nick opened his eyes to the sound of Gatsby leaping to his feet, and saw the man standing with one hand gripping the chair and the other clenched at his side.
“Gatsby, what’s the matter with you today? Is all this Daisy business afflicting you that much?” Nick, who was thoroughly concerned for the man now, stood and made his way over to Gatsby.
“Daisy? Oh, right, I’m very upset she’s not here yet. If you’ll excuse me now, I’m just going to head on home, old sport, it’s getting very late,” Gatsby rambled, heading for the door faster than Nick could stop him. It was only when he reached for the door handle that Nick grabbed his arm, steered him away from the exit and sat him, somewhat forcefully, back down in the chair.
“You can’t run from this forever, Gatsby! And you most certainly cannot go outside in this rain!” Nick sighed and sat opposite him on the sofa, rubbing his eyes in frustration.
“Old sport, you don’t understand, I–” More thunder outside cut him off and Gatsby inhaled sharply, clutching at the chair. Nick watched him do this and the pieces began to come together in his mind.
“Are you sure it’s about Daisy?” he asked, as Gatsby glanced, wide-eyed, out the window at a tree branch that was snapped from its trunk and flying about haphazardly in the wind. Gatsby turned to face Nick, and for the first time since meeting him Nick saw genuine fear in his eyes. Not the usual anxiety that Gatsby showed whenever they spoke of Daisy, to be instantly covered by his charismatic persona, but unmistakable distress.
Gatsby said nothing, but Nick could see that his hands were trembling before he clasped them together tightly and looked at the floor. “Gatsby, are you…afraid of the storm?” Nick asked quietly. Gatsby let out a strained sound somewhere between a chuckle and a whimper and waved his hand at Nick.
“Afraid? Of a storm? Goodness, no, old sport, I- I’m merely startled by the noise!”
“If you say so,” Nick said, leaning into the sofa, but keeping an eye on Gatsby, who continued to drum his fingers nervously on the table. A few moments passed, no sounds but the rain filling the room.
“Old sport, y- you don’t happen to have a quieter room in the house? Say, a spacious closet or something of the sort?” Gatsby stammered, eyes still locked on the floor.
“Well, the bedroom’s a bit quieter, but I’m not sure it’ll help much,” Nick suggested. He assumed that Gatsby’s idea of a closet was a lavish room twice the size of Nick’s entire cottage. “What for?”
“The noise, of course! It’s far too distracting,” Gatsby said.
“Distracting from what, exactly?”
Gatsby hesitated, and a boom of thunder made him jump to his feet instantly. “Oh, all right, old sport, maybe storms like this make me a little tense. But that’s hardly anything to be ashamed of! I mean, this house of yours looks as if it’s going to blow away any moment now!” Nick frowned.
“What’s wrong with my house?” he asked.
“Oh, nevermind that, old sport, let’s just move to a more comfortable room so we don’t have to listen to this racket!” Gatsby buttoned his jacket and motioned for Nick to stand, and Nick walked down the hall with Gatsby practically only a few inches behind. Once they entered the bedroom, Gatsby frantically closed the door and all of the windows, drawing the curtains until the room was dim. Nick sighed and turned on a nearby lamp.
“Really, Gatsby, all this over a little rain?” The thunder still sounded overhead, though ever so slightly muffled this time.
“And it’s not even any quieter!” cried Gatsby, resuming his pacing back and forth while Nick sat comfortably on the bed.
“Maybe it would be best if you calmed down a bit,” suggested Nick. “Today’s been rather stressful for the both of us and I think that you could use some rest.” He moved over to allow a space beside him on the bed, and Gatsby sat reluctantly.
“I don’t usually mind the rain, you know,” he said to Nick. “In my house, the guest bedroom on the ground floor has a rather cozy little closet that blocks out nearly all this horrid thunder!”
“You hide in a closet during storms?”
“Not hide, old sport! I just relax in a small room!” Gatsby’s voice shook a little as lightning illuminated the outline of the curtains. Nick said nothing for a second, trying to imagine Gatsby locked in a dark closet, waiting for a storm to end.
“Alone? By god, Gatsby, that’s awful!” Nick said.
“Well, after years alone in that house I’ve sort of gotten used to it,” Gatsby confessed, his face turning a little pink in the lamplight. Nick felt suddenly very sorry for the man and they sat in silence for a while, neither of them looking at the other. The pause stretched on for ages, Gatsby still noticeably tense beside Nick.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally, glancing over at Gatsby. Green eyes met brown, and Gatsby’s gaze softened a little, though his hand remained tightly holding onto the blanket.
“I’m sorry for you, old sport, having to put up with me like this. First all the Daisy nonsense, and now the weather…” He trailed off quietly. Nick reached for Gatsby’s hand and took it in his own, feeling his trembling subside until thunder rumbled again and Gatsby squeezed Nick’s hand so tightly he was afraid it would break.
“Ah, sorry,” Gatsby apologized again, withdrawing his hand, but another flash of lightning had him clinging to Nick once again with a clammy palm.
“It’s no trouble, Gatsby. It’ll be over soon,” Nick said, unsure of what else to say. He wanted to help him, truly, but the empty reassurance of words did not feel substantial and he opted for the physical support of holding his hand. Minutes passed, and the rain lightened up marginally; the thunder became muted and the lightning subsided to a few small forks every so often. The wind stopped howling and whipped by as a harsh breeze instead, and the softness of the raindrops on the roof was a little more agreeable. Gatsby relaxed, loosening his grip on Nick and leaning back on the bed, still shaken by the disturbance.
“Better now?” asked Nick, letting go of Gatsby’s hand, reluctantly to his surprise. He found that he desired that small physical connection with him. Gatsby just nodded, breathing slowly to regain his composure.
“Yes, old sport…I really should be going,” he added rather unconvincingly, standing to leave. Nick watched him pull back the curtains, debating between showing him out or inviting him to stay longer. Gatsby’s face was still concerningly pale and his movements were unsure, free of the usual grace and stability, and Nick worried for him if the storm was to return.
“You’re welcome to stay,” Nick said, the words leaving his mouth before he knew, and then Gatsby turned to him with the first genuine smile Nick had seen all day. That same smile he had seen at the party at the start of the summer, the smile that attracted Nick’s full attention like nothing else. Gatsby reclaimed his spot on the bed, and as they sat there Nick realized he hadn’t a clue what to say. Nick suddenly felt very hot, like the room was closing in around them and shifted away from Gatsby a little, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt to get some air. Gatsby seemed to notice Nick’s discomfort and looked at him quizzically.
“Are you certain I can stay? I don’t want to intrude,” Gatsby said, motioning to the door.
“Of course, Gatsby," Nick said quickly. “Sorry, I was just thinking about something.”
“Must be something exciting,” Gatsby remarked. “Your face is quite red.” Nick brought a hand to his face to feel the heat, humiliated. The truth was, it had just occurred to him that Gatsby was sitting on his bed with him, and that smile had purged all thoughts that weren’t of the man from his head. They remained still a moment more, and then Gatsby put a hand on Nick’s shoulder and Nick could hardly concentrate on the words coming out of his mouth.
“I appreciate you, old sport,” he told him. “I’m not sure how to repay you for today.”
“You can start by taking the jungle back home with you,” Nick replied, laughing. “All these flowers look very out of place in my shabby old house.”
“You’re right, they are quite excessive, aren’t they?” Gatsby chuckled. Nick smiled, the feeling of Gatsby’s hand on his shoulder still very much consuming his thoughts. He was still smiling, in the most enticing way that Nick could not ignore. Gatsby wasn’t looking at him now, but Nick’s eyes roamed the man’s face, from his wavy chestnut hair to his chiseled jawline, and the stately profile between. He appreciated Gatsby too, and to his instant mortification he realized that the appreciation on his end was likely very different than Gatsby’s.
The last few raindrops were dripping slowly down the window as the clouds began to thin, and the silence that ensued had Nick wishing that the rain would come back to drown out the thoughts swirling in his head. “It rained a lot,” said Nick, breaking the silence to distract himself.
“Hm? Oh, yes, it did. The gardener will certainly take a long time tending to the grounds after this,” Gatsby said cordially.
“I suppose that means I’ll have to deal with the grass here,” Nick sighed.
“Nonsense, old sport, I’ll send someone over to do it for you,” Gatsby replied. Another pause ensued, somewhat awkwardly, and Nick was fully aware that Gatsby’s hand had not yet left his shoulder where it rested now. He looked over at Gatsby to find that he was being discreetly stared at, with an expression that he found very difficult to read. They made eye contact, and for a long moment Nick’s brain went completely blank before he tore his eyes away, clearing his throat and causing Gatsby to remove his hand from Nick’s shoulder.
That’s when it occurred to Nick that there must have been a reason that Gatsby chose to stay, a reason that he trusted Nick enough to confide in him and to seek the comfort he provided during the storm. And that there must be a reason now for Gatsby looking at him, the weight of his eyes making Nick’s heart beat faster. Gatsby’s gaze pinning Nick in his spot only fed his delusions until Gatsby averted his eyes again, cheeks flushed a delicate shade of red.
The lightest of touches on Nick’s leg drew his attention to Gatsby’s fingers resting gently on his thigh. When Nick’s eyes searched for Gatsby’s, they were nowhere to be found; he was staring at the ground, face now an alarmingly bright crimson.
“Gatsby…” he whispered, thinking this all too unreal to be happening, before Gatsby leaned in and all Nick could see were the wispy parts of his eyelashes, and all he could feel were Gatsby’s soft lips pressed firmly to his own. The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but to Nick it was an eternity of bliss that he didn’t know he needed. When they pulled apart, leaving Nick ravenously desiring more, Gatsby swallowed hard and lifted his hand from Nick’s leg.
“I- I’m sorry, old sport, I must’ve misunderstood someth-” Nick didn’t care about whatever it was Gatsby was trying to say, for he closed the gap between them instantly and returned the kiss with augmented passion. There was a rhythmic push and pull to their actions, and Nick soon found himself consumed by the exchanges of quiet breaths, the shifting of their bodies and the way their hands found each other in unison. Nick’s entire body longed for Gatsby in a way that made him understand with a crashing realization how easy it was to care for somebody so deeply.
Like the way Gatsby cared for Daisy.
The brief hesitation on Nick’s part could have easily been interpreted in any number of ways, but Gatsby seemed to take it as a signal to pull back, to Nick’s dismay. They broke apart slowly, and Nick’s eyes drank in the sweet sight of Gatsby’s face like a glass of lemonade on a hot summer day, much like the day they had met. In that moment, all Nick could do was painfully reminisce on their time together, the anticipated nostalgia of their most recent summer together overwhelmingly real. Nick wondered if Gatsby would ever care for him the way he had cared for Daisy, or if he would be able to care for Gatsby as much as the man deserved.
Thoughts of the past and future were no match for Nick’s current experience, though, and as he returned to Gatsby, pressing him down into the bed until Nick was lying on top, the present gained his full attention. As Nick’s hands grazed Gatsby’s waist, tracing their way up and down from his chest to his hips, Gatsby made faint, dulcet noises that spurred him further. The fabric separating them was plentiful and Nick carefully began to slide his hands along Gatsby’s jacket, pulling on it until he sat up to remove it along with his linen vest and tie. Though he secretly hoped for the shirt underneath to come off as well, Nick hastily unbuttoned his own clothes and returned to Gatsby, placing his mouth this time on the side of his neck.
This seemed to awaken something in Gatsby, whose breathing hitched as he grabbed at Nick’s back. He could smell him now, a clean, expensive-smelling scent reminiscent of late autumn afternoons. It was difficult for Nick to wrap his mind around the feedback from his senses. Kissing Gatsby was unlike anything he had ever felt; it was a high unlike any drug or alcohol, a tender affection that trumped that of any family or friends, a fluttering feeling in his stomach that could only be described as intense want.
How long they went on like that Nick hadn’t a clue, but eventually the heated passion cooled to slow, light kisses on foreheads and comforting embraces that could calm even the most abominable thunderstorms. If Nick could frame a moment from his life, he thought, he would choose this one. He wanted to experience Gatsby forever. To transcend time in his arms, to feel his touch, hear his thoughts, his fears and hopes, live in his past, present, and future, and learn every part of him that Nick had yet to discover until the end of eternity.
Gatsby’s fingers nestled in Nick’s hair as he lay his head on Gatsby’ chest, hearing his heartbeat and trying to memorize the rhythm of it. He wanted to remember the sound as a lifeline, or perhaps as a reminder of a soul intertwined with his own. The room, though silent to any other ears, echoed with quiet breathing and the sounds of small gestures of intimacy. Thumbs circling on forearms, lips pressing to the backs of hands, fingers connecting freckles across skin; all the little things that Nick had never imagined with anyone until now. Things that needed no words to have weight.
Gatsby exhaled softly. “Thank you, Nick.” The use of his given name made Nick’s face break into a smile.
“Whatever happened to being your ‘old sport’?” Gatsby chuckled at that.
“You know you’re so much more than that,” he said quietly, hugging Nick tightly.
“What am I to you, Gatsby?” Nick asked, voice barely audible. They remained there a moment in thought, and Nick hoped Gatsby was thinking the same thing he was.
“More than Daisy ever was,” he finally answered. “I think I love you, Nick Carraway.” The words warmed his heart.
“I love you too, Jay Gatsby,” Nick whispered, heart aching with feeling for the first time he could remember.
“And next time there’s a storm?”
“I’ll still love you, no matter how scared you are,” Nick murmured, looking up at Jay. “We can watch the clouds turn all gray instead.”
“I’d love to,” said Jay, intertwining Nick’s fingers with his.
“Really?” Nick asked incredulously. “Won’t you be scared?” Jay smiled affectionately, eyes beaming with joy. The beauty of him overwhelmed Nick.
“The silver lining is, I’ll be there with you,” he said after a moment. And as their lips met again, the storm clouds outside shimmered a little brighter than before.