2guess who's back at it again with the au no one asked for and no one needed?
enjoy.
When Nick wakes up he's naked and warm. The sheets are heaven and there's a hot hand on the back of his thigh that's setting his blood on fire. A sense of dread creeps up his torso, before the hand on his thigh shifts to the space between his ribcage and his hips and chases the sickness away.
He's sort of uncomfortable, what with the dried sweat coating his body and the (always welcome) feel of slick oozing from him. It's not really bothersome, though, so a shower can wait. A scorching tongue finds itself on his neck and his lungs collapse. Bastard knows his sweet spots and fuck if he doesn't exploit them to the fullest. It leaves him cold and hungry, and causes him to do the one thing he promised himself he wouldn't.
Nick's eyes part delicately, just a bit, then squeeze shut once more. Fucking sunlight. Could it just-? Yes, great, darkness.
Nick shuts his eyes tighter against the sunlight because it's probably five fucking o'clock in the morning and it's too early to be alive. So he rolls awkwardly until his head is hidden in his partner's chest and the sheets of god are above his head.
He can feel Gatsby beneath him, awake and a little too amused at his reaction. Nick whines and tugs Gatsby's arms around him, curling into the tycoon like a kitten.
He feels Gatsby's contentment and resignation to doing nothing for the next few hours or so, feels especially gooey when Gatsby runs his fingers through Nick's hair, and utterly melts when Gatsby slips back beneath the covers to clutch Nick closer.
He will never understand how Gatsby manages to stay so goddamn deliciously warm, and relishes it all the same.
Some days Gatsby comes home with a hard glare bruised knuckles and blood splattered pants. Those days Nick is really careful with his questions and whispers words of comfort every other conversation, under his breath so Gatsby doesn't notice. But, of course, he does. Those nights Gatsby doesn't fall into bed, Nick is thrown on and Gatsby is quick to prowl after him. In those moments Gatsby is more animal than man, hunting his prey with precision and desperation. When Nick looks up in the midst of passion, he always sees white knuckled fists on the headboard. The grip is so tight Gatsby mars the luxurious wood and it should make Nick ashamed that he's kind of turned on by Gatsby's brutality. It all belongs to him. No one else can see Gatsby like this. Only Nick.
So Nick does what he does best. He does not judge, only accepts with temperance. When Gatsby's done, his head buried in the small of Nick's back, (and don't get it wrong, Nick can feel the palpable shame that practically radiates from the man on top of him. he doesn't need to read minds to know Gatsby doesn't like being so violent), Nick takes the opportunity to gently, gently grab Gatsby's hand and kiss away the pain from the dripping cuts and reopened scars.
When Nick gets up in the morning, breakfast is waiting for him and a note is on his lover's pillow that reads some really syrupy love poem that leaves him feeling like all ten litres of blood in his body were instantaneously replaced with acid, so corrosive his veins disintegrated and left behind mush. Bloody, lumpy mush that feels emotion deeper than anything he'd ever thought could be possible.
Normally, Gatsby left a sticky note on the bed room door each morning. It always had some new, corny, so-obvious-it's-cute-in-a-pathetic-way, pick up line. It never fails to make Nick smile, even on the bad days he has, far and few between, (but still terrifying to all but Gatsby [honestly, when it came to Jay, no one could hold a candle. plus it helped that he saw Nick as nothing but a pure cinnamon bun. somehow treating Nick exactly how Jay saw him made the man putty in the billionaire's palm.]) when all he wants to do is tear the flesh from someone's bones. Most preferably that whore he saw hanging off of Gatsby. Even though Gatsby had the decency to look irritated, it did nothing but stoke the flames when he picked the lady up. Well, Gatsby did end up chucking her out the window, but still. Flesh removal. Don't touch his man.
Gatsby cooks. This is an unannounced constant. Gatsby cooks because Nick once set the curtains on fire while boiling water. He was boiling water with a hot plate, and he set the curtains on fire. Don't ask, he just gets really defensive and mumbles stuff about cherries and 'that goddamn bastard with the washboard abs' and something about salted caramel. Yeah. Don't ask.
And, by god, can Gatsby cook. He's a man possessed behind the counter, but Nick finds it adorable that Gatsby still decorates all of the food he makes for him with hearts, and this one time he made a game of trying to find all the hearts in the dish. He can never find all of them, so he pouts and Gatsby chuckles and points out the shapes Nick missed. The third time it happens, Nick sticks his tongue out and Gatsby captures it with his mouth and refuses to let it go. That day turns into another and finally that dish is eaten by a starved Nick who'd been locked in the bedroom for a solid nineteen hours with nothing to satiate his hunger but Gatsby and a stash of chocolate covered roses and strawberries. Gatsby regrets nothing and Nick has trouble looking at chocolate or roses the same way without going so red he almost faints.
Gatsby likes to play games. Sometimes it's bedroom games, other times its mind games.
[Once, before they were a thing, he left Nick a clue or two and it took Nick everywhere through the city until he finally came back home to deathcore and Gatsby dressed in a skirt, thigh highs, and suspenders. Two pairs. Nick almost died. He's so frantic in trying to cover Gatsby up that he missed the excess rose petals coating the floor. He slipped.
Nick's landing was softer than expected, so he peeked and his heart actually stopped when he came face to cock with Gatsby. No, really. He's such a virgin that the object of his fantasies was too much for him. Gatsby had to call an ambulance and everything. He still teases Nick about it when he wants to go down on him. "Are you sure you can handle it, old sport?" he always prods, and Nick just looks him dead in the eye and takes him all down in one go, maintaining eye contact. Gatsby chokes on a laugh that turns into an erotic moan. Works every time.]
So, yeah. Games. Gatsby is the king and no one can defeat him. Still, he thinks Nick's attempts are cute, when they play any sort of game together. It's not so fun when one of his associates brings Nick into the game. If Gatsby is the Kingpin, then Nick is his Queenpin, and no one crosses the Kingpin. So with a gun to his head and a knife to Nick's throat he defeats yet another challenger. No cheats, they said, No shady business, no tricks. Alright, Gatsby thinks, and proceeds to make them suffer for bringing Nick into this. (honestly, some people had no manners) All he needs is a paper clip and a Junior Mint. That's all it takes for his opponent to end up on his knees, Gatsby's own knee pressing their throat deeper against his wrought iron chain as he snarls and growls. Nick is shaking in corner and trying to stand, shock and fear poisoning his muscles before he even has a chance to breathe. A bit more pressure makes sure his hostage is no longer a problem, and a sharp crack tells Gatsby he can finally turn to Nick. Before Nick can fall, Gatsby is right there, holding him up, checking his pulse, just all around fussing.
He's fine, he's fine, Nick repeats but Gatsby is unrelenting. He pulls out a state of the art phone and orders a clean up job. Nick asks if Gatsby's okay, and Jay hesitates. Nick knows that look and like fuck he's going to let the best thing that's ever happened to him just walk away out of some sense of responsibility. A fury forms in the pit of his stomach, so burning in its intensity that it freezes.
Rage gives him strength and he's vicious as he grabs the lapels of Gatsby's suit. He hisses with venom, more than Gatsby's ever seen in one man, "Look at me, Jay. If I can't have you then no one can."
And Gatsby cracks the most demented smile Nick's ever seen.
Contrary to popular belief, it was Jay who made the first move. But it wasn't really that simple. Here's why.
Gatsby's had a thing for Nick's cousin, Daisy, since forever. (No, really, some days Nick thinks the only reason Gatsby befriended him was to get to Daisy.) So this one day, Gatsby goes all out. This is May of their junior year, and Gatsby goes hardcore. There's a band, roses everywhere, fucking glitter raining down from the skylights, hell, Nick almost chokes on his lemonade when he catches sight of the writing in the sky.
'Will you go to prom with me, Daisy?'
….Jay Fucking Gatsby, ladies and gentlemen. Nick doesn't know why he even bothers anymore. It's not like Gatsby would give him the time of day, let alone stop obsessing over Daisy for one goddamn minute to listen to anything Nick says.
She's already got a date, Jay.
Ah, Nick, you make it seem like she's married already! There's always hope, old sport, and I'll try 'til the day I die.
Yeah. Obviously, she says no. Nick is really irritated, but the utter despair in Gatsby's eyes has him hesitating. Nick wants to leave him sad and lonely, but he can't find it in himself to abandon the boy.
The petals of the flowers in Gatsby's bouquet droop, scatter across the ground as Nick sighs and grabs Gatsby's arm.
"Let's go," it's not a suggestion, it is a command, one that snaps Gatsby out of his shock.
"Where –" he begins, but Nick cuts him off with a sarcastic droll of, "It's a surprise."
Gatsby flops, borderline boneless over the backseat, and complies. It takes fifteen minutes to get to Nick's house, five minutes to get Gatsby up again, (fucking prick went boneless) and just under two minutes to crack open Nick's dad's liquor cabinet.
It doesn't take much convincing to get Gatsby chugging down vodka from the freezer. Actually, it doesn't take any convincing, really. Nick walks into the room with bottles, holds one out, raises an eyebrow, and Gatsby snatches it and chugs it within a minute. Of course, he regrets it immediately, but at least he isn't catatonic. Nick unscrews the cap of a cherry chocolate liquor bottle (sixteen ounces, whoopty-fucking-do) and empties it into one of those huge empty soda bottles (that his mom compulsively washes out and keeps in a neat pyramid in the corner of some obscure cabinet in the kitchen), along with a full bottle of whiskey. It's that kind of day.
Half of the two liter bottle blurs the edges of Nick's vision, [and completely destroys his spacial awareness, his inhibitions (sadly his attention span is too short for him to make a move), his control over his vulgarity, (yikes), and his sad-happy identifiers, so he sobs thinking he's laughing (which is really upsetting to Gatsby)], and a fuck ton of vodka makes Gatsby less of a gentleman than usual. Scratch that, Gatsby is a touchy-feely, over emotional drunk. But, props, the man can hold his liquor. (Nick's dad is gonna wreck him tomorrow, but fuck he's enjoying rolling around. It's a whole other experience when shit faced.)
Fast forward twelve hours, it's one o'clock in the morning and Nick's waking up face down on the carpet, with Gatsby lying face up across Nick's back perpendicular to him. Nick, being Nick, wonders to himself, 'this can't possibly get worse,' and, at that exact moment, Murphy's Law is invoked; Gatsby decides to shift, and somehow ends up using Nick's ass as a pillow. He's got his arms wrapped around Nick's hips, so Nick is on top of his forearms, and he's just cuddling his face into Nick's ass, fucking purring.
What. The. Fuck.
Nick panics a bit, calming once he realizes that Gatsby's still asleep, then panics again when he feels a boner popping up. fuckfuckfUCKFUCK.
Somehow, he manages to get out from Gatsby's clutches. It's more to spare Gatsby the embarrassment, if he's being totally honest, because he knows Gatsby isn't into men, (or, to be precise, Nick.) That thought settles a bit in his stomach, and sobers him up faster than any amount of sleep or medicine.
As soon as Nick is upright, he keels over in agony. His ass is on fire. He lets himself believe, for a moment, that Gatsby gave it to him all night. Mmm... spicy. He shakes his head, scoffs and lurches as he feels his mouth salivate excessively and sprints to the bathroom to hurl his guts out. A brief hygienic montage later, he's back in the den. Gatsby is curled around a body pillow he's managed to yank from the couch and Nick's never felt so far away from him.
Nick sighs, and goes to wake Jay up. Of course, Gatsby abandons his pillow to cuddle Nick. Again. So now Gatsby's between Nick's legs, and he has Nick in a bear hug, with Nick's arms pinned to his sides. Nick can't move, unless he wants to grind on Gatsby, so he's fucked.
"It's too early, old sport," Gatsby breathes into that soft spot between Nick's neck and jaw. It's all Nick can do to stop himself from moaning desperately, but he can't suppress his involuntary shudder of utter ecstasy.
Of course, of fucking course, Jay notices. 'Why wouldn't he notice?' Nick rages internally, 'give me a good goddamn reason for something to go well in my shit life.'
Fact 1: Nick is hungover and embarrassed beyond belief.
Fact 2: Nick has a secret that could end his (longest and deepest) friendship, that is on the verge of being uncovered.
Fact 3: Nick is irrevocably in love with his best friend.
Wow, so what does Nick do?
…
Contrary to popular belief, Jay Gatsby is not a morning person, even more so on the morning after a heavy drinking binge. That said, he's not exactly a night owl; the problem is sleep itself, and while getting to sleep is no big deal, it's the staying asleep part that always gets him.
Jay doesn't know if it's just paranoia, or if there's something really outside his window or inside his drywall, watching him, waiting for him to falter in order to get the upper hand. Maybe he was a soldier in a past life, who knew? He would've been great-
[or so Nick told him once over a late night texting session fuelled by their mistake of taking advantage of Nick's free espresso privileges at the East Egg Café (stationed at the 23rd floor of the Burke building) and Jay's suave managing of the West Egg Café, its sister location, (also located on the 23rd floor, but in the Caffrey building) on the other side of the street. He'll find his past self, he swore up and down, and make sure the Jay Gatsby previous had his own Nick Carraway -(to cuddle and to hold and to kiss but shhh Nick doesn't know)- to support him and be his absolute bestie, as he explained it to Nick.]
-he can just feel it.
So, it's a given that alcohol is an always welcome reprieve from the madness. And, of course, the company isn't terrible. [And god does said company's ass look in those jeans ugh]/
Daisy and her empty promises and breathy laughs would've never done what Nick does for Jay and his (however he tries to deny it) fragile ego.
[A flat out rejection is harsher than purposeful scorn; at least he could be the victim, Jay and his poor broken heart. But Daisy is blunt and a tad embarrassed, and, well, Jay does feel a smidgen of melancholy, however small. The unfortunate conclusion he reaches is a burial of something that had rotted from the inside out, a piece of her that had lodged itself too deeply and caused an infection. He's hot, hot headed, and heated from the core outward. (That last one is the alcohol.) But he's finally pulled out that putrid piece of his heart and doused it in flammable, combustible hard liquor. It's up to someone with a spark to light that flame, and he knows just the guy.]
Nick has access to some good shit, Jay praises, potent and quick. His face is already numb with a ferocious blush and it's spread to his body to the long that his nerves are firing so fast that Jay's got pin pricks running all over him. It's delicious and distracting, to the point that Jay can't focus. And he really would, because Nick squirming and flopping about on the floor is a sight he doesn't want to miss. [Nick's just so cute holy shit].
Next thing Jay knows, he's awake at an ungodly hour and on the floor. Naturally, he wrestles a pillow from the couch and collapses onto it, wondering vaguely if Nick wants to join him on the floor, or if he's even asleep. And Jay really wants to see Nick asleep. He's such a perfect boy, Jay could cry.
He supposes that it could be worse, all things considered. And he's really enjoying this body pillo- Nick? Why is he between Nick's legs? Jay's definitely not complaining, but he really wishes he could just remember doing these kinds of things, it would make the memory so much sweeter.
Jay nuzzles that spot on Nick's jawline, murmuring in his typically throaty just-woke-up voice, "It's too early, old sport," paying special attention so his breath is hotter and wetter than it would have been had he spoke regularly. It's his ace-in-the-hole against Nic—hmm? Is that a moan Jay hears? Or rather, feels?
Ooh, Nick, you little whore. Who knew he had a Jay kink? Jay certainly didn't – before now, that is. How cute! 'Definitely going to take advantage of that,' Jay thinks, before blinking in confusion.
Uh…
What?
What the fuck, Nick?! Don't faint when the party's just starting to heat up! At this rate, Jay's never going to get some! Ugh, Nick's so fucking cute, but there's a limit to how much a guy can take!
So Nick comes to on the sofa, embarrassed and mortified, since it's kinda of obvious how he feels, now, and there's really no point in denying it.
"Morning, old sport," that absolute prick purrs at him, lips curling into the most self-satisfied grin he's ever seen on the other's face.
And Jay just plants a wet one right there on the lips of his best friend, making the most obscene noises he can think of before he runs out of breath.
It's the conclusion of a frustrating merry-go-round of pining and obliviousness, and the beginning of a gorgeous, sexual (finally!), relationship.