Notes: Originally for an English assignment. This is told from Mr. McKee's perspective and features elements of slash.
...
My wife may have seen something wonderful in Mrs. Wilson, and even Catherine, but she would never be able to see how beautiful this man was.
Mr. Carraway… Now, he was someone I could create something with. He sat just so, simply minding himself and occasionally participating in the conversation floating about. But I could not keep my eyes off of him.
It was later in the night when I nodded off and rested back against my armchair. By that point, I had had nearly enough of Mrs. Wilson's petty blathering. Looking into the dark of my eyelids, I was busy planning out the how: How I could possibly get Mr. Carraway to partake in some of my photography. How I could go about asking him, persuading him…
Suddenly I felt the lightest touch on my cheek and opened my eyes to see none other than Mr. Carraway hovering above me, handkerchief poised over my face. He looked flustered for a moment, and then apologised, his voice lilted with the effects of the whiskey. I gave him a smile and told him not to worry; if it hadn't been for him, I would've gone on looking a fool. Mr. Carraway – Nick, he told me – nodded and stepped away, entertaining himself with another issue of the Tattle.
I feigned sleep as the night blurred by, each person flitting in and out like lightning, barely there one second, and back in full force the next. The only unwavering, solid image was that of…Nick, perched upon a chair, observing with the chaotic eye and curious fluttering of intoxication. He looked my way a number of times, perhaps to see if I was sleeping still, perhaps not.
It was around midnight when the harsh ring of Tom's slap echoed throughout the room, successfully grinding time to a halt. I figured that now was as good a time as any to leave, the heavy tension in the air suffocating the room with thick, gnarled hands. I stood and made my way to the door, turning to survey the room once more, before I left: my wife, too busy to notice my departure, the other women much the same. Tom was nowhere to be seen.
The beauty was staring right back at me.
I tilted my head ever so slightly – the motion would have been almost invisible to those not looking for it – and headed out the door towards the elevator, down the hall.
Footsteps behind me hurried to catch up, and I slowed my pace accordingly. Mr. Car—Nick fell into step beside me, a tad out of breath, cheeks flushed from both the small exertion and the drink. He was a sight. Any artist of sound mind would have murdered to capture him in that moment. I was no exception
He certainly noticed my rapture, as he looked at me, puzzled, and asked if I was well. I replied that yes, I was very well. More than well, in fact.
His gaze remained questioning, so I asked him if he'd like to accompany me to my apartment. He seemed to hesitate, but finally nodded and asked if he would be allowed to view some of my work, if you don't mind. I assured him that, yes, he could most certainly view my work, and perhaps more, if he liked.
Nick only smiled.