"No, I suppose my options are limited," Gatsby replies with a thin smile that keeps a private joke behind the surface. For a man who's looked at his future as though a plane of never-ending, gleaming, golden possibilities stretching onwards and upwards, to be given a landscape with a definitive edge and end has done what a bullet couldn't do; give him hope only to take it away. "Tell me, would you, have you had any contact with any other familiar faces?" he asks, taking the first of several brisk steps to get the blood flowing through his limbs. "Meaning, of course, our mutual friend, Nick Carraway. I don't suppose you've seen him haunting these same grounds?"
And Daisy. He wants to know about Daisy, wants to ask about Daisy, but he can't bring himself to ask. If he asks, he risks discovering that she wants nothing to do with him, but he has bled for her, he has given up nearly everything and is ready to give up the rest in a single breath. How could she deny him after that? Surely her promises aren't as fragile as that cracked windshield on a car that will remain covered away, like a terrible dark secret.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2013-12-04 12:24 am (UTC)And Daisy. He wants to know about Daisy, wants to ask about Daisy, but he can't bring himself to ask. If he asks, he risks discovering that she wants nothing to do with him, but he has bled for her, he has given up nearly everything and is ready to give up the rest in a single breath. How could she deny him after that? Surely her promises aren't as fragile as that cracked windshield on a car that will remain covered away, like a terrible dark secret.