Work Text:
The butler had hands that looked like they’d been carved from mahogany, knuckles broad and weathered, fingers long enough to span the neck of a champagne bottle without effort. He moved through Gatsby’s west wing library with the quiet precision of a man who had spent decades mastering the art of not being noticed, adjusting a candelabra here, straightening a folded newspaper there. The rain outside had begun as a murmur against the windows, but now it drummed in earnest, turning the glass into rippling mirrors of candlelight.
Nick Carraway wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, half drunk on good bourbon and the low hum of the party still vibrating in his bones, before he realized Gatsby was watching him from the doorway. Not the Gatsby of the crowd, the one with the champagne flute always angled just so and the laugh timed to the second, but the man underneath. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, his collar undone. He held two glasses of something amber in one hand.
“You look,” Gatsby said, “like a man who’s just remembered he left the stove on.”
Nick snorted. “And you look like a man who owns at least three stoves, probably all decorative.”
Gatsby’s laughter unfurled like silk between them, rich and effortless, as he handed Nick one of the glasses. Their fingers brushed, warm against the lingering chill of the rain-soaked evening, and Nick found himself studying the way Gatsby’s thumb tapped absently against the crystal, a silent rhythm just slightly out of sync with the storm.
“You’re staring, old sport,” Gatsby murmured, though he didn’t seem to mind.
Nick rolled his shoulders, suddenly aware of the weight of his own exhaustion. “Just wondering how many of these you’ve got stashed around the place. I swear, every time I turn a corner, there’s another butler materializing with a fresh bottle. It’s like a very well-dressed haunting.”
As if summoned, the mahogany-handed butler reappeared in the doorway, this time carrying a folded blanket over one arm. His expression remained professionally neutral, but Nick caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth as Gatsby waved him off with a quiet, “Not now, Charles.”
The rain chose that moment to redouble its efforts, hammering against the windows so violently that Nick half expected the glass to shudder loose. Gatsby exhaled, low and satisfied, and leaned back against the arm of the nearest sofa. “It’s better like this,” he said, almost to himself.
Nick took a slow sip from his glass, letting the bourbon burn a lazy path down his throat. The warmth pooled in his chest, mingling with the quiet hum of the room, the fire crackling, the rain’s relentless percussion, the soft creak of Gatsby’s leather shoes as he shifted his weight.
“You say that like you planned it,” Nick said, nodding toward the storm.
Gatsby’s mouth curved, just slightly. “Not the rain. But the rest of it?” He let the sentence hang, unfinished, as he swirled the liquor in his glass.
Nick wanted to ask what “the rest of it” meant, the library, the bourbon, the way Gatsby had somehow steered him here, away from the party’s grasping hands and glittering masks. But before he could speak, a gust of wind rattled the windows, and Gatsby moved, fluid and unthinking, closing the distance between them. His shoulder brushed Nick’s as he reached past him to adjust the heavy damask curtain, his breath warm against Nick’s temple.
“You’re shivering,” Gatsby observed.
Nick hadn’t realized how cold he was until Gatsby said it, the kind of cold that sneaks in quietly and settles deep in your bones. He flexed his fingers around the glass, the crystal biting into his skin. “Not shivering,” he lied, though his teeth nearly betrayed him.
Gatsby made a soft, disbelieving sound and set his drink down with deliberate care. Then, without warning, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it over Nick’s shoulders. The weight of it was absurdly warm, still carrying Gatsby’s body heat, the faint scent of sandalwood clinging to the collar.
“You’re a terrible liar, old sport,” Gatsby murmured, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat too long before retreating.
Nick swallowed. “You’re going to catch cold,” he protested weakly, making absolutely no effort to return the jacket.
Gatsby’s laugh was low and velvet smooth. “Doubtful.” He reached for the blanket Charles had conveniently abandoned and draped it over Nick as well, layering warmth like he was building a very expensive cocoon.
Nick exhaled sharply. “You’ve got a real talent for this,” he muttered. “The whole… domestic hostage situation.”
Gatsby’s grin was all teeth, bright and unrepentant. “Hostage implies you want to leave.”
The rain lashed harder against the windows, a sheet of water swallowing the world beyond the glass. Nick didn’t answer, but he also didn’t move.“You ever think about how ridiculous this place is?” Nick asked abruptly, gesturing vaguely at the library’s soaring shelves. “All these books no one reads, rooms no one uses. It’s like a very expensive illusion.”
Gatsby’s fingers tapped against his knee, a rhythm just shy of nervous. “Someone uses them,” he said, and the way his gaze flickered toward the darkened hallway suggested he wasn’t talking about the books.
Nick snorted into his drink. “Who, the army of butlers who materialize when you snap your fingers? Because I’m starting to think they multiply.”
“Charles has been with me since—” Gatsby caught himself, the sentence unraveling as he reached for Nick’s glass instead. His fingers brushed Nick’s as he took it, deliberate in a way that made Nick’s throat tighten. “You should try the 1921 tonight. It’s smoother.”
Nick watched as Gatsby crossed to the decanter, the firelight catching the planes of his back through the thin fabric of his shirt. The storm outside made the moment feel suspended, like the rest of the world had dissolved into the rain, leaving only this room, this heat, and the quiet certainty of Gatsby’s hands as he poured.
“You don’t have to keep plying me with liquor,” Nick said, though he accepted the fresh glass anyway.
Gatsby’s fingers lingered against Nick’s palm a moment longer than necessary, his thumb grazing the ridge of Nick’s knuckle before retreating. “I’m not plying you,” he said, settling back onto the sofa’s arm, his thigh warm against Nick’s shoulder. “I’m sharing.”
Nick rolled his eyes but took a sip anyway. The bourbon unfolded across his tongue like a slow-burning confession, richer this time, smoother, with something smoky that clung to the back of his throat. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered, though there was no real bite to it.
Gatsby hummed, low and pleased, and leaned forward to pluck a book from the side table. The cover was embossed leather, the title worn nearly illegible. “Ever read Conrad?” he asked, thumbing the pages with a kind of reverence that suggested he already knew the answer.
“Not unless you count the abridged version they made us slog through at Yale,” Nick admitted.
Gatsby’s mouth quirked. “Then you haven’t read Conrad.” He flipped to a dog-eared page and cleared his throat. His voice changed as he began to read, lower, rougher at the edges, stripped of its practiced charm.
Nick let the words wash over him, Gatsby’s voice threading through the storm like a second rhythm. There were no calculated pauses now, no performance, just something real and unfiltered that made the room feel smaller, closer. The passage spoke of the sea, of how it could swallow a man whole and leave nothing behind, and Nick found himself watching the way Gatsby’s throat moved as he spoke, the way his lip caught on certain words.
When Gatsby paused, Nick realized he’d been holding his breath. “You’ve read this before,” he said quietly.
“Once or twice.” Gatsby closed the book gently. “It’s better aloud. The language is meant to be felt, not just read.”
Nick nodded, gaze dropping to the worn spine of the book. This wasn’t decoration. This was something used, something lived in. The realization settled warm in his chest.
Gatsby shifted, his knee brushing Nick’s shoulder as he reached to set the book aside. The contact was brief, but it sent a sharp awareness through Nick all the same. Gatsby gave no sign he noticed, only leaned back with a quiet sigh.
The book slipped from his fingers and hit the rug with a dull thud.
Nick barely registered it.
His entire awareness narrowed to Gatsby’s hands at his waist, sudden and unyielding, hauling him forward with a strength that felt almost desperate. One moment he was sitting, the next his knees bracketed Gatsby’s thighs, his palms pressed against Gatsby’s chest, their breath mingling in the charged space between them.
For one suspended heartbeat, Gatsby froze, his fingers digging into Nick’s hips hard enough to bruise, his pupils blown wide in the firelight, as if he’d startled himself with his own impulse.
The storm outside seemed to pause with them.
Nick could feel Gatsby’s pulse racing beneath his hands, wild and unsteady, could taste the bourbon on his breath, warm and faintly sweet.
“Jay,” Nick managed, his voice rough.
Gatsby’s grip tightened, then loosened just as abruptly, his hands hovering like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch at all. “I—” The word fell apart before it could become anything more.
Nick should have moved. Should have laughed it off, made some careless remark, stepped away.
Instead, he leaned closer.
The silence stretched, sharp and fragile, until Gatsby dragged a trembling hand down his face. “Christ,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean—”
Nick caught his wrist before he could finish, pressing it back against the sofa’s arm. The pulse beneath his thumb raced. “You did mean,” Nick said quietly. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
Gatsby made a quiet, almost pained sound. His free hand rose, slower this time, gentler, coming to rest against Nick’s jaw. His thumb brushed the corner of Nick’s mouth in something that felt like a question.
The contrast made Nick’s breath catch.
The storm surged again, rattling the windows, and Nick leaned into the touch without thinking, his lips parting slightly against Gatsby’s thumb.
Gatsby’s breath hitched.
“You taste like bourbon,” Nick murmured.
Gatsby let out a soft, uneven laugh. “So do you, old sport.”
Nick tightened his grip on Gatsby’s wrist. “Stop talking.”
And then he kissed him.
The first contact was tentative, barely more than shared warmth. Then Gatsby made a low, broken sound and surged forward, his hand tangling in Nick’s hair as he pulled him closer. The kiss deepened, messy, unpracticed, nothing like the polished version of Gatsby the world saw. It was raw, desperate, real.
The fire had dwindled to embers by the time Nick noticed the silence.
Not the quiet of a party ending, not anticipation, but something heavier, fuller, like the storm had exhausted itself and left everything in its wake still.
Gatsby’s breathing was slow beside him, his shoulder a steady warmth beneath Nick’s temple. The jacket still hung around Nick’s shoulders, carrying that faint trace of sandalwood and something softer beneath it.
Nick shifted slightly, the blanket slipping down his arm.
Gatsby’s fingers, still loosely tangled with his, twitched in response.
Neither of them spoke.
Neither of them let go.