The Gay Gatsby

Chapter 24: Gay and Cliché

Authors note: Hello everyone! Boring chapter today, sorry but I really needed to set stuff up and relieve some tension/conflict from the story.

I don't know whether or not I like this chapter, so let me know what you think!

Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 24: Gay and Cliché

"The afternoon had made them tranquil for a while, as if to give them a deep memory for the long parting the next day promised."

         -F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Chance

As the soft light poured into the floor of my room, my mind was a heavy haze of bliss. Visions from the night before permeated my head, rapidly playing out behind my eyelids. The familiar memories left an inextinguishable warmth in my chest, heat rising to my cheeks.

I was so lost in my disarray of thoughts that I almost forgot about the arms wrapped around me.

And who they belonged to:

Callaway

My lips unfurled into a bright grin as fondness swirled within me. I nestled in closer to the heat surrounding me as I let my body and mind slowly rise from their dormancy. My eyes blinked, heavy as I tried to swim back into full consciousness.

I turned my head, gazing at the boy beside me who was still deep in sleep. Dark curls spilled across the white pillow in stark contrast. The sleeping Callaway was entirely juxtaposing to his normal self; he was peaceful, neutral and quiet. And in all honesty, it was slightly disconcerting.

But as I always did, I took utter advantage of the tranquility:

I decided to paint.

I deftly slid Callaway's grip off of me, careful not to wake the boy from his slumber. As his arm was removed from my torso and lowered onto the plushness of my bed, I watched in fondness as Callaway let a soft, almost inaudible murmur.

Even in his sleep, he complained.

I tried my best to shuffle off the bed, feet hitting the floor of my bedroom with a soft creak. I winced, glancing back at the - thankfully - still sleeping boy in my bed. I couldn't help the dopey smile that graced my face.

I slid over to my 'paint corner', picking a blank canvas with little concern. I gathered some paint brushes and the paint colours I'd presume I'd use. And in a minute breadth of time, my brush was streaking across the canvas in a haphazard grace. I let my mind and my hands digress as I worked, eyes flickering in and out of focus. Seconds, minutes, or hours passed and I continued to work, utterly entranced.

In no way was I prepared for the languid interruption of a familiar voice.

"I better look pretty," Callaway drawled, voice husky.

My gaze shot up from the canvas in momentary shock. My eyes were met with the image of a boy, mess of curls bouncing in every direction atop his head. He stared back at me in visible amusement, smirk decorating his face.

There was no surprise on his face. No 'Isn't art for girls?' or 'You'll never do anything with that in life' or 'Chance, that's gay'.

There was just:

"Draw me like one of your French girls."

I shook myself out of my surprise, laughing at Callaway as turned back to my painting. "You're not French."