This story was requested by Jamie and written by Kit Marlowe.
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Rain pounded against the windows of the university library. Thomas watched the droplets slip down the glass, mentally betting on which would reach the bottom first. This was what his life had become, entertaining himself with water patterns while shelving dusty tomes nobody had touched in years.
The library emptied around six as usual, students scrambling away to whatever passed for excitement in this dreary university town. Thomas had taken his degree in a city bustling with nightlife, offering all the stimulation and excitement a teenager fresh from home could possibly want. Harrington was staid by comparison, the local town little more than a village, the pubs stacking the chairs on the tables by 10 most nights.
He ran his fingers along the spines of his neat rows of books as he made his rounds, taking note of the few stragglers who still crouched over reading desks, backs of heads cast into stark silhouettes by the low lamps set in each little nook. He liked these quiet moments in the evening, the quiet hush that settled over the place.
Not that he was a stranger to being alone. It was six months since David had packed his things, pulling apart a life built over eight years without any explanation. Six months of coming home to silence, of waking up to cold sheets, of the empty spaces where a person used to be. The library had become his refuge since then. The silence here felt purposeful rather than cold.
He pushed his cart in the direction of the philosophy section. The rain was picking up outside, drumming against the high windows and echoing through the cavernous reading room. Most of the lights had dimmed automatically as evening came on, casting the tall shelves in a warm glow that softened the edges of everything.
As Thomas rounded the corner he noticed a man sitting alone at one of the reading tables, completely absorbed in whatever he was reading. He wasn't a student - too old, probably early forties, of a similar age to Thomas. His dark jumper looked expensive in an understated way, and there was a stillness around him that Thomas rarely saw in academics. Most of them were twitchy, fidgeters, full of pent-up intellectual energy and unmedicated ADHD.
Thomas shelved three books, stealing glances in the man's direction. He hadn't looked up at the sound of Thomas' cart, was seemingly unaware that the library had emptied around him. Thomas found himself wondering what could be so engrossing. Something about the intensity of his focus was strangely intimate, like he was witnessing something private and secret.
Just as Thomas was about to move away, the man looked up, eyes landing directly on Thomas' face. No way to hide the fact that he'd been staring.
Shit
, he thought. His instinct was to flinch away, to pretend he'd never been looking. But that never worked, of course. That just drew attention to it. So instead he held the man's gaze, straightened his shoulders, approached the low desk.
"We're closing in twenty minutes," he said, his voice little more than a murmur, sounding oddly formal even to his own ears.
The man smiled, and the dim light somehow managed to catch the gold flecks in his hazel eyes. "Already? Time gets away from me in libraries."
His voice was lower than Thomas expected, with a slight burr to the edges. The kind of voice made for reading poetry aloud in darkened rooms. Thomas imagined that his breath would smell like peaty scotch, warm and welcoming.
"I know the feeling," Thomas said, then immediately felt idiotic.
Of course I know that feeling. I work in a library. Time gets away from everyone at work.
He cleared his throat, looked away from the man's intense, unblinking stare and off into the gloom of the reading room. "Can I help you find anything before we close?"
"Actually," the man said, closing the book he was reading - Leeming's biography of Baldwin - and leaning back in his chair slightly, to better look up at Thomas. "I was hoping to access your special collections." He extended his hand. "I'm James Merritt, visiting lecturer with the English department. I'm working on a paper about Auden's later works, and I heard you have some first editions."
Thomas took his hand - warm, dry, strong but still gentle somehow, grip firm without being aggressive - and shook, suddenly aware of the exact pressure of his own grip, of the slight clamminess to his palm. "Thomas Wells. Head librarian," he said. As their hands separated James' fingers slid across his palm, leaving tingling trails in their wake.
"The special collections are typically available by appointment only," he said. Then, without knowing he was going to add it, "but I could make an exception. Just this once."
James smiled again and Thomas felt something in his chest shift slightly. "I'd appreciate that, Thomas."
It felt like the stranger had been saying his name for years rather than seconds, and he suppressed the urge to shiver as a soft chill danced up his spine.
Thomas led James through the stacks toward the back of the library, acutely aware with every step of the man's presence behind him. His keys jingled as he removed them from his belt, the sound excessively loud in the quiet building. All the other reading nooks were empty now, their occupants leaving while the two men had been talking. Thomas hadn't noticed them go, had been too engrossed in the presence of this stranger who didn't feel like a stranger.
"It's a beautiful space," James said as they walked. "Much more character than the sterile modern things they build now."
"That's one way to describe a building with broken heating and windows that leak the second the wind touches them," Thomas said, then immediately regretted the negativity. "But yes, it has character."
James laughed softly. "I've always preferred places with a few flaws. A bit of age showing. Perfection is overrated."
Thomas fumbled with the lock, suddenly aware of how close James was standing behind him. He could smell something woodsy and subtle - cologne, maybe, though not the overpowering scents that younger men seemed to bathe in. He'd never been a lover of colognes, could usually only smell the alcohol base and nothing else, but this scent seemed to mingle with James' own natural scent in a way that made him incredibly present in the space. Thomas found himself breathing deeper than he normally would, drinking in the smell as the lock clunked open under his fingers.
The special collections room was small but impressive, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a single reading table in the middle of the carpeted floor. James moved to the locked cabinet where the library housed its most valuable editions.
"Here," he said, carefully removing a slim volume. "I know you're working on the later works, but this is the nineteen twenty-eight private printing of 'Poems'. Slightly different contents to the more well-known nineteen-thirty edition." He flushed, suddenly self conscious. "But I'm sure you know that already. We actually have a-"
"This is gorgeous," James said, taking the book from him with evident reverence. He looked up, not immediately opening this book. "Thank you for this. I know you're breaking protocol. And you're probably keen to get home."
"It's fine," Thomas said, watching his fingers trace the embossed title. "It's nice to see someone appreciate these things properly."
Their eyes met over the book and for a moment everything went very still. The rain, the building, it all seemed to pause. Thomas felt a breath catch in his chest. Something passed between them - recognition, perhaps. Then the clock on the face of the building chimed the hour, and the spell was broken.
"I should..." Thomas said, gesturing back in the direction of the main library.
"Of course," James said, offering the book back.
"Take some time with it," Thomas said. "I have some things to do before I close up for good."
