Gatsby leaned over Nick to see what he was rapidly typing on the typewriter he had brought home as a gift for him. The younger didn't glance up at him, a pen hanging from his mouth at an awkward angle and eyes narrowed at the words that were beneath the ink filled piston that punched the paper with an anger that could only be compared to Jack Dempsey during a match. "Perhaps you should take a break?" Gatsby asked him quietly seeing how the eyebrows upon his face were furrowed and the sweat bead down his face. "Nick." Gatsby shook him this time and the younger looked up, "What is it?" He muttered. It was in the just the beginning of winter now and the apartment was nearly as cold as the outside- though Nick seemed to be overheated wherever he went. "You look very pale…" Gatsby leaned down to put the back of his hand to Nick's forehead to be waved off still staring at the machine in front of him. "I'm fine." Papers lay littered around the floor and Gatsby choose not to push, picking up one of the papers on the floor and reading through it. There was a pause before he turned to look at Nick, "The day Tom and I argued was your birthday?" His voice was quiet on Nick's ears, causing him to turn to see him frowning hard at the paper. Nick licked his lips, "I… Yes. It was."
Gatsby seemed to read on, before letting the paper go back into the pile, "I'm so sorry, Nick." He whipped his brow with a cloth that Gatsby had brought him a few hours ago. "Why for?" It wasn't as if he blamed him that the date had fallen on the same as that. And in hindsight, he hadn't remembered himself until afterward and he didn't believe he'd ever told Gatsby that it was his birthday at all. "I am a horrible friend at times." He muttered looking back at him, "We should go out. Celebrate." He held up his hand, "You're overheated- the night air will cool you down. Plus we can make up for lost time." Gatsby nodded like he agreed with himself.
Nick paused at the mention of going out and lost time. He'd just finished describing the death of Myrtle Wilson. There some sort of connection his mind made but his words couldn't put into action. He only nodded, agreeing softly that he could use a drink. Gatsby had nodded with a smile, getting their jackets from the side closets and handing Nick his. He stumbled getting up from the chair, "I'm a bit chilled actually though I feel hot." He chuckled, "I might be catching a cold- wouldn't be the first time in a new place." He muttered to Gatsby who opened the door for him, locking it behind once they were both out. "I've rarely been sick, surprisingly, more than likely saved me on the front in the war." Nick had to agree, a lot of men around him fell ill to a number of different things, most of them had died from it too.
It didn't take very long for them to be sitting at a bar with a hundred other people drinking and singing. Gatsby cheerfully announced it was his friend's birthday and they should celebrate such a renowned author. In minutes, Nick had signed nearly twelve books that didn't belong to him and a sailor's arm- which was definitely a first in his life- with a pen that would have sent himself into writhing. They drank and drank more- and Nick through blurred images of Gatsby and other people was reminded of being drunk only twice in his life. He found his third, only realizing that he was kissing someone in the process to laughs and catcalls. Nick couldn't see, only vaguely realizing the drink going down his throat and the steady tones of music from a trumpet. He knew the street and was so warm in his stomach that the person- he assumed was Gatsby- who was singing with him barely made it home. There was a tense moment that he hadn't a clue- the voice in his mind telling him to think but the voice quickly drowned out with a swig of alcohol- that he kissed the savior who got him home once again. The other was tripping as much as he was and they stumbled over a stack of books to end up on the couch together. He kissed them again only to be met back with just as much passion and he continued until they were both breathing hard in the darkness.
There were hands on his back and he continued to the war not knowing who he was particularly fighting. But then again, wasn't that like all wars? Tom had once told him he should meet new people but he hadn't exactly thought of it this way- shoving one's tongue down the other's throat and-. His mind cleared for just a moment to realize what he was doing with some stranger. A brief thought was where was Gatsby- then another telling him he could be kissing him right now- then another that was drowned with another swig of 'he wouldn't mind if it was'.
The next morning he had a headache that could easily be the death of him. He was on something comfortable and a bit hard. His head rested next to a beating heart and he had the realization that it- whatever it was- smelled amazing. The whisky was there but there was an underlining scent that he liked. Nick raised his head, blinded by sunlight and lowered himself again, his face turned toward the small puffs of air that were ruffling his air like breath. He felt hands on his waist and shifted- he was on top of someone. Nick's eyes went wide and he looked upward at Gatsby who he was laying on quite… awkwardly. He swallowed, the night's events in his mind very loudly and blurrily. I kissed Gatsby. Multiple times. On the mouth. And… I liked it. Nick tried to untangle himself without disturbing him- headache momentarily forgotten and he was on pins and needles trying to escape his grasp.
He got out of his arms and started pacing. It wasn't that big of a deal, Hell he knew many actresses and actors that were homosexuals. But he hadn't- hadn't had that sort of feelings for Gatsby- at least none that he knew of. Besides, it was a drunken kiss. Multiple kisses. That he… enjoyed. He ran his fingers through his hair. "Damn!" He said and slapped a hand over his mouth as Gatsby stirred, "Nick?" He grunted, shielding his eyes from the light, "What is it?" He was looking around himself like he had wondered why he had ended up on the couch of all places.
"Nothing." Nick said quickly, walking into his bedroom and closing the door behind him. He slid down the door, staring wide eyed at the bedroom. At least they hadn't done anything else. His lips were dry and he touched them, licking them a bit to put moisture back on them before they ripped painfully only pausing when he tasted Gatsby there. He swallowed, realizing that it explained a lot of things in his life. He wasn't gay, no… but he appreciated the male body. Tom had had drunken sprees with men and women though he'd never admit it. And it wasn't as if that was the first time Nick had ever done anything like that. Yale was an all-boys school. Nick rubbed his eyes, headache returning rapidly. But he'd never thought to do such a thing with Gatsby. There was nothing wrong with it- but- it was Gatsby! Another voice in his head, his conscious he presumed, told him that there wasn't anything wrong with that either. But surely Gatsby wouldn't remember it. And that was for the better. Right? Right.
There was a gentle knock on the door, "Nick… we should talk about last night." Nick flailed angrily and swore silently before getting up. He wondered if he could escape through the window, then let out a long sigh. "I'll be out in a minute."