~will you still love me when i'm no longer...breathing~

chapter one - nick

a/n - fanx 4 reading my story luvs x

The day after my dear cousin rammed into her husband's mistress like a freight train full of rice, something kept me from going to work. I can't describe the feeling, but it was heavy and all-consuming. So naturally, instead of going to work, I moped around my house and tried to fight the urge to spy on my accomplice-to-the-crime neighbor.

Finally, at around 2 pm, I decided to act on my impulses and marched myself over to Gatsby's house. The air was hot and humid, and I thought of his offer to use his swimming pool that I continually turned down. Maybe today will be the day.

His butler greets me at the front door. He doesn't look surprised to see me, even though I don't often visit the Gatsby residence. Apparently, he tells me, Gatsby has had the same idea.

"He's just out in the pool," the butler tells me.

He leaves me to find my way, and as I walk through the halls towards the crystal glass sliding door, I can't help but pause at a mirror on the nearby wall. I almost shrink into myself. I don't belong in these luxurious halls. I'm sweating like a pitcher of ice on a hot day, my hair plastered down to my forehead. I shudder to imagine that Gatsby will have to see me like this. Frantically, I whip out my handkerchief-that just so happened to be gifted to me by the man himself-and make an attempt to dry my face. Good enough.

My footsteps echo on the marble floor as I approach the glass door. The pool is low into the ground, so I can't yet see Gatsby. Some sort of feeling-different than the one that kept me home from work this morning-bubbles up inside me. It's warm and fuzzy, which should be the opposite of what I want on a day like this, but for some reason I didn't mind.

I reach to open the door and my sweaty fingers slip off the latch. Two minutes later and lots of drying my hands on my pinstriped trousers, I finally get the door open. Is this a bank vault or something?

When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the dimness of Gatsby's halls, I only had one thing on my mind: Who is that shady man in the treeline?

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. God, Nick, you're just a basketcase. Calm down for once. Today is meant for relaxation. God knows you need it. It was probably just his groundskeeper.

The thought of seeing Gatsby re-enters my mind and immediately, I feel better. With a spring in my step, I take the stairs down from the patio two at a time. Finally, as I get lower, I see the sparkling blue water of the swimming pool. I didn't bring my swimming costume, so I start to unbuckle my suspenders and unbutton my blouse. As Gastby finally comes into view, I realize I'm grinning like an idiot.

He hasn't seen me yet. He's laying on a pool float, face turned up to the sun, eyes closed. He looks peaceful, and that weird warm feeling fills my chest once more.

I'm about to call out to him when my foot audibly crushes a stone on the ground and he looks up. His face breaks into a smile, and if we were in a room, I'm sure it would light up.

"Ah, old sport! Come for a swim?"

I open my mouth to respond when suddenly the figure from the treeline lunges forward. Time seems to freeze and I register multiple things at once. Me, standing on the patio, frozen. The figure, projecting himself forward with something in his hand outstretched. And Gatsby, completely oblivious, grinning at me from the pool float without a care in the world. A moment later, it occurs to me what the outstretched object is, and the man who is holding it. My stomach drops and my body takes over, acting of its own volition.

My feet pound on the patio stones as I run, Wilson getting closer as Gatsby finally notices the fact that he is in peril. Without thinking, without even realizing what I'm doing, I'm diving forward, my body becoming a shield in front of Gatsby's as a shot rings out through the backyard. The next thing I remember is the feeling of an impact in my side just before a splash as I hit the water.

I don't know how long I stay there, floating around in the abyss of Gatsby's pool. My head is fuzzy, I can barely feel the distant burn of the chlorine in my eyes, and my body feels detached. Absently, I notice something dark spreading through the water around me, like wine spilling into the swimming pool at one of Gatsby's parties. The edges of my vision start to go black and I feel a dull throbbing in my lower abdomen.

Just as I let my eyes close and feel myself sinking deeper, I hear something. It's distant and fuzzy, and it takes me a moment too long to remember that it must be because I'm underwater. Someone is calling out for me. I feel something-or someone-tug at the collar of my shirt. Whoever it is still calls out for me, over and over and over. But what are they saying? It's surely not my name.

"Old sport! Old sport, come on!"

I barely register being pulled upward by the back of my shirt before my head breaks the surface of the water. I try to blink, but my eyelids are growing heavy and everything around me seems too bright. The voice is clearer now, right next to my ear, and violently familiar.

"Are you okay, old sport? Where did he get you? Come on, talk to me!" Gatsby, my fuzzy mind remembers. His words come out with a frustrated growl, and desperation bleeds from his tone. I try to move, to sit up, at least raise my head so he knows I can hear him, but it requires a strength I no longer possess. So I let him drag my limp body out of the pool, laying me down on the hot paved stones.

My mind is starting to catch up. I was shot. It's an alarming realization, even more alarming to think there was a minute there where I simply forgot, but it's not as shocking as the jolt of pain that rockets through my entire body when I feel Gatsby's hand press on the injury.

"Sorry," he apologizes quickly. "But I need to apply pressure. This is going to hurt, old sport."

I fight to keep my eyes open, watching Gatsby as he works. In one swift, graceful movement, he has undone the top of his swimsuit and ripped it clean in half, leaving his torso bare. I feel him press the fabric to my wound, but my eyes are glued to his chest. A memory resurfaces of the first day we spent with Daisy and her tearful reaction to Gatsby's shirts. If she thought his shirts were so great, she's clearly never seen him without one.

Gatsby's speaking, saying things to me that I don't hear. My eyelids are drifting closed, the pain in my side is starting to fade into nothingness, and the last thing I remember seeing before my eyes close is the glint of the sun reflecting off Gatsby's glistening, magnificent abs.