Chapter 1: Discontent
Chapter Text
“Don't kill yourself, Nick, not over some woman.”
Nick sighed, limply taking Tom’s proffered drinking glass in hand. “I wasn't planning on it.”
“Good man,” Tom nodded, “Honestly, where’s that broad get off? Trying to break your heart. Damn her.”
Nick was so tired of the sound of Tom’s voice.
“She didn't break my heart, Tom.” He said, dryly, wondering if the man ever shut his trap. “We were together. We had different wants. So now we aren't.”
“So you didn’t stand your ground?” Tom sounded disgusted, “You can’t let a woman walk all over you, have a spine.”
“That’s not what I said,” Nick took a sip, ugh. Whiskey. “I was the one who ended things.”
It was the most personal end to a relationship Nick had had. They’d been discussing marriage.
It had started with Jordan– talking about how Daisy really should leave Tom. She’d asked if Nick agreed, and he’d talked around it. It wasn’t due to be contemptuous, and he knew she knew how he really felt about the matter.
She did, and she didn’t mind when he’d nod and say “Perhaps” when he meant “Yes.”
It was nice, to indulge in gossip, without betraying his father’s good sense. To be understood, in something unforgivable, and to have never committed any sin himself.
Somehow the topic had spiraled from there. Become about the pair of them.
Marriage.
“Perhaps,” he’d said again. “Maybe,” she’d agreed. “One day.” They said, dismissing the subject and moving on from there.
Nick supposed, if he had to find himself married, Jordan was far from a bad choice.
Love had never been in the books for him, he knew that– Jordan, he was fairly certain, knew that as well.
She was probably the closest he could come to falling for someone. He liked her. She interested him.
Sociable enough to keep him from being overlooked, not too brazen to make him a spectacle. Intelligent enough for equal conversation, well humored, and attractive to boot.
He didn’t typically catalog bodies as an aspect of relationships, but Jordan Baker fit perfectly against her side. She was slim enough for his hand to grasp against her waist with ease, yet toned, strong. He quite liked her shoulders– she was broad and steady, able to hold him if the situation called for it. It wouldn’t, he would never ask for that. But it was nice to know.
Nick couldn’t really imagine being married to a waifish, little thing, the type of young woman prone to swooning and stumbling. He supposed he’d be too reminded of Daisy.
He grimaced at the thought, taking another sip. His throat burned at the action and Tom said something that Nick didn’t bother to hear. He was so tired.
Jordan was a modern kind of gal, so they weren’t likely to have children.
That was fine.
Any child of his would be damned to be like him. No decent person would want that.
And any child of Jordan’s… He winced at the thought of her driving, her entire world’s philosophy– her lack of respect for anyone above her, and her lack of regard for her equals. Her dishonesty, the disloyalty…. She’d be a terrible mother. It was a relief, knowing that even if they were wed, she would not rear children bearing their combined attributes.
If they were married– He could focus on his work, she would do the same.
They’d live together. Probably house her aunt till the woman died. She was a strange one, that great aunt of Jordan’s. Nick hadn’t developed any favor or repulsion to her. She wasn’t really anything of a person.
Once she was dead, if he and Jordan were husband and wife, things would become rather monotonous. They would share dinner and regular conversation. They’d probably share a bed, as well, if not for any reason besides propriety.
The golfer didn’t seem to mind the briefness of his kisses, and indulged his occasional desire to simply hold her. Her hair was short enough to not become irritating, when she’d rest her head against the crook of his neck, or when he would do the same.
Intimacy would be bearable, probably.
If it wasn’t, Nick suspected she didn’t care enough for him as a person to be bothered by skipping it.
She’d probably rather talk to him about everyone else’s lives than live one of her own.
He supposed he’d opt to do the same, though, so who was he to point fingers?
Such a life would be about little more than convenience. But it would be better than anything their neighbors had going on.
All the falsities, the cheating, the madness– He could click his tongue at the thought of it. A romantic relationship, he felt, required no disagreeability– it was all about what worked and what did not. It was baffling how unsuccessful his neighbors were in this regard.
With all of this in mind, it was shocking– truly shocking, when he woke up a few days after speaking with Jordan, feeling as if he’d made a pact with the devil.
“Oh- Tom, are you bothering poor Nick? Honestly, I shouldn’t leave the two of you alone.”
“He’s fine, Daisy, just telling me how….”
Ugh. Nick allowed his mind to drift away once more.
It had been wretched.
It was this weather, really. The latter end of summer days always made him a touch too aware of himself.
The hot sun would paint sweat upon his skin, gluing him to his clothes, forcing him to remember the fact of his having a body.
“Nick?” Daisy again.
“Sorry, what was I saying?” Nick asked, blinking and forcing his gaze his second cousin’s way.
She looked worried. Bright doe eyes, whose wideness was only besmirched by her furrowed brow.
“You were saying the weather? Made you end things with Jordan?”
“Oh.”
Nick sighed and thought for a moment, of the most polite way to phrase it to his relative, and to a friend of Jordan’s.
Human bodies. The most repulsive thing Nick could imagine, really.
He knew many soldiers, who’d gone to war and seen them, piled high– and developed this revulsion.
Something was terribly sad about them, people would say, tragic even.
Not Nick.
He couldn’t think of a body he could stand without layers of clothing shielding it from touch. From sight.
Even his own form, dormant beyond his control, pliant or taut– was something horribly wrong. Disgusting, even.
“Well, you know how summer is. Makes all of us a bit more irritable.”
Tom held his own glass up in toast to that but Daisy’s concerned expression remained. Nick smiled at her, somewhat apologetically.
Summer was the closest earth got to hell, if you asked Nick.
The heat– the insufferable heat, had held him, felt him– made him all too aware of the wrongness. The ache. His clothing. His body. Other bodies. People. Words.
Stuck in a state where nothing could be fixed, nothing could be felt– all with the scorching pill to swallow of an impending engagement.
He would, some day, have to go to Jordan and invite her to share his bed. Beg her to interlock her hand with his, bind himself to her– he would have to WANT it.
He was supposed to want it.
He WANTED to want it.
“We just weren’t compatible, really.”
She was the only type of woman he could ever imagine marrying.
She fit his every standard.
But she was still TOO MUCH.
Men like him were not supposed to feel averse to these matters, but here he was.
Lord, he’d wanted to say, glaring up to the heavens. Damn you for what you’ve made me. Why would you do this? Am I so evil? So terrible? That I deserve this lacking?
He didn’t.
But he’d wanted.
But he hadn’t wanted.
He couldn’t want.
He tried.
It had taken him weeks to say anything. He simply continued to spend time with her, wishing such ungodly contempt would leave him.
It wouldn’t.
He couldn’t live like this, sickened by the thought of a bride. He couldn’t force a woman– not even a woman capable of evil, to be captive in his tortured life.
So he told her they shouldn’t be married, after all.
“She agreed.”
Are you serious? She’d asked, staring at him with more surprise than he’d anticipated.
He’d almost wanted her to be angry, to punish him for this.
She hadn’t.
Okay. She’d said. After thinking. We won’t get married. Do you still want to see me?
Nick hadn’t replied.
He was pretty sure she knew the answer.
He paid for her meal.
“And that was that.”
…
“Oh,” Daisy said, with a wobble to her lip, “Nicky, dear, that is just the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“No, it isn’t,” Tom rolled his eyes, motioning for Daisy to leave, “Now please, let the man speak without your fussing.”
Nick went to take another sip and was surprised to find his glass was empty.
“Huh.” He muttered, eyeing it. It must’ve been pretty weak, if he hadn’t noticed.
Tom brightened at the sight. “You want another?”
“No,” Nick said, feeling the distance between him and everyone else settle in a thick fog, wrapping around his neck and over his eyes. It felt like a sleepless night, and he didn’t want another one of those. “I’m quite alright, thank you, Tom.”
He allowed himself to glance out the window, eyes skimming the green trail upon the water, up to the shadow of a dock.
“I oughta head home.”
“You’ve been drinking, Nick,” Daisy said with a frown. “Maybe you should stay here. And- you know, I don’t like the idea of you out there in that little lonely place.”
Tom had seemed prepared to interrupt, but by the end of the sentence, he was nodding in conjunction. “Yeah, it really is a shit place,” He tacked on. Daisy shot him a dirty look, but he ignored it. “Stay for the night, huh? I’ll make sure you forget all about Jordan Baker.”
Nick wasn’t sure if there was anything painful about remembering Jordan.
It wasn’t pleasant, obviously. But it didn’t hurt.
The idea of plastering on a polite expression and listening to… whatever it is Tom and Daisy wanted to say to him, whatever caused them to extend invitation, felt far more exhaustive than just sitting in the dark contemplating what was wrong inside.
He wouldn’t sleep that night, that’s for sure.
“Thank you, for the offer,” He said, rising anyway, “But my bed’s calling my name.”
“Oh,” Daisy sounded guilty, “Right, of course, you’re tired. You’ve had a hard month.”
He hadn’t.
He thanked her anyway, and left with relative ease.
…
He lit a candle and placed it in the window, before settling in a chair in his living room. He’d pulled out a journal and tried to write.
The words wouldn’t come to him.
He’d stalked into his bedroom and pulled out his typewriter, hoping a change in medium might bring a new bought of motivation.
It didn’t.
“Why do I bother trying to write?” He muttered, to no one in particular.
He thought about tearing his journal to pieces. Or using scissors to dice at it. Or, perhaps just cutting into a slab of meat.
He wanted to do something. To feel something.
But he wouldn’t.
He sat very still, and buried his hands in his hair.
Even this was not a private enough affair. His stomach lurched with the feeling of eyes on him and he hissed, discontentedly under his breath.
Nick Carraway was supposed to be an agreeable, somewhat warm man.
The bastard cursing to himself hiding in the dark was not supposed to exist.
He dragged himself to the window and blew out the candle.
Chapter Text
“Old Sport!” Gatsby crowed, running down a few of the steps in order to greet the other with more speed, than to merely wait for him to approach, “You made it!” He wrapped an arm round Nick’s shoulders– hand firmly squeezing his forearm momentarily, grinning, seeming WAY more excited than Nick had anticipated.
For a moment, Nick stood still, entirely stunned and bewildered by the enthusiastic greeting. There were very few parties hosted by the man that he hadn’t attended– not after his initial invitation. And the other man had been so weirdly insistent this day, calling to ensure his presence.
He’d assumed that had something to do with the whole Jordan situation– given Daisy’s worries surrounding it. She’d probably gone to Gatsby and whispered about sad, strange Nick, who couldn’t grieve a breakup correctly.
Ugh.
He didn’t want to think about that at a party.
The dark haired man forced himself to relax, allowing his shoulders to sag and chuckling politely, tilting his head and distantly wondering what the event’s host could possibly be up to.
“Yes, I did,” Nick agreed with a smile, unsure if he was supposed to wait for Gatsby to release him or move from his hold himself, “Were you worried I wouldn’t?”
It was a comical thought, with his place being no more than a minute’s walk away. He eyed his own dwelling, and Gatsby turned, following Nick’s line of sight before he turned back to face him and shook his head.
“No, of course not,” Gatsby dismissed, “I’m just happy to see you,” With that said, and without giving Nick any opportunity to process– he linked their arms and dashed into the building, dragging his neighbor in stride.
Nick scrambled to match his pace, baffled to suddenly be dragged along like a child’s beloved ragdoll.
“Hello!”
“Having a good night?”
He tugged experimentally at his arm, but found Gatsby’s grip was quite insistent.
“This is Nick!”
“Hi!”
“Are you acquainted with Mr. Carraway?”
“Good evening!”
It was impossible to get a word- or a breath- in, the way Gatsby was dragging Nick through the hopelessly crowded place. It was far too hot and loud for such actions– and Nick was finding himself far dizzier than he’d anticipated, all endured in sobriety.
There was no escaping this. No room he could dive into. No person who could simply be tuned out.
He was entirely at Gatsby’s disposal and for WHAT?
“Have you two met?”
“Enjoying the event?”
“Sir!”
He was starting to think this had nothing to do with HIM and Gatsby had simply developed a taste for some sort of crazy new drug. It was difficult to imagine anything that would create such sporadic behavior.
Nick made a mental note to ask for his supplier.
“Ma’am!”
“Sir!”
“I’m!”
Though Nick supposed he could’ve been bitten by some sort of rabid creature or something. His gaze skirted curiously to Gatsby’s lips. He didn’t seem to be foaming or drooling, or anything similarly unsightly.
He had very chapped lips though. He was probably seriously dehydrated.
“He’s!”
“Have you-”
“Would you-”
Whatever the reason, Gatsby seemed to have utterly lost himself to madness, running amok and repeating the same social niceties like a trained parrot.
If he’d been given any sort of warning, Nick was sure he wouldn’t have minded such strange activity. Having it thrust upon him, however, led his mind to wander. Was there some sort of reason behind this awkward surprise? He hoped it had nothing to do with-
“Miss Baker!”
Nick was actually becoming certain he’d died and gone to hell. Here was the secret plan. He’d been set up.
Mindless social interactions were nothing but Gatsby buttering him up before flaying him alive– he probably thought it was a favor, that he’d intrude on Nick’s romantic affairs as he had asked Nick to do for him.
The devil himself could not do a crueller thing and Nick internally prayed for this to not go too uncomfortably.
Before Nick could say or do anything, Gatsby continued greeting the young woman, without any change in demeanor. “How lovely to see you, are you enjoying the evening?”
Nick blinked.
Subtlety wasn’t Gatsby’s strong suit, and…. It didn’t sound like he was aware of anything tension-drawing between Jordan and himself. He sneaked a glance Jordan’s way, curious of her own reaction to such an awkward occurrence.
If she was confused, or irate, at this sight, she did nothing to convey it– simply nodding and answering the party’s host.
“Yes, Mr. Gatsby, you throw quite the party.” She replied, cool and collected as always, burgundy painted lips tugged into an impersonal smile.
“Thank you, thank you!” Gatsby said, a touch too fast, and with that said, he whirled in circles around many more random partygoers.
“Go on old sport,” Gatsby would say, clutching Nick impossibly closer, “Tell them about your work!”
“I, ehm, sell bonds?”
Nick at least took comfort in the fact that everyone seemed equally confused by… whatever was happening.
…
As with all parties, there was eventually a lull in conversation, but before Gatsby could correct it, Nick took advantage of quiet.
“Gatsby,” He pulled his now uncomfortably sweaty arm from the other man’s grasp and cocked his head to the side, soft eyes squinting with the trepidation of one without their reading glasses. “What are we doing?”
“Socializing with the partygoers of course,” Gatsby answered easily, eyes flitting longingly back to the other’s arm, “Why do you ask?”
Nick frowned and motioned for the other man to stay put and moved to the refreshments table. It was a huge crowd to get through, as was customary for an event at Gatsby’s place. He huffed in displeasure while muttering more excuse me’s and pardon’s than had ever been necessary and at long last wound up at the table.
All he could find was champagne, and not for the first time, he mentally cursed at all of the frivolities gatsby went through for these events. He squinted, trying to see if he could find any waitstaff who could just hand him a glass of water, when a finger tapped at his shoulder.
“Jordan!” Nick startled, eyes widening, “Hi, sorry, I was-”
“Looking for water?”
“Yes, I-” Nick paused and blinked at her. “How did you…?”
Jordan huffed a laugh, tilting her head to a nearby table.
“I’m sitting over there, come on– you won’t find anything you’re looking for in a crowd.”
“Right.”
It was a brief trek, and once they were seated, Jordan raised a delicate hand.
She arched her wrist just so, and Nick couldn’t help but be impressed at how fast a wait staff member was attracted to the sight.
“Ma’am?”
“Hi, could you bring me a glass of water please?” Jordan said, flashing a red lipped smile.
She was terribly charismatic, and not for the first time, Nick found himself envying the ease with which she navigated social affairs.
“Thanks, you’re a peach,” Jordan purred with confident ease, before refocusing on Nick. “I was surprised to see you tonight.”
“I’m surprised to be here,” Nick admitted, feeling rather on display. “But Gatsby felt the need to ensure I was coming.”
“Again?” Jordan raised her eyebrows, “That man sure is fond of you, Carraway.”
“Not really, it’s all just about Daisy. You know that.”
Jordan hummed, and allowed her gaze to drop back to the table.
“...Have you been well?” Nick asked, a tad uncertain where to go from here. He had so few exes and he’d certainly never run into one after their relationship’s culmination. It felt strange to even consider Jordan in that light, she didn’t really feel like someone who had… any connection to him. Just a friend of Daisy’s and a part of the scene.
“Yeah,” Jordan laughed as she responded, “I’m perfectly fine. How’ve you been? Daisy says you’ve been despondent without me.”
Despite her playful tone, Nick caught a sad lilt at the end of her sentence. Another question perhaps? Jordan seemed intent on being unreadable in intention, eyeing Nick with a rigidly casual demeanor.
Daisy seemed to believe Jordan mattered much more to Nick than she really did, and he wondered if she was asking if there was a lick of truth in that. Did losing her hurt. Did he care about her at all?
Against his nature, he felt a stab of irritation at his cousin. Why the hell was Daisy gossiping about his affairs and feelings? Was it not bad enough that Tom was?
Goodness, between the two of them and a child too young to develop memory, it seemed that house had no sense in it.
He cursed at himself for thinking that, there was no need to be callous.
Out loud, Nick forced a polite chuckle. “It’s kind of her to care, but I assure you– I’m perfectly alright.”
Regret came quickly with such a tactless reply– it indicated her insignificance in his life, and no woman wanted to imagine such a thing.
He cleared his throat, and sat back, “Well, what I mean to say is that I’m managing myself capably.”
Jordan’s expression tightened momentarily, and for a moment, Nick thought she would say something against him. She didn’t, simply nodded and smiled back, little white teeth bared and reminding him of a dog’s warning growls.
“Yeah, sure.” They were quiet, for a second, before she added. “Tom says you hate me.”
Nick couldn’t withhold an eyeroll at this and Jordan barked out a surprised laugh at the action. Before she could say anything in response, Nick spoke again.
“You know Tom.”
“Unfortunately, I do,” Jordan said, seeming much more relaxed, “Did he call me any names?”
“No, of course not.” Nick lied, certain one must not repeat illicit insults to a lady.
“Mm,” Jordan mused, sipping from a champagne flute Nick hadn’t noticed she had. He regretted not grabbing one himself, having nothing to do with his hands. He wouldn’t be able to focus now, with the thought in mind, and awkwardly clasped his fingers together.
It felt unnatural– tender skin that shouldn’t be touched intersecting with its brethren. His focus shifted to his knuckles and he squeezed at them, hoping the pressure would be a suitable distraction.
“You’re still the same as ever, I see.”
Nick considered asking what that meant. If it were in reference to their current topic of Tom? About hands? If she was calling him a liar?
Too many options…
It would be better not to dig, no good conversation can come out of asking after oneself.
“As are you.” He said in return, deciding that was the safest reply.
“Thank you,” She said, reclining slightly and smirking. It seemed he’d made the right choice. Nick’s eyes traced the dimple cutting into her cheek– wondering if she was aware of it, or if it was a gesture to indicate a falsely casual demeanor. “So, how’s Gatsby?”
“He’s…” Nick frowned, Gatsby had been strange. Stranger than typical, if it could be believed.
The other man had called Nick, a little past afternoon, just a handful of minutes after he’d returned from work.
It had been a brief call, simply checking if Nick was intending on attending this very party.
And the hypothetical opioid, or animal bite, or dehydration induced mania… He supposed it wasn’t his business to share.
“I don’t know.” He said with a shrug.
“You don’t know?” Jordan repeated, raising a thin eyebrow, “You’ve been hanging off his arm all evening.”
Nick’s face burned faintly at the thought.
“Well, we weren’t really talking,” He excused, before clearing his throat, “It was mostly just…. Him talking to other guests.”
“And you were just, what, stationary for this?”
He stumbled to reply, caught off guard by her oddly interrogative question, “Well, I said hello to people, but-”
It seemed such a statement did not satiate whatever it was she was REALLY asking, because she decided to abruptly change the subject.
“Are we friends, Carraway?”
Nick paused at this, not expecting such a question. “I-” He blanched, unsure of what that entailed. “Pardon?”
Dark eyes Nick couldn’t name the color of, a strange muddy blend of…. Grays and browns and blues… peered back at him, visibly unimpressed.
“It’s not that difficult of a concept,” Jordan said, sounding a touch annoyed, apparently done with explanation.
That seemed rather unfair. They’d been having one conversation and out of nowhere, she’d thrown him this new subject to grapple with.
“Well,” He said, trying to think of the best answer. It was definitely a trick question, but it was hard to imagine which was the best answer. What if she did not consider them well acquainted enough to warrant the term? Or, worse, what if she felt that he should see her as beyond such phrasing, and still wanted to hold onto the idea of a romance between them?
After all, not very long ago, there were soon-to-be spouses, and he couldn’t ignore the sanctity of such a thing.
But if she was asking, that could imply she desired a more gentle closeness. Friendship, something much more valuable than an arbitrary thing like love– the choice to care for, and spend time with another, without any sort of obligation beyond platonic companionship.
Nick had very few friends, and he was fairly certain he had none of the fairer sex.
He was pretty sure he’d heard, at some point, that a man and a woman cannot– or should not– be friends.
He supposed there was Daisy, but she hardly counted, being his blood relation and the wife of a former classmate.
And the lover of his obsessive neighbor.
His neighbor who’d caused his arm to cramp tonight.
Nick frowned at the thought, his social life had taken a tumultuous turn at some point. Why were these the people he spent his time around anyway?
Nick’s brief crisis was interrupted by a curt server setting a colored glass before Jordan.
“Your water, miss.”
Jordan didn’t say anything to the server, but looked at Nick. He wasn’t sure what changed, but she seemed to age in a breath, looking much more tired down and over things than she had a moment prior.
“Better not keep him waiting,” Jordan said, tone weighted with the desire to say something else.
“Jordan-”
She ignored him, moving from the table and finding a group to converse with in seconds, not even bothering to look back at him.
Nick considered following her, finishing… whatever this interaction was. It still wasn’t clear what he ought to be doing. Apologizing maybe. Answering?
His throat felt tight at every thought,
This was probably for the best. It had already been five minutes since he’d walked away from Gatsby, and he should be getting back to him anyway.
He was half convinced the man would faint. It would be terrible, Nick thought, to faint at a party of your own hosting. Terrible to faint at all of course– he’d certainly had his own spells, thrust into unconsciousness in the throes of heat and anxiety, but at a big event where your personal home is what you need to seek reclusion from? Awful to imagine.
So, he took the glass with a sigh and ambled back to Gatsby, pausing only to take a champagne glass for himself, before returning to his host.
He held both carefully, and walked somewhat slowly, hoping to avoid spillage from either glass.
“Okay, I’m back-” Nick stopped at the sight of Gatsby, sitting in a chair, pouting down at his shoes. He held a startling likeness to a child being forced to wear a dunce cap, and it was so confusing Nick looked around, curious if anyone had slapped the man or something to warrant this. WIth no one in sight, he was forced to ask “what are you doing?”
“What’s that?” Gatsby asked, gaze fixed on Nick’s hands.
“Oh, that’s for you,” Nick handed it to him, his knuckles briefly brushing against the other’s fingertips, “It’s just water.”
Gatsby blinked in surprise but accepted it, holding it forward and staring at it testily. He took a cautious sip.
“...Refreshing.” He commented, looking up at Nick, still seeming oddly dazed.
That was definitely atypical, Nick frowned and motioned for him to drink a bit more.
He observed Gatsby, now almost certain on his theory the man was suffering from illness.
“I mean,” Gatsby said, sounding a bit awkward, “Thank you so much. I will treasure it.”
What… an incredibly strange and off putting thing to say about a glass of water.
He had to be aware of himself? Yes- Nick thought, that must be it. Gatsby had to be unwell or something and- that actually explained a lot of the evening!
It must not be heat stroke but some sort of longer term issue. He’d wanted to ensure Nick was here so that there would be no issue in managing the evening, and he must’ve wanted Nick by his side so he could have aide.
Wait. No.
It was Gatsby, he didn’t think that far ahead for himself.
But what else would explain all of that?
Before Nick could speak any such query into life-- Gatsby had apparently decided to assume the least comfortable act, and tilted his head back-- staring his guest in the eyes as he drank.
It was a moment extended far beyond any appropriate length, and it appeared that he did not blink once. There was little else to do but stare back, wide eyed and wondering what on earth was going through the other man's head.
It was distressing, to say the least, watching the man's throat bob as he swallowed.
When Gatsby slowly, far too slowly, pulled the glass from his lips, Nick bit back a sigh of relief. He decided to bite the bullet and plainly ask:
“Are you ill?”
It seemed no conversation would go normally at this party, because at the question, Gatsby began to choke– eyes bulging from his skull, coughing fervently. Water sprayed from his lips and Nick stifled a surprised shriek, jumping forward to help, horrified at the sight.
“No!” Gatsby threw himself against the back of his own chair, holding the drinking glass, of all things, away from Nick and shook his head fervently, punching at his own chest for a moment.
He then flashed a toothy smile, as if he wasn’t flushed red and a bit damp from choking, and carried on in their conversation.
“I’m fine, forgive me old sport,” He said with an airy, out-to-lunch tone, “I was just a bit surprised by your question.”
Before Nick could even try to speak, still uneasy and having his arms extended in the other man’s direction, Gatsby just kept on talking.
“And no, I am quite well, just making sure everyone is enjoying the party. Are YOU enjoying the party, old sport?”
“I- you-” What was with everyone asking questions they didn’t REALLY want the answer to tonight? Half emboldened by his frustration with Jordan and discomfort with… whatever it was Gatsby was up to, he sighed and shook his head. “No.”
The reaction was instantaneous, Gatsby looked as if Nick had broken a leg off of the table and attempted to stab him with it– betrayed, frightened, and unbearably sad.
Nick rushed to amend.
“I would be, but you’re behaving erratically, and I’m concerned you’ve developed some sort of ailment-” Nick swallowed an indignant groan and continued his explanation, trying in vain to save at least ONE interaction of the day, “You really should treat yourself with greater priority.”
“I’m not suffering any ailment,” Gatsby said, setting his glass on a nearby table, “Thank you for your concern, my good man, but I am merely trying to ensure your enjoyment of the night.”
The way he said that had a certain levity to it. Nick ran through the possibilities of why his enjoying THIS night would be important.
It probably was not due to Jordan, as he’d suspected earlier– given the two interactions of the night.
There was no holiday, he’d done nothing particularly helpful for the other man recently…. He supposed his birthday was around the end of the month, but there was no possible way Gatsby would know about that. It wouldn’t even make sense, given how far the date was.
He supposed, then, this was not something done for real want of Nick’s enjoyment– but a correction.
The different parties he’d attended with Gatsby played again in his mind and he frantically flipped through them, wondering how he could have so sorely embarrassed the other man to require such fervent supervision.
Damn him, he couldn’t think of a single thing and if he didn’t speak his thoughts out loud, he was liable to look like a madman.
“Have I indicated I do not enjoy your parties?”
He asked, forcing a steadiness upon his voice, hoping his horrified desperation remained behind the curtain.
Gatsby seemed surprised at this and started to choke something out, unsure of what to say.
He’d gotten it right then. Nick wanted to bash his head into the table. Why was everything going so wrong lately? He was a decent enough person. He’d never done anything evil enough to warrant all of these THINGS happening lately. Right?
Well! Even if he was unaware of it, a true man must take accountability for his every failure.
“If so, I must apologize.” Nick said, accepting the fact that he had wronged this man.
He felt ill at the thought and stepped away from Gatsby, guilt festering within him at the thought of being any further of an inconvenience. “I wish you had spoken with me about it, instead of trying to save face for me,”
“What-”
“Gatsby, you didn’t need to force your guests to carry conversation with me. You already get so busy, I had no intention of saddling you with another responsibility.
Gatsby seemed quite uncertain of what to say. Nick couldn’t blame him, it was terribly awkward.
He choked out a few more apologies and, far too mortified to stay, excused himself for the night.
…
Upon his arrival home, Nick tried to write, once again, about his day and thoughts. Nothing good came from the effort, and he wallowed, wondering how he could fail at a task this simple.
He closed his journal and went to bed, not even bothering to change into nightclothes or kick off his shoes.
It was too hot to sleep but there was little else to do when one is so wretched.
Notes:
I was worried Nick and Jordan's conversation was too long so I literally. Got out a stopwatch and did a play by play of the scene, doing all the dialogue in character voices and walking around and stuff.
rrrrgh nick is so difficult to write despite the fact that I have a VERY clear minds eye view of him. I think it's because he isn't really goal oriented beyond "don't screw up the interaction"
Though this is also just a weird chapter. It was weird for gatsby too-- I'm through most of the tea party one and one about teeth and nick really shines in THOSE so I suppose these struggles are circumstantial
I wrote placeholder descriptions of Jordan (who I am starting to fall in love with a little bit./j she's so cool and I am not doing her justice) all over the text but got too tired to flesh them out and decided to just leave the lip focus because it matched the theme anyway. But. If you see anything like *womanly arm* my bad. That's on me.
Onto the oversharing!
Yesterday I went to a library and was chatting with a librarian and she said "we have a challenge for adults to read ten hours for the summer-- though I'm sure YOU do that everyday" And I didn't know how to respond, just. Uh, yeah haha I do read a lot????? I guess??? But it seemed like an odd thing to say to a total stranger? It haunted me a little bit.
And then I went to a meeting and one of my coworkers asked "Why are you wearing a shirt that says "this guy loves classic literature" do you. have a separate job at a library or something" And I died a little on the inside. I can't believe I forgot I was wearing that but I'm so happy that the librarian had an actual reason behind that comment.
nbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb.ghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh - my cat jumped onto my keyboard while I was posting this, so enjoy that message from him.
anyway!! I probably won't be super active next month, got a lot of stuff going down starting next week but I will return with a vengeance
Edit: I can't believe I forgot to include the iconic "staring while slowly drinking" scene I am feeling. Incredibly foolish. Enjoy
Chapter 3: Cold Tea
Notes:
Small warning! Daisy believes Nick is suicidal and he has some thoughts regarding that in a very morbid sense, so be sure to tread carefully while reading this.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It was hard to believe that Nick had not known Daisy in childhood. They'd heard of one other, maybe seen the occasional photograph. But they hadn't grown up together.
As children, they were barely more than strangers. Sure, they knew each other’s names, but Daisy barely existed in Nick’s mind’s eye and vice versa.
Now, it seemed, Daisy was intent on making up for this fact. Tasking herself to regard Nick the way a young girl will treat a very beloved doll. It was strange to suddenly be on the receiving end of what he supposed she felt was maternal affection. Always checking on him, making sad cooing noises at how tragic she believed his life to be, all rather silly things if you asked him.
He supposed he couldn’t blame her for such a strange inclination. In comparison to her husband, he could be misconstrued as delicate, and with his features not being too dissimilar for her own– she must be projecting some sort of idea for how she herself wished to be seen.
It was sad, really, he thought to himself, tolerating it all the while.
“Nicky, loveliness,” said Daisy on the phone, in a honeyed tone, “We’ll be having tea at your place today. Just you and me.”
If it were anyone else, he believed he’d be offended to be imposed upon. But Daisy? Nick figured he’d always become complacent when it came to Daisy.
“What time should I expect you?” He asked, gaze drifting to his housekeeper, who was busying herself fussing over dust lining various frames on the wall.
His attention returned to the call once he realized Daisy was prattling on about convenient hours in the day and he affirmatively hummed, leaning against the wall and beginning to pick at his nails.
Jordan must’ve mentioned their conversation, and Daisy must, in turn, be in want of gossip. Or she felt guilty about her last visit to Nick’s little cottage– being caught up with her romantic reunion and all.
Or, with a possible combination of the prior two guesses, she was simply bored.
It would probably do her well to be idle when bored, at some point, he thought to himself. Maybe she’d develop some reason and abandon her tragically Shakespearean living circumstances.
None of it really mattered, he supposed, she would continue to be childish, and he would continue to indulge.
“I’ll see you then” he answered, formally resigning himself to hosting, before hanging up.
It took little effort to prepare, at least he didn’t have to watch Gatsby ransacking his lawn and filling his living room with an overwhelming amount of florals. He asked the housekeeper to take rest and leave for the day, figuring there was no need for anyone to witness what was certain to be a mortifying encounter on his end.
When his fair cousin finally arrived, she was quick to fawn. Slender hands were cupping his face and squeezing, as if he were a sort of pet. She studied him for a moment before crying out and wrapping her arms around his shoulders, tucking her face against his neck.
Her cheek was oddly flush against his skin, he wondered if she’d worked herself into hysteria or had spent some time in the sun.
“Oh, poor thing,” she'd said, bringing one hand to rake at the intersection between his neck and spine, “I'd be so upset if I were you!”
Nick accepted this all, swallowing and ignoring the harsh feel of something solid squeezing in his throat, readily choking him.
She was right. Anyone would be devastated in his position. He and Jordan had been together for several months, and it was tragic for any man to lose a beautiful woman. For any relationship to end.
He hoped, distantly, that someone provided Jordan with some comfort, if she were suffering in any of this. It would be improper to ask, so he didn’t.
“...Hi Daisy,” He said, for lack of any authentic response, but knowing he had been quiet for too long now.
“Hi Nicky,” She returned, squeezing him just a touch harder before pulling away from the embrace, fingers resting upon his shoulders as she studied his face. Apparently what she saw suited her fancy, because her lips twisted into a sad little pout and she made a sympathetic noise, “Oh, you poor thing. Let’s go inside.”
With little choice but to acquiesce, Nick did as much and followed her into his own home.
Daisy was quick at ease, shrugging off her coat and hanging it, looking around the room. “No flowers this time?” She asked, tone laced with a teasing sort of affection.
Nick blinked.
“I could… order some…?”
“Oh, no, no-” She laughed, shaking her head as if he were a dog that had sat instead of rolling over, “I quite like seeing it like this. It’s very Nick.”
It was hard to imagine the room being particularly interesting to behold, Nick changed a glance around his living room. It was rather dull, if you asked him, not really a reflection of anyone’s soul– much less his own.
“Well.” He said, a bit uncomfortably, “Alright then.” They stood for a moment before he announced that he’d get the tea.
“Alright.” She smiled warmly, making herself comfortable in a plush seat by the coffee table.
Nick returned swiftly, carefully pouring her drink and than his own, before setting the kettle aside and seating himself.
He considered sitting across from her, but she seemed so touchy today he was afraid she’d be terribly disappointed if he were out of reach. So, with heady question in his mind, he sat next to her.
It appeared this was the correct choice of arrangement, because she beamed at the act, seeming very pleased to be so close by.
“So how did this happen, anyway?” She asked, eyes wide with interest, gleaming with something beyond it that Nick didn’t have the energy to unpack at that moment.
“Hasn’t Jordan told you?” He couldn’t help but ask, and then, unable to restrain himself, added, “Or Tom?”
“Yes, they both have,” Daisy dismissed, “But those two can be terribly coarse when it comes to matters of feeling,” She huffed, seeming dismayed at the emotional constipation of her general social group, “Not like you and I. We bare our souls.”
Nick was fairly certain he did no such thing. He was separately sure that Daisy didn’t either, but was curious at the fact that she seemed to believe in her supposedly authentic presentation, and in his own.
“Ah.” He replied, unsure of where to go with that.
“So?” She prompted, nudging his leg. “You two were discussing marriage…?”
He nodded, pausing to take a sip of his tea, and then verbally affirmed the question.
“Then….?”
Nick shrugged, feeling his belly curdle at the thought of talking about this much more.
“I don’t know. We had different feelings about it and ended things.”
“Are you afraid of marriage, Nick?”
He pondered the idea. Afraid was a rather harsh word for… whatever it was he felt about the prospect.
Thinking about being someone’s husband felt like he’d filled his pockets with stones and very slowly walked into the bay. Sure, something in his chest struggled at the idea, but it wasn’t like he was objectively frightened by the thought.
He could be married, if he tried hard enough. It’s not a very difficult thing to tolerate another person. After all, he was enduring this conversation, and that’s basically half the act.
“No, I don’t believe I am.”
“Jordan says you are.”
Nick wondered why Daisy would bring up Jordan’s opinion of him, considering she believed that very woman had broken his heart. He shrugged, unsure of what to say to that.
“It’s okay to be afraid,” She urged, after realizing he would stay quiet, “I was too. I cried and locked myself away on my wedding day.”
He was aware. She’d been right to, really, if he were Daisy he wouldn’t have gone through with it.
Their situations were of course, incomparable. Tom was… Tom, and Jordan was Jordan. It’s not like he actually had a reason to opt out of such a thing.
Really, his and Daisy’s positions should be switched.
He dismissed the thought of encouraging his cousin’s divorce and reengaged in the conversation.
“I doubt our situations are comparable.” His tone became clipped at the end, as if he had something more to say. There wasn’t anything more, but he tried to think anyway– wondering how to make this more tolerable for the both of them.
He couldn’t think of anything.
If Daisy was getting frustrated, she was doing a remarkable job at hiding it. She placed a hand on his knee, gently squeezing.
He stared at it. Her hand was remarkably tiny, practically useless. He wondered how someone so delicate could imagine he was a little thing like them.
“Nick, look at me,” He acquiesced and she stared, firmly, into his eyes. Looking for something. He doubted she’d find it. Not in him.
“You don’t need to be brave right now,” His cousin urged, looking rather sad, “It’s alright, you can let down the curtain. I’m here for you.”
“I can assure you,” Nick responded, “There’s no facade here.”
“Right.” Doubt stung the air between them.
He sighed, loosening his posture, trying to seem more amenable.
“It was nothing monumental,” He decided to say, “We just have different wants.”
“What exactly DO you want?” Daisy asked, finally moving her hand from his knee, studying him.
He considered the question. What did he want, if not marriage?
Maybe to write again without it sounding like garbage, or to be able to sleep with ease instead of staring at the ceiling for hours on end.
For Daisy and Tom to stay very far away from each other.
For Jay Gatsby to stay very far from Daisy.
For everyone to just be normal for a while.
To read without distraction.
To think without feeling.
Maybe to find his dog. He was starting to worry the damn thing died. He supposed it would be irresponsible to not try and find the body if it had, indeed, passed on. What does one do with a dead mutt? He supposed he ought to bury it.
He made a note to seek out a pet cemetery. If he found it. If it was dead.
He frowned at the thought, none of this sounded very appealing. He guessed he didn’t want anything like that.
Nick tried to dig deeper, really thinking about want.
It was not a fruitful task, and he guessed that was due to his general lack of interests. How can a man who enjoys very little want for anything? There’s nothing to desire when nothing is desirable.
He supposed some people must be this way, fulfilling the food chain. Some are happy and some are bound to live with that wrongness attached to them.
Maybe, he internally mused, some people reaped all the want from some. Perhaps Daisy had what he was missing. Or Gatsby did. They were both terribly self indulgent dopamine addicts.
He dismissed the thought, sick at the unexpected cruelty of his own mechanations.
“I don’t know.” He said, figuring nothing he had to say was fit for the ears of a lady. “Not marriage.”
Daisy seemed to realize this was a pointless venture and finally changed the subject.
“Tom and I are awfully worried about you, Nick.”
The thought was laughable. Nick was fairly certain Tom lacked any of the necessary components of worry for another man.
“Oh?” He asked, instead of voicing that.
“Yes,” Daisy grimaced, “See, he’s rather afraid you’ll… you know…” She lowered her voice, as if saying hell in a children’s church, “
Take your own life.
”
It was a marvel she seemed to imagine this was the tame way of phrasing such speculation.
It was also strange that Tom was apparently repeatedly mentioning such a sentiment. Nick crinkled his nose at the thought.
“I would never do that,” He assured, biting back the offense he harbored at the very thought. He was a lot of things and could take on plenty of abhorrent acts, but nothing so wretched as that. “He knows that.”
‘Well, you’ve been very unpredictable recently.” Daisy said, and Nick found himself briefly irritated at the implication she ALSO believed this ludicrous thing. “And you may SEEM fine now, but you aren’t Nick– nobody’s well after a thing like this.”
His stomach sank at the reminder of his ineptitude.
People didn’t normally interrogate him after breakups, asking after how sad he was supposed to be. This was sick.
Nick sighed, it was clear she wasn’t going to drop THIS subject tangent. “Daisy-”
“I just don’t think you should be alone right now.”
“I’m not alone, I’ve got the Finn.” Nick paused and then clarified, “She’s not here right now, because I assumed you wanted a private meeting, but she’s here generally all the time.”
It would be rather hard to get the time to commit such a heinous deed, that woman was in every corner. He swore there was something witchy about her. Then again, he doubted she’d care out of any concern for his wellbeing– she’d probably fuss over the blood.
He supposed if he had to do such a thing, he’d do it cleanly– no blood, no stains, no broken walls or chairs or doors. It wouldn’t be polite to damage the house.
“Nick, not like that, actual company.” Daisy’s tone became more furtive, “Tom and I– we were talking about you– out here in this little house… watching everyone living so much larger than you…”
While he wasn’t certain of her destination, it was clear the path of conversion was not something to be enjoyed. Nick stared at her, wondering what horrible, bizarre thing she’d say next.
“I know you SAY you won’t do anything drastic, but really, love, without anyone to keep an eye on you you may… go off the deep end. It’s in your best interest to have someone around.”
Nick stared at her, pensively biting back a screech at whatever outlandish suggestion she was about to make.
“Tom and I think you should come stay at our estate for a while,” Daisy concluded, looking at him pleadingly.
He was fairly certain he’d never felt more anger at his cousin. He took a swig of his drink, swallowing his desired outburst with it.
“Daisy,” He said, tersely, forcing his expression to remain neutral, “I don’t think that would help me very much.”
“I think it would,” She countered, sounding much more decided on the matter. “It would be good for you to be amongst friends and be reminded of how loved you are. You’re a very special person, Nick. I don’t want you wasting away over here.”
He wondered what really prompted this. If she wanted a pet. Or some sort of playmate for her daughter. If she was trying to distract tom from temptations to leave the house.
Ugh, he’d hate to be a replacement of the man’s mistresses, or Daisy’s own standin for companionship. He wondered how such sick people came to be so attached to him. How they believed dragging a man from his home and forcing subservience upon him could be in the interest of his own self betterment.
“I’m not wasting away, and I’m not alone. I spend time with people.”
“When, Nick? The only people you spend time with are Tom, myself, and Jordan, and-”
There was a knock at the door.
The pair of them both startled at the sound, straightening up and staring at it in surprise, before turning to eachother, alert with the same wide eyes as meerkats.
“I-” Nick blinked, pulling himself to his feet, “I’ll go take care of that.”
He shuffled to the doorway and pulled it open.
…
“Hello Old Sport!”
Nick blinked at the sight of his neighbor, smiling ear to ear and standing with alarmingly erratic energy in his doorway. Gatsby continued speaking before the man could think of a response, gesticulating wildly and talking a mile a minute.
“So I was reading about flowers, old sport, and thinking about their meanings– you know all that new age symbolism with them, yes?”
“I-” Flowers? What in heaven’s name was Gatsby talking about? Nick peered over the man’s shoulder and slumped in relief at the lack of an army of landscapers at the man’s heels.
“Yes, and you see, I don’t really know any of them– and I remembered you’re a writer, yes? I thought maybe-” It occurred to Nick that he should probably stop Gatsby from prattling on too long, or Daisy may grow impatient, abandoned at the sofa.
“Gatsby, forgive my interruption,” Nick said, hoping his apologeticness was clear, “But I have company over.”
The man blinked at the sudden interruption, compelled to go quiet with surprise. His mouth went dry and his face flushed with immediate shame.
“Ah- I see, how rude of me-” Gatsby forced out a small laugh and his eyes flitted curiously to Nick’s living room. “Who do you-”
“Oh!” Daisy said from her seat, visibly craning her neck to get a good glimpse at the doorway. “Mr. Gatsby, hello!” She greeted with an awkward smile.
The two of them were both too nosy for their own good, Nick thought to himself, distantly sure that this was their draw to one another.
“...Hello.” Gatsby returned the greeting, sounding a bit shaken at the sight of the woman, he looked askance to Nick, “Uh, I suppose I should- I didn’t mean to interrupt, please- enjoy your… company.”
That was weird. Nick stared at him, surprised he didn’t invite himself in. “What?”
Daisy strode forward, heels delicately clicking in time with the sway of her hips, and she came to Nick’s side with a shake of her head,
“Don’t be foolish, of course you can join us.” She plastered on a wide smile Nick supposed was intended to be charming, and brought a hand to squeeze at Nick’s shoulder with. “Right, Nicky? We’re all friends.”
Nick wondered if this was some sort of test. If he went with this, would Daisy drop the whole matter of his supposed suicide idealation or being her houseguest? Not wanting to look at either of the blondes for a moment, he stared down at his tie. Willing something to make the choie for him.
That didn’t happen, so he nodded, eyes flitting back to Gatsby’s.
“Yes, of course.” He pulled away from Daisy and waved towards the living room, “Do come in, we’re just having tea and catching up.”
“Catching up?” Gatsby echoed, following the other in with a furtive demeanor.
Tired of being trapped with Daisy, Nick moved to a new seat, lodging Gatsby between them. Hopefully the two would entertain one another and he could make his escape.
“Yes,” Daisy nodded, smiling, as she answered Gatsby. “Nick was visiting with Tom the other day and I got a bit jealous.” She laughed, a high airy sound, “The two of us haven’t engaged in conversation in a good while.”
Despite his present irritation with her, Nick thanked the lord almighty that she didn’t mention her horrid proposal. Or try to harp on his supposed heartbreak.
Gatsby looked a bit disturbed by this, anyway, and his gaze flitted to Nick. “I wasn’t aware you were… close.”
“With Tom?” Nick asked, and then, for clarity’s sake, added: “Or with Daisy?”
Gatsby didn’t answer, just staring at Nick with palpable, confused interest.
“Oh, it’s all the same answer, anyway,” Daisy cut in with a laugh, “Nicky and Tom have their college stories, and we share the same uncles and aunts.”
“Technically speaking,” Nick said musingly, “We just share the same Grandparents. My aunts and uncles are your parents, and vice versa.”
Daisy laughed again and clapped her hands like a child watching a dog do a trick. “True! You’re so funny, Nicky dear–” She turned her attention to Gatsby with a wide, rakish smile, “Isn’t he SO funny?”
Oh lord, it seemed she was trying to raise Nick’s esteem. What a lurid thought, he hoped Gatsby wouldn’t take the bait this was just demeaning.
Gatsby eyed him, and seemed to ignore his unspoken plea.
“Yes, he’s a very intelligent person and has a charming way with words.”
Nick blanched at the strange phrasing, and it seemed even Daisy was a bit weirded out by it. They were quiet for a moment, before he decided to pity the other man and break the tense moment.
“Thank you, that’s very kind to say.” He set his saucer and cup on the coffee table and steepled his hands together, looking to Gatsby curiously. “So, you were saying something about flowers?” He asked, very prepared to talk about anything outside of himself– even an odd subject like that.
“Flowers?” Daisy echoed with ample interest, clearly eager for any conversation, “What are you talking about flowers with Nick for?”
“Oh, well, I was considering flower symbolism-”
“Ooh!” Daisy leaned forward, looking delighted at the new topic, “I’ve read about that! I wasn’t aware you were very interested in flowers.”
Gatsby looked to Nick for help, only to receive raised eyebrows.
“I suppose it’s a good thing Daisy was visiting today,” He shrugged with a polite helplessness, taking a sip of his tea, “I have no knowledge of flowers or their intended meanings.”
“Oh, Nicky,” Daisy said, clapping her hands together once more with another bright smile, “It’s fascinating! Each flower has a general meaning, and you can blend them together to create secret messages.”
“Like a code?” Nick asked. He liked codes, they reminded him of playing spies as a little boy. He felt a burst of interest at the thought. “That sounds very interesting, you could have entire conversations through flowers?” He wondered what was the basis for different meanings– shapes of petals? Smells? Their climate of origin? “I wonder how that could be utilized…”
He allowed himself to glance out the window, curious if there was anything nearby to ask about. Before he could indulge in the whim, Daisy interrupted.
“No, like a poem, sweetness.” She corrected, with a wry little smile, “It’s more of a way of stating a feeling than an actual conversation.”
“Oh.” Nick definitely did not slump in disappointment at the correction, he was an adult, thank you very much. He did, however, feel all interest in the subject dissipate immediately.
So it was a purely romantic endeavor then.
He wondered if Jordan was interested in stuff like that.
“Don’t be like that,” Daisy scolded. “It’s interesting!” She held up her teacup and gestured to the painted flowers at the center of the object, looking Nick’s way– visibly egging him to take an interest in the true subject of conversation.
“Look, see, this has a painted gardenia– that represents secret love…” She snickered and studied the cup with a wry little smile, “By the way, Nick, this tea set is absolutely lovely. How did you get your hands on it?”
It was a garbage set, in all honesty. Nick eyed it and shrugged.
“Just a little shop in town, at the outskirts.”
It was a cheap place, probably only a step behind secondhand products. Nick eyed his drink speculatively, it was an astonishingly simple design. Plain, white, and painted with a flower.
There was no further illustration, and no gilding or similarly rich design. Just a flower on a cup. Lifeless and generally uninteresting.
He wondered if he owned anything that wasn’t generally depressing.
“Well, you must promise to take me with you next time,” Daisy said with a pleasant hum, “You know of my passion for pretty things.”
Nick was pretty sure Daisy would find such a place repugnant but he agreed to take her anyway, she’d probably forget about the whole idea in minutes.
If she didn’t, he could always find some other space for her to shop. He wondered if he could ask Jordan such a thing, or if conversation with her was off the table from this point on.
“You could use more decoration around here,” Daisy mused, ignorant to Nick’s current pondering. “It would certainly… liven the place up, more.”
Nick suppressed a groan at the tactless reminder of her concerns.
He supposed he must go along with it, if he didn’t wish to be dragged into her own foyer against his will.
Or worse, he thought with an internalized shudder, an asylum.
“Yes, I guess it would,” He tacitly agreed, earning a pleased look from the woman. He distantly hoped she’d choke on her tea.
He felt a bit bad thinking that and mentally apologized for the thought.
“Daisy?” Gatsby finally cut in, saving Nick from saying anything to warrant more of Daisy's concerns, “Are you familiar with any other flower meanings?”
“Ooh! Yes!” Daisy nodded enthusiastically, seemingly unbothered by the abrupt return to the subject, “I’m very pleased to mention that a daisy represents innocence and purity.”
She batted her eyelashes with a giggle at the fact, and it was obvious she was seeking some sort of affirmation for her likeness to her namesake.
Nick suppressed an eyeroll at the act, but refilled her cup, politely commenting. “You were aptly named then.”
Daisy laughed and declared “Oh stop it!” while flapping her hand about as if fanning away the affection.
Nick forced a laugh, before taking a sip of his drink, willing this conversation to end soon.
Gatsby followed suit and took a sip of his own drink, apparently opting to ignore an opportunity to charm Daisy. Odd.
Nick wondered if they’d argued recently. Maybe that was the true reason behind Daisy’s concerns for him– her own heartbreak.
No, Gatsby would’ve talked to him about it.
He then thought, Daisy would’ve also told him about it.
Daisy blinked at Gatsby’s lack of comment, but, seeming intent on having a lively tea party, resumed talking about flowers.
“And let me see– lavender represents devotion, and- hyacinths… also mean devotion, I think. There’s some story behind that one. Something greek and tragic.”
Nick nearly spat out his tea. He was fairly certain the only greek tale involving hyacinths was about doomed homosexuals watching each other die. Why would she bring that up?
Maybe she was trying to hint at his own proclivities. He hoped not, his cousin didn’t need to know about that phase.
“I’d wager any flower represents a form of devotion,” Nick commented blithely, wishing to dispel the subject, “They’re a very intimate gift. Regardless of the type.”
“Well, sure,” Daisy returned, “But there are plenty of flowers one can give to a friend, or a family member– they’re not all necessarily romantic.”
Now Nick wasn’t entirely certain she was implying anything. Maybe she just genuinely liked flowers.
Odd, he’d always thought she held a preference for more permanent materials.
Like pearls or diamonds. Not something that would die in a week.
Gatsby looked rather rumpled by the statement. Nick decided to not ask and simply bit into a scone.
“Are there any flowers you favor, Nick?” Daisy asked after a moment, still quite determined to keep him talking, “I’m sure I’d know the meaning.”
Nick wondered why any normal adult man would have any interest in flowers. They were a woman’s commodity. The only men he’d ever met with any interest in flowers were a lot of queers.
“I’m not particularly fond of flowers,” Nick confessed, thinking quickly.
Those men were kindly enough, though, he supposed.
He’d visited a gentlemen’s club in his early twenties, and had a few experimental trysts. Kissing men had been equally unsettling as kissing any woman, but he’d had much more enriching conversation. Lots of interest in fine writing and arts.
Certainly more enjoyable than whatever he’d been doing with Daisy. Or his later conversations with Jordan.
Queer men’s use of coded language and symbolism had been a source of fascination for him at the time, and his thoughts harkened back to the flowers they’d pinned to their lapels. Carnations.
“But, I suppose I like carnations well enough.” He decided, nodding to himself.
Daisy and Gatsby both seemed stunned for a moment.
“Are they uh, unpopular in America, old sport?”
“Uh, no, they’re just grown in Europe,” Nick responded, wondering what sort of question that was. Had the other man never heard of carnations? They were a generally popular flower type. “I’m fairly certain they’re a generally popular flower.”
Then again, he supposed a fully heterosexual man may have less familiarity with such flora. He wondered if women were familiar with them, or if this was an exclusively gay thing.
He rather hoped not, otherwise he’d be making something barely true rather incovert.
“Hm, I don’t really remember what carnations mean,” Daisy mused, thankfully betraying some obliviousness to the loaded subject, “Do you have a favorite color? That applies to meaning as well.”
Don’t say green. Don’t say green. Don’t say green.
“Well,” He answered, “I suppose I’ve always harbored fondness for the color green.”
Damn it.
Gatsby’s eyes were uncomfortably wide and at first Nick was concerned the man was familiar with that symbol.
Then again, he’d seemed unfamiliar with carnations in general, it would be odd if he knew that. He tried to think of any other reason the color green would stupefy the blonde.
His own eyes widened at the thought of Daisy's light– he’d forgotten Gatsby had some strange ideas of how things related to everyday life and hoped that hadn’t been taken as some sort of hint to make a move on his cousin at this moment. He turned to Gatsby and carefully stated. “Dark green, like a forest.” Hoping it came across that he was only talking about colors for color’s sake with no secret hints.
Lord, he hoped nobody in this room would research a thing he said.
Daisy and Gatsby remained quiet, proving he’d truly put his foot in his mouth. He took a deep breath and tried to throw the subject.
“But there aren’t any naturally green carnations.” So let’s stop talking about this went unsaid.
“Oh?” Daisy prodded, blinking to Nick. “Are there unnaturally green carnations?”
Damn.
“Well, sure,” Nick answered, feeling rather foolish. “Plenty of… gentlemen have donned a habit of dying carnations green.”
He could just scream at the thought of revealing that. He considered balling his hand into a fist and biting into it. He hoped he’d choke on it, for no reason than to let this conversation end and to stop blathering like an idiot.
Daisy laughed at this, “Why on earth would they do that?”
“Green flowers look nice in suit lapels,” Nick answered easily, sipping his drink. “It’s a way to tell who’s good company.”
Gatsby’s eyes widened considerably at this and he stared at Nick in something reminiscent of horror. Huh. It seemed he did hold some familiarity with the street meaning.
Nick wondered if the other man had experimented and found he didn’t really like the idea of Gatsby with another man. It seemed unnatural. Wrong.
Then again, Gatsby with any woman seemed wrong too. Perhaps he was projecting his own discrepancies on the man. Nick took a sip of his tea.
“Hm, I’m surprised you didn’t say roses, Nicky, dear,” Daisy said, “You do so remind me of one.”
Nick wondered if Daisy frequently repeated comments she had already made before new company, and what exactly was her desired outcome for this.
He supposed she must be desiring further reaction and compliment to her wits and supposed sincerity.
“You flatter me,” Nick replied, and seemingly had no idea what else to say, so he shifted his focus to a random napkin and dedicated himself to smoothing each wrinkle from it.
“I do not,” Daisy responded with a pseudo-offended scoff, “I am an honest woman, aren’t I, Gatsby?”
Gatsby was still quietly tense, but at this he nodded curtly.
Daisy’s painted lips quirked into a small pleased smile, and Nick found himself wondering once again how she could so easily explore such a tense moment.
“Yes, thank you. Wouldn’t you say Nick reminds you of a rose?”
Gatsby looked to the host of this tea party, who looked rather flushed and liable to dash away.
Gatsby stares at Nick for like… a solid minute, looking rather dazed.
After this extended silence, he shook his head.
“No, I wouldn’t say that.”
Nick was surprised by the stab of offense he felt at that. He had no desire to be compared to a rose, but it still felt… condemning, somehow, to be told he wasn’t something lovely.
Perhaps Daisy was getting to him, with her platitudes of his unwellness and “delicate” nature.
Daisy seemed at a loss for words and with a few more awkwardly choked out sentences, Gatsby excused himself and fled with his tail between his legs.
…
Once Gatsby stumbled out the door, Nick turned to Daisy– preparing to politely excuse her as well, but she simply looked more immersed in the engagement.
“What was all that about?” She asked, tilting her to the side.
“What do you mean?”
“You know!” She gestured vaguely, and then giggled, as if this clarified anything. “That was all very– wow!” She laughed a bit harsher at this, looking stupefied.
What a way with words she had.
Nick shrugged, seating himself once more and taking a sip of his substantially chilled drink.
“I daresay I do not.”
“You’re playing coy,” Daisy chided, taking another sip herself, “Don’t tease me so.”
“I’m not teasing,” Nick countered, flushing at the improper knowing look she sent his way. “Gatsby is one of those… who just acts at random, I suppose.”
“And does he visit you frequently?”
Nick considered saying no, but then, deciding this may be his way out of her desired arrangement, nodded.
“Yes.”
Daisy smiled, looking quite relieved, “You know, I’m actually very relieved to hear that– I haven’t seen him in some time.” She shook her head, “I should’ve known he’d be concerned about you. What a kind man…”
He didn’t realize she’d interpret this as Gatsby… checking if he was alive after breaking things off with Jordan. For a moment, he again, considered correcting her. But he didn’t. He nodded.
“He is very kind.”
He supposed he should check on Gatsby soon, he hadn’t realized the man wasn’t visiting Daisy recently. He wondered if Tom had threatened him.
“Nick,” Daisy said, looking at him, seeming to sober up a bit. “You’re not- you aren’t too lonely, right?”
Nick wondered why she hadn’t started this whole thing asking that, they could’ve avoided so much uncomfortable conversation. He nodded.
“I have a perfectly healthy amount of companionship.” He assured, earning a disbelieving laugh.
“Well,” Daisy said, screwing up her nose, “I just- I worry about you. Tom too. We love you, Nick.” Then, only hesitating for a moment, she added, “Jordan too. I think you could still win her back. She doesn’t blame you.”
That was rather stupid, Nick WAS the only one at fault for them breaking up. He also doubted Jordan had said anything to the contrary.
Still, he resolved to handle this calmly– after all, Daisy was likely just implementing her own ideas of a relationship on Nick. Her concerns for him had to be related to herself, for her to be so insistent with her emotion.
“Maybe.” He said, with a shrug. “We’ll see.”
“Okay.” Daisy agreed, and then, carefully, she crept towards Nick’s seat and resettled herself by his side, leaning against his shoulder.
He didn’t move.
“You deserve to be happy, Nick,” She said after a moment, “Don’t screw it up.”
He was fairly certain he was incapable of happiness, there was nothing to screw up beyond static satiation. He nodded anyway. “Alright, Daisy.”
And with that, they sat in quiet for a while, till she finally took leave and blew him a kiss along the way.
He stayed sat.
…
By the time his housekeeper returned he’d brought his journal to the living room and attempted to engage in some writing, recording some of the details of the encounter and feeling rather dismal.
She knew better than to ask him about it, simply sidestepping him and clearing the table of the long abandoned tea-set.
He closed the book. He hadn’t written anything worthwhile anyway.
Notes:
hey everyone lol hope you've been having a good month! Mine's been pretty bad health wise but decent socially. I have plans to visit my former roommate soon (the one I mentioned in notes a few times last fic) sooooo hopefully it'll look up from there! :} He's very gatsbyish and I'm going to probably steal some quotes from him.
ANYWAY ONTO THE FUN STUFF!!! Having so much fun toying with the genre/focus shift between jay and nick like...
silly romcom vs whatever nick is up to
Nick being all: "I'm not depressed I just don't enjoy anything in life. I'm not suicidal I just don't really care if I live or not. I'm not gay I just like gay men more than women." I am beating him with my shoe. He's stupid. "Hmmmm my cousin is worried I'm depressed. It must be a secretly self-serving desire." He's so annoying. He's so stupid!!! he and jay are a match made in heaven.
Daisy is coming alarmingly close to replacing Nick as my favorite, though, she's so funny. I love her.
I also love how this entire conversation is just. Nick and Jay being annoyed with Daisy who is like "Hey let's talk about flowers and NOT be suicidal huh guys wouldn't that be fun???"
Chapter Text
It was more than a little surprising to see Jordan leaning against the wall of Nick’s workplace, just a few feet from the door, looking casual as ever, as if this were a typical act in her life.
Just how long had she been standing out here, Nick wondered to himself, approaching her and choking some insignificant greeting.
“Nick,” She replied drolly, tilting her face to the side to blow a brilliant plume of dark smoke.
“I wanted to talk to you.” She said after a pause, offering her hand without looking his way.
It was a touch unsettling, to have her here, most likely for him– but to be so detached. Nick surprised himself, taking her hand and carefully grasping her thin callused fingers.
Words weren’t shared as they walked, but there was no quiet between them, as they were followed by the public ambience.
People whispering, laughing, the sharp little clicks of Jordan’s footsteps and awkward padding of his own dull soles. A routine clacking sounded from Jordan’s chest region, her pearls were flying up in the air to divebomb at her collarbone, striking at the firmness and crying out– a symphony of hard hits attuned to her brisk walking pace.
The quiet that accompanied sitting on a park bench, solemn and stiff, was nothing short of uncomfortable.
Nick surveyed the area as they sat, chewing the lining of his right cheek, wondering what would be an appropriate thing to say. It was clear he was expected to intercept their shared quiet.
Why Jordan would imagine him to be the person to do that, Nick wasn’t sure, but he supposed there was little choice beyond playing compliance.
“I don't think I've ever seen you around the office.” he decided to say.
“I didn’t want things to end the way they did at the party.” Jordan replied in a measured tone, incurring frustration Nick knew he’d never voice. He wondered why she would bother forcing him to incite conversation if she planned to just ignore what he had to say. “I’d like to think we’re better than that.” She continued, still sounding relatively blank.
Before he could ask after the implications of such a statement, she issued another, more defensive statement.“At least I am.” Her voice trailed into a hiss and he winced at the sound of it.
“Ah.” He opted to voice, hoping she would simply jump into explanation. It was clear his opinion would not be desired, not with those words, and definitely not with that newly introduced tone.
For one hysterical moment, he found himself wishing that he’d spoken with any of his past flings after their split.
It would be nice to have some sort of script to fall back on.
Lacking that, Nick chose to sit still and wait for the attack.
Jordan took another puff of her cigarette, blowing away another dark plume with a sigh. Not for the first time, Nick wondered why an athlete would smoke. Surely such actions would weaken her lungs. Then again, he mused to himself, a golfer wouldn’t be in need of the strongest breathing strategies.
“You want one?” She asked, eyes flitting to his, visibly observing him. She was trying to sound unbothered again, her voice cold once more.
He had no particular desire for it, it was a sunny day– much too warm to smoke. His body felt heavy and wearied by work, and nerves riddled at him too fervently to entertain the notion of introducing any further duress to his lungs. Cigarettes always made him feel uncomfortably snippy, like he were the the most callous creature alive, he didn’t really like himself when he partook.
Still, there was a social benefit.
Nobody liked to be alone in an indulgence– an offer to share was a desire for normalcy.
Sameness.
If he said no, it indicated he had failed to provide common ground, and Nick was certain he and Jordan had shared enough rocky terrain between this and their most recent interactions.
A rejection of this offer was a rejection of equal footing– and to deny the woman even the IDEA of their being level, well, it was far too cruel to justify.
Nick sighed, knowing there was only one due response.
“If you're offering.” And then he was shifting his sitting position to better face her. Their knees brushed against one anothers, but neither chose to acknowledge the contact.
Jordan wordlessly handed him a cigarette.
It wasn’t her usual brand. Nick took it, mumbling thanks and raised it to his lips.
“Light?” He asked, eyes meeting hers once again.
“Sit still,” Jordan said in a low tone, leaning even closer and taking his jaw in hand. He listened, allowing her to tilt closer still his way, pressing the ends of their cigarettes together.
It was odd to see Jordan so close to his face again.
He blinked slowly, allowing her visage to be blanketed by his own eyelashes.
Allowing her to do whatever she pleased, Nick sat very still, wondering after her game.
It was a bit dizzying, being so close to her. She’d never really instigated moments like these, not while they were together.
Her nose brushed against his and he took a sharp breath in reaction, still sitting tersely– careful to not disturb the bridge between them.
Despite himself, he considered tossing that cigarette to the side and connecting their lips. This action– in and of itself– wasn’t so unlike a kiss that it wouldn’t make sense to pull her closer.
Cautious eyes flitted to study her lips.
They were painted red, as they always were. Darker up close– almost plum in hue.
Something inside him churned at the thought of that color pressed against his own lips– streaks of red for anyone to see. The sensation of wax dragging itself against his skin, the damning blemish that indicated possession–
He returned his attention to the cigarettes themselves, feeling jittery at all this thinking.
This could be the opportunity to right a wrong. To apologize, to have her, to set his future in motion.
Their eyes met and he felt sick again.
It would be terrible to do a thing like that.
He considered removing himself. Standing and leaving. Running, perhaps. Hiding and never looking at Jordan Baker again.
But Nick Carraway was nothing more than a coward, and he remained cowed. Sitting and waiting for something to happen.
And something did.
“Ow-” Jordan hissed suddenly, jerking back and dropping her own stick. She muttered to herself, flapping her hand.
Nick reeled back and tried to get a look at the damage– she’d burnt a strip of skin on the side of her pointer finger.
He grimaced sympathetically.
“Oh- Oh dear– can I help with..?”
“It’s fine, Nick,” She muttered, bringing her finger to her lips, and holding it against the edge of her mouth. “Perfectly fine,” She muttered again, slightly muffled, but sounding far from “fine.”.
She looked ready to cry. It was surprising to see– she’d certainly never made that sort of face in front of him in the past.
It made him a bit ill, to imagine Jordan Baker was able to cry. The fact that she could be wounded at all, have that cool demeanor be broken… he tried to not feel guilty. Her actions caused this. Not his.
After a few minutes passed them by, and finding himself studying the half smoked cigarette she’d dropped and made no move to pick up, he couldn’t stand the guilt and offered his own as a replacement.
“...you didn’t even want this, did you?” She said in a small voice.
Nick blanched at the question, it sounded far too sad to truly be about such a small matter.
Jordan tucked it tersely between two fingers before readily taking a drag.
The contrast between the cheap papery thing and flesh made her burn appear more prominent, and his attention was easily caught by the ugly singe.
A charred red marring gold, an unnatural divot in an otherwise smooth expanse. He wished he had bandaging in his pocket and solemnly swore to himself to carry some on his person for any future moments like this.
“The cigarette?” Nick hesitantly asked, once she had exhaled.
“Anything.” Jordan whispered, before clearing her throat, loudly coughing. Without waiting for him to answer, she continued, louder now– as if to ensure she were heard. “We keep doing this.” She sounded, somehow, more hurt than she had a moment prior.
They hadn’t ever done this.
They’d never been to the park together, never shared a smoke– his eyes remained on her wound and he wondered after her statement.
It still didn’t seem to matter if he spoke, so he didn’t, and they were quiet again.
Jordan moved her legs, carefully arranging herself to sit a little taller, and ran her hands down the lengths of her thighs, smoothing folds away. He watched this and grimaced at the pang of remorse.
She seemed so cold.
“I could’ve loved you Nick,” She said, sighing and staring up at the uncomfortably sunny sky. “I think you could’ve too. If you tried a little harder. We’d make sense together.” She said, sounding rather somber, staring up at the clouds again. “You know that.”
He nodded, not daring to verbally reply, and eyed a fine strand of dark hair which had curled against the length of her cheek. His fingers twitched with the desire to lean forward and fix it for her, but he ignored it.
He doubted she wanted him to.
“Sure, we wouldn’t be-” Jordan gestured vaguely. She didn’t finish her sentence.
It wasn’t necessary, Nick understood what she meant.
He still, almost, wanted to hear her say it.
He didn’t press the point, only nodding in quiet agreement.
“But we would’ve been comfortable together.” She reasoned, not sounding as if she believed the words herself. “It could’ve worked.” She said again, quietly.
Nick wasn’t certain he’d ever been comfortable with Jordan.
They shared no common interest or attribute, no sincere connection, nothing beyond finding themselves in each other’s company. Even that had not been the result of their own chemistry, they were simply two people who knew Daisy Buchanan.
Instead of agreeing with her claim, or committing the inverse crime– Nick simply hummed and hoped for the lull to end.
“I thought I liked careful people,” She mused, quieter still. Her eyes roamed Nick, shrouded with something dark. The space between her sculpted eyebrows crinkled, folding delicate skin into something vaguely unpleasant to behold. “The kind who never get in my way– who make sure things go smoothly, no matter what I might do. People who keep everything safe and me free from consequence.”
Nick blinked. “I know you do,” They’d discussed this before, over her incredibly reckless driving. It was one of the definitive conversations in their relationship.
“You don’t know what I mean, though. Not really.” She said, sighing, resituating her sitting posture. “I didn’t think you would, I hoped you might– but I forget you’re just…”
“Just…?” Nick found himself prompting, before he could stop himself.
“A man.” Jordan decided, looking a bit unfairly repulsed.
Nick wasn’t certain as to how to defend that. He had no objections to the matter of his gender, but it was clearly not a compliment.
“Yes,” He agreed, eyeing her uncertainly. “I am… a man.”
She sighed and turned her attention away from him.
“Maybe it’s my fault.” She whispered, lessening in volume and confidence, seemingly only talking to herself at this point. “Imagining a future…. I should’ve known better, honestly.”
Hearing this, Nick felt a stab of pity and found himself thankful for it.
This was something easier to identify and relieve than the rest of this entanglement.
Sure, a part of him wanted to resent the patchwork of feelings Jordan had placed within him– but she deserved no torment, not over this– not from him, and certainly not from herself.
“It’s not really anyone’s fault,” Nick assured, leaning forward and trying to catch her eyes, he tried to smile at her, stiff and unpracticed. “Things just didn’t work out.”
He swallowed thickly, hoping she could not read the illness he felt with such a statement. “It’s… better we figured that out before…”
The thought of having a marriage sour, the way it had gone for so many of their peers, was nothing short of abhorrent. The resentment, the filthiness, the way people in this infernal city went behind each other’s backs…. Him and Jordan were lucky, not being resigned to such follies.
Jordan, it seemed, did not agree, and was not comforted by his efforts.
She shot him a scathing look and he could’ve cursed at the realization he’d finally induced her contention. Her quietness bled into something rueful and vibrant, a version of her he’d never spoken with till this point.
“Nick, it’s entirely your fault.” She shook her head, hands briefly squeezing into fists. “Lord, our relationship would not have ended if it weren’t for you- just, suddenly changing your mind! God!” She unfurled her fingers, gripping at her knees like they were a lifeline.
It was the angriest he’d ever heard her.
Part of him melted with satisfaction at the show of feeling, something real– something substantial he was made privy too. He knew anger, he understood it– far more easily than this… listless heaviness she had brought him since their split.
Another part of him felt rather angry himself, desiring her contempt– wanting a lady to feel for him in a way no dignified gentlemen would– he was disgusting. This was something monstrous, lusting after vehemence. Maybe he desired punishment, maybe he really deserved it… but not from Jordan, he couldn’t make a beast of her.
He fought a grimace at the reminder of there being something truly wrong with him. So, he swallowed again, resuming speech with a measured tone.
“I don’t know,” Nick said, not with any real inclination of defending himself. “It may be for the best- I mean, you don’t… want to waste more time than you already have with me-”
“Don’t call us a waste, Nick,” Jordan shot back, and if he didn’t know her better, he’d think she was holding back a sob. She still sounded so angry. “I never waste my time– and nobody wastes mine. Do you hear me?”
The woman straightened herself and pointed a harsh finger his way, wagging it as if he were a disobedient student.
“You will NOT make me out to be some- some silly little waif who had a bad turn. I won’t allow it– you cannot just- sit there and eat my dignity. Stop it.”
Her only interruption was a ragged, frustrated growl dragged from behind clenched teeth. She dragged a hand over her hairline, seemingly inclined to become violent with herself in her irritation.
Nick did nothing to stop here, merely watching with a strange mixture of awe and confusion.
“I am above that-” She gritted out, “-and you will not bring me down to your level, Nick Carraway.”
Nick wasn’t sure he’d implied such a thing but he apologized anyway.
Jordan seemed to grow more upset, eyes nearly gleaming red– but instead of continuing her tirade, she squeezed them shut and took a heaving breath. After this, she shook her head, fixing her posture once again, forcibly placating herself.
“Stop making me angry with you. I’m NOT angry with you. This is NOT what I’m trying to say.”
Her arms shook, her jaw was set, and those eyes of hers were aflame with something too soft to be hatred and too bitter to be love.
Nick’s insides squeezed and twisted about at the sight of such emotion, but he swallowed his fascination away.
“I’m sorry,” He repeated, unsure of what to do with… any of that.
“I don’t want to forget about us,” She said, shrinking against the wood of the bench. “I don’t want you to be-” She sighed again, staring at Nick. “Do you hate me? Is that it?”
“No.”
He thought she’d ask again, demand some sort of excuse. He almost wanted her to. But she didn’t.
The disappointment weighed about as much as the shame coursing through him. He ignored both.
“I thought about breaking up with you, you know. Frequently.” She put out her cigarette and Nick wondered if he should be offended by this. He’d be a bit of a hypocrite if he were, he supposed.
It was clear she had more to say, so he stayed quiet once again.
“You were… I thought I understood you– what you were, for a while. But then I didn’t. And no matter what I did, it seemed you were slipping further away.” Her fingers waved– desperately, despondently, and she laughed– a sharp, mean little sound.
“I thought it was unfixable but then– you were so good.” She said, taking a quick breath and scrunching her nose tightly, her expression serving as a sort of proverbial claw to hold back something more exciting than herself, “You’d wrap an arm around my back and look at me with that stupid face and–” She melted at this, seeming to become a little girl. She was softer, smaller, nothing like the storming rage she’d been thus far– nor was she the collected, capable woman Nick had known.
That taut expression was soon buried in her hands.
She was delicate and Nick had broken her. He wished he could feel more remorse.
He wished it suited her.
He wished for a lot of things no decent person would and wondered, for the millionth time, what the hell was wrong with him.
“I would want to try.” She said, brokenly, through her fingers; voice laden with weight, as if she had confessed the most debauched sin. Speaking again, after heaving a great sigh– as if this conversation were a great effort, constricting her lungs and needing to be muscled through– she said, “I didn’t mind settling, not for you. Sure, we weren’t perfect, you were scuh a pushover– and that obsession with Gatsby–”
Gatsby?
A spike of embarrassment plunged itself in Nick’s gut and he felt a substantial rush of blood to his face, “I’m not obsessed with Gatsby.” He protested, horrified by the thought.
“Nick,” She said sharply, snapping out of that haze and lifting her face, glaring at him– all adult and all fire once again, “I’ve given you several chances to talk– let me say my piece.”
That was hardly fair! He wanted to snap at her, to demand more emphasis on this– this was the first point of the conversation he’d truly felt anything and he wasn’t even allowed to defend himself?!
“...Alright.” He relented, slumping apologetically.
“I didn’t mind.” The sharp sting of voice dug uncomfortably into his skin and he winced at the feel of it. “I could live with it– I could handle it. I ignored SO much on your behalf– and then when we FINALLY started planning– you just- turned around and acted like I was…” She gestured frustratedly, glaring at Nick, daring him to conclude the accusation.
He wished he could focus on this, but the mention of Gatsby had quickly come to seize his attention.
Why would she bring up his neighbor? What relevance did the man even have, in a conversation like this?
And what sort of accusation was that– Nick, obsessed? With another person? Much less THAT person?
His and Gatsby’s relationship was hardly based on Nick’s personal design.
The other man instigated their every interaction– if anyone was obsessed between the two of them, it would not be Nick.
Sure, nobody would assume someone like Gatsby would even care about Nick, if not for his relative.
It was still a little insulting to attribute Jay’s reliance on Nick to be reflective of HIS having any interest in the man.
Obviously, Jordan understood that Gatsby could never be obsessed with NICK– he was only interested in Daisy.
But that didn’t mean Nick needed to be blamed for their… whatever it was, he had with Gatsby.
Nick was fairly certain you could only dedicate your every thought to ONE person at a time. He’d certainly never waste time thinking about one person all the time, but that was certainly not the norm.
Then again, he supposed, Gatsby dedicated just as much attention to himself as he did to Daisy– agonizing over what seemed to be reputable. What looked right.
Narcissism was hardly the same qualm, though. Nick himself could be accused of it– he certainly thought more about himself than any other person.
The thought bogged at him and he found he didn’t like it. The idea that he could be a self absorbed person was distantly bothersome and he privately hoped that if he did come across in that regard, someone would at least try and mention it.
He was reminded of Tom, and THAT only doubled his discontent with such a thought.
Tom obsessed over all kinds of people, including Nick himself. Thinking of him, it was made clear that the man’s very existence burdened this argument with all sorts of discrepancies.
Nick decided he was right, in a world where Tom didn’t exist. He wisely decided to not mention this.
“Urgh,” Jordan was talking again, “Can’t you understand Nick? You are so difficult and it’s blindingly unfair that you get to be the one who’s hurt.”
Nick wondered why this woman waited around a month after their breakup to bring this up, it was rather odd timing. Weren’t these matters supposed to be resolved within the moment?
“You’re the one who everyone worries after– you’re the one hiding. You get to have all the feelings. And I have to beg you to even look at me. It’s cruel.”
Ah, right– she’d been speaking with Daisy about him, “I don’t want that,” Nick said, hoping he conveyed the appropriate amount of guilt. “I know I’m the problem.” He assured, hoping to soothe her growing upset.
“Daisy warned me you struggled in that area.” Jordan bemoaned, “I thought maybe just, being with a tougher type might fix that. I’m hardly similar to the girls who go for your type.”
Nick didn’t really want to know about that. He asked after Daisy’s warning, deciding it was the safer response candidate.
“She said you ended things with someone before you came to the west egg.”
Nick blinked at the reminder.
He didn’t realize anyone was aware of the young man who’d chosen his cottage. He grimaced at the reminder. The other man had simply… dropped off the face of earth. Ceased communications with him, disappeared. Leaving Nick in a strange city with no companions beyond a dog and a Finnish woman.
He wasn’t entirely certain that counted as a breakup, given the fact that they’d never tacitly discussed it. He wasn’t even sure they’d been in a relationship– it had been a rather casual affair.
“...yes, I did.” He nodded uncertainly, “We were going to live at the cottage together.” He paused, before continuing with ample hesitation. “I wasn’t aware anyone knew about that.”
“Weren’t you going to marry her?”
Oh.
Nick supposed that made a lot more sense. He’d almost forgotten about his supposed engagement with a woman back south.
“...No.” He said, shaking his head, “That was just a rumor.”
“You were going to live with a woman you had no intentions of marrying?” She sounded a bit repulsed at this.
Nick felt ill at the thought of further explaining herself, how much more palpable her disgust would be at his explanation. Having no acceptable defense for himself, he shrugged.
Jordan sighed.
“This is your whole problem," She said, gesturing to his shoulders. “You make everyone think you go along with everything, until it really matters– then you just sit there and act like you don’t understand anything.”
The accusation seemed rather unfair. Nick frowned at the thought of himself in such a bereft position.
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“It is, Nick,” She insisted, shaking her head. “You thrive on the surface level but- anytime a conversation deepens, or a moment seems to have any sort of emotional significance– you replace yourself.” She frowned, thinking for a moment, before continuing, “You get that- that damn look in your eyes, as if you aren’t even there. As if I’m something very far away that you can barely make out.”
Nick knew that look. That was Gatsby, standing out at the dock– staring at the horizon, wishing for Daisy.
Those blue eyes of his, overwhelmed by the glowing green– haunted even.
Nick felt sick at the thought of himself with those eyes. He was not like Gatsby… he was nothing close to him.
How could Jordan imagine him looking like that? Nick was very firmly rooted in reality. He didn’t obsess, he didn’t yearn– he definitely didn’t disappear.
Lord, she was still talking, he attuned to the conversation once again.
She gestured wildly, “–you don’t ever ACTUALLY engage. You don’t assert yourself, you don’t start anything, you just wait and wait and then you parrot back whatever you’ve been told– it’s like you're not a person! I don’t think I’ve ever had a real conversation with you.”
Nick swallowed an oversized heap of dislike for having been referred to as “not being a person.” He was a person.
He wasn’t always a great person. But he was flesh and bone.
He had a soul. Feelings.
If he died, he would be buried under a tombstone with a human name inscribed.
If he were cut, red would spill out of him.
He blinked at her, hoping to not appear as saddened by her comment as he was feeling. “I’m a person.”
“Well, you don’t act like one,” She dismissed, “Or you don’t treat me like one– and I can’t decide which is worse.”
She paused at this, shaking her head in disbelief, “God– the ONE time you actually have something to say it’s to reveal you’ve never been happy, my presence RUINS your life, you want nothing to do with me– and I’m supposed to just take it and feel sorry for you. ”
He didn’t flinch. He did, however, grimace.
“Jordan…”
“You don’t even have the grace to answer the simplest, dumbest question.”
“Are you-” Nick’s right lower eyelid twitched, finding himself more than a bit caught off guard, “Are you referring to the party? When you asked if we’re friends?”
“I’m talking about any of it. All of it. Us, you-” Jordan shook her head, “No, I’m not going to insult you. You do not get to pity yourself. Not with this. This is about me.”
A brief bout of offense panged at the insinuation. He decided to forgive it, as she was in such a state it wouldn’t be entirely fair to hold her accountable for… some of these odd tangents she was going on.
He considered everything he’d heard and tried his best to work with it.
“I’m sorry,” He said again, “I had no intention of making you feel accused. And I’m sorry I couldn’t marry you-”
“That’s NOT what I’m talking about,” Jordan interrupted, shaking her head, “I don’t want to force you to marry me, and you do not need to explain why you don’t want to.”
Well, there went any subject Nick could try to understand.
“...I don’t know what you want me to say right now.” He admitted, cocking his head to the side.
“This isn’t it,” Jordan said again, sighing, glaring at her put out stub. “I don’t want to feed you the answers– I don’t want you to tread lightly and act like this is some sort of thing to sidestep. If you hate me, just tell me and I’ll stay very far away from you.”
If the idea of loving Jordan Baker had hurt, that had nothing on the stab Nick felt at the thought of his hating her.
“I don’t hate you.” He responded in earnest, hoping she understood that this was no polite comment, and came from a place of undignified truth.
“I know you don’t,” She admitted, sounding enough like she meant it to quell his horror. “But you don’t act like you care whether I dropped dead today.”
Nick tried to imagine it. Jordan. Dead.
If he were being truly honest, he would admit he’d come to terms with… anyone dying any day, a very long time ago. Men who served had a very different relationship with life, it was a fleeting thing…. But he supposed he would care. It would be a terrible day, if Jordan were gone forever.
“I do.” Nick assured softly, “I’d be… upset if you were to die.”
“Thanks.” Jordan sighed, not sounding very comforted by the fact.
Nick thought back to the party and grimaced. “Is this… related to your question at Gatsby’s party?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “I don’t know if we’re friends.”
“I see.” She wasn’t looking at him again. Just staring pointedly away. Nick tried to not take it personally.
“I don’t have anyone I truly consider a friend,” he explained, not entirely certain if he was assuring her or himself. “That’s not reflective of you as an individual.”
“Right,” Jordan said, still seeming rather unimpressed, “What about Gatsby, Nick?”
“Gatsby?” Nick repeated, a bit baffled by the repeated reference– it was a bit odd to bring up your ex’s eccentric neighbor when discussing your own affairs. Aside from being a continued discussion on some of their dates, he had very little to do with Nick and Jordan’s relationship.
Lord, Jordan was the one who sounded obsessed, not HIM.
He tried to not dwell on it, opting to answer and keep this calmness flowing. “We aren’t friends.” They weren’t. They spent a lot of time together, but that was only because… “He’s, you know, Daisy’s.”
Jordan stopped at this, taking the time to turn and scrutinize. Just sitting there, staring at him with a heady amount of incredulity, as if he had said something unbelievably moronic.
“You’re not a friend of Gatsby’s?” She asked in a dubious tone, looking to be moments away from slapping him across the face. Nick rather hoped she would not do that.
“Well, we’re friendly with one another.” He amended, “I mean, I suppose if you asked him. He might… call me his friend.”
Gatsby seemed the type to label their polite camaraderie with much more intimacy than necessary.
It would be rude, after all, to refer to him as an acquaintance.
But their relationship was a purely arbitrary thing– by Jordan’s own example, it would barely matter at all if Nick dropped dead.
Honestly, it would probably be a good opportunity to romance Daisy– given she’d probably make a spectacle of her grief.
The image of his cousin parading around grotesque crocodile tears, saying they were SO close, that she missed him so much and… Gatsby sweeping her into his arms and whispering comforts.
Nick cringed.
He would live forever if it meant his death would not be tainted with such illicit fanfare.
Besides that, Nick quietly hoped Jordan would never mention this conversation to the other man, knowing that Gatsby would likely respond in negative to being told what Nick had said.
The blonde would probably make that sad, strangled sort of expression he made whenever one of his schemes to have Daisy over failed.
The thought of causing such an expression ruffled through Nick’s nerves like children’s hands dug through candy bins. It was a lurid feeling, and he found he did not enjoy it in the least.
That didn’t mean anything.
He took a breath.
That DIDN’T mean anything.
Gatsby was just a very sensitive fellow, and he didn’t like to be condemned to disimportance. No man of his social standing would.
And Nick, in turn, was not an asshole. He wouldn’t wish any negative feelings on the man, even if it were over something so silly as defining their relationship.
Not that there was a relationship– they were almost strangers. He swallowed at the thought, displeased with the continued pool of nerves arriving in abundance.
“But you won’t?” Jordan probed, seeming determined to unearth some secret meaning to his words.
“Well, no.” Nick felt the urge to shrink back at this, but he did no such thing, and continued, “I don’t actually mean anything to the man.”
Jordan stared at him, still wearing that bizarre expression Nick was enjoying less by the minute.
“I mean– it’s not like he means. That much to me either.” Nick mumbled, feeling very judged. “We’re just neighbors.”
The term stung at his tongue like thistles and he immediately wished to take it back. “Just” Could not describe anything about Gatsby, even a relationship as inconsequential as their own.
His stomach sank deeper at the repeated thought and he was more than a little disturbed by his apparent desire to mean something to the other man.
“Nick,” Jordan started, seeming to become frustrated again, “Do you visit any of your other neighbors?”
Nick shook his head.
“No, but Gatsby’s different.” He motioned vaguely. “He invites people into his home, and invites himself into mine.” Nick paused and then added, “Frequently.”
At this, Jordan seemed more disturbed than anything.
“You enjoy his company, yes? He’s not just- breaking into your property and holding you against your will.”
The image was laughable– Gatsby? The most apologetic creature Nick had ever beheld? Truly invading….
Then again. Nick thought back to the strangeness of Gatsby’s party, when the man linked their arms and pulled him through one social interaction after the next.
“No, no, of course not!” Nick assured, because even if Gatsby was occasionally overwhelming– the man had never been a truly unwelcome presence. If he REALLY bothered Nick, there were means to ignore him. Probably just rooting himself by Tom’s side. Ugh.
Nick wondered why anyone would prefer to spend time with TOM over Gatsby. Even Daisy wouldn’t, and she married the brute.
“I wouldn’t just… let someone I disliked in all the time.”
“So you’re friends.” Jordan stated with a note of finality that made her words sound remarkably close to the phrase: “You’re an idiot, a hapless fool. I want to break your teeth in.”
Friends was definitely not the right word for the two of them. He wasn’t sure what WAS but it certainly wasn’t friends.
“That’s a matter of interpretation.” He said, carefully, hoping her tone was not indicating any real action on her end.
“Lord, Nick, this is what your mind is like?” Jordan sputtered, shaking her head to herself, but watching him. If she didn’t seem so annoyed, he would say she seemed pitying. “No wonder you’re afraid of marriage.”
“I’m not afraid of-”
“Yes, you are,” Jordan dismissed with no room for further argument, looking a bit lost in thought. “This is– wow, I can’t even be angry– this is just… sad.” She spoke with a great deal of disgust, her only reserve seeming to be an oddly pitying softness. Before Nick could try and deduce what any of that implied, she was talking again.
“What about Tom? Daisy? Would you call them friends?”
Certainly not. The couple was utterly insane and would drive him to an early grave. Still, Nick answered carefully, lest his words be repeated to the Buchanans.
“They’re family.” He paused and then added, “In a way.”
Tom was certainly a strange sort of character to refer to as his family. Nick wasn’t entirely sure what was going on between them but it felt wrong to refer to him as a relative.
Daisy… well, he didn’t really have a choice on what to call her.
This appeared to not sit well with Jordan, who seemed to have let go of her rage and coldness entirely, and was now just dazed.
“God, Nick, are you saying you don’t care about a single person you know?”
The question hit a nerve. This neighborhood didn’t house EVERY single person he knew– and even if it did, of course he cared about them. Why would he bother spending time with any of these people if he didn’t?
Surely Jordan, of all people, understood– she was hardly a woman who favored labels. And her own relationships seemed little past shallow.
He wondered if there was a formal way to state that he didn’t necessarily like the company he surrounded himself with– but he certainly cared about them.
He was at least pretty sure he cared about them.
If he didn’t, he’d stop and wonder what the hell he was doing here, wasting all this energy, and would cease immediately. But he did so he didn’t, so here he was.
“Of course, I care.” He said, wondering how his efforts could be brushed to the side like this. Did this woman seriously imagine him to be an unfeeling man?
“You say that like it’s obvious, Nick, but it isn’t.” Jordan countered. “You don’t do or say anything to make it clear you feel anything for anyone– and when you do you just- brush it off.” She gritted her teeth at this, increasing in volume, “You’re so frustrating! I cannot keep telling you how annoying you are and watch you just– look at me like that!”
She gestured to him and he shrank at the action.
“I’m sorry.” He said again, feeling like a broken record.
“Stop saying sorry, you’re NOT sorry–” She snapped, “You’re just trying to keep the peace.”
She took another sharp breath.
He followed suit, standing with her and trying to think of some sort of defense for himself.
“I care about you.” She said, studying him with resolve, still seeming a bit stunned by the whole thing, “And I’d like to be friends– in the future–” She suddenly clarified, “Right now I’m still very angry with you.” Her voice firmed up once again, a warning.
“Jordan-”
“We’ll arrange for lunch at some point. You’ll attend one of my games. We’ll have to get used to one another again, assuming we’ll remain in the same social sphere.”
“Alright,” Nick hastily agreed, stepping forward and trying to get a better read of her expression, “Whatever you want, whenever.”
This wasn’t the right thing to say, she looked disgusted again.
“Figure out what YOU want, Nick. For once in your life, try and act like a real human being.”
“What do you mean?” He asked, “I don’t-”
She turned from him, and he froze, not wanting to waste words on a woman who wasn’t going to listen.
And she walked, upping her pace as she went, and removing herself from reach.
He thought about continuing to follow. But he couldn’t.
What would even be the point? She’d clearly come to her own conclusions.
He sat back down with a sigh.
…
After a handful of minutes that felt like hours, Nick stood and moved from the bench.
It seemed more forces than Jordan were determined to ruin Nick’s day. The sun shone too brightly for such an offputting time, and the heat of the bench clawed at him– he was naught beyond a mouse in a gluetrap.
The metaphor touched closer to home than he liked. He felt small. Stuck. Doomed.
He groaned as he peeled himself off the uncomfortably hot bench, feeling as if it were a removal of skin from bone, as opposed to a sweaty suitjacket. He trudged his way back to his office area, hoping to find his car and take leave– but he ran into Gatsby, who insisted on taking him out for lunch.
So here’s how he came to find himself, sitting on the other side of a relatively sticky dining table, prodding at a bowl of soup, ambushed by his own anxieties and questions he knew better than to ask.
Gatsby was chatty, as usual, though the conversation was oddly surface level and coerced Nick’s thoughts to stray.
“Am I obsessed with you?”
“Gatsby,” Nick interrupted, desperate for distraction. He glanced around the room and noticed a bouquet of flowers– that was as good a prompt as any. “I forgot to ask, why were you asking me about flowers the other day?”
“Well, you’re a writer, aren’t you, old sport?” Gatsby replied with an overly, unnaturally jovial laugh, eyes skirting the visible crowd of people amongst them.
Such a question, and such a response for that matter, did not require such pensive demeanor– OR such a laugh. Nick took pause at the quick evasion, finding his nerves doubling at the redirection.
“What are you hiding?” He itched to ask.
“Not really,” Nick replied automatically– and then, seeing the way Gatsby froze, as if something were unbearably wrong, rushed to correct the comment. “I mean, yes, I write,” His stomach curdled at the memory of his recent nights– scrawling in that stupid, insipid journal, waiting for some inspiration to come to him. Scratching out words, cursing to himself. “Everyone writes.” He said, awkwardly laughing himself, “...but it’s not my profession or anything. I haven’t written anything of substance in quite some time.”
“Why did I say that? I didn’t say that. Ignore that, please?” He picked at his nails. “I promise I know how to write– don’t believe me, I just hate it right now! It’s not actually going wrong, I am– I may be a madman.”
Gatsby frowned.
“But I’m not actually crazy– I’m too dull to be crazy. Don’t worry about me, don’t even think about me.”
Nick briefly considered hitting the table with his head and allowing unconsciousness to remove him from this conversation. Then he imagined the horrified sound Gatsby would probably make and felt guilty for thinking of it.
Instead, he sighed and attempted to amend his previous conversational point.
“I do find writing peaceful, but when I do write– which, I must add, is a semi-rare occurrence, it isn’t about flowers or romantic things.”
The thought was lurid. He’d only ever tried his hand at writing romantic things briefly in his youth– he’d recognized he felt nothing for his feminine peers and attempted to fabricate some sort of attraction, hoping to get used to it.
The memory of a girl insisting on helping him research probed at his mind and he grimaced.
He hadn’t become used to anything, and had, in fact, had a rather bitter taste for it since.
“Oh.” Said Gatsby, visibly disappointed still.
The two of them sat in stilted conversation for a moment, surrounded by the sounds of generic babble and murmur, cars and people moving past.
“What do you write about, then?” Gatsby asked, semi-hesitant, before taking a bite of his salad.
“Most of my writing revolves around my education.” Nick explained with a shrug, fiddling with the small decorated spoon between his thumb and forefinger, “The rest… just life, I suppose. Essays on War. Observation. Mundanity.”
He wondered to himself if there were even still matters worth writing about.
People indulged more in a fantasy, most of the time, nothing real.
Not the sort of things Nick minded himself with.
Even the people around him were all terribly shallow– though he supposed it was hardly their fault. It was the folly of man, vapid cruelty crafted alongside the tower of Babylon. Perhaps life was a punishment for this flaw– this lack of interest everyone had in anything outside of themself.
Nick felt heavy with the thought, knowing he certainly wasn’t exempt from such judgement.
“Observation?” Gatsby echoed, interrupting Nick’s internal crisis, leaning forward and studying the other man. “Of what nature?”
Nick blinked at the thought of further description. He was used to issuing blanket statements, but it was very rare someone asked for elaboration.
“I don’t know.” He answered carefully, “People I interact with. Things they say to me, what they do.”
Gatsby’s eyes shined with unexpected interest and Nick felt warm under their gaze. It was a silly situation, he knew if the other man ever read Nick’s work he’d probably toss it to the side. It wasn’t nearly interesting enough to warrant such captivation.
“I’m not particularly creative.” Nick confessed, and feeling a bit self conscious, he ducked away, staring down at his soup and hoping his skin did not match its tomatoey hue.
He blew at a spoonful, before swallowing it, almost regretting choosing such a hot dish as a distraction– it only made him feel warmer.
Smoking, sunshine, and soup– what a day. He ate a second spoonful.
“If you were to write about the west egg district,” Gatsby asked, seemingly unbothered by Nick hiding from him, “What would you say?”
“I don’t know.” He thought for a second, not wanting to be so rude as to not answer, not when Gatsby was polite enough to ask. “I’d write about my house, I suppose.”
That would probably be the end of that conversation. He glanced Gatsby’s way and found the man was still studying him with ample interest, smiling boyishly.
The other man was probably faking it, he reasoned. Gatsby wasn’t interested in anything about Nick, he just needed him to like him– so he would help him with Daisy. It was foolish to attribute any real value to… anything the other man did.
“What about it?” Gatsby egged on, apparently determined to show an interest in a subject where Nick was the focal point.
Goodness, it was hard to assign anything like manipulation to the man. He endeared himself so easily.
“I’d probably call it an eyesore.” Nick shot back, almost immediately regretting it. “-And describe its proximity to more relevant landmarks,” Nick added hastily,now seriously contemplating how to carry this conversation on, “Though, I suppose if I were to describe events, I’d write about your parties– and moments like this, it would help build an environment.”
“You’d describe me?” Gatsby asked, voice lifting, sounding almost like a man in love, before immediately coughing and looking askance.
Nick was talking before he could even process the ridiculous thought.
“Gatsby, of course I’d write about you.”
Nick was fairly certain he would kill a man for Gatsby.
Probably.
He supposed it would depend on the circumstances.
Oblivious to Nick’s brief consideration of murder, Gatsby apparently developed an unnatural appetite, and opted to stab a fork into what appeared to be an entire quarter of a block of iceberg lettuce– and stuffed it into his mouth all at once, swallowing painfully.
Nick’s eyes widened at the act.
“Perhaps I’m not the only madman.”
“Hell,” Nick sputtered, jumping back into conversation for no other reason than to pretend that hadn’t just occurred, “Anything written around these parts would probably be named for you– you’re the most prominent person here.”
The authenticity of what he was saying, and what it revealed of his own opinions hit him, so he clamped his mouth shut. He wouldn’t take it back, not from a man who needed to know he mattered.
Gatsby was a rather insecure creature, Nick reasoned to himself, even if he was flattered he would probably just… laugh the compliment away and then pepper him with questions about Daisy.
That did not happen.
“Do you really believe that?”
Their eyes met again and Nick blinked at this, looking baffled once again, but nodded indulgently anyway.
“Of course I do?”
Gatsby smiled brightly at this, teeth gleaming like fine pearls, dimples carving into tan skin, successfully giving Nick a very small heart attack.
Lord, he was cute.
Even the sun couldn’t hope to shine as brightly as that cheery twinkle in the other’s eyes. It didn’t help that he wore such bright, spring-like colors. Nick swore he was having a staring contest with a personification of the sun.
Was he then, his Icarus? Swooping too close and melting away, falling into the murky depths below?
The boundless bout of affection and oddly stagnant reference to the Greeks of old rampaging Nick at that moment was a bit uncomfortable, largely because it directly sabotaged the notion of his not being obsessed with the other man.
He wasn’t.
Gatsby was just…. Like that. Everyone felt that way when beholding him. They were right too.
“Back to the flowers,” Nick interrupted his own stream of thought, smoothing pleats from his napkin, eyes shifting away from the source of his nerves to focus on said task. “I’m sorry if I spoiled the surprise.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, you didn’t know I had Daisy over,” Nick explained, staring insistently away, knowing he’d get distracted and say something outrageously foolish if he kept staring at the other man. “Though, I daresay she wouldn’t want to be gifted flowers– they die too soon, and she really prefers something long lasting-”
“The flowers weren’t for Daisy.” Gatsby cut in, sounding almost offended by the assumption
Nick paused, caught off guard by such a correction. He’d feel bad for assuming, but…. Almost everything with Gatsby had to do with Daisy.
“Oh.” Nick said, eyes flitting up to briefly meet Gatsby’s, “ I’m sorry,” He said again, softer. He wondered after a tactful way to continue this discussion. Did he ask why not? Did he ask if he had something different for Daisy? …the way Gatsby had emphasized his cousin’s name sat strangely with him.
It was odd to imagine Gatsby being so aggrieved by the thought of giving Daisy something. He always gave her things. He gave her ALL the things.
Nick wondered, briefly, if this was a result of some sort of falling out– but that couldn’t be it. If Gatsby hadn’t given up on Daisy in half a decade, Nick supposed he never would. It made more sense if something more important had just come up. He tried to think of a sad reason one has to gift flowers, one that warranted such a wounded tone.
“So… they’re for a funeral, then?” He tried.
“No, uh,” Gatsby coughed into his fist, before staring uncomfortably long at Nick’s nose, “I thought you might like some.”
Nick startled at this, reestablishing eye contact. “Me?” He repeated, an overwhelming bout of thoughts flooding his mind. It sounded as if Gatsby were making a pass at him. More than that, actually, this was a gesture far more innocent than that.
People didn’t just GIVE one another flowers, not unless they wanted…
His question earned a nod.
“You wanted to get me flowers,” Nick repeated in an even tone, despite his feeling quite dizzy, trying to convince himself this was a purely platonic gesture.
Nick had clearly spent way too much time in the sun today– way too much time talking about romance and feelings with a woman. He’d stared at Gatsby’s stupid, blinding smile too long– he had NO reason, no right, to assign any desire to this.
This had to be an innocent gesture.
The flustered brunette tried to think quickly, quickly enough to continue the conversation and not sully the moment with such crude misinterpretation of intentions.
Maybe it wasn’t innocent, maybe it was a question? A test?
Maybe Gatsby WAS familiar with green carnations. Maybe this was the moment that decided if Nick was respectable or not.
What to do then, deny it? Embrace it?
Gatsby didn’t seem the type to be hateful, he probably would not- come to Nick’s home and ask him about flowers he liked, with the desire to expose and humiliate him. He was too good for such things.
He stifled the urge to panic, taking a tense breath and waiting for Gatsby to affirm or dissuage his assumption. He couldn’t assign evil to his….. Gatsby. To his not a friend, not an acquaintance, dear, dear neighbor who obsessed over his cousin and apparently wanted to give him flowers.
DAISY.
The man couldn’t be a homesexual.
Yes.
There was no way a man like Gatsby, who was so invested in approval, could be a homosexual. Much less interested in Nick.
He could just be curious, Nick reasoned, or just bored. Rich people became bored rather easily. That’s why they had such an overabundance of things.
Nick wondered if it would be strange to make alternative suggestions for a queer affair partner, lord knows he’d be an awful experience.
He hardly even counted as one of those. He could barely even kiss without curling over and retching from the feel of someone else’s saliva. He couldn’t hold a man for too long, lest the feel of another’s skin would burn at him and he would become terribly anxious and- this was NOT helping.
No, no, no.
He couldn’t think of Gatsby that way.
The man hardly understand typical perversions, there was no way that was what he was hinting at.
It had to be something else.
He tried to think of any reason the other man may have for giving him flowers.
Nick supposed his birthday was coming soon, but he doubted the other man knew that.
Then again, he’d known he was Daisy’s cousin.
It was a little disturbing, realizing people knew anything about him without his say. He thought back to… literally any comment Jordan had made mere minutes ago and took another breath, hoping to stave off his rapidly approaching anxiety, and looked to Gatsby.
Gatsby stared right back at Nick and reached forward. Taking his glass in hand and, like the strange moment at the party Nick kept revisiting in his thoughts, took a slow sip while maintaining eye contact.
Apparently this was going to be a thing he just did now.
Nick watched and listened as Gatsby swallowed, feeling even more inclined to bolt.
He didn’t.
He stayed still and simply felt sick.
He wanted to look away.
Instead, he watched Gatsby’s throat bob, filled with liquid, and fought to not shrink under the stare of those steely blue eyes of his.
Maybe Jordan was right. Maybe Nick did shut down at the slightest hint something emotionally charged was about to happen.
Maybe, he realized, feeling a bead of sweat roll down his cheek– the time to speak was now. He needed to ask if Gatsby intended–
“Yes,” The blonde said, setting the glass down and dabbing at his lip. “For… your living room.”
Before Nick could try to think of a response, Gatsby added, in an oddly childish, defensive tone.
“...I’m replacing your clock.”
Nick was an idiot, Jordan was wrong, he was never ever going to voice a guess on anything emotional again in his life.
“What?” He stared, incredulously, at the other man. “My clock?”
“Yes, the one I broke,” Gatsby said, staring at Nick with so much intensity it forced him to realize the blue eyed man hadn’t blinked for an alarmingly long bout of time, “By the way, I’m still sorry for that.” Gatsby concluded, not sounding particularly sorry at all.
“It… was an old clock.” Nick replied, feeling extremely stupid for ever imagining a different intention. He revisited his earlier thoughts on Gatsby’s possible madness and decided he was right. This man was insane. “You needn’t worry about it.” Or he was sick.
If that were the case, Nick would feel terribly sorry for the torrent of judgement in his thoughts at the moment. He would have to pay better attention, to ensure he didn’t jump to any other unreasonable conclusions.
“Well, it’s undue to be without a timepiece,” Gatsby excused with an awkward laugh,”And I’d like to atone for such a… silly mistake.”
“Atone for such a silly mistake?”
The way he said that carried much heavier weight than that of a broken clock- and despite himself, Nick felt his mind wander to Daisy once again. He shook the absurd thought out of his head and tried to think carefully.
The clock. It had been their third interaction, and Gatsby’s first time in his home. He’d said he would replace it and Nick had told him it was fine… why would he want to make reparations now? That had been a handful of months ago, and they’d never discussed it outside of the original incident.
“Well, if you insist,” Nick replied, still puzzled, “But what does that have to do with flowers, again?” He asked, needing more information.
At this, Gatsby mumbled that it would be rude to only bring ONE thing.
That answered nothing, Nick frowned at the thought.
“I don’t think it would be rude, it’s– VERY generous already. Really.” He assured.
Maybe it answered everything? This was a matter of courtesy, and if that were the case… the clock was not truly important. It was what it represented… Nick studied Gatsby.
Something he had promised to amend, early in their friendship, being repaired now– Nick decided now he would operate, again, with the theory that Gatsby had somehow stopped pursuing Daisy.
If that were the case…
“Well, think of it as an additional apology,” Gatsby replied smoothly, leaning back and adjusting his tie, seeming suddenly removed from this conversation.
Apology?
Nick steepled his hands together and bent slightly forward, desperate to figure out what exactly was going through the blonde’s mind.
“Is that why you wanted to know flower meanings? You were looking for apology flowers?”
He supposed that was a reasonable enough explanation, perhaps Gatsby just…. Liked flowers. He had filled his home with them before, after all….
Gatsby swallowed thickly, breaking the chain of eye contact and staring at the floor with an awkward laugh.
“No, I just wanted some that would suit the nature of our relationship.”
All of Nick’s prior understanding came to a screeching halt and he bit back the urge to screech in confusion.
“Hm,” He said, nodding stiffly. “I see.”
Gatsby looked distantly disappointed. Nick’s stomach hurt.
He drank his own water, staring at the table and praying to have a heart attack.
A server seemed to take pity on him and approached with the check.
Soon after, they cleared the table and Gatsby paid the bill before Nick could even touch it. He opted to not say anything, too dizzy with thoughts of what exactly could be meant.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to not attribute Gatsby’s eccentricity to… being. Eccentric. Nick swallowed again at the thought, drier now, with no water to aid the action.
He couldn’t think like that about it. He had to think of a different reason Gatsby would have to- to fulfil a debt and try and define their relationship? With flowers representing an apology?
When did people apologize in relationships? He supposed in a breakup-
At this he paused, and turned Gatsby’s way, seeing the man jauntily walking to his own car.
“Gatsby?” He called, causing the man to turn with wide eyes.
“Yes, Old Sport?” He called back.
Nick studied Gatsby’s face, wondering if this would be one of the last times he’d see it.
This was so obvious. He really MUST be obsessed with the other man, if he’d reached such an insane conclusion as opposed to the other just… moving away and reimbursing him for his troubles.
“I just wanted to thank you,” Nick said, trying to memorize the other’s expression. He couldn’t taint what could possibly be his last memory of the other man with- whatever it was he was thinking. “For getting lunch with me. I… enjoy your company.” He hoped he was wrong.
Gatsby looked a touch confused at this.
Nick smiled apologetically, “Sorry, I just meant, I’m glad we’ve been neighbors.”
Gatsby smiled back at him and, without much else to say, Nick walked away.
…
“Hello?”
It seemed nobody wanted Nick to get rest today. He leaned against the wall, tucking his phone into his shoulder.
“Nick, hey.”
“Hey Tom,” He greeted again, ignoring the urge to hang up and go to sleep, “What’s going on?”
“What, something needs to be going on to call you?”
At this, Nick resisted the urge to sigh. Tom could be rather insufferable once he got the idea he wasn’t wanted– and it seemed, in their every interaction, he would infer such feelings on Nick’s behalf.
It seemed it would be one of THOSE calls.
“No, of course not,” Nick assured, and recognizing this call would take a while, he decided to sit through it and sank to the floor. “What did you want to talk about? It’s been some time since we’ve had a call.”
They’d only spoken on the telephone once or twice. Nick didn’t mind, Tom was a touch too loud for such a thing. In fact, he’d always gotten the impression the other man hated using such a device. Tom was, after all, very physical.
When Nick thought of him, he thought of college– they’d barely known one another at the time, but when they spoke, Tom’s hands were quick to be on his person.
What large hands they were, he remembered, almost twice as large as Nick’s own thin fingers. It was almost comical, remembering the way Tom would grab a fellow by the shoulder or slap him on the back, always dripping with sweat and commanding the interaction through his loudness.
Even now, for all the years he had under his belt, and being a member of high society– Tom was himself.
If he didn’t grab or smack at his conversational partner, he imposed himself as part of the environment. Sitting with his legs spread inconveniently, bending forward and looming– a big, big man asserting himself in his every interaction.
“....Daisy’s been fussing again,” Tom said, rushing through the sentence after taking a pause, it gave the impression he was attempting to hide hesitation. “Got a bad feeling about you or some crap– you know how women get.”
Nick ignored the urge to scoff, or even truly laugh, at the ridiculousness of it all.
If Daisy were worried, she would never send her husband after him, she had very little faith in the man, when it came to sensitive matters.
And Tom, big, bold Tom– was never an errand boy, calling as a little favor to his wife.
Tom was more like a schoolboy, Nick thought to himself, smiling at the idea. Making silly excuses to never be seen as lesser.
It seemed he was worried about Nick, for some reason, and took the time to ask after him. But god forbid anyone know he has feelings… it was truly comical. Nick’s irritation dissipated slightly at the reminder he was essentially speaking with an overgrown child.
“Ah, yes, I see,” Nick answered, indulgent in tone. “Well, you can tell your wife she needn’t worry. I’m fine.”
Tom didn’t speak for a moment. It seemed Nick would have to lead this conversation.
“Is that everything Daisy wanted?” Nick asked, gently as he could manage.
“Don’t be an ass.”
Nick could’ve laughed at the bite in Tom’s tone, but he didn’t.
“You called me, Tom,” Nick reminded, “I don’t know what to say.”
“Lord, Nick, you don’t know how to have a call with an old friend?”
The brief amusement Nick had been feeling faded as Tom became more defensive– he wasn’t very fun to talk to, not when he became angry. Especially over such petty things.
He didn’t know how Daisy could stand it.
“Sorry,” Nick offered lamely, sighing and staring up at some dull painting that came with the cottage, “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“You didn’t mean to offend? Do you even hear yourself sometimes– you’re so-”
Nick’s eyes drifted to the expanse of blank wallspace beside himself and he considered bashing his skull against it. He touched it and frowned at the feeling of peeling wallpaper. He’d have to get that repaired sometime.
“-and you’re so spineless about everything, no wonder-”
It seemed Tom was chewing him out. Why did everyone feel the urge to scold him today?
Nick moved the phone to the floor, tuning out his old classmate’s yells.
He’d forgotten how sensitive the other could be, it was downright absurd.
Nick rolled his eyes at the thought.
“And- you just think nobody cares about you, don’t you? That you’re removed from everything-”
Nick paused at this, eyeing the phone warily. It hit a little close to home, after Jordan’s conversation, he picked it up.
“Come again?” He asked, wondering what could have possibly led Tom, of all people, to such a conclusion.
“We try and help you, ask how you are– and you just talk to us like we’re nothing more than strangers– do you know how HARD it is to talk to you?”
He felt his teeth clench and he took a breath at the accusation. He would let Tom say his piece, he would smile through it, and then he could hang up and pretend it never happened.
“I don’t usually give a damn how you talk to me–”
Liar, Nick thought sourly, Tom Buchanan was someone who cared very much about how he was perceived. He sought approval from everyone, even people simple as himself. It was how he was.
“But I’m making sure you’re not strangling yourself over that woman, and you’re acting like I’m some-”
Nick tuned him out again, not keen on being insulted. Half a heartbeat later, it seemed Tom had concluded. Nick was a bit surprised, that was rather fast, all things considered.
“Aw Tom,” Nick cooed consolingly, hoping to sound more earnest. “I’m sorry.”
This was entirely absurd, he rolled his eyes again, but continued to speak.
“Listen, I do appreciate your reaching out because you-”
“Daisy.” Tom corrected indignantly.
“Right, Daisy–” Nick played along, “Of course. Daisy was worried about me. That was real….” He struggled for a word that wouldn’t convey how stupid he found this whole thing, “Classy of you. I promise I’m not strangling myself.”
Tom didn’t say anything, so Nick offered additional praise. “You’re a good friend, Tom.”
“You made her cry.”
“Who?” Nick frowned at the new information, “Daisy?”
He wasn’t entirely sure if Tom was referring to himself now. If he was, Nick felt an odd spot of pride in apparently breaking some of the man’s emotional barriers. If he wasn’t, he couldn’t think of anything he’d down to upset Daisy recently.
“Well, I’m sorry. Let her know I’m sorry please.”
“Tell her yourself,” Tom answered with a scoff.
“I will.” Nick agreed with a sigh.
“Visit soon,” Tom demanded petulantly, apparently deeming this topic sufficiently discussed, “We’ll have drinks.”
Ugh, Tom and all the drinking… “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Nick assured coolly. “Let me know when?”
“Anytime,” Tom answered gruffly, “You know you’re always welcome.”
Actively untrue.
Nick supposed he would call sometime during the week and ask Daisy if he should visit. With that in mind, he supposed he should write down days to reach out to Jordan, considering she’d said they should resume spending time with one another…
“Thank you.” Nick said anyway, and moved to hang up.
“Nick.” Tom said, in the closest thing to a plea he’d heard from the burly man.
“Yes, Tom?” Nick asked, making eye contact with his housekeeper, who had stepped into the hall at some point and was staring at him with thinly veiled horror.
“You call me sometime, understand?”
He didn’t understand, and he doubted he would ever willingly call Tom without some sort of event prompting him to do so.
“Alright Tom, thank you,” Nick said again, as he very well couldn’t voice his real thoughts. “You have a good night, alright?
“Goodnight you little bastard.” Tom muttered, clearly determined to have the last word.
Nick rolled his eyes and hung up.
What a stupid idea. Trying to win a conversation. Nick wagered a guess that was a symptom of too many hits to the head, for all the love Tom had of football, it made sense it would craft the strange sort of emotionally debilitated man he was today.
Ridiculous, he thought again, shaking his head to himself.
He paused in his mental dissection of Tom’s discrepancies and looked up again, finding his housekeeper still staring at him, wide eyed and quiet. He stared back for a moment, wondering if she would simply walk away if he didn’t acknowledge her.
She didn’t, so he sighed and rehung the phone. “What is it?” He asked, pulling himself to stand.
“Mr. Carraway, are you… alright?” She asked, stepping forward, brows embracing to create a worry line.
“Yes.” Nick dispelled. “No need to worry after me.”
She hesitated, seeming unsure of where to go from there.
“You can go.” He dismissed her with a wave, trudging to his favored seat and dumping his body into it with a gratuitous thunk.
She seemed to take him up on his word. He listened to the click clack of her heels and the eventual thud of a door being shut.
He sighed, finding he already missed the distraction, but knowing it wouldn’t be decent to go and harass his housekeeper after he’d already sent her off. All in the name of being lonely, he shook his head once again, scoffing at himself.
He’d spoken to too many people determined to pick apart his mind that day, that was it.
“Gatsby’s next door…”
The thought startled him and he grabbed at the journal he’d left on his coffee table, feeling shame start at the prospect. It was far too late a time to trudge over to his neighbor for… what? To be told he wasn’t a difficult person who made everyone’s lives worse? To be consoled? To pretend he meant something?
A far queerer thought pervaded the barriers of his mind and he felt sick of himself, wrenching his journal open brusquely and flipping through it.
Thinking of Gatsby seemed to serve at least one productive service, and Nick scribbled down what he had told the man. He wrote about the cottage, he wrote about Gatsby’s parties. His invitation, his conversations with Jordan and Tom and Daisy– meeting Gatsby, what the man was like.
“This is a terrible idea.”
Nick ignored the buzz of apprehension in his skull and continued to write. He ignored the sloppy turn his handwriting had begun to take on– the smear of ink, blossoming in a false bruise against his skin, the tear of paper under the metal of a fountain pen.
“I am insane. I am genuinely insane. I need to be in an asylum.”
That damned hollowness inside of him felt cavernous, so empty it became cold, and his every moment caused earthquake inducing tremors to resound. Alongside his internal system, his arms trembled with the intensity of a much weaker man. He ignored it, persevering, but at some point it seemed the Devil himself was determined to make him stop and his pen flipped suddenly– striking his pointer finger and digging a bloody groove into it.
Too angry, too tired, and too frustrated to cry out in pain– Nick simply grabbed that stupid pen and threw it at the wall.
It hit it with a small SMACK! And fell to the floor anticlimatically.
Childishly, he found himself deeply annoyed at the lack of a scene from his small spurt of violence and, without another thought, he grabbed his journal and threw it at the wall as well.
He regretted it instantly, eyes going wide at the sight of forgotten, loose papers flying out of the book and fluttering the ground in an explosion of page sized confetti. The book at least had been more satisfyingly loud– striking the wall with such fervor that his housekeeper returned with a shout, gesturing to the calamity and asking why he would do such a thing.
Nick didn’t answer. He just stared, not blinking, at one paper in particular.
Notes:
Jordan this is so sad play Good Luck Babe by Chappell Roan.
Everytime I think about tom and Nick I sort of lose it. Their dynamic is so weird.
I also think it's hilarious that Nick is like "daisy pretends everything is great and treats people as if they're children" and then turns around and pretends everything is great and talks to his friends as if they are children.
...I've been having a time and a half since the last update akjdflajdsf s
Being sick got worse and I've had a rather nasty cough for like two months-- had a lovely visit with my friend, got hit on by like 30 different people so apparently the ao3 curse is still in effect, and uh yeah that's what I've been up to.
Sorry for the delay I rewrote Jordan and Tom's conversations like three times because both of them were originally like. 10 pages each. You can tell I'm a dialogue fiend lol
Hope you've all been well! :}
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