Chapter Text
A finely dressed figure stood at the edge of a dock, soft eyes reflecting the ebbing glow of a harsh green light on the other side of the bay.
His hand moved to clutch at his chest, feeling at his weary heart, laden with heavy thoughts. 5 years ago, Jay Gatsby had been crafted for the approval of a Mrs. Daisy Buchanan, and today was the day he realized it had all been in vain.
There are little things that devastate a man as much as the realization that the woman of their dreams is nothing BUT a dream.
The Daisy Buchanan who lived in the confines of Gatsby's mind was a cherub, a doll. her lipstick was always smeared, and she laughed at intellectual things. She hung off of her dear lover's arm and smiled brightly, talking to all sorts of people attending their lavish parties.
Her delicate hands would cradle his jaw and she would whisper the fundamentals of who he was as a human being between kisses, whispering I know you, I understand you, and I love you on purpose.
That Daisy was behind a wall of green, fighting tooth and nail to reach the other side, shouting that she would do ANYTHING for a young James Gatz.
There was a Daisy Buchanan, hidden behind the green, who dated JamesGatz and had certainly spared Gatsby some affection.
But she wasn't his Eve, she had not taken a bite of the forbidden world-- and she would never leave her Eden.
Gatsby wondered if it was childish to curse the name of Tom Buchanan, the man who had found marble and carved it into the lifeless shape of a woman. She was pretty, but she had no logical understanding of adult life. She didn't ever try to open the curtains and see the layers, she accepted everything at it's surface level.
Gatsby had appreciated this quality, until he realized it applied to leaving her husband for him. The woman had no plans of sacrifice or the slightest notion of the war he had endured to earn her hand.
She was a silly, vapid creature, nothing more than a child soiling a beautiful memory.
Gatsby wondered if he was equally petulant, staring at the green and sulking in the dark of the night.
Even the light was not nearly as lovely as he had once imagined it. It could be possible, he reckoned, that he didn't truly know a thing. What was the point of a life one could not balance with any awareness? The man sighed and turned, luridly dragging his heartbroken body back to his house but couldn’t help but pause, noticing the dancing light of a flickering candle flame visible from a small window at the edge of his property.
It was surprising to see Nick Carraway awake at this hour, his neighbor was a very sensible man, and therefore not usually the type to interrupt his sleeping schedule outside of a special occasion.
Like one of Gatsby’s own parties. He smiled incredulously at the memory of how long it had taken the other man to attend one, he’d had to resort to coaxing him there with a shiny invitation. It was laughable really, didn’t he understand that one and all were welcome to the splendor of his home when a party was hosted?
Yet, there was something deeply endearing in the assumed respect of his space. The idea of crossing an unsaid boundary had never even occurred to his dear neighbor.
They were very different entities, Gatsby reckoned. The two of them were equal in the fact that they were irregular people, more experiences than souls of their own.
Gatsby was a party. An explosion. A raging ocean, with waves crashing to the beach and presenting sea glass and creatures and feeling.
Nick was a passerby. A shadow. An occasional cup of tea. The feeling of a quiet warmth settling in an individual’s belly when they were able to surpass insomnia and fall asleep.
It dawned to Gatsby that in his series of thoughts, he had begun to creep up to his neighbor’s door, and he was quick to amend himself, dashing to the safety of his own doorway.
Still, his gaze remained affixed to the warm flicker of a candle in the window, beckoning him with the intensity of a well manicured hand across the bar.
The man swallowed thickly, unsure what to do with the want he had for the idea. Nick’s home seducing him, pulling him close...
Nick looking his way and asking him to step forward.
He swallowed again, feeling his face burn at the oddly enticing notion. Before he could stop and really consider the implications of such a thought, he was startled by the sight of the man in question.
A very sleep addled Nick Carraway appeared in the window and bent forward, pausing only to brush a stray hair from his eyes, before blowing out the flame with deftly pursed lips.
With no light left to behold, leaning against his door for support, Gatsby's common sense begged of him to be rational and retire for the night, within the confines of his warm, lavish home.
Yet he stayed, imaging the smoke of the candle, pondering the image of Nick, and trapped with immeasurable thoughts.