Archive of Our Own ^beta

Gatsby isn’t quite sure of how to describe this feeling coiling around his throat. He’s not quite sure of when it even started to blossom into this vine of a beast. A seed that had settled deep within himself, past the facade of Jay Gatsby ; deeper, deeper past the gilded image he had so carefully concocted. 

But he is a man of chase, of hunt. That buzzing, blistering excitement that fuels the rush of blood he hears from his ears. He enjoyed the war, the adrenaline pumping through his very being. He lives and breathes in the gunpowder air and frenzied metallic echoes. When he meets a summer beauty in that haze, James Gatz decides to become a new man. 

Even with all that he had accomplished, Gatsby still can’t win the chase. And so he takes advantage of Daisy’s cousin, Nick. It was so easy to rope the poor man into his messy love affairs. He didn’t make any comments, no judgements, just simply following along with his ridiculous demands. Daisy and Nick couldn’t possibly be any more different. At first he was a simple neighbor, a quiet man with an unassuming demeanor about him. And yet Gatsby finds himself making excuses and plans to have him in his company. It was as if those watchful verdant eyes saw right through him. He felt 17 all over again. Like Jay Gatsby and James Gatz were the same man. 

He spent so many of his nights desperately memorizing the green light across the bay. If only to keep the after-image of the golden sun he couldn’t claim in the mornings. So many nights and he never noticed the moon behind watching along. 

• +   +                              

Gatsby searches for that familiar green reflection amongst crowds of pearl and gold. He looks and looks and looks and can’t seem to find that shade of forest that calms the lurking thing inside his chest. The wine glass in his hand feels like a burden, the flamboyant tie he adorns feels like it’s choking against his throat. Gatsby smiles and smiles as he passes by people whose names he can’t remember and it feels like something in his cheek is broken. 

And then he finds him.

Watching.

Watching that very green light across the bay that he obsessed over for years. 

Gatsby wished that Nick would look at him instead. 

He doesn’t. Not even when he places that wine glass down, or when he yanks off the obnoxious tie off his throat. Gatsby struggles to find his voice, there’s a strange pressure there. The hands of God are pressing down against his esophagus. 

“Is everything alright?”

Gatsby nearly drowns in relief. 

“Just fine, Old Sport. Feeling a bit peckish that’s all.” 

Gatsby isn’t sure why he’s lying. 

Nick is quiet for a moment, and moves closer. It feels like a thorn had snagged his organs and a vine had twisted itself around. 

“Take a seat, you look flushed.”

“Oh do I? Must be the summer heat.” 

It’s a poor excuse and Gatsby is sure that an intellectual like Nick had surely reasoned it as one. But Nick is such a terribly nice person, and so he makes no comment about it. 

This feeling in his chest, his heart, Gatsby knows the name of it lingering on the tip of his tongue. It hurts like the pain of James Gatz and Gatsby can’t bear to hurt like James Gatz. The warm hand resting on his shoulder burns and flowers bloom at the touch. 

Gatsby lets himself drown in the green light reflecting back to him.