Work Text:
Fireworks erupted. Scattered spectacles of colour and sound embellished the air, neon facsimile of war. Gatsby shuddered. The towering walls of his own home weren't enough to protect him, nor the blankets he yanked tight to himself, a shield of cotton and linen. Nothing was. The blinds were drawn shut, but the light still ricocheted off every surface it could find, glinting, greedy and dangerous. After a particularly loud whistle and pop, Gatsby squeezed his eyes shut as if that would make his mind stop running wild with the unfading memories of his time spent in the military.
"Gatsby?"
Gatsby peered up at the noise to see Nick, two cups of tea in hand. He set his own on the wooden nightstand, passing the other to Gatsby. Not too hot, but still perfectly warm. Gatsby stared distantly into the still liquid, wisps of steam licking his face, comforting him like a dog— well-meaning and ineffective.
"It should be just a little longer now," Nick settled next to Gatsby, their shoulders brushing.
The fourth of July was a difficult holiday for Gatsby; Nick knew this well. Gatsby had made note to warn Nick in the days beforehand, as the date crept ominously closer. It was their first year living together, and Gatsby only wanted Nick to be aware so he could choose to avoid him altogether. Gatsby was sure Nick would be happier with family or relatives, enjoying the festivities. Instead, to Gatsby's surprise, Nick remained at home. With him.
It was all Nick could do to be there for his lover when the sky darkened and the dreaded light-show began to the dismay of his partner. Nick hadn't thought much of fireworks beyond them being vaguely pretty before meeting Gatsby. He certainly hadn't considered them scary. Even having been to war himself, they didn't grip him with the same terror that haunted Gatsby. He'd only ever associated the booming sound with social gatherings he didn't particularly care for or mind one way or the other. So, Nick would stay by Gatsby, wielding herbal tea, blankets, and patience. It was the least he could do.
Another high-pitched whistle and crack tore through the air. Gatsby jolted. Sweet chamomile splattered about, almost spilling entirely, but Nick's steady hands cradled Gatsby's trembling ones like the blankets and the curtains and the walls. Gatsby took a sip out of the precariously full cup, only able to force a small bit down before his throat clamped shut. Nick eased the mug away to place it beside his own, guiding one of Gatsby's now-free hands into his and entwining their fingers— lonely puzzle pieces. Nick frowned. Gatsby was even worse off than he'd imagined.
"Nick," Gatsby's lip wobbled, voice straining. "Nick." Gatsby repeated. Perhaps just saying his name would grant him salvation. Perhaps Nick's name was all he remembered as his mind waged war against itself. He hung onto it, chanting it like a prayer.
"I know." Nick faced Gatsby now, staring into those eyes; deep and blue and watery like the glittering ocean outside their door. Nick gently squeezed the hand he still clasped closely, his personal treasure, rubbing Gatsby's arm while applying a pressure he hoped was comforting.
Nick pondered to himself how many of these firework-heavy holidays Gatsby had spent alone, shut away and denied any celebration; celebration he knew Gatsby would revel in. The talking and merriment were always more to his taste. Today, he wasn't seeing Gatsby's smile illuminated by multi-colour lights, and that filled Nick with a strange bitterness he couldn't quite place.
They stayed a while in the tense silence, broken up by whistles and explosions and whimpers— Gatsby too gone to be composed or ashamed, that perfect face screwed up in terror and grief. It looked so out of place on him— uncanny, as if something else had possessed Gatsby at the first sign of the light-show.
Gradually, thankfully, the noise died down. Little by little, the tension seeped away from Gatsby's hunched shoulders. He slumped his head onto Nick's chest with no regard for how the action would be taken, too exhausted to consider the sudden rapid heartbeat that pulsed against his ear— a much more peaceful noise despite its erratic rhythm.
Nick's breath hitched while his fingers found their way to Gatsby's soft golden hair, little locks of wavering sunshine poking in every direction from being suffocated under blankets and pillows in a futile attempt to block out the noise. Nick had the privilege of smoothing them down. He took painstaking care in it.
"How are you feeling?" Nick tried. Gatsby hummed at the vibrating tenor of his voice spreading out from his chest along with his heart, worming its way into his head; a beautiful symphony just for him.
"Tired," Gatsby just barely whispered, eyes fluttering open then closed after it proved to be too laborious to see.
"You ought to sleep," Nick matched Gatsby's volume. "It is awfully late."
"They always run late, old sport. The festivities."
"So they do," Nick eased them both down until they both laid on the mattress, Gatsby still lounging across Nick, practically glued to him.
"Hm?" Gatsby blinked, squinting at their new position before deeming it agreeable and closing his eyes again.
"You need sleep."
"What if they start up again?" Gatsby breathed, as though merely talking was becoming too much.
"Then I will be here," Nick assured, hoisting the blankets around them both, "and I will keep you safe." The image of that amused him. Nick was certain Gatsby would be more apt at defending them from whatever imagined threat may cross their path. Nick meant it, of course. He would drop everything to protect Gatsby; elegant, beautiful Gatsby who somehow chose Nick.
"M'kay…" Gatsby slurred, "I love you." Then he was asleep.
"I love you too," Nick's response sent a breeze ruffling through Gatsby's hair. He swore Gatsby's grasp on him tightened almost imperceptibly.
If there was any more noise outside, they both slept deeply through it.