Work Text:
The library was quiet, as libraries typically are. The only sounds that showed that the library was occupied were as follows: the gentle turning of pages, the quiet hum of the air conditioner in the summer heat, soft footsteps as the librarian made his rounds. Looking at him, he didn’t appear to be much of a librarian. He didn’t actually appear to be much of anything at all, perhaps maybe a moody teenager, but that was it.
The man was abnormally short, standing at just five foot. His fashion of dress was far too dark for any stereotypical librarian. The only true color he wore was the bright yellow lanyard that was hanging from his neck. The lanyard had his ID and name for people wondering, but not many people besides the most adventurous six-year-old would. All over the lanyard were buttons that looked as if they weren’t there by choice. There were ones with books, ones with bright orange pawprints, and another one with a large, yellow smiley face.
The librarian, whose lanyard proclaimed Andrew Minyard, did not have a large, smiling face like the button on his lanyard. He had very few facial expressions, but his most common expression was the blank stare he gave to everyone. Many speculated that Andrew hated his workplace and his job and everything to do it with it, but Andrew didn’t really hate it. He enjoyed books and had an extensive knowledge on literature and most things that would typically be found in a library. He knew where every book was, he remembered names of everyone who came in, and sometimes, he wrote down the name of a book some excited library-goer was rambling about.
Other times, he would scowl or snap when someone was being disruptive or plain obnoxious. It was a fucking library. Could you at least be quiet and read the damn book that you spent a whole hour searching for? For each of the ways that he didn’t look like a librarian, he did act like a typical librarian. Talking above an actual whisper was ill-advised and was likely to get you shushed and fixed with the worst glare you’d ever received.
Children’s author Neil Josten was extremely accustomed to these glares and scowls, as he was always bothering the librarian. He’d lean up against the counter and ask too many stupid questions for Andrew’s liking. Other times, he would sit in Andrew’s chair and smirk as if it were the funniest thing in the world, and Andrew, in turn, would flick or gently slap the author. The most annoying things the children’s author would do were to forcibly put buttons and pins on Andrew’s lanyard, leave him a lunch with the sappiest fucking note, or kiss him on the cheek in the library before going back home to work.
He absolutely hated Neil Josten and his shitty books. No one wanted to read about some runaway, talking fox playing sports or getting into fights. No one cared that the fox wasn’t actually who he said he was or that the fox was infatuated with another fox, who absolutely didn’t care at all for the first fox. The author had way too big of a problem with projecting onto his characters. No one actually wanted to read a biography about some washed-up exy player, “cleverly” hidden by cute animals.
No one except its target audience. Every Saturday at the library, children were invited to come for snacks and be read a few books, see a puppet show, or even do arts ‘n crafts. Often, Neil read his books to the small children, and the children absolutely loved it. They were always begging to know more about what happened to the fox and if he were going to be okay. (The answer was always yes, as long as the other fox was around.) After being read a book, all the children would gather around and be given cookies and juice. They would all babble about the book or exy or other, more exciting things in their lives.
Andrew would always sit down with them, and Neil would join, as the children asked so many questions about the book or about Andrew or about Neil. They’d ask Andrew about his weird sleeves, and he’d tell them that they protected him, which was not a lie. They’d ask Neil about the scars on his face and his weird sleeves, and he’d say that he just really, really liked to match Andrew. As for the scars on his face, he’d tell them that someone had tried to hurt him a long time ago, and they’d all look at him with sad eyes. Neil would say that they didn’t hurt anymore, and the kids would smile and tell him that his scars were cool anyway, so that’s a bonus, right?
After the children left, Andrew, Neil, and another librarian would all clean up and then close. The two men would walk home, Neil’s hand carefully in his most of the time. Sometimes, they would get into Andrew’s sleek car and get home very, very fast, and they would shower or lay in bed and talk softly, admiring every piece of each other.
Andrew did hate Neil in all his entirety. He hated the way he wrote, looked, spoke, breathed, laughed, and smiled. He hated the man’s eyes and his yawns in the morning and the mugs of coffee he left on the table in the living room. His books were boring and didn’t compare at all to any piece of literature he’d ever think of liking. Neil was the exact opposite of any book in his collection.
Sometimes, Neil would be away for a few days or weeks, and all Andrew would have were his collection of books, a pack of cigarettes, and their two cats. He never missed Neil, and if he did, he wouldn’t mention it. He only noticed his absence, and that was it. If he ever picked up one of Neil’s book instead of his favorite book by Oscar Wilde, he would never mention it. However, when Neil returned home, he would know that Andrew had curled up with the cats the night before and read them the entirety of one of his books. He’d never mention it, though. He’d just kiss Andrew’s forehead and present him with a new pin or an old book he had picked up. Andrew would always accept, feigning disinterest at whatever he was given. Despite Andrew’s actions, Neil would always know what he really, really meant.
Those nights when Neil would come home from his trips, Andrew would curl up in bed with his new book, and Neil would always lay his head on the librarian’s shoulder, letting his eyes flick lazily over the words on his page. Neil would always fall asleep first, and after Andrew finished the chapter he was on, he’d dog-ear the page and flick off the light, shifting to join Neil for a peaceful night’s sleep.