Work Text:
Windows were a waste of wall space in a library. The long bookshelf running parallel to the wall of tall, glass panels blocked the light for the rest of the room. The only reading to be done by natural light in this building was about agriculture, animal husbandry and business accounting. The next row of bookshelves contained books on history and art. Just enough sunlight crept between the books to illuminate those shelves. Classical novels and plays filled the next row of shelves, lit only by the fluorescent lights above. There were ten rows of bookshelves total, each approximately forty strides long and tall enough that Henry had to stand on the tips of his toes to rest his hand on top. The few inches separating the shelves from the ceiling did little to improve the room’s lighting situation. The only real chairs were in the children’s section. One bookshelf as tall as Henry’s hip, full of torn picture books, accompanied by a couch with a distinct smell. No parent brought their child there twice.
Henry noticed the room’s poor design every time he came, which was often. It was a small library and by now he had read most of the books there that he’d want to, but he liked being the kind of person that regularly visited the local library. There was a larger, brightly lit library in the city, of course. It was only an extra half an hour in the car. The city library was six stories tall, full of books old and new, with research facilities and eager staff. But they liked to host events to encourage visitors and new readers. Loud ones that involved excited children and book discussion. Henry approved of such measures in theory, but avoided them in practice. Libraries were for the silent. Besides, the local library was so much more intimate. Reading was an experience that involved more than just looking at words and deciphering their meaning. Hidden among the walls of books, Henry felt like the Minotaur stalking the halls of his labyrinth.
At that moment, Henry was intimately positioned between the far wall and the tenth bookshelf, perusing through the still-to-be-reshelved books that had only recently been returned. It was interesting to see what was popular among the town residents and gave Henry an idea of what he should be thinking of for his next novel. With his back resting against the wall, Henry could leave just enough room between him and the shelf that another person could maybe hope to politely squeeze past him with only a quiet interruption and promptly fail as they realised too late that there was no way for two adults to fit in the gap at the same time.
A few steps to Henry’s right was the “new arrivals” shelf, which was almost entirely full of some secondhand textbooks and Henry’s own books. Whenever he put out a new book, he gifted a few copies to the library. He thought Mrs. Penstock, the librarian, enjoyed attaching a little handwritten sign saying “Local Author” to the shelf underneath them. Technically that was supposed to be a secret. But, without the small piece of sticky tape keeping the piece of notebook paper adorned in what Mrs. Penstock probably considered “calligraphy” written with a ballpoint pen attached to the plastic shelf, his books would never leave this room. He could see them there, dimly illuminated by the beams from the ceiling lights that filtered down through the dust, undisturbed and unappreciated, waiting in the still silence for-
“Excuse me?”
Henry’s head snapped up, some penny dreadful in hand, startled by the interruption. To his left, smiling politely, was an unfamiliar man. He looked at Henry for a moment, as if waiting for a response.
“... May I get past?”
His clear words, spoken from a safe distance, cut through the library’s silence and could surely be heard from every corner. Anywhere else his manners would have been impeccable, but Henry was sure he could imagine Mrs. Penstock looking up from her desk in alarm as the natural order of their ecosystem was disturbed. Henry stared at the interloper for several seconds, perplexed, until he realised he should probably respond in some way. He muttered something indistinct- the only proper communication in an institution such as this- and stepped aside to let the gentleman past.
“Thank you.”
Henry muttered something again and resumed his position against the wall. The man didn’t go far, stopping instead in front of the “new arrivals”. Henry watched him with distrust. He didn’t look like he belonged in a library, Henry decided- not a proper library, anyway. To start with, he was wearing leather boots which spoke of an outdoorsiness that Henry just couldn’t approve of in this day and age. The dress pants supported that impression less, but they fit too well and looked too new to suit anyone that would be described as “bookish”. The same for the man’s blazer, which was just embarrassingly sleek on anyone that existed in the real world, and his hair-
“Oh, God, they’ve got his new one here.”
Henry was once again jolted out of his observations by the man’s far-too-clear voice. For a moment he wondered who the man was talking to, feared it was him, and then realised he was apparently speaking to the room at large. Which meant Henry.
“... Well, it is the new additions section.” The stranger had ‘Parallel to My Village’ in his hand. By Robert Goodfellow. Henry had finished writing it last year and it had been released just three months ago. It was already the closest he had ever come to a best seller, due to the fact that it had sold. The stranger, however, had a rather annoyed look on his face.
“Yes, but they’ve put it right next to ‘Fables and Knaves’!” A collection of folkloric poetry that Henry had published five years ago and was still on the same shelf for lack of alternatives. The stranger seemed quite distraught. “As if they’re remotely similar!”
“Aren’t they?” Henry knew that they weren’t. “They’re by the same author.”
“Are they?” The man shot back, rolling his eyes. “I’m fairly certain the man was possessed by the spirit of a hack while writing it. Or perhaps his publisher put a keyboard in front of him and held a gun to his head.”
Actually, Megan had mostly just begged him not to send her anymore poetry or short stories written backwards or anything inspired by a sonnet. Perhaps that would have been her next plan if Henry hadn’t finally given into her pleas when he did.
“I heard it’s doing quite well,” Henry said instead, trying to look disinterested. “People are saying it’s rather engaging.”
“It’s an airport novel.” The man gesticulated while he spoke. “I’m not surprised people like it, it’s the exact same thing they’ve been eating up for years now.”
The man tossed his hair while he spoke as well, Henry noticed, suddenly irritated by that. It was the kind of long, tousled hair people had in shampoo commercials and a rich shade of brown that Henry was sure he’d only seen on television before. That was what made Henry bristle, not the man’s words, those were nothing Henry hadn’t thought himself while hunched over the keyboard writing the damn book. Men who existed in the real world and visited small, dusty libraries shouldn’t have hair like that.
“If it was the same as every other thriller novel on the market, why would people be buying it? It’s perfectly well written!” Henry had given up pretending to be disinterested, now turned to glare directly at the apparent literature expert. “And a bloody good mystery, I thought. The twist at the end-”
“-came out of nowhere,” the man cut Henry off. “It would have been better if the girl had been the killer, even if we would have seen it coming. Or even the detective, if he wanted a classic twist. The neighbour as the culprit was just for shock value. This isn’t HBO!”
“The neighbour boy was clearly foreshadowed by the reflection in the mirror being tilted-”
“That’s not foreshadowing, that’s just set dressing!”
“Setting is a vital component to-”
“Ahem!” Mrs. Penstock’s throat being cleared echoed throughout the library. Henry abruptly realised that he’d been shouting and his mouth snapped shut. The stranger also froze, looking over Henry’s shoulder like he was waiting for the school principal to come at them with a ruler. After a long moment of silence, he grinned at Henry like they were co-conspirators making mischief where they ought not. Since they had just been arguing, Henry considered this another rudeness.
“David Clark,” he held out his hand, the one not holding Henry’s book, still grinning deviously. “I get rather worked up about my favourite writers.”
“... Henry Jones.” The polite thing to do was to shake David’s hand, despite their quarrel, so Henry did. His hand was slightly bigger than Henry’s, or maybe it was just that his fingers were longer, and soft to the touch. He held Henry’s hand for longer than usual too. But Henry was still too caught up on the word ‘favourite’ to dwell on that for as long as he would typically. “You seem rather critical of him, if he’s your ‘favourite’.”
David sighed, shoulders slumping like he had just suffered some serious heartbreak. “I just don’t see how a man goes from such poetry to… that. It’s an attack on his readership, I swear.”
“Most people like something easier to understand.” That was what Megan had repeatedly told Henry as he’d been writing, anyway.
“Most people are idiots,” David scoffed. “Literature should engage your mind! There are more tools in language than simply spelling everything out.”
Henry found himself standing a little straighter, thinking he should remember that line the next time he argued with Megan.
“So you… Like his other work more?” Henry was trying to be subtle. David only glanced up at him before flicking through the novel with a critical expression.
“I do. A poet like that is wasted trying to appeal to the masses.”
Yes, Henry was definitely standing straighter now. He started to examine David in a new light, thinking that the elegantly styled hair and neatly tailored clothes really showed an attention and care to detail that would only be evident in a truly thoughtful man. Someone who took their time each morning, treating themselves like an art installation. Someone with an artist’s soul. Not someone superficial or vapid at all.
“... Well, at least someone thinks so.” Henry just wished poetry paid his rent. He really needed a rich patron. It was simply tragic that he hadn’t been born in the 17th century and managed to catch the eye of the Queen or something like that. “I didn’t know- he had many fans.”
“Mm,” David hummed while he reshelved the book and watched Henry with a curious expression. “I suppose he didn’t do himself many favours with the pen name. It can’t make the critics any gentler.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, comparing yourself to Shakespeare is setting the bar rather high, isn’t it?”
Henry opened his mouth to respond but was unfortunately struck silent. He snapped it shut and tried again, but his answer was rather feeble.
“It’s not… justabout Shakespeare.” It wasn’t as if the bard had invented Puck on his own. Folklore belonged to the people. The play in question might have been his most popular depiction, but Henry found enough people missed the reference anyway. He had thought it had been safe. Clearly he’d been wrong.
“Well, we’d have to ask him.” David was smiling again, running his finger over the handcrafted sign. “I had no idea he lived around here. He’s so secretive, I’m surprised anyone does. Have you met him?”
“Um, no, not really. I don’t think so.” Was it possible to meet yourself? He’d certainly never been introduced. “Secretive fellow, like you said.”
“The librarian must know him,” David insisted, looking over Henry’s shoulder again like she might suddenly appear there. “I should ask her.”
“What?” Henry trusted Mrs. Penstock, but the thought of David asking her about Robert Goodfellow while Henry stood within ten feet of them was suddenly the worst thing he could imagine. “No, no, don’t bother with that!”
“It’s no trouble,” David tried to step around Henry, only to be foiled by the cramped nature of the library. His labyrinth saved the day once again. “I need to speak with her about getting a library card anyway.”
“You really don’t!” Henry kept blocking the exit. “You don’t even like my book.”
“I like the other-” David stopped mid-sentence and stared at Henry. “... I came here to get a card.”
“The city library is bigger,” Henry said in a rush, feeling like a traitor. “You don’t want to bother with-”
David ducked to the side to get past Henry, pushing him into the bookcase. Henry grabbed onto the shelf to steady himself and was mildly surprised when he kept falling- along with the books, the metal shelves and a cloud of dust.
“Henry!” David grabbed Henry's arm as he went down, resulting in them both landing in an awkward crouch, holding onto each other, watching the shelves topple like dominos. There was only room for each shelf to tilt at a thirty degree angle at the most, but the sound of books cascading from their places to the cheap carpet filled the room for a while. David and Henry were frozen in place. That was where Mrs. Penstock found them. This time there was no polite throat-clearing, just shouting and scolding while David and Henry stood there meekly like schoolboys. After twenty minutes of that and some fervent promises to tidy everything up, she left them to have a lay down. And possibly a glass of wine. The men were left to start putting the shelves upright again and they began to quietly put everything back in order. Henry wanted to bury himself in the silence and dust and never face the light of day again.
Then David sneezed.
“Bless you.”
“Thank you.”
“… How's travel?” Agriculture through business accounting was being reshelved in a slapdash manner, Henry had to admit. He couldn't bring himself to care.
“Done. I could only find the three. Working on design now.” David's eyes appeared in a gap between books, too bright for the day they were having. “There's really not much of a selection here. You mentioned another library?”
“Yes, in the city.” Henry tried to hide himself in the cooking section. It was probably the most substantial nonfiction section the building had. “Much nicer. Sturdier shelves.”
“Hmm,” David's eyes vanished, but his voice still carried around the shelves. “I don't think I know it.”
“I could show you,” Henry said absentmindedly, trying to read the faded label on a book spine.
Silence resumed. It made Henry unusually nervous. After a moment, David pushed aside some anthologies to stare at Henry through the shelves.
“Henry, are you asking me out?”
“What?” Henry jumped back, hitting the window. “I was- of course not!” The thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “Who asks someone out on a date to the library?”
That was, of course, not the point. But it was the first one to pop into his mind. David grinned in a nerve-inducing manner, undeterred.
“I don’t know. An author, perhaps?” Henry froze, suddenly speechless. David waited for a response, but continued when it was clear one wasn’t coming. “Perhaps we could make a day of it. Get lunch together?”
“... Are you asking me out now?” It was a weak reply, but it was the best one Henry could think of in the moment. Usually he had a thousand words caught up in the back of his mind at any given time, but right now all he was getting was radio static.
“Would it make you happy if I was?” David straightened up and strolled around the shelves, moving to lean against the windowpane with Henry, shoulder to shoulder. “We can discuss your book.”
Well. That cat was out of the bag. Henry had never been propositioned by a fan before and he’d never expected to. He wasn’t quite sure what the standard method of dealing with it was.
“... I suppose I wouldn’t mind.”
That probably wasn’t the standard method. But it made David smile and suddenly there weren't any other words to be found.