Title: The Bridge Between Him and Her

Rating: T for slash (this means homosexual content; kissing)

Pairing: Gatsby/Nick, Gatsby/Daisy

Warnings: Character Death, Slash

Summary: Daisy dies in the accident, and Nick is invited to Gatsby's lifeless estate a year later. Gatsby has changed, but Nick tries to bring out the Gatsby he once knew. AU Daisy/Gatsby/Nick SLASH

The Bridge Between Him and Her

"I helplessly tried not to waver as I slowly took his hand and placed a tentative kiss on the back with a heavy heart, not quite knowing the significance of the sentiment myself. I do believe that Gatsby did, however."

Nick's P.O.V.

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Whenever we were alone, Gatsby looked at me differently. Or rather, I felt that he was always looking through me, to some sort of secret mysterious friend that must have decided to both conveniently and permanently locate himself where I stood. I remember one time we were chatting and he brought up some instance about his youth that he believed I had encountered. When I politely told him that I had not even known him at the time of the event, he simply laughed and called me a 'jokester', because of course I remembered since, apparently, I talked about it fondly all the time. Perhaps I was being haunted, or perhaps it was poor Gatsby that was haunted, but I was sure that Gatsby saw something akin to a ghost about my person that I could not.

For the longest time, I was most disturbed by his change in demeanor. No longer did his smile glow with an ethereal ambiance that I had grown so accustomed to stomaching from the man—no, he felt like a paler version of himself, impersonating the colorful person he used to be. Many an occasion I would watch him speaking cheerfully with his fellow colleagues, and try to scrutinize his actions, attempting to spot the moment he would slip up and uncover his imposter's identity. But that time never came. No, I continued to watch this Gatsby—the one that must have been channeled from a flickering black-and-white film version of his life, and felt my concern slowly grow like a dreadful cancer.

It was raining the summer day I was once again invited by Gatsby to his estate, which I noticed now had a dark, grimy substance clinging to its walls like a bad omen. I tried to remember the times when it was illuminated by warm light, cheerful chatter, and gaudy music but it seemed wholly impossible with such resounding silence and such a murky sky hanging overhead. The entire landscape looked like a painting created by some isolated and lonely artist in the depths of his blue period, and it slightly depressed me for a moment. I closed my umbrella and as I thanked an older gentleman for showing me in through the door, I felt a large hand grab my arm roughly and proceed to drag me down the hall with swift grace.

Admittedly, I was rather startled and did not maintain my poise as much as I could have, but eventually I did compose myself and asked the man so considerately taking me up the stairs (whom I recognized to be Gatsby) where we were going in such hastiness.

"Sorry, old sport—I'm in a hurry. It's just—I really…Just follow me, please." He looked a bit frantic, or maybe a little crazed would be more accurate. I didn't say anything but I felt reasonably worried for the both of us. I eyed the sleeve of my coat he was surely wrinkling as if instead of Gatsby's hand laid an enormously dangerous spider. "It'll just be a second," he muttered as he opened a large, white door and ushered me into the room. I raised an eyebrow as he locked the door behind him.

"I suppose you have something important to talk about with me, huh," I mused, trying to sound disinterested, while Gatsby leaned against the door and caught his breath. He didn't nod as I expected, rather, he just gave me that same bothersome stare. A frown tugged at my lips and I fidgeted with my sleeve in discomfort. "How are you, Gatsby? I'm sorry that we've lost touch. I've been busy is all."

"It's alright, Nick, old sport," Gatsby said. A sad smile crossed his face, and it seemed that what once would have seemed foreign to his character came to suit his face rather well. "You're probably wondering why I invited you today, right? Well, I will get right to the point, and you might not remember—but exactly a year ago today, Daisy passed away and she became the loveliest angel in Heaven." His sad smile broke a bit further, as if it was being chiseled away to reveal something that he felt he could not show me and I did not want to see.

I stayed silent, so he looked away and continued. "I'm sorry for calling you out like this, but you were her cousin and a dear friend to both of us, yes? I cannot tell you how much I have missed her, old sport. I'm ecstatic because I know she is in Heaven, the place I know she has always belonged to, yet I'm still plagued. What if she had managed to swerve away from that oncoming car in time? What if I had been the one driving? Would she be here next to me right now? After all, I'm sure she would have chosen me in the end, old sport. I know it—everything about Daisy tells me that we were the only ones for each other, no matter what she said that day. If only that accident had been any different. I tell you, Nick, thoughts of her consume me. Late at night I am no longer preoccupied by dreams of her lovely laugh or smile, but the image of her rotting, broken corpse. I need to tell somebody all of this. It's been a year, and I have not told anyone, and that's why I invited you over today—no one else is there for me to tell, and I know I can trust only you with anything, right?"

Another smile in my direction, and when I realized that he was actually asking me and waiting for an answer—I nodded immediately for I had nothing intelligent to say to his confessional tirade. I offhandedly agreed, "Yes, of course, Gatsby."

He smiled. Then, he seemed to have decided to try and test the validity of my words. Gatsby took a slow step closer to me, a clear violation of conduct regarding comfortable personal space I never knew I followed. For a second I was vaguely reminded of my encounter with Mr. McKee, but as soon as the notion crossed my mind I banished it. I assumed it was just another one of Gatsby's eccentric personalities, and proceeded to act like nothing about the situation perturbed me. In fact, I held my ground quite firmly despite the nagging urge to step backwards.

"Nick," he whispered cautiously, as though he were treading on thin ice. I certainly believed that the entire situation could not get more awkward or close, but Gatsby proved me wrong once again. His movements seemed forcedly unhurried, as if they were carefully planned out in their coordination and timing. In fact, he treated me like I was something delicate, much to my agitation. Yes, I could tell he was waiting for me to say something or pull away—give in, but I was far too curious to actually do so. I continued to observe him, but when his eyes met mine I had to swallow down my anxiousness.

Gatsby placed a hand on my shoulder and carefully raised it to where my hair met the back of my neck. It certainly felt like a suspicious place for a man's hand to locate itself, until it was brought forward to cup my face. At this point, my invitation over to his estate seemed far more intimate than I ever could have contemplated, and I held my breath as the question of what Gatsby would do next hung in the air He looked down at me, and his eyes clearly showed he was asking the same question of himself.

His face neared a smidge, but he stopped himself and, like the proper gentleman he made himself to be, asked, "Old sport, would it be quite all right if I…" Gatsby licked his lips out of what I could only discern as nervousness. "I mean, would I have your permission?" He gave me an expectant look. I politely told him that he did not have my objection at the moment and promised he would hear of it if he ever did in the near future. Gatsby looked surprised, but then a resilient smile lit his face and his quiet laughter shortly reminded of that gorgeousness of his that I believed had faded away. I laughed too.

Then, he kissed me, and it soon disappeared once again.

Gatsby had a funny way of kissing. I could tell he did not have the fluidness that came with experience, but he kissed the same way he did everything else—with an unwavering determination. I should have felt disgusted at engaging in such deviant behavior, however I found a strange comfort in his administrations. It felt as though with every second we stayed like that, I was resurrecting a little bit more of the Gatsby I had once known—and I believe that that was the most satisfaction I had felt in ages.

Once we both became faint of breath, he pulled away and simply held me. I stood in his arms with rather stiff posture, mindfully brooding over the meaning of this unacceptable encounter—what this meant about the relationship between Gatsby and me. Surely this would only end with either pretence that nothing had happened at all or hurt feelings. However, my mind immediately stopped working when he started placing chaste kisses all over my face and murmuring my name after each one. First he gently kissed my forehead, then to my brow, the next to my cheek—slowly working back to my mouth. At first I felt strange, being the inactive partner in this sort of intimacy, but I was convinced that at that moment, Gatsby needed it to be this way. And honestly, I could not claim to have been dissatisfied knowing that I was the source of what I knew to be catharsis for Gatsby, no matter how puzzling I found it all.

However, when I realized that he was no longer saying my name, it all seemed to piece together. I do believe we realized together, for the moment I looked up at him with a surprised look, his face turned into an expression of anguish and self-loathing. It seemed that his betrayal struck him far harder than it did me—he pulled away, and before he would apologize, I lied and said that it was okay. After all, I had not been adverse the first time he had used me as a means of getting to her. But he would not take that. No, Gatsby began to apologize profusely in a frantic manner.

Gatsby said how much I reminded him of Daisy. How her blood ran through my veins, how she was so fond of me, how I was the one who reunited him with her, how I was his only companion at the time, how he couldn't help it... No matter what excuse he said, I knew that what mattered was that he could never love someone else the way he loved Daisy. There was a permanent scar in his heart that only she could have caused and only she could ever heal. In fact, I was stupid for not having realized such earlier. I felt disappointment and bitterness slowly suffocate me. I bit my lip, hoping the slight pain would subside the painful falling feeling that was beginning to bloom in my chest. Of course, it had always been this way—I had always only been the bridge between Daisy and him, I reminded myself over and over as he continued spouting sorry words. His unending and genuine apology only served to make me feel worse, for how could I ever storm off and leave him there by himself, as a part of me demanded I should have? No, I knew from his miserable expression that he would forever torment himself if I simply left him there, and I would never stand myself if I went on knowing I had been the cause of Gatsby's misery.

I helplessly tried not to waver as I slowly took his hand and placed a tentative kiss on the back with a heavy heart, and not quite knowing the significance of the sentiment myself. I do believe that Gatsby did, however, for he stopped rambling and, a few minutes later when I looked up at him, I noticed a brilliant smile lighting his tearful face. I let him closer as he cried.

Yes, I believed we would get along just fine.

A/N:

Sorry if I made them terribly OOC. I realized how hard it is to get into their heads, especially Gatsby's.

This didn't turn out exactly the way I wanted it too, unfortunately, Perhaps soon I will realize how to fix it.

Thanks for reading!

-ohmyrainbow