Chapter Text
Zachary Ezra Rawlins has been frequenting this particular library every day for the last three years. He knows the smell of the books here, knows which couches have holes in them and which lights flicker, knows which stacks are good for crying in because no one goes there, and which spots seem like they might be good for crying in because no one goes there, but in actuality are the places where people who like to have sex in libraries tend to have sex in libraries.
He knows this library like the back of his hand. He knows the college students who come here to get homework done, the children who tug at their parents arms, the elderly folks quietly learning how to use the computers from the reference librarians (god bless the reference librarians, they’re absolute saints). He knows every book, even the bad ones and boring ones and no-right-being-this good ones.
His routine is routine. He arrives sometime around noon and mills about the first floor, chatting with the librarians or the college students about whether or not anything new has come in for a few minutes before climbing up the oak staircase to the second floor. He settles into the more well worn of the two maroon barrel chairs by the far window, behind the “Unknown” shelves. Between the two chairs there is a table with pen and pencil marks on just one side, and he settles his bag beside it and pulls out his laptop, notebooks, and pencil case.
There is something about the Unknown books that are infinitely comforting. It is his favorite place to sit and read, or write, or work. He works quietly until around three o’clock, when he gets up and descends the stairs to grab a muffin from the coffee shop next door, and returns around three forty-five. Then he reads.
Not many people frequent the Unknown shelves, or even know that they exist, and when they do come it is usually with the aid of a reference librarian hoping to find something in particular. He usually reads until closing time, when he packs up his belongings and descends the staircase, waving a quick goodbye to the librarian on the closing shift.
But today, it is different.
Because today, after a rather pleasant conversation with the librarian at the desk, (Mirabel, with the pink hair), he ascends the staircase to find someone sitting in his seat.
He stands there, awkwardly staring for a bit too long and trying to figure out what to do. There is another entire chair right there, he thinks to himself, I can just sit in that one.
He tries to convince himself that this thought is a reasonable one, and succeeds for long enough to walk over to the other chair. He fidgets, but eventually sits down. He very pointedly does not look at the person sitting in his seat.
It’s not like it’s My Seat , it’s just a chair that I happen to always sit in, that’s all. Lots of people have a Seat. Perfectly normal.
He squirms and attempts to settle into the second chair, which is less comfortable than what he continues to think of as His Seat, though it is still comfortable. He sighs, a bit dramatically, and settles his bag down on the Wrong side of the table and proceeds with his work, feeling like a mirror of himself.
He is not very productive, and he can feel the person in His Seat stealing glances at him, though he continues to Very Pointedly Not Look. He is jolted out of his discomfort by his three o’clock alarm and rises to get his muffin.
“I could watch your things, if you like”.
The voice is deep and low and silky, but nonetheless makes him jump. It is coming from His Seat, and the man that is still sitting in it. It makes him feel warm, and irritated.
He does not turn around.
“No, that’s alright, thank you.”
He walks away with what he desperately wishes was a confident stride but feels like an anxious scurry, and he spends longer than usual at the coffee shop, until four instead of three forty five.
When he returns, his naïve hopes of the man being gone are quickly dashed when the man greets him, from the seat that he is unfortunately slowly learning is not, in fact, His Seat.
“Welcome back,” the silky voice says in an accent that sounds vaguely middle eastern, and Zachary’s eye twitches.
“Thanks.” Zachary says, and exhales deeply as he moves through the stacks. He looks for his favorite of the Unknown books, Fortunes and Fables, and is frustrated when he cannot find it. He settles for its companion novel, Sweet Sorrows , and returns to- sigh - his seat.
He quickly finds himself in a lot of trouble figuring out his reading position, as the table is now on the wrong side of him, as is the window. He’s not catching the light in the right way, he can’t find a place to put his feet, and finding a place to put his book is an absolute nightmare- he keeps dropping it on the ground instead of on the table.
There is a low chuckle from the man in the seat beside him, and he scowls.
After far too much shuffling, he gives up, sinking to the ground and resting his back against the window, settling in to read on the ground.
The man laughs softly at his theatrics, and it is a lovely laugh, and Zachary finally looks up.
Oh. He thinks.
I’m staring. He thinks.
I should probably not be staring. He thinks.
“You’re staring,” the man observes, bemusedly.
“You’re sitting in my seat!” Zachary blurts out, and immediately flushes bright pink.
The man raises his eyebrows ( how can a man have beautiful eyebrows?????) and laughs again ( oh, what a laugh), and then, wonder of wonders, removes himself from the chair.
He slides down to the ground under the window beside Zachary.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and Zachary likes the way his mouth moves when he speaks. “If I had known, I would have chosen the other one, though that one is incredibly comfortable.”
Zachary nods a little bit too hard, contemplates getting up, and does not get up.
The silence between them is awkward, Zachary reasons, but not as awkward as anything that could come out of his mouth, so he stays silent, and attempts to open his book.
After about three failed attempts (how can I be failing at opening a book?) he groans and drops his head into his hands.
The man laughs softly again before catching himself, and when Zachary looks up he has a teasing glint in his eye.
“What are you reading?” He asks, and finally Zachary finds himself on solid ground.
“It’s called Sweet Sorrows , it’s one of the Unknown books. It’s a collection of stories set in this magical underground library world. The stories in here are some of my favorites, especially the one about the dollhouse and the one about the doors. I am of the strong belief that it is by the same author as my favorite book, which is very similar in style and tone and even some of the story plot points follow through. That one’s called Fortunes and Fables, and I was actually planning on reading that one today, but it wasn’t on the shelves, so someone must have taken it out.”
He breathes all this out at once, practically vibrating. The man listens attentively, and then turns over his book, revealing the familiar detailing of Fortunes and Fables.
“It seems I’ve unwittingly taken both your favorite chair and your favorite book today, then.” He observes, and Zachary is not quite sure he can continue being annoyed with this man when he looks and sounds like this.
Instead of the words he is thinking of saying, which include several variations on “I’ll be taking them both back, thank you very much” and several more of “well you can take me too, if you know what I mean”, he says “How are you liking it?” And pretty soon Zachary finds himself in a quite pleasant conversation about his favorite novel, the nature of storytelling, and whether or not the moon is in any of the other stories between the two books.
The man is surprisingly funny, and very good at talking about books, and Zachary is thinking that he might be falling in love when Arthur, the evening librarian, comes up to shoo them out of the building.
Zachary realizes with a start that they have both been sitting on the floor for four entire hours and apologizes to the man for the whole sitting-on-the-ground situation, and for interrupting his reading, but the man laughs it off and says something charming about enjoying the conversation. They walk out of the library side by side, and Zachary is thinking about how weird it would be to hold the hand of a stranger you had just met in a library four hours ago and the fact that he really, really wants to.
“Good night,” the man says, and Zachary is suddenly seized with the thought that he might not ever see him again.
“Wait! I didn’t catch your name!” He shouts as the man crosses the street.
“I didn’t catch yours either,” the man beams as he shouts back, “what is it?”
“Zachary Ezra Rawlins,” says Zachary Ezra Rawlins, unsure of why he used his entire name, “what’s yours?”
“Well,” the man shouts as he walks away, “if I told you that, Zachary Ezra Rawlins, I just might have to kill you.”
The man winks, and a bus passes between them, and suddenly the man is gone. Zachary collapses on the library steps, staring out into the street, clutching Sweet Sorrows to his chest and thinking about beautiful men with beautiful voices and excellent opinions on books.