Work Text:
The place you are in is about to close its door and shut its last light, but the act itself does not bother you, though the hand you use to write on the paper you’ve been working on stops for a moment every time there is a disturbance created by that act. The few people left in this small establishment quietly clean up their mess and you watch them walk towards the exit, passing the watchful librarian—some of them asked to register the books they are going to borrow and bring home, others simply say their good-bye and promise to come back. This spot here is popular with the uni students, after all, considering they have almost everything they want; a calm and nice place to hang out or study, including an endless supply station of brewed tea and coffee, should you become a member.
For broke uni students in dire need of a second home to do their assignments, this library has everything.
The establishment can be considered medium in size—not too big and not too small. Its walls are exposed red bricks, its furniture a deep mahogany wood that had lacquered sheen on them. Swashes of warm-coloured light bulbs scatter across the shelves, small light fixtures in the shape of various four-sided star-shaped objects hang high on the ceiling—you think the concept they try to go for is sort of vintage with a hint of celestial, which kind of work, you think.
What you like from the library is probably the atmosphere. Here, the librarians don’t put obnoxious songs or instrumentals. Just silence where everyone of every spectrum can entertain themselves; for you who cannot concentrate in a cacophonous situation, this place is a haven; the scritch-scratch of pen against paper, of papers being cut, of pencil crossing around in a drawing, slow sound of paper flipping, hushed voices of people concentrating—all of them are more calming than the music put by common libraries.
Aside from that, the library has the most plush sofa you have ever laid your eyes on (in addition to a collection of very cute, fluffy mascot plushies they dub ‘Dodoco’ everywhere). The moment you sink your body on the soft mattress, you know you won’t be able to get up. Not that you want to, honestly speaking. Frankly, you don’t remember how many times the librarians had to wake you up because you fell asleep on your spot until closing time.
That’s why you’re fond of this place. A home, the real one as your first one is just a 'home' in name only.
Though today, you hang around more in the more communal area—a long wooden table that serves as a more proper and traditional place to study, as opposed to the beanbags and sofas—with books and papers surrounding you.
“Oh, Lohen.” A familiar voice piques your attention. “Rare for you to sit here.”
The librarian remarks to you with his dashing amicability. He’s always like that to others, friendly and helpful. No matter how things are, this librarian has, at minimal, a smile on his face—more often than not, a grin.
“The sofas are dangerous, Varka.”
You quip back, looking up from the paper you’ve been writing and meet his eyes, the person himself standing on the opposite side where you are seated.
The way he wears clothes is always distracting, you comment, as your eyes travel down south for a few seconds, judging the off-white turtleneck sweater that he wears with its sleeves all rolled up to his elbows, lingering quite awhile on his exposed forearms—ogling might be a better term—before returning to his face. Not that I’m complaining though, you add, smiling.
The sky-blue in Varka’s eyes is dominant against the dim lights, despite it being obscured slightly behind a pair of glasses. It suits him, actually, doesn’t hide the gentleness of his gaze and how affectionate it is. The grin on his lips is of friendliness to his remaining library patron; warm and welcoming, just like the library he takes care of.
“If I stay there, I won’t be able to finish this paper.” You continue on, “you’ll have to haul my ass off from the sofa.”
“I’m very sure that’s not something new. You’ve set a world record for the amount of times we have to wake you up.” The librarian chuckles, amused. “Well, you think you can finish before I finish cleaning everything?”
“Why, Varka, is that a challenge I hear?” You mean no harm, saying the taunt as a passing jest, complete with a smirk.
Varka grins, wolfishly. “Just a question.”
“A challenge then.”
This level of conversation is common between you and Varka, welcomed actually—a practiced banter between two friends, some friendly jabs, with occasional, one-sided flirting (which is not something friends would do but you really cannot help it, not when Varka seems to not mind).
Truth to be told, you have a slight favouritism when it comes to interacting with the staffs. Varka is your favourite librarian, amongst the others. The most attentive one towards every patron visiting the library, one of them who had everyone’s faces and names memorised, the number one most helpful person when it comes to books recommendation and other assistance. In addition to being blonde and hot.
(Well, there is Albedo—while he is handsome, his smooth, subtle flirtatious nature can be quite a problem, you think. )
Also, there is a burning, impulsive question you want to ask.
“Is your hair actually blond?”
You have an inkling that his hair colour isn’t a real one—there is a tuff of brown on the right side of his head—but you don’t have enough guts to ask in a crowd. What if it turns that he’s sporting a wig? As impossible as it seems, it can happen too. To the best of your ability, you don’t really want to shame him (not in that light, maybe through a prank or two but not a cruel-sounding humiliation). Now that you are alone, you just let your words out without restraint.
“Why, interested in me, suddenly?” Varka goads you to retort, his lips forming a smirk.
“You wish.” You lie, as easy as breathing, smiling still. “Keep your secret then, if you don’t want to answer.”
And true to your words, he doesn’t answer you, staring at you with a shit-eating grin on his face. Ah, the two of you are just being silly.
And avoiding your paper because you think the journal in which you need to review is silly in many ways. This whole university and degree stuff are too, actually.
“Anyways, I don’t think I’m trying to issue a challenge here. Only asking.” Varka retorts, waving his hand dismissively. “Even if you haven’t done your paper by the time I finish cleaning up, I’ll still wait for you.”
“Oh, really.” You drawl, a hand on your cheek, the elbow on the table as you lean down with a leer. “How nice. Do you do this to everyone else, Mr. Nice Librarian?”
Okay, in retrospect, you weren’t serious; making a pharmacotherapy review paper about the use of fluoxetine for young children is actually not silly—it is, in fact, very interesting topic you find—considering you were the one who decide to enter study in the pharmacy major anyway.
All of those are just a tell-tale show of frustration—extremely so—at how oblivious this handsome man in front of you. So much that you start calling everything silly or ridiculous.
Varka is, begrudgingly, silly and ridiculously charming, after all.
“Of course not. This is a special feature, reserved only for special members.” He answers, smiling widely.
“Special members, hm. Does that include me?”
His answer is cryptic at best. “I wonder?”
He doesn’t mean it in a romantic way, probably; all of his flirting—if you can call it that, he probably is just being nice and way too friendly, or is this your tell on excusing his behaviour, we may never know—is mostly very direct.
This being one of them—Varka telling you that he will wait for you until you’re finished, which will take at least next year because you’re not even halfway done, distracted by this point of view where you could see him perched on his station for the duration of his shift.
You feel like breaking something out of frustration—a thing that you get once you are an university student pressed by a lot of things—but you cannot anyway, so you resort to clicking your tongue and sighing at the end. Enough with the flirting, he won’t get it.
“I feel like I can go crazy,” with the implication of you treating me exclusively and this paper.
“I know.” Varka replies, sympathetically. “Well, you can try yelling your heart out with our scream pillow.”
Can I just scream on your bed— No. Shut up, brain, shut up.
By that, he means the small room containing a thick and hefty pillow, used as a muffler for scream and frustration—it was a random-idea-turned-inside-joke from Kaeya, the one-eyed librarian, that ended up being dubbed the ‘scream pillow’ by a lot of the visitors. Alice, the owner of the library, has a knack for approving the weird stuff in this library, now that you realise that.
Personally, you never really find the need to use it. Your friends who visit this library often had mentioned it sort of helped alleviating their stress. You think Illuga actually goes there occasionally, a few times across a week.
Good for them and good for him.
“No need.” You answer, face falling to the table. You want to turn off your brain for a good minute to spare yourself from the indecent remarks it makes against your wishes. “Ugh.”
You hear the shuffling of chair and assume that Varka ends up sitting across your seat. “It’s nice, you know? Yelling to a pillow. Gets the job done on venting out frustration temporarily.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“No one is going to hear.”
“You can.”
“I’ll pretend that I can’t hear.”
“Might as well not to do it.”
“Then, I have an another idea.”
You hear two light taps against the wood, raising your head immediately to look at Varka.
A bad mistake you feel, because the moment you do, your heart skips and flutters in your ribcage, pounding away thereafter; the temperature of the light fixture is warm, cascading down to illuminate the both of you in swashes of light orange. Tender does his smile goes—a hint of clear feeling of fondness, something you don’t really want to acknowledge.
He does this for everyone, you quietly remind.
“Let’s hear it,” you say, hiding away the scream you’re letting out inside. “Your grand idea.”
“How about I whisk you away,” Varka immediately follows up, his body moving forward, as if trying to close the distance between the two of you. “Somewhere faraway from these papers?”
“That is your idea?”
“Simple, isn’t it?”
“My grade is at stake here.”
“It’s not due tomorrow, right.”
“ … ” The expression on your face falls flat, all thoughts blank as you scramble to remember what day is it today. Shit, is it tomorrow?!
A worry starts to appear on Varka’s expression. “Don’t tell me it’s tomorrow.”
“I don't think, wait, let me remember … ” What day is it today, what day—oh, Saturday. “ … It's due on Tuesday. Not tomorrow.”
A sigh of relief comes out from his side—shouldn’t you be the one who do that … ? Regardless, you let out the breath you've been holding and return back to normalcy.
“Enough time to take a break then.” His hand reaches forward, his pointer nudges the space between your brows. “You’re thinking too hard that this—here—leaves a crease. You’re going older by the minute.”
You catch yourself giggling at that silliness. “You’re implying I’m wrinkling.”
“From the stress, yes.”
“Maybe that way we can have the same feature.”
At that, you hear him laugh, the finger on your face pulls away, now landing on the messy mop of your teal hair. The proximity of the touch is nice and you bend your head slightly lower, silently enjoying it.
“You’re not that old yet,” he adds, “we can still fix that—like I said, a little break would do you good.”
See, there is a twinkling of unearth feelings there, something akin to fondness and affection. You know it, have seen it on other people around you, but even so, to admit that Varka is interested in you is … harder than it looks; denial is a river that runs in the Egypt and you are its frequent visitor, unfortunately.
“I’ll take you on that offer then.”
The remaining laughter in his mouth turns into an upward curl of his lips. “That’s a good boy.”
Pink goes your cheeks, the back of your neck twitching slightly in response, but the dimness of the light and the shadow falling to obscure your face are graces you find thankful for, hiding your reaction from Varka’s watchful gaze. All of the sudden, the hand on top of your hair feels too warm.
“ … Don’t start calling me that.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll get the wrong idea.”
“Haha, I see.” the chuckle is brief—empty sounding, you find—and his hand goes away from its perch. “Even though I mean it every single time.”
You don’t register the tone he uses or the meaning of his words and the whole conversation ends right there. He gets up, not long afterwards, you do so too.
“Let’s just go.” You mutter under your breath, embarrassed—just another attempt to convince yourself that this is another trial from the heavens above to go through.
Living in a place near the port has its perks—an easy access to one of nature’s greatest creation, in the form of an open sea. It was Varka’s idea, not yours, to go to the sea in a season where everything is dead and cold. You don’t complain because well, you do love it, this sort of atmosphere.
At night like this, especially at the ungodly hour, there is an obvious lack of visitors around the beach area, for the twelfth month is the least visited month for a beach would be. You watch the sandy ground being overrun by the waves, its movement lulling the water to meet the land. The winter night is a cloudless kind tonight, a selection of stars coming to grace the sky with their twinkling in the distance, the moon a dead concept. Pretty is quite an understatement, divine is the word that fits a lot more in this situation.
You don’t think you’ve been in this situation ever, only once or twice in your delusion—the centre attention of your heart walking by your side, the two of you slowly traversing the path along the sea. You have your shoes in one hand, mirroring Varka and his sandals. The other hand is in the pocket of your jacket, an act you do to actively resist in taking his hand. Your eyes look over the horizon, to the point of the sky meeting the sea, and a sigh escapes your lips, unbidden, a thin white wisp in the air.
“What a sigh.” Varka comments amidst the silence. “Something on your mind, Lohen?”
The sea in the winter season has always been lonely. Or maybe, that’s just how it is with the sea in the night. The coldness helps selling the atmosphere, further solidifying that this is the worst time to go out near the open sea. However, you think Varka has this view—of seeing the beauty in things, no matter how insignificant they are. Perhaps, he finds it lovely instead, the view of the glittering waves and the shimmering sky.
Or even romantic, should you be a little bit more daring in assuming.
Amongst the sound of the waves, your answer comes a little bit later, a few skips of heartbeat happen, until you can string up a reply properly. “Something unimportant. Don’t mind me.”
Varka stops in his track. You too, standing a few meters away from him in front. “Still thinking about that paper?”
“Mm, no.” You admit, your gaze now lingers to the horizon. “What I’m thinking about—I don’t think it’s interesting enough to be a topic, so let’s just forget it.”
“I’ll listen to anything, you know.”
You switch your focus—from the sea, to the bright blue sky of Varka’s eyes. The expression he wears is still the same kind that you witnessed back in the library, reserved only to you, for now.
“Persistent, aren’t you?” It’s not a jab, nor a warning for trespassing a threshold. To the others, they probably would take it as you being offended from being pestered, though in truth, you are only pointing out the obvious.
Much to your chagrin, Varka replies with the same amount of retort. “Sounds like my middle name.”
You always take note the way Varka treats the other patrons—with loud cheer and open hands, almost similar when it comes to you, always welcoming too. He supposedly doesn’t have favouritism amongst the patrons and new visitors-alike, but him doing this makes you feel a bit more hopeful.
Do you only do this for me?
In this scenario, you can’t help but to think that Varka looks somewhat hopeful too. Maybe he wants something else that is more than this, but you’re too afraid to affirm that. Even when everything sticks out like a sore thumb.
You like him and he seems to like you back. What is there to be afraid of? In the immortal words of Illuga, your dorm-mate: I think you’re overthinking this stuff far too much, Lohen. He likes you back, everything is written on his body language.
You retort with the reasoning that he does the same thing to the other patrons which is enough to incur Illuga’s frustration, enough for him to pinch your cheeks in return.
I hope one day, you realise that he’s just as obvious. That he is in love with you.
Besides, you really want to think you are deserving of him, yet the murky ugliness in your mind thinks otherwise—there are a lot more suitable person for Varka to be with; a person that is much more whole, not less of a human like you. Someone who is more capable and better. Someone who isn’t a living burden.
Now that you think about it properly, maybe saying yes to his whim is a mistake.
Your gaze falls, to the sandy ground, to your feet buried slightly. The waves are gentle in its administration today, barely a loud crash. In its stead is a stagnant silence, one where Varka stands on, waiting for your answer.
“You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to, Lohen.”
Varka probably takes a pity on you who cannot tell him what is on your mind and decides to leave it at that. Of course, when you raise your eyes up, a sliver of disappointment can be seen in his expression. It’s a minor one, a ‘blink-or-you’ll-miss-it’.
“ … I was thinking of a question.”
“What sort of question?”
“Do you really want to hear it?
“That’s why I asked.”
“Okay. Promise not to laugh.”
“I promise.” Varka vows, complete with the movement across his heart. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“No need to be that extra. It’s just a silly question.”
Varka doesn’t reply to that with words. He waits and waits, for you to say the plague in your head with a small smile on his face. Ever the patient, he is.
“Do you do this to everyone you know?”
“Do what exactly?”
“This … kind gestures.”
“Is that the assumption you get from this?”
You find Varka chuckling when he’s done saying that remark, the sound ringing in your ears, together with the soft thud of his sandals on the ground as he releases them from his grip. You find yourself staring at him with a bit of disbelief.
“For someone who is too sharp for his own good, you sure are oblivious at times.” You watch him take a step closer, “maybe I should give you a more direct answer.”
Varka decides to continue with an action that surprises even fate—he pulls your arm, the one carrying your shoes, until the said shoes find home amongst the sands. The direction in which he pulls you is towards him, so you fall flat forward to his chest which he proceeds to use as a moment to hug you. Your yelp is short-lived, muffled by the proximity of your face with his body.
“The answer is that I don’t, Lohen. I don’t this to anyone else.” There is a hint of that fondness again that gets you stunned. “I only do this to you because I have feelings for you. Romantically, I’ll add, in case your brain starts to think otherwise.”
The surge of embarrassment is quick, your cheeks—already pinkish from the cold—turn into crimson in mere seconds. Your hands twitch, as you find the desire to hold him back, to return the hug, but your brain is feeling overwhelmed already by the truth he dropped, the starkness of his want now visible to hear and see.
Your heart—the fickle troublemaker who cannot beat properly when you’re with him—feels full from all things you are feeling; nervousness, worry, affection, adoration, they are all swirling into one giant blob of feelings that makes you a bit giddy and breathless.
The impulse pushes you to reciprocate the hug—slowly, your hands encircle his waist, and you feel the slight rumble on his chest as he laughs above your ears, a sound so lovely and rare that you can’t help but to catalogue them personally in the recesses of your mind.
“IthinkI’minlovewithyoutoo.” You confess, stringing up the words together into one incoherent line.
“Hm?” Varka hums, questioning. “I can’t hear you clearly.”
You lightly pinch him through his clothes, earning you a surprised yelp.
“Don’t make me say it again.”
“ … I can’t hear you the first time, you speak too fast.”
“I’m not going to repeat it.” You mutter, low in volume. “It’s too embarrassing.”
“Shame.” He responses, though his arms are still secured around your upper back. “I would love to hear it again.”
A hitch of a breath, a slight gasp. “So you did catch—! And you dare to make repeat it—”
“I can’t help it,” you can hear the sheepishness of his tone in his reply, the want in it too. “I want to hear the love of my life saying that he loves me too.”
The moment that sentence comes out from his mouth, your brain zones in to the love of my life part. You repeat it once, then twice, trying to make it make sense, until it becomes something similar to a dizzying, panicked state. Did he say those words or am I being delusional right now?
You pull back from his hug, only for a moment, a really short distance just to see his face—Varka isn’t entirely immune to the embarrassment too. On his usually sun-kissed skin, amongst the smattering of light freckles underneath his eyes, is a set of deep blush. You think it’s almost impossible to see this on Varka, you never really see him being abashed and reddened. Here, you can see how the redness spread from one end to the other, across the nose, all the way to the tip of his ears. Every part of this is of you, your doing, not anyone else. The first—and hopefully never the last—you see from Varka.
“Don’t stare too much. Even this old man is capable of being shy, you know.”
You try to make a quick, intelligent retort but all you can muster is just opening your mouth, only to subsequently close it again. Rendered rather speechless and confused to say anything else other than a confession, you end up just pushing your face back to his torso.
“Heh.” He scoffs lightly, a hand over your hair, ruffling it tenderly. “I love it when you’re like this.”
Despite the cold that spreads over your fingertips, despite the winter breeze dancing over the air, this hug you share is a contrast to it. It’s warm—Varka’s body heat lighting up like a steady furnace—and almost comfortable enough for you to want to stay like this for as long as the time permits.
This time, you hug him tighter too, as if you want to erase yourself from existence from the constant affection he gives.
“Even you can be this embarrassed too, huh.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s cute.”
“I said shut up.”
“Do you really want me to shut up.”
“ … No.”
“Then I won’t.” Varka says again, a jest and a honest confession for the nth time. “I love you, Lohen.”
“—!”
The sea waves sweep over the sand again, the slow roll audible from this distance, marrying the drumming heartbeat you hear that belongs to Varka. From there, you realise that both of you are chasing and feeling the exact thing—that this nervousness and affection filling your heart is mirrored by Varka too. He’s not as infallible or calm as you think, only a human that decides to choose you as someone he loves.
You don’t want to make him stand in the stagnant silence, waiting for your response. Thus, you say, with all the love you have in your heart, as vast as the sea and the stars that becomes your witness.
“I love you too, Varka.”
.
.
.
(When you told Illuga about all of these, the first thing he said to you was a congratulation and a very knowing I told you so, complete with a smug smile on top. It was cute but considering he’s still in a situationship with Professor Flins, you’ll get your revenge soon, you think.)
(Meanwhile, Varka only realised this when he broke the news of him and Lohen dating—it seemed that the other librarians have been betting over who would confess first. Almost everyone was betting that it’d be Lohen but fate had said otherwise. Well, as long as they’re happy together, everyone thought, even if they have to begrudgingly give out a hefty amount of Mora to the anomalous winner, Albedo, who was the only one betting on Varka. It’s about perspective and emotional maturity, Albedo calmly said but everyone knew he’s just gloating over his win.)
(Your review paper, against all odds, was perceived positively by Professor Báizhú. Interesting topic, he remarked, albeit it is a very common one, the sources you use are up to date and despite a few circumlocution on some parts, you give compelling arguments and concise conclusion. B+)
.
.
.
A doting boyfriend and a passing grade. Good friends and a home. All’s well that ends well, don’t you think so?
