Gatsby was unusually nervous that evening as they sat around a small patio table, wine glasses glittering in the setting sun.

He spoke with a cheerful franticness, eager to answer any of Nick's inquiries to the point of stepping on his final syllables (which, of course, he frantically apologized for, being a man of manners). His foot tapped endlessly against the floor to some off-kilter time signature inaudible to Nick, fingers drumming along the arm rest to something even more off-beat but significantly quicker. All the while to this erratic tempo was the chattering of soaked ice, and Nick didn't even need to glance over to know his glass was shaking in his hands.

Nick was an interpreter of literature, not music, and so could not discern a method to this madness, but only madness to this method.

Gatsby was biting his lower lip when Nick finally decided to speak up, cutting off the man's tale of some excavation in the Netherlands. "Jay—" He immediately had his attention, surprised and nervous, and the song ended. There was a pause before he spoke, before the familiar, controlled smile stretched his face.

"Yes, old sport?"

"Is something bothering you?" He titled his head, eyes concerned and slightly amused. Gatsby always amused him.

"Hm?" The taping resumed and he stared at his shoes. "No, not at all, old sport. What prompted the question?"

It took all his willpower not to simply raise an eyebrow as a response. "You're fidgeting like it's going out of fashion, and you're speaking as if you have somewhere you need to be." The thought had only just occurred to him. "Do you? I don't mean to keep you here if you have prior obligations."

"No!" Gatsby all but lunged from his chair, sitting up sharply and gripping the arm rests. Noting Nick's surprised look, he settled back, loosening his tight hold. A faint blush tinted his cheeks. "Excuse me, old sport, for the outburst." He was putting on an obvious effort now to control his speech, each word enunciated fully. He smiled the smile that stole Nick's breath and fixed his cuffs. "There's nowhere else I have to be, nor would rather be, than here with you."

He held Nick's gaze for a few moments, entrancing him with that dazzling smile before averting his gaze. Nick was very confused by this point, and slightly flustered. Why had that look seemed almost... intimate? And nowhere he'd rather be than with him...? Surely that was just a pleasantry? He would most like to be with Daisy. The sentence hadn't meant a thing.

"I apologize for my behaviour, old sport," he continued with a sigh. He twisted the ring around his pinky, a nervous habit Nick had observed in him. "There is something bothering me. Well, perhaps not bothering, but certainly occupying my mind. You understand, don't you?"

Nick just stared at him. Gatsby cleared his throat into his fist, shifting in embarrassment. "O-Of course you don't, I haven't said anything yet, it's just—" He waved his hand vaguely, a nervous titter leaving him. "The heat. You understand, don't you, old sport? The heat, I mean." The ice cubes were chatting again.

Nick nodded. "The heat."

"It's very hot. Almost unbearably so."

"Unbearably."

Gatsby's eyes flickered in thought before he rearranged himself in his seat, scooting his chair closer and leaning forward. He clasped his hands together between his knees and looked at the floor. Nick leaned in a bit himself. The matter was clearly serious and only to be shared between them. He gave him the time he needed to speak.

Gatsby finally looked at him, only to blush and look away, much to Nick's confusion. The man was only flustered when it came to Daisy. Did he want him to invite her over again? Honestly, for a person so insistent on his asking for anything he wanted, he was terrible at making requests.

"I can invite her over again," he offered. "If you want."

Gatsby looked at Nick like he had grown a second head.

"What?"

"For dinner, I mean." He reclined back. "It's not an issue. I'm sure Daisy would be delighted."

Gatsby continued to stare at him in absolute confusion before it sunk in. "Oh." His brow furrowed and he held up his hands. "Oh! Oh, no. No, no, old sport, that wasn't what I was getting at at all. I'm sorry for being so vague."

"I see." The sun trembled above the horizon. The street always smelled of the beach. "What is it, then? It's clearly of great importance to you."

Gatsby nodded. He opened and closed his overcoat, fiddling, then shut his eyes and took a deep breath. The uncharacteristic hesitance made Nick nervous. When Gatsby looked back up at him, his eyes shone with shyness.

"Well, you see..." His voice was hushed and Nick strained to hear him. "I was wondering if, perhaps, you'd like to..." He paused and Nick urged him on. Breathing through his nose, he held his gaze. "Go on a sort of... date, if you will, old sport."

There was no word to describe the shock Nick was feeling.

Had he heard him correctly? A date—with him? Himself, not Daisy? It was unthinkable. Gatsby had expressed no interest in him before, his eyes fixated on the green light across the bay. Not to mention they were both men and this was taboo of the highest nature. Nick couldn't speak. He simply stared, blinking, and Gatsby suddenly laughed, loud and booming and fake.

"Do not look so stunned, old sport!" He scooted his chair back and seemed to curl in on himself. "It was... it was only a joke, you see." The ice chittered as he sipped his drink. Setting it back down, he smiled at him weakly. "I got you pretty good there, didn't I, old sport?"

But it was obvious it wasn't a joke and the silence stretched between them. A date. The mysterious Jay Gatsby had just asked him out on a date. He had earned millions for Daisy and now he was asking his middle-class neighbour out on a date. Nick didn't think he would ever understand the man.

That was what he liked about him.

A slow, unsure smile graced his face. "Really now?" He laughed lowly. "That's a shame, Mr. Gatsby. I would have very much liked to have gone on a date with you."

There was a teasing quality to his tone, a safe net for his bold sentence. If Gatsby truly had been joking, he would detect Nick's laugh and assume he was going along with the joke. If he hadn't, however, it was a subtle way of receiving his answer; an opportunity for Gatsby to change his mind without any ensuing awkwardness.

Nick could only pray he had been sincere.

Gatsby held his gaze, mouth moving wordlessly before a grin split his face, radiant with a joy Nick had never witnessed from him before. "You'd..." He laughed breathlessly, shaking his head in disbelief. "You'd really like to, Nick?"

His name sounded foreign on his tongue. After a moment's hesitation, he smiled. "I... I'd be happy to."

Gatsby nodded sharply, once, twice, and twisted his ring, giddy smile blooming against the muscles that twitched to restrain it. Nick had a hard time himself containing his smile, and they sat in mutual, excited silence. A servant dropped by to refill their glasses without notice. The sun had set.

Ten minutes passed when another servant suddenly appeared, whispering in Gatsby's ear. The briefest hint of dark anger flitted across his eyes before he nodded and waved the man away. "Well, you'll have to excuse me, old sport," he said, rising with a sad smile. "I've business to attend to."

Nick nodded, also rising. "I understand."

"How does..." Gatsby licked his lips. "Six pm tomorrow sound? Is that okay? Or are you busy? Just pick the time, old sport, and I'll—"

"Six is fine."

"Ah." Another sharp nodded and he murmured to himself, then smiled. "I'll pick you up, then. Don't go filling up too much on me, old sport." He winked playfully, bringing red to Nick's cheeks, and left with a short wave. "Until tomorrow, then."

As he ascended up the marble steps, Nick stood waving, watching his white suit disappear behind chestnut doors, paralyzed with happiness.