"So," Nick says one evening, more or less out of the blue. "I hear you throw parties with an open guest list."
Gatsby is confused. This is common knowledge. Everyone in West Egg—heck, everyone in New York and probably beyond—knows Gatsby's parties are open to everyone. He doesn't know half the people who show up and he doesn't need to; privilege of being rich and important is that no one minds when he pretends he just forgot their names.
"Well, old sport," he says, trying to feel the situation out. "You know I always invite you to my parties individually." After Nick got such a kick out of it the first time, he's sent invitations every Saturday for the Sunday night parties. Nick always thanks him with a smile that is both smug and genuinely touched, and seeing Nick smug and touched makes Gatsby feel smug and touched, which are both very good feelings, so he has no intention of stopping.
"Yes, you do," Nick says. "But you do throw parties with an open guest list, right?"
Gatsby gives up. "Yes, Nick," he says earnestly. "I do. All the time."
"Just clarifying."
It's been a month and a half since the first party, and Gatsby still hasn't been able to bring up his interest in Daisy. It's just never been the right time. Every time he psyches himself up to say something to Nick, he finds himself having a conversation with Nick about something else entirely: literature or famous people he knows or just the day-to-day events of Nick's life. And he thinks to himself every time: Why ruin the moment? Daisy's been sitting in her house across the bay for years now. Not to mention she has a husband.
Daisy can wait.
"An open guest list," Nick says. They are sitting on chairs on the dock. Soon it will be dusk, and the green light will be visible—though lately, Gatsby finds himself looking at it less and less, doubtless because success is within reach. Nick points at the horizon. "The sun is beginning to set."
"I'm sure it will be lovely," Gatsby says. "It always is from here." He sighs. The exorbitant price of this mansion? Completely worth it. Even without Daisy just across the bay. An excellent view, and now the perfect next door neighbor…what could be better?
"You know," Nick says. "I really love the sunset."
"Really, old sport?"
"Yep," Nick says. "I'm a real sunset lover." He points at the setting sun again. "How about you, Gatsby? Are you a sunset lover?"
"The view is good."
"No, but are you a sunset lover in general?"
"Yes, I think I must be."
"Good, good."
The sun is slowly setting. It leaves a nice golden sheen on Nick's face, warm and cozy on his usually pinkish skin. Gatsby finds that the shades of color on Nick's skin and shirt are more fascinating than the colors in the sky. Perhaps that makes him uncultured, but he cannot help it. Is he still a sunset lover if he loves looking at Nick under a sunset, or just a next-door-neighbor lover? It's a question that he does not ask Nick. That, he thinks, might be somewhat awkward, no matter how good friends they have become.
Nick coughs. He's really been acting very odd this evening. Almost jumpy, and all the odd questions. Gatsby says, "Yes, old sport?"
"They say other people pick out your hats," Nick says. "Fashion experts and such. Is that true?"
Nick has never seemed so interested in fashion before. "Yes," Gatsby says. "It is. If you want, they could help you. With your shirts as well." Nick looks good in all his shirts, but he would look better in Gatsby's shirts. Gatsby has never brought this up but he knows it for a fact.
Nick laughs nervously. "That's fine. I, um. I already wear a hat of someone else's choosing."
"Really?" Gatsby did not know this before. He always assumed the terrible fashion sense belonged to Nick and Nick alone. "Whose?"
Nick shrugs. "It doesn't matter. Just someone else's."
"So…you go up to a random person on the street and have them choose your hats for you?"
"Well, not exactly…"
"You have a friend do it?" Gatsby asks. His brow is furrowing. "Nick, old sport, if you're that desperate for help I must again offer you my assistance. My experts come from all over the globe, and I can offer you hats at a variety of prices…obviously I would be willing to buy them for you if you're short on money…"
"This isn't working," Nick says abruptly.
"My buying you hats?"
"No," Nick says. "This conversation." He leans forward, resting his head in his hands. "This just…this isn't how I thought it would go."
"This conversation is…important?"
"A little."
Gatsby stares at the horizon. They're talking about hats and sunsets. He never knew Nick cared so much about these things. Well, every day he talks to Nick he learns a little more.
"What I'm trying to say," Nick says. "Is that I'm…curious."
"About many things."
"No," Nick says. "About very particular things. I'm…eccentric."
"People have called me the same," Gatsby says self effacingly. "You can't listen to people's criticisms, old sport. You just have to live your life the way you want to live it. Eccentric or no."
Nick growls and throws up his hands. His face is slowly turning red, and Gatsby feels sorry for having apparently frustrated him. "See! I have no idea if you know what that means or not!"
"Eccentric means…"
"I'm queer!" Nick says. He's practically yelling, and now he winces slightly at the volume. An accident then. "QUEER, GATSBY. Do you know what that means?"
Gatsby is beginning to feel intimidated. "It means you're…odd?"
"What I'm trying to say," Nick says, face still red, "Is that I like sleeping. With men."
Gatsby frowns.
The sun is almost entirely set now. Soon it will be dusk, but the green light has yet to show. And while Gatsby thinks he may have a hint of illumination as to what Nick is talking about, he may also be misunderstanding. No, this can't be right.
"You like sleeping in bed with…?"
"I like fucking them," Nick says. "I like having sex. With men. And kissing them. And doing a variety of other sexual activities." He blows out a long breath. "That's what queer means, Gatsby. To most people queer means…"
"You like men," Gatsby says. "Sexually."
A pause.
"Does it mean that for women too…?"
"For women it means they like women. Usually."
"Ah."
The vocabulary lesson is complete. Gatsby feels a bit embarrassed. He thought he knew most of the lingo in New York City these days, but apparently an entire section of his slang dictionary was missing this entire time. Moreover, he was certain until now that Nick was interested in Jordan Baker. He's been wrong about more than one thing, then.
But he is glad he has learned something about Nick today. "That's interesting, old sport. I'm glad you trusted me enough to tell me this."
"But what I was asking is if you're queer too. I've been trying to figure out for weeks."
Gatsby says, "I mean, there was a man a few years ago at Oxford. And there were a few others sprinkled throughout my travels. You know I've travelled all over Europe, Nick. I met a lot of beautiful women there and a lot of very handsome men."
This is not entirely true—the part about Europe, at least. The part about men? Well, yes.
"So you like men," Nick says. He seems relieved.
"Some of them."
Nick asks, "Do you like me?"
"As a friend or as a…?"
"Gatsby."
Gatsby has spent the past few years of his life waiting for Daisy. Daisy, however, is all the way across the bay, and married to Tom Buchanan. Nick Carraway is sitting on the docks with him teaching him queer lingo and admiring the horizon. It's debatable which of them is better looking, but he hasn't seen Daisy in a very long time, and he suspects those memories are rose-tinted by nostalgia. Nick, on the other hand, looks very good face to face. And while Gatsby had not realized until now he had the slightest chance with Nick, he has been spending an inordinate amount of time thinking about him nonetheless.
"Well, old sport," he says, "I suppose I do."
Nick makes some sort of strangled grunt. A moment later he is straddling Gatsby's lap with his hands fisted in Gatsby's coat and a wild expression on his face. And whoever chose his hat is bound to be disappointed, because in his hurry it has fallen off and the wind has blown it into the water.
"Nick," Gatsby says. "You are going to break this lawn chair."
Nick says, "Oh." He glances at the ground. "I think in this position I'm more likely to break it trying to get off. I should probably just stay."
Gatsby tilts his head up. "Mm. Well, I can always buy a new one." After a moment of silence he frowns. "Weren't you going to kiss me?"
Nick complies.
After a very thorough few minutes of kissing they somehow disentangle without breaking the lawn chair completely—it only loses one leg. The hat has drifted off into the water and is now out of sight. Gatsby yawns. "Well, old sport," he says. "This has been a very nice evening."
"Yes."
"We should do it again sometime. Since we're sunset lovers and all."
"Tomorrow evening?" Nick asks.
"All right," Gatsby says. They embrace, kissing each other's cheeks, and Nick heads off towards home. Gatsby turns towards the edge of the dock again, frowning at the green light. A new question has occurred to him. It was all very good to think of asking Nick to get Daisy to see him, but how on Earth is he going to convince a woman like Daisy that he is a good match for her cousin Nick?
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AN: This fic was inspired by a Toast articles that listed old timey euphemisms for being gay, including: wearing a hat of someone else's choosing, throwing parties with an open guest list, being a sunset lover, eccentric, curious, queer, and a variety of others. Probably not all of these were used in the 1920s. But I thought it would just be fun to play around with the words...and with the fact that Gatsby is really dumb.
Reviews would be much appreciated.