One Regret
A/N: Well, here's my first Gatsby fanfiction, and it's slash too. My heartfelt apologies to F. Scott Fitzgerald, whose characters I'm using and who is probably turning in his grave. This takes place right after Gatsby has told Nick his true life-story.
After Gatsby told me everything, after he'd taken me into the back corners of his early life, trusting me to hear his secrets, we sat. Neither of us spoke or moved– we just stayed in our little tableau, he with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands and I, sitting and looking at him. I didn't see the odd, mysterious man who had begun life so ordinarily. I didn't see anything; I was thinking, and my unfocused eyes had decided to rest on him. He drew them to him like he drew everything else. If he was the moth drawn to Daisy's flame, getting more severely burnt the closer he got, then what was I?
We stayed still for only a few minutes, but some great truth was revealed to me then. He trusted me more than he'd trusted Daisy– what had that meant? Even Gatsby's telling of his true life story provoked more questions, questions that I was never going to ask. I didn't want to speak or even move, as I became aware of the simple intimacy of our pose. We weren't touching, but sitting very close together and trusting each other. He'd allowed himself to trust somebody, knowing he'd gotten me so caught up in this game with his friendliness and disarming charm. His charm put the guests at ease, that's what they loved about him, he put them at ease because once they were at one of his parties, they became anonymous. They didn't have to worry about who would whisper about them the next morning to the neighbors and the gossip rags.
And of course, the guests didn't have to meet the host. They didn't have to become friends with him and then worry about him constantly as he played an increasingly dangerous game. My nerves may have been as frazzled as his were at this point, although I sometimes wonder if Gatsby, with a manner as smooth as his infamous pink suit, would ever have admitted a little stress to anyone besides me. Sitting on the couch, cigarettes in hand, neither of us had felt very at ease, but as the story flowed out, so did the tension. And that left the two of us, sitting unmoving for minutes that felt like years.
Gatsby broke the tableau, moving his shoulders almost imperceptibly. It startled me, that sudden movement, and took me a minute to register that indeed his shoulders were shaking. He was crying, and the intimacy grew until its hugeness felt crushing. None of his guests, I knew, had ever seen him like this. He was a part of their world for an instant, his sphere just brushing theirs at one of his parties, once or maybe twice. Once they left, they forgot him until the next party, where they'd pick up their cherished memory of fun, dust it off, and live it again for a few more hours.
The sound of his sobbing broke through my thoughts. It wasn't loud or overly dramatic; in fact, I've never heard anyone cry so quietly. Whether he was sobbing for Daisy, for himself, for his now-broken dream, I didn't know. But I was moved by some strange, nameless feeling to put an arm around his shoulder and take one of his hands in mine. The feeling I had next was undescribable as well, but can best be said as a sad little thrill that one might get when something is almost within reach but can't be grasped.
Gatsby rested his head on my shoulder and then turned so he was crying into my shirt. He craved comfort, I realized, and companionship– he was like a man on a desert island who could only watch others from afar, others that came so close to him in their boats but refused to help. There was no chance now that Daisy would be with him, we both knew that, but to have realized in a single night that his dream was broken had devastated him. His sobs shook him but were nearly silent; when I looked down, I expected to see that my shirt was thoroughly wet, but it was not. He was crying in the only way he knew how, bottled up, hidden as he'd hidden the rest of himself.
After a few minutes, he looked up with a sad, wry little smile. "I'm sorry, old sport. I hope I haven't ruined your shirt; I'll buy you another one if I have."
I just shook my head, confused at the way that only his eyes, out of all of his face, seemed to fit a man that had just been crying. I wondered how many times he'd done that– cried, his sadness coming out for just a minute without anyone noticing or caring afterwards.
"Do you think it's possible?" Gatsby asked suddenly. I was confused, and seeing this, he added, "About Daisy, I mean. You know her better than I do, old sport," he sighed, "so do you know if she's loved me at all? Sometimes I feel so sure that she does, but then..." He trailed off, not wanting to say what he'd thought the other times.
"I'm sure she does," I replied quickly. It seemed vital that I keep his floundering, dying dream alive, suddenly, even by lying, which I rarely did then and haven't done since.
"Please don't be offended by this," Gatsby murmured, "but you're an awful liar, old sport."
I shook my head, opening my mouth to deny that I'd indeed been lying, but Gatsby said, "Please, don't lie on account of me. It feels like people have been doing that forever, and you have...something that just makes a lie seem especially unbecoming when you speak it."
He turned, searching my face for something that he seemed to find a minute later. That sad little smile returned, almost bringing tears to my eyes– it wasn't right that Gatsby should be so sad for Daisy! He was a better person than she was all around, I'd realized by that point, although I disapproved of him all along.
Still with that expression, Gatsby leaned towards me, closer and closer. I didn't back away, didn't want time to start passing in the rushing way that it did outside of his mansion. For time did indeed feel slower, or maybe it was just the gravity of those moments that cause me only to remember them so because I must save every detail of them, especially now.
Our lips seemed to be nearly touching for forever, but it can't have been more than a second. When they met, Gatsby brushed his lips with mine, gently, almost frightened that I'd back away. I didn't; after the initial shock that here was Gatsby and he was actually kissing me, I kissed back. He deepened the kiss, wanting more and more. Here was a man so lonely that even at his huge parties, no one knew his face. Only his name was bandied about and he became supernatural, exaggerated in every telling of the tales people whispered about him.
I kissed him again after we broke apart, definitely more strongly than he had kissed me. It was all over now, there were no more secrets. As Gatsby pulled away gently, he looked at his knees. That was to be our last kiss, I realized then, our last kiss that day if not forever.
"You know what, old sport?" He was still looking at his knees, speaking in a sad little half-whisper. "If I died today, my one regret would be that I hadn't done this sooner. I've lived so long for Daisy that I forgot what real life was all about, and it's all come out horribly." He rested his head on my shoulder again, but he stared off into space. I knew he was seeing that green light, being drawn to it again by its siren song, and our intimacy was broken. There was an intruder in the room and it was the ghost of Gatsby's dream of Daisy, coming back to haunt him.
"Don't say that, Gatsby," I replied. "You won't die today."
He shook his head as if to clear his mind, and a few strands of his hair fell loose and tickled my cheek. Turning his head so that he was looking at his knees again, Gatsby whispered, "I feel like I already have, what with all of this mess with Daisy."
Now it was my turn to stare at my knees, willing stubborn tears out of my eyes. Gatsby, his head still on my shoulder, saw this and said in a voice filled with false levity, "Now, you're going to the city today, right? Well, we can go boating when you come back, if you want to, old sport."
I accepted his invitation for the same reason he'd set it forth in the first place. We spent the rest of the morning conversing, and then eating breakfast, ignoring that looming sadness that was swallowing Gatsby up. We were still ignoring it in all of its hugeness as I shouted what were to be my last words to him across the lawn.
But that grin he gave me, that wonderfully ecstatic grin– that told me that he really did value me and value my opinion. And that grin was truly happy, I could tell, and he forgot that tragic dying summer for an instant.
And then I grinned to myself too, forgetting for a second what had been set in motion the night before.
I hope you liked this! Reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated. Happy Mardi Gras!