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Remus did not really have a reason for being in the book store today. Although, if asked, he would argue vehemently that one did not need a reason to go to a bookstore. Privately though, he is acutely aware of the fact that he only came to the store today because of the cute boy who worked the register. The one currently sat on a stool behind the counter, face hidden behind a book held open by long, thin fingers adorned with chipped black nail polish. His hair is piled on top of his head in a messy bun, strands escaping to hang next to angular features in softly waving whisps.
The boy looks up from his book, making eye contact with Remus where he’s peering around a towering shelf of vintage paperbacks. Eyes wide, he quickly ducks back into the narrow aisle, turning to hurry toward the opposite end with feigned purpose. Some distance between them, Remus slows, breathing a sigh of defeat. It’s going to be a lot more difficult to stare longingly now that he caught me.
Wandering up and down the aisles lazily, he inhales deeply the scent of old paper and ink. Second-hand bookstores like this one are superior in every way, in his expert opinion. The volumes housed within have been passed from hand to hand, have held unknown numbers of people in their thrall before being passed along, and ultimately making their way here, where they sit just waiting for a new home. Remus trails is finger tips idly over spines of fabric and paper until a voice tears him from his musings.
“Can I help you find anything?”
Turning around, Remus sees the handsome worker walking down the aisle toward him, head cocked to the side in question.
“Oh, I was just-” frantically, he glances around to figure out what section he had ended up in “-looking at poetry.” He winces. He hates poetry and doesn’t know the first thing about it because he is bollocks at it.
“Oh! I love poetry!” Did he say hate? He meant that he loves poetry. His absolute favourite. “I’m reading a Lorca anthology at the moment. Was there someone specific you were looking for, or?”
“Ah, no, just...browsing. Anything you would recommend?”
The man hums, before leaning in close, reaching over Remus’ shoulder and pointing out a slim book in front of them with the tap of slender fingertip. Remus’ breath stutters at the close contact but the other doesn’t seem to notice. “This is a personal favourite of mine. None of that gushy romantic stuff, very political and sarcastic.”
“That… actually sounds great,” he answers with surprising sincerity, and unsurprising breathiness. Heat is radiating off the other one, warming his back like the rising sun.
Remus feels as the man goes up on toes to reach the book, biting down on his lip as a steadying hand lands on his waist. He’s sure his heart is pounding loud enough to echo off the high ceilings and vaguely thinks there’s probably a poem within these dusty shelves describing exactly what he’s feeling in more beautiful prose than he could ever dream of. That someone somewhere must be able to tell the story of how the slightest touch of those long fingers with their chipped paint are wreaking havoc on his body and mind, possibly brushing his soul. He’s positive Helen didn’t have as beautiful raven hair or distractingly aromatic scent like that of a forest in autumn.
He shivers as warm breath ghosts across his ear. “Anything else I can get you?”
Your number , he considers answering, but settles for shaking his head mutely and following the boy to the front in a lovesick daze. He pays, refusing a bag, and waving awkwardly on his way out the door.
Snow has started falling gently outside and the sun has already set. Tilting his face toward the sky, Remus takes a deep breath, letting it out in small chuckle before smiling at the stars. He knows for certain that he is going to go home and read this book of poetry, that he’ll struggle his way through it, and doubtless grasp very little of it, all in the name of just a small glimpse inside the mind of a stunningly handsome boy. That he’ll spend more time imagining those fingertips brushing over the pages as he read the words within, than actually understanding them himself. And then he’ll come back in with the hopeless hope that he might get the chance to trade a few thoughts about it.
Turning for home, he opened the cover, finding a small paper book mark inside with the name and hours of the store. Indents from a ballpoint pen scrawl black ink across it with the name Sirius Black , a phone number below it.
Perhaps not a hopeless hope after all.