Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

PERSPECTIVE:

Nick Carraway (First Person).

He was a god. The ‘Son’ of God. Sun god. New York’s truly, New York’s finest. Jay Gatsby. It wasn’t fair, any of it, and nor did it make any logical sense. He should have been good enough, but he wasn’t. Not for any of the people, not for the partygoers or the dope fiends. And not even my cousin, Dasiy. No one appreciated his brilliance, only his family whom he had abandoned;

And me. A man he had chosen.

Not Daisy. No, Daisy had rejected such things, even a romantic relationship, she had rejected. There is a certain envy and loathing I hold for her, because of that.

I had seen him embody death and life. Plentiful of times. The greediness of a wolf, but the glory of an Adonis, (or more so that was what he showed publicly), Jay Gatsby, no- pardon me, James Gatz, is perhaps my only friend in this entire damned city, no matter how demented in the head he is due to slaving over my cousin. Even now, as he laid the witness of near death, and took the blame of Daisy’s faults, (especially now), there was a respecting within his delirious, delusional manifestations.     

Yet he remained beautiful, just like the first time I had been noticed by him, and he had been noticed by me. Beautiful in the ways of his ambition and dreams – with his face that held such desires. It is possible, that he had bewitched me perhaps, with his wishfulness, that grown him exempt of my shame, and grown apart from my judgement. He was the only capitalist, the only man to embody such wealth that was free of my bias. In its full, greedy and esurient glory. A redamancy perhaps, not in love, no, he will never love me as I have even loved him in half or a quarter; but an exchange of understanding, even if the respect given was intrinsically patronizing.

James Gatsby. The black-market’s truly. The Grand Eye of the West Egg. A revolutionary of contemporary wealth. A revolutionary who was now assumed a criminal within the papers.
Even now- he had looked as young as he wished to know, as he laid down on his hospital cot. Young, not in his looks but in his ambitions- never ending talent and foolish wishes. Even as he laid unconscious on his resting space- his face was scrunched up with determination- from all the dreams I could only assume he held since his childhood.

“Fortune favours the fool.” That is what my father would say to me, and in this current time it had become even more apparent to me.

And now, here we all lay.

It had been originally the gunshot that have driven me in my worry. And made me wake up bed sicken with a fearing fever, damp in sweat.

“Well? What had happened?”

The first close person that had been alerted of Gatsby’s affair had been Jordan. She had immediately rung me in the early hours of the morning, not even past 5. Which was, frankly, quite alright with me since I was waking. Whilst she didn’t mention his name, it was an obvious question that regarded Gatsby’s fate.

“I myself do not know.” I rasped over the telephone, propping myself up on my elbows.

“Whatever do you mean? Hadn’t you called him at the time of the incident?” She demanded.
“Well yes, but it wasn’t as if he was coherent.”

There was a shuffle on the other side, with Jordan sighing.

“Well, it’s a shame. But it was the fault of his own illusions. As if Daisy would accept him- she’s a married woman.”

“You —” Sharply, I breathed in, supposing to remain a calm exterior. “You speak as if he is already dead.”

“Is he not?”
“No. He is not.”

Again, another line of silence, before a response:

“That is frankly surprising. You know, the ‘Streator Daily Times’  has been proclaiming otherwise. They have already assumed him to be near —”

Was this woman seriously going to behave with such vulgar attachment to the superficial, first thing in the morning? Such a nauseating thought passed over me, and I cut her off abruptly, although it was quite impulsive, honestly.

“Jordan.”

“What?”

I had considered retaliating with an insult in my grief and fury, but I am a decent man; so respectably, I attempted to restrain such emotion.

“Nothing.” I had replied. “I shall contact you later, it is far too early.”

“Oh Nick, don’t be a sissy. Whatever are you doing?”

“Whatever like what?”

“Nick —”

With a slam I ended the telephone.

And that was the end of that business.

It had been half past five- but by then I had already risen and was hastily changing into a thick coat, and respectable Newsboy hat. The outfit would’ve been spectacular, if it weren’t for the shame of the outer rain that pattered onto both bushes and me in the dull, grainy day. It had slathered me wet and breathed in my lungs to be devoid of any scent other than the fresh smell of drenched dirt and pure salt rain as I ran. Frankly, I will admit it was quite stupid – soaking up my shoes and wetting myself even more as I did so – but I flagged down a nearing taxi in time.

“Flower Fifth Avenue Hospital.” I panted, as I hurriedly rushed into the taxi. “It’s urgent, please.”
      The taxi-man had merely grunted, and I handed him 50 cents. In exchange, he handed me a recent newspaper. I had frowned as I looked down at it, and realised that it was not an accurate, intellectual newspaper at all. No, it had been quite the opposite- an impoverished tabloid that spat out and drank all obscene lies in order to entertain and eradicate the boredom of the ill public. This was in exchange for abusive profit and money given amidst such capitalization. And yet I read on.

Once reading that sentence, I had immediately stopped, scowling at the falsity and felt an overwhelming purge of bile and disgust fill my throat. Desperately, I had pulled out my hipflask from my coat which held alcohol, and I downed a quarter of it, staring into everything and nothing as the mundane sky surrounded the car. Supposedly the taxi—driver had noticed my face through the cop—spotter.

“Are you alright? You seem quite ill.” He had asked.
“Quite alright, thank you.” I rasped back, taking another weak swig. The taxi—driver chuntered at that.
“You better not be getting drunk in my car, the police may spot us, it is early after all.”
I nodded but said nothing in return, abiding— and retreated my flask back into the pocket of my coat.
He must’ve realised (perhaps) what I had been so negative about, as I could hear the tone of sympathy enter his voice as I closed my eyes. “If it’s bothering you, I suggest you don’t read the tabloids. They can be quite egregious. Especially in the early hours.”

And that was the issue, wasn’t it? I hummed in agreement; as there was such an egregious lack of humanity that had laid within the articles, parcelled as if the truth— and yet it was fictious, the lot of it. They knew nothing about him, not even his real name. Not his reasons as to why, not his knowledge as to how, not his genius for the determined creation of his mystery. His lie. The lies that covered a pile of truth that I only knew. They had nothing on James and yet they were hungry for more, even now as he had laid in his hospital bed; I could just imagine it, the vision vivid.

I had been the only one to see him naked. Not Daisy, no matter how many times they have slept together. I had been the only one. It was only imaginable, the horrors that he would have to face, as the man in the suit and illegal case. But he was in love with her, adoring her, and Daisy had arrogantly ignored his effort. And now he was a victim of a crime, taking the blame for something that he couldn’t ever have caused.

And I am unable to help him. What friend am I? That makes me a scoundrel and a mooch, a nothingness to him in my fear and my lack of social standing. I cannot do anything to stop such accusations hurling at him, and yet they burry him even as he lays asleep, locking him in a druggist bottle with a tight cork I cannot overleap.

I don’t know how to help Great Gatsby, or James Gatz. In fact, a man like me couldn’t possibly deserve to help a man like him, even despite his foolish and deluded genius. Lolling, my head rested on the side— pressing against the window, as I entertained in the drug of wool gathering. Realising it now, my life had admittedly been much more simpler during the times of my youth in the Midwest— childish yet unleashed in its witless talent. The grass had been fresher there, albeit the lack of anything amazing opportunity wise, but I suppose now that was the prettiness of it. Its minimalist simplicity.

Had Gatsby ever enjoyed the touch of the sun? Had he ever run within the fields uninhibited, despite the lack of wealth?
No. I doubt Gatsby had ever done that or will ever do in the future.
But I do know that James Gatz had. Perhaps that is why he chased after a daisy of hope, (and Daisy), so much within both of his personas. She was everything, not only the wealth and loveliness of a lady, but the sun.

A sun that shone light that James could only ever get from a woman. I don’t blame him. I am not a woman. I am not the sun. I am not even a planet in his universe. I am his friend, yes, but the only reason as to why we have even had our friendship to begin with was because of the flower. That makes me nothing, I am merely the tool— a watering can that Jay could easily throw out and replace with another, a watering can that is only used to sprout Daisy’s abundance. I am a particle, a thing and object of being in comparison to his splendour.
There was this thing with Jay. Perhaps he thought that if he just wished hard enough that he was practically married to the sun. That he could be, he himself, a sun of light. The son of light. A Sun god.
If I had met James instead of Jay, would he have treated me with such patronization, or would he love me more or the same?

What a question! It doesn’t matter anymore. As I am in this taxi to see Jay. James must be dead by now— and I am five years too old to be so delusional in my imaginaries.
Dawn had burst through the dull mundane sky, and gave it life, birthing the start to the new day. Ironically joyous despite the events occurring. I flickered down to the watch, before glancing back outside. It had been approximately already an hour since my departure, yet there was a seemingly long line of traffic in front of the hospital, which was now in my sight.

“Whatever is going on?”
“There seems to be some traffic stemming from the hospital.”

I grunt, and ready myself. “I shall stop here and walk onwards instead. Thank you for the ride, however.” I muttered, pulling out five dollars to the taxi—driver. He almost looked bewildered, as if about to reject the tip, but I left the car before he could, rushing within the street to reach the hospital. Honking in anger and annoyance, I felt a wave of shame by running so savagely in the middle of the road, and went onto the side—path, my Newsboy hat almost falling as I rushed so.

However, soon enough, there was a man in my sight, holding a pocket notebook and a fountain pen.
“Hello there, Mr Carraway.” The man opened one side his coat almost immediately, flashing his police pass within my face with subtle aggressiveness. I had been just in front of the hospital steps when he did this. He had stood tall, slightly more so than me, his hair neatly slicked back, albeit one strand that stubbornly poked out— his face bordering on handsome and pretty.
“I am an interviewer with the New York Daily Mirror. Do you have a minute or two to answer a few questions regarding Jay Gatsby? You have rumoured to be his friend.”

I had almost exploded in shock at this. How ever had they learnt about me? There was a sudden refusal and anger that raised within me, not at the man particularly, but at myself— for being so careless to the point that I was considered one of the prejudiced upperclassmen. That I was a pawn in Gatz’s watered down tragedy the tabloids had revelled and showed? And there was such a careless, almost neutral and unbothered look within the man’s eyes— almost as if he was blind to how morally wrong his profession was, how invasive and twisted and corrupt his job really was.

It twisted his face grotesquely to me. A monster had laid within his forehead – wrinkling it, and suddenly the man’s face looked rather vilely vapid.

I replied.
“Thank you for being respectful, I have no comment at this moment; I am busy. Perhaps another time?”
With a weak smile, I walked away, and continued up the stairs, until I reached the entrance, and opened the door with a slight screech against the floor— dashing towards the reception.

It was boring and dull again, after that. They hadn’t believed my word immediately, when I initially stated to be a close companion and friend of Jay, but after some prodding and convincing (with the subtle use of extra money within the cheque), they soon walked me over to his private room, but not before the long stretch of 25 minutes in time that I had to wait for qualification.

And as I opened the door, there he had laid.

He wasn’t unconscious in the literal sense, but I could sense he was unconscious to the surroundings around him, unconscious and completely buried within the valley of his thoughts, as he laid huddled in front of the brick fireplace within his private room. The walls were a dull, dark green, stretching across- and an intricate tapestry laid above the mahogany double full bed, that supposedly held Gatsby when he was wounded. It held a beautiful embroidery of two semi-nude women – embraced flowerbed. Druggist bottles and medicinal alcohol, both legal and illegal were scattered on a nearby shelf, and it all looked so full, yet so bare and almost dreary in its nature.
Standing there at the doorway, it was visible as to how the cute-hued pink curtains darkened and dimmed the room; leaving the only thing that illuminated Gatsby’s face to be the lambent flame of the fireplace. It was as equally as pathetic as it was true and vulnerable, and I had never seen such a wail of departure from Gatsby, not since the drunken night that which he confessed all his sins. I stepped onto the carved and sculpted wooden ground, marked with vines and flowers of a such- admirable, though a bit dated.

“Mr. Gatsby, you have a visitor.” The nurse who had guided me to his room informed, before swiftly leaving.

Jay’s head twisted almost immediately, eyes half lidded and somewhat swollen within the dark, tears dried on his cheeks.

“Old Sport?” He croaked, eyes widening slightly as they focused on me, almost unbelieving.
I took more steps inside, until I was almost right behind Jay- was when he crawled, and lunged himself at me, hugging the lower part of my body as he shook and trembled. “Oh, old sport– she lied to me!” He sobbed, almost childlike as he faintly wetted the legs of my pants.

Such a sight was a depravity, and yet I ran my fingers through his hair, sighing and carding him closer, as he pressed his face into my upper thigh.
“I have been dishonest and ignorant. I should have listened to you.” He muttered. “Do you think she will change her mind, reading the news? Do you think she will at least visit me?”

“I beg of you to rest, Jay, you’re not well.” I answered back, attempting to be tender. “You will sicken yourself even more, slaving over her.” As if any sympathy softened the evident wound that bled out Gatsby, the wound that was far more different to the literal one in his chest. No, this one was in his heart.

Jay was heaving, blubbering and hiccupping, and I had to rub his back and pet his hair for a few moments, before he finally calmed with a weak cough, still having his arms wrapped around my waist.
“…Could you pass me the blanket, Old Sport? And do get the tea-flask.” he mumbled quietly after a few moments.
I obliged and tried to delicately escape from his tightening grip, which seemed to sluggishly melt away as I did so, walking towards the bed and retrieving the downy sheets and a pair of cups with the vacuum flask, before handing it to him; in which he wrapped the blanket around himself. I then placed my Newsboy hat on the bedside table.

“Do sit, Old Sport.” He ordered. I once again obliged and did.
There was a certain evident forlorn and misery to him, looking at him now. An evident nothingness that ate at his heart.

“I apologize for my lack of formality earlier.” He croaked with a mutter, before throwing the blanket around my back as well- and shuffled close, so much so that I could vision the vivid tint of his eyes, his eyes that I used to envision seeing up close.

“No, not at all. Though, I do scold you for being so damned careless with yourself Gatsby.” I muttered, sinking on the floor and crossing my legs now. Pouring him and myself tea within the cups. With slightly shaking hands, I took it to my mouth, before wincing and grimacing slightly – but politely tried to hide it.

He must’ve noticed my expression, as he himself smiled wryly. “Right? Doesn’t it taste hideous? I tried brewing it myself. Turns out my talents are at lack.”

He laughs, and no matter the underlying anguish and secret saccharine that laid underneath it, I joined, and there was the subtle reminiscence of a smile that remained on his lips. It was at that moment that I grinned fully and unabashedly. I had done that.
Ravelled skeins of the blanket were what my fingers idly picked at, and there was this hint in his eyes. It was all so different than the original, first look he had given me during his party, on that god-forsaken night. No, it was benign of any secrecy and scarcity. It there sat, purely naked, and in similar nature, purely kind- with nothing in secret but it’s unsaid appetence and interest in this shared time. In our conversation. Such simplicity suddenly felt abstruse to me, foreign from the usual complexity of Gatsby.

No, this had to be James Gatz looking at me.

I smiled to myself, as he slowly rested his head on my shoulder.
The last thing I remember before my eyes shut was the gentle breathing of his breath that ghosted the skin of my throat, before everything slowly turned into a darkened bliss.

If such things are a scandal and a disease amongst two men, then let me lay in my sweet, tainted sickness.