THREE DAYS later the sensation is still there, the back of my head constantly filled with the thought of him and the mansion and the short stay I had had with both.

The lights still flash in the orange-red light of my eyes, shut tight in anticipation of reliving the morning that already seems so distant, another meeting longing inside of me. The brooch is a constant reminder nagging on my shoulder, the phone at the end of the room taunting me to call him once more, to arrange another breakfast just to be able to see him again.

I've never looked up to someone this much in my life before, yet there's something about Aleece, Gatsby, that bleeds with graceful nonchalance. From money to power to friends he's everything I've ever wanted and more, the life of this man one of perfection and it'd be a lie to not want what he has, what he is.

His being is enviable and I know no other men like him, no other men that stay with you three days after such an insignificant event as breakfast in a garden. Yet Gatsby makes it exciting, he makes even the most mundane events ones to be remembered.

He's absolutely amazing.

And I want to see him again.

A light rapping on the door breaks my thoughts, the brooch tossed in the air falling flat onto the mattress. My body twists to scramble it under the down pillow and out of sight, coughing nervously before giving a response to the wakeup call. The boy behind the door hits at the wooden frame once more before his light footsteps are heard down the hall accompanied by a distant yell and knock.

I don't leave the bed, only pulling the blankets back over me before thinking further on the phone in the corner, the red paint chipping and exposing the full metal underneath. It's taunting words carry through the room, even a pillow placed strongly over my ear can't block out its words.

The ring of the phone catches me off guard, nearly falling out of the bed as I scramble to grab it off the wall, a glimmer of hope inside me coming to the surface at the anticipation of the caller.

A million and one situations come to mind, a million and one conversations with Aleece. A second day in the garden, the scent of pastry cream and the slightest smile in his eyes as his lips grazed the length of his finger, vanilla bean lingering on his breath as he leans closer-

The phone rings a third time, trembling fingers grasping at it and bringing it forward, drawing out a shaky breath and blocking away the thoughts until later.

"H-hello?"

"It's Alexei, I'm at the diner." His accent is thicker when he's there, voice barely distinguishable through the muffled phone and the poor filter of his own lips. "I think I might know who you're looking for. Who we're looking for." He corrects himself. "Family and all..." There's a silence on the other end, the mention of the family bringing on a slight cringe of its own. My eyes find their way to the glass of water left at my bedside, Alexei's words ringing through me at the sight of it. Maybe we should be questioning it...

"So who is it?" There's still a hint of sleep on my voice, words thick and drawn out as my mind wanders, always finding itself in the same place with the same person and the same scenario on repeat.

"Some man out of Pennsylvania of all places, there's been a couple of sightings of them delivering out here, I guess they're trying to go national."

"And how are we supposed to catch some mystery guy in Pennsylvania?" I quiz, leaning into the brick corner and twirling the spiral cord absentmindedly between my fingers.

"Pennsylvania?"

The voice has my head snapping, body slamming into the brick wall behind me as a laugh rings out from his bloodied lip, tongue grazing the fresh cut as he leans into the framing of the doorway. Arms crossed he raises a dark brow my way, pointing to the phone now dangling by its cord, a faint curse of Russian ringing through the room catching his attention in the worst way.

"Can I hel- Moxie what happened?" I start but shift halfway through, noticing the way his hand curves lightly around his wrist, a dark bruise peeking through his trembling fingertips.

He doesn't pay me any attention, just holding onto the spot harder and crossing the room until he's next to me, sat on the edge of the bed next to a pile of clothes and dirty blankets. As another wave of Russian makes its way through the phone I hastily slam it back onto the wall, smiling coolly and rubbing a hand through my hair as an excuse.

Still he doesn't notice, head downcast slightly before rubbing at his damaged eye, the bruise on his wrist finally revealed. It's a sickly black and yellow, a bump rising to the surface where his bone should be placed. The sight has me averting my gaze, focusing on him instead of the broken bone, tracing his eyes around the room and taking notice now of the light purple mark on his neck and jaw, surrounded by a deep red where the vessels had burst beneath his paper skin.

"Mox?" My voice comes out softer than I had intended, body falling onto the bed beside him and gingerly grabbing the wrist in one hand and his shoulder in the other as he attempts to pull away from me. "What happened...please..."

"Nothing happened." He snaps, yanking the limb away with a painful wince and drawing into himself. His head falls into my lap and I drag my fingers through his tar colored hair. It's the only part of him that's suspiciously damp, the color coming through deeper and droplets raining down onto his hollowed out cheeks.

He appears sickly, a few pounds having left him since the last time that I saw him, eyes sunken in, the irises black and shrunken while surrounded by a damaged off white and red. There's nothing I can think to do, eyes falling onto the phone and weighing the options of calling for someone to brace his wrist or just leaving him here until he's ready to go himself.

Eyes shut his breaths shake ever so slightly, the change not noticeable until I place my hand across another damp spot on his shirt, the dirty grey spotting red at the pressure placed upon it. There's a hint of panic in me, my own breaths mirroring his as I lay him back onto the bed, hovering over him as I take him in, a few more speckles of red showing through in his shirt.

"What the fuck happened, Mox!?" By now I'm panicked, not sure of what to do as I leave the bed, pacing the room anxiously as I run a million hands through my hair, grabbing at the blonde strands as I stare down at the man on my bed, mind racing with the thought of what brought him here and what left him in this state, always coming to the worst conclusion.

He turns over on the bed, teeth drawing across his bottom lip and eyes opening sleepily, one brow raised as he asks, "Can you just fix my wrist?"

"No I can't fix your fucking wrist I'm not a doctor!" We both pause at the outburst, eyes widening as we stand in a broken silence, breaths wild and heaving, neither of us sure of what to say to the other.

He's the first to budge, his good hand beckoning for me to come to him on the bed. Reluctantly, I agree, dragging myself towards him again and waiting for him to lead, chest beating anxiously as we wait. "I was with Duke and he got mad..." He starts, biting at his lip again and licking away at the blood that drips from the cut. "and he hit me...a lot."

"Mox." The name drags out painfully, a small cry finally leaving him when he holds onto his wrist again, lips drawing in in a poor attempt to still himself. His tears stain the plaid of my pajama pants, body curling up painfully and wincing at each touch of his skin.

Something says there's more to the story but I don't press it, the way he backs away each time I come near, the widening of his eyes and the slight whimpers he gives out. There's only been one other time he's acted like this and even then I never got an answer, he just crawled up to me and fell asleep as if nothing had ever happened.

It wasn't until later in the night that I woke up to him crying, cradling the then broken limb on the corner of the bed, ignorant to the fact that I was watching. It was the first time he had started to take the pills Duke had given him, the pink orb glowing in the light of the window before disappearing between his swollen fingers, the effect never quite wearing off years later.

Wrapping his wrist with a tie I leave it at that, laying next to him as if it were years ago, a piece of me missing this part of us. We aren't as close as we used to be and yet nothing has happened to make us grow apart. He's always with Duke now, the training has gone from once a week to three times and now it's multiple times a day.

They're always together yet Moxie is never on missions anymore, his tasks have stalled and I haven't seen a gun in his hand in ages, blood splattered on his face and body slumped in exhaustion. He just stays locked in Duke's room, hell he hasn't even left for personal reasons.

Getting up, I shut the black curtains of the bedroom, an artificial night rolling in as we lay together, his hand limp between the two of us as the other rests on a pillow behind his head. We wrap ourselves between the blankets, the material hot and stuffy with the heat of the two of us blended together.

The air smells of him, his cologne burning strong with the scent of whiskey light on his tongue. The tip of his nose tickles my own, a smile falling over the two of us as he lets out a laugh at our close encounter, the stress of only a few moments earlier already dissolving with the chime.

"Excited?" He plays, pressing himself seductively closer before reaching into my pocket with his good hand, drawing out a bundle of napkins and paper, a small glimmer of gold peeping out between the two sheets. My eyes widen slightly and I hastily grab at the bundle, grinning at him as if nothing had gone wrong. Moxie lifts a brow and holds out his hand for the bundle, opening and closing his palm as I hesitate to gift it to him.

With a snatch the bundle is his, a bead of sweat seemingly running down my temple as he unwraps it torturously slow. The entire atmosphere shifts with the unveiling of the brooch, his eyes widening before transforming into slits, the jewelry nearly breaking beneath his grasp.

"I-" He doesn't give me time to find an excuse, only fumbling the piece over his knuckles and watching it shine through the sliver of light that makes it through the curtains.

"It's Gatsby's?"

"N-"

"Theo." The voice is stern and reeks of authority, tone heavy and tongue an iron whip, the one word having me taken aback, waiting for him to punish me for the item. I flinch at the anticipation of the repercussion that never comes, his mind too preoccupied with the piece of jewelry to take notice of me. "I know that it's Gatsby's."

The moment of peace comes to an end too soon, his body sitting up in the bed cradling the item, a hint of betrayal trapped behind his eyes though he locks it away in the gold of the item, a hatred sealed into the marbled facet of the opal. "Why do you have this?" His voice is soft and low, barely audible though the room is still, the silence thicker than cream and hard to breath, a gasping breath just the same as a drowning one.

"I-I...Elijah..."

"Why do you have this?" The scene escalates from eerily calm to threatening, the jewel thrown to the other side of the room in his outburst and his body hovering over mine, teeth seemingly barred and the demonic haze of the pills washing over his eyes.

"He gave it to me!" I blurt out, scrambling across the bed away from him before falling onto the floor, feet slipping against the wood preventing me from sliding any further. "When I went to the party he gave it to me!"

Chest beating I consider grabbing at his broken wrist to free myself from him but he instantly calms, staring at the brooch from across the small bedroom and back at me again, slowly lowering his body back onto the bed. "He gave it to you?"

"Yes." I cry, voice quivering from the fear of the moment. "Please stop."

Without a word he's up and on the floor next to me, pulling my trembling body into his arms as he mumbles words of apologies. I don't know what to do, confusion instantly settling in at the touch of his skin against mine.

He's always like this, going from high to low in a matter of seconds, each time worse than the last leading up to the day where he'll eventually snap. I don't bother to say anything, to push away from him and further the argument, just allowing him to hold me tighter against him. "You don't understand, Theo, just throw it away, okay? Here," he offers, grabbing at it from its place on the floor. "I'll take it for you."

Before I can protest the brooch has disappeared into his pocket and he's gone, disappearing out of the door and leaving behind a mess as he always does. The room is a disaster, blankets spread across the floor and a bloodied tie abandoned into the corner. There's a chip in the wall from where the phone had slammed into it and the paint is nearly gone from the phone itself.

Left on the floor I'm nothing but a shell, empty and alone in the night of the room, no stars shining through the curtain, no rare ray of light to shine down on the bleakness of the room. There's just darkness, a black abyss with no end with the leaving of the brooch, the leaving of Gatbsy and the garden and the balcony and the blue car. The leaving of the idea that I could be included in that again, in the spotlight of the moment next to him.

A ringing of the phone breaks my thoughts, body slowly rolling off the wood of the floor, a splinter or two sticking into my side though I ignore the slight pain, and drag myself to the phone. There's silence on the other end before a chipper voice, a break of wind folding back the curtain and a slight ray running the length of the room before falling on me, the light of the day invading the space.

"Hello? Theo it's Gatsby, I'm having a dinner in three days time, I hope you can come by...I want to see you again."

The line ends but the words linger within me as they always do. Three days. Three days until another meeting, three days until the mansion, the music, the dancing and the champagne towers.

Three days until I get to see Gatsby again.

And I can't wait.