(no subject)
SPAM WILL STOP NOW, I PROMISE.
Pagina Uno
Prompt: Arthur is a librarian, Eames is the patron with the highest fines in the library's history.
~6k
WARNINGS: THERE ARE SEVERAL. First off, I have read about 8-12 books in my entire life. Secondly, I haven't stepped foot in a library in about...a decade. I have no idea what a librarian actually does. This will probably bother some of you and I'm sorry D: Thanks to jibrailis for answering some questions of mine, such as "WHAT IS BOOK" and generally trying straighten my herpy-derp ways.
Arthur likes libraries.
Some people who don’t know him in the slightest say this is clichéd and predictable. These are people who depend on dumb assumptions when constructing a personality for someone -- they see Arthur and his penchant for dressing nicely, Arthur who likes libraries, and assume they know everything about him. He mostly keeps to himself, so he must be into books. Sometimes he doesn’t talk much, which translates to him being an introvert whose personal motto is ‘if you don’t have anything nice to say...’, etc. He doesn’t give away laughs, so he’s serious and must really be into books.
Arthur likes libraries; this much is true. He also likes shooting ranges and driving manual-shift cars. One of his many goals is to visit every taco truck in the tri-county area. When he’s trying to help a patron who’s being difficult, he wants to punch them while insulting their mom. After work, he exercises the best he can, sometimes taking a run around the neighborhood or joining Yusuf at the gym. He hates a lot of books. His life isn’t brimming with joy all the time, but it’s not some pitiful sketch that others have come to expect, either.
Arthur likes libraries. He lives, quietly.
*
It’s a Monday when it all starts. Arthur knows because his coffee is already gone and it’s not even ten in the morning. This only happens on Mondays.
“Hello,” he greets the girl hovering between the public search computer and the information desk. “Can I help you with anything?”
She slides over to him. “Yeah, I’m looking for The Corrections? It says it’s checked out and I was wondering how long it would be until it’s back.”
“I’m sorry about that, let me just take a look,” Arthur says, trying not to sound rehearsed. He utters this phrase so many times a day that sometimes he wants to record it and play it as a soundbite whenever needed.
He pulls up the database and types in the book title. Only one copy available, paperback, checked out by E. Ames, overdue for --
Arthur can’t help the, “Jesus,” that slips out.
“What?” the girl asks.
“It’s -- well, we do carry it, but it’s very overdue,” Arthur hedges.
She makes a face. “Is there anything you can do?”
Arthur smiles wanly. “We’ll send a reminder postcard soon.”
As soon as she leaves, he prints out the generic postcard about a book being overdue, then figures that this E. Ames must have gotten tons of them already. He changes his mind and just handwrites a note instead.
To E. Ames -
I am a librarian at Newtown Public. It seems you owe a fine of over $50 for The Corrections. The fine is secondary to the fact that there’s been an empty spot in our ‘Fiction’ section for almost half a year now. Since our automated postcards apparently aren’t spurring the book’s return, I am writing you personally. Please return the book as soon as possible. It would be greatly appreciated.
- A.
Yusuf is around, popping in and out of the back office, so Arthur grabs a cart and takes the elevator up to the third floor to walk around for a bit. The bulk of it is nonfiction, history, and travel; it’s always less crowded than the other two floors, with the scent of worn spines and sunlight coming through the windows, highlighting tiny specks of dust. When Arthur exits the elevator, the sandy-haired guy that Arthur’s been pretending not to eye for months passes by, hefting several large books in his arms. He gives Arthur a small smile, as per their ritual, and Arthur smiles back with closed lips, also keeping to the ritual.
One of the many perks of his job is people-watching, or seeing who comes up to the counter and asks for what. A bubbly girl checking out the entirety of Murakami books, the teenage boy looking for Agatha Christie recommendations, a man in a biker jacket wanting Sylvia Plath. Sandy-haired guy has been reading various books on Turkish history for months now.
Returning books to their shelves is a mindless process, and that’s the excuse that Arthur uses to justify the way his thoughts tend to wander toward imaginary conversations with sandy-haired guy. Maybe Arthur would pass by with his cart and peer at him until he looked up and said something. Or maybe he would get up and ask what kind of books Arthur was re-shelving.
In reality, Arthur just shelves books and sandy-haired guy just keeps reading. It’s easier that way.
*
The first thing Arthur does when he gets in on Wednesday morning is check the system to see if this asshole E. Ames has returned the book. To his surprise and slight disappointment, The Corrections is now shown to be on the checkshelf. He’s surprised because, really? All it took was a handwritten letter? The disappointment is just because he has no grounds to blindly hate this person anymore.
He rolls out two carts of books and starts in the fiction section, putting them back almost by memory. Before long, he’s settled into the rhythm, gauging his pace by the crinkle of plastic sleeves, the thunk-hiss of books sliding back into place. Most of them are hardbacks, so when his hand grips around a paperback, he instinctively glances at it. It’s The Corrections. Just then, a piece of paper flutters out from behind the front cover and lands on the floor, half-leaning up against his shoe.
Arthur automatically picks it up. Three of the edges are straight but the last one is torn at an angle; there’s writing that follows along the line of the ripped edge.
Dear Librarian A. --
Many apologies. I could say that it slipped my mind to return said book, but I’d be lying. In all honesty, I was simply too lazy to find it. It seems I needed a kick, which you’ve given me. Hope the book finds its way home once again -- it’s been safe and sound and only vaguely stained with coffee.
- Eames
Arthur quickly closes the book and shoves the note into his pocket, as if he can erase its existence if he just moves fast enough. Who the hell puts notes in a book? He flashes back to middle school, when he would watch girls write notes and furtively tape them to the underside of their desk for friends to find during the next class period. He doubts that this E. Ames is a middle school girl, though.
When Arthur finishes, there’s about twenty minutes left before a fourth grade class is due to come in for a research field trip. He stands around the information desk, twiddling his lanyard as Yusuf sits at his computer, clicking madly with the mouse.
“What’s the biggest fine you’ve ever seen someone rack up?” Arthur asks abruptly.
“Biggest fine? There’s actually someone who’s got several horses in that race right now,” Yusuf says.
“What?”
Yusuf looks at him over the monitor. “Really? I know you’re usually holed away while doing your job or whatever it is that you do, but really?”
Arthur puts his hands in his pockets and waits as Yusuf looks back down and types something into the computer.
“Here,” he says, shifting the screen a bit as Arthur comes around. “E. Ames. They’ve been checking out books without returning any for months.”
With this reveal, the blind hate comes rushing back in one convenient wave. “How have they not had a restriction placed on their account?” Arthur bites out.
“Well, they have, now. But by that time it was too late.” Yusuf points to the bottom of the page and reads, with flourish, “Forty-two books.”
“Forty-two books?” Arthur’s voice actually inflects the question as such -- above and beyond, actually -- which almost never happens. “Forty-two books, all overdue?”
“Yes, almost all of them. It’s actually pretty impressive.” Yusuf pulls up his Solitaire window again and starts clicking around. His method of playing seems to involve making the least strategic moves possible.
Arthur is still reeling from the number when a crowd of kids bursts through the door, yelling and shaking their backpacks and being followed by chaperones with pinched expressions. He puts his hands into his pockets, then decides against that action when he accidentally touches the crumbled note.
“Hi, everyone,” he calls. At least he’ll have a distraction for a while.
*
Three hours later, the kids have departed in a whirlwind, leaving Arthur with disheveled hair, several crayon streaks running down his shirt, and a paranoid mindset. Half a pot of coffee has only served to make him jittery. He’s been jogging his leg up and down while staring at the computer screen for about ten minutes.
As it turns out, E. Ames’s account information at Newtown is pretty much a joke -- born in 1899, living at Privet Drive, phone number starting with a 555 -- but Arthur had cross-referenced the name with other libraries and an E. Ames had come up at the Redford branch. The information looks legitimate this time, with a street address that sounds vaguely familiar and a phone number that Arthur finally punches into the dial-pad.
After four rings, someone on the other end picks up and grunts.
“Hello, may I speak to Mr. or Mrs. Ames?” Arthur asks brusquely.
“Yes?” A man’s voice, with a soft accent. “Who is this?”
“Mr. Ames,” Arthur begins, but is interrupted almost as soon as he speaks.
“It’s Eames.”
“But it says E. Ames on your account -- I’m Arthur, a librarian at Newtown -- ”
“Ah,” Eames says after clearing his throat. He sounds like he just woke up. “Alright. Hello, Arthur. One of the librarians said I couldn’t leave a blank space for my first name and I was cowed by such authority, embarrassingly enough.”
Arthur rubs his eye. “Why couldn’t you just write your first name.”
“America has an enormous problem with identity theft,” Eames says breezily. “I couldn’t take the risk. Listen, have you read this book? The Sound and The Fury? Faulkner seems like one solemn bastard.”
Eames’s manner of speaking reeks of annoying charm, of someone who’s spent their entire life not encountering any difficulty with winning people over or bending things to their will. He could probably drop in by parachute on any conversation in the world and manage to insinuate himself within thirty seconds. Meanwhile, Arthur has discovered yet another crayon scrawl, this time on his pants, and half of his handouts had ended up as crappy origami strewn all over the floor.
“Mr. Eames. I’m not your English teacher. I’m not a sounding board for your pedestrian thoughts and I’m not here to pat you on the back for having a first grader’s analysis on Faulkner’s style. I’m calling because you apparently have over forty overdue books on your account here,” Arthur bites out.
There’s a pause.
“Quite an impressive eyebrow and mustache combination, though,” says Eames, as if he’s having an entirely different conversation. “Faulkner, I mean.”
Now it’s Arthur’s turn to offer only silence.
“Also, you’re a bit abrasive to be working in customer service,” Eames adds, though nothing about it sounds angry or confrontational. In fact, it’s easy to imagine the words being pushed out through a smile.
“You’re right, I apologize,” Arthur says stiffly. “I was out of line. Please know that my actions in no part reflect those of the library or other employees -- ”
Eames interrupts. “Oh, not the robotic spiel. You rang me at home, I thought we knew each other better than that by now.”
“Do you make a habit of trying to befriend debt collectors?” Arthur asks dryly.
Eames laughs. “That’s a bit overdramatic and self-important. But listen, about the books: I’m a horrible person, I’m taking away from the well-read potential of the city’s population. I really should start thinking of the children,” he says. “Good lord, yes, the children. Won’t someone think of them.”
“It would be more effective if you toned it down a notch or two,” Arthur says. “I assume you’re not considering this a very pressing matter.”
“Well, there are four other libraries in the county. Newtown is the smallest branch,” says Eames. “No matter, ignore me. Of course I’m being a complete ass. Please accept my apology. Arthur,” he adds with a slightly exaggerated drag on the vowels.
Arthur says, “Your accent doesn’t excuse you.”
“Indeed it doesn’t, but it does make my excuses easier to swallow,” Eames points out astutely. “So, your books. It’ll take me a bit to sort out where they’ve all gone. Not to worry, though, I fully intend on paying any and all fines. Thank you for your call.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Arthur says a bit lamely.
“Have a good day, now,” Eames prompts.
Arthur had started this conversation in the driver’s seat. He wonders how and when Eames managed to take over the wheel. “Yes, you too,” he says.
They hang up. Arthur clutches the phone and stares at it. It’s an innocuous piece of plastic, but he feels like hitting it against the desk. At the same time, the note is practically burning a hole through his pocket and he kind of feels like his ear has been molested by Eames’s voice.
Before he leaves, he swings his messenger bag over his head and throws out the note.
*
The book truck is about halfway full, and sitting right in the middle is a whole bundle, tied up with what looks like butcher’s string. A note is tucked behind the front cover of the topmost book.
Dear Librarian Arthur --
I’m asking forgiveness once again. This bundle is for the children (WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THEM, GOOD GOD).
- Eames
Postscript: have you read The Westing Game? Brilliant book.
Arthur reminds himself over and over that calling a patron a gigantic rat bastard is out of line. As he rifles through the stack, he finds that it contains The Westing Game, Danny: The Champion of The World, The Phantom Tollbooth, and The Ear, The Eye, and The Arm, among others. Maybe Eames has a kid or something. Working in a library has its deeply personal moments, when bits and pieces of lives are revealed in passing, and Arthur finds himself wondering about Eames.
Objectively, he has no real reason to be angry. Annoyed, sure, if only because the sheer audacity, but no one is on the waitlist for those books and the fines that Eames is racking up could go toward paying Yusuf to do more reading sessions of children’s fiction, or maybe even asking some guest speakers to come in. Newtown’s always been off the radar, scraping by on whatever they can get. From that viewpoint, Eames is a potential goldmine.
Nobody’s waiting to check out The Westing Game, so Arthur ends up taking it home with him that night and shakily reads the whole thing while jogging on his treadmill.
*
A few days later, Arthur scratches out another postcard:
Someone signed up for the waitlist to check out The Secret, god knows why. Please return it. Also, this is the last time I’m acting as your personal reminder system. You have 32 books left in your possession and a couple hundred dollars in fines. Maybe you should start digging underneath the couch cushions.
- Arthur
Once again, there’s a prompt reply:
Dear Librarian Arthur --
It’s not that bad, for a self-help book. I found my self being helped many times over. Also, is that some personality leaking through? I think I like it.
- Eames
*
Arthur heads up to the third floor, rolling the cart out of the elevator and seeing sandy-haired guy immediately. They smile at each other before Arthur turns into the fourth aisle and starts putting books back.
He’s almost done with the top layer when something cuts into his periphery. It takes a moment to recognize the New Age-y cover of The Secret, and another to take in the smooth-nailed thumb that’s gripping the bottom of the book. The thumb is attached to a hand, which is attached to a solid forearm; when Arthur looks all the way up, sandy-haired guy is looking back at him.
“What,” Arthur say dumbly, not quite getting it.
“Considering the gross amount of fines I have to my name, it’s probably time I finally introduced myself,” sandy-haired guy says with a very familiar voice, one that practically licks its way into Arthur’s ear canals, leaving a slight blush in its wake.
Arthur’s heart leaps into his throat, then hovers there uncertainly while he processes all the pieces. Once he finally puts it together, it stomps back down to his chest and grumpily resumes beating.
“Mr. Eames,” Arthur finally states, turning so that he’s wholly facing him.
Eames grins, showing crooked white teeth and laugh lines on his cheeks. “It couldn’t have been anyone else, could it?”
He’s right. It really couldn’t have.
*
Eames-as-a-person is very disconcerting. It’s as if he’s materialized, fully-formed, from the phone call and the letters. There’s still a disconnect between this guy with the massive fines, the one who is essentially obnoxiousness wearing a human suit, and the quiet patron who always sits on the third floor, flipping through pages with a toothpick sticking out of his mouth and only looking up when Arthur walks by with his cart.
Now that all those characteristics have forged into one Mr. Eames, Arthur would like to think that it’s not quite as enthralling to see him sitting at the usual spot, slowly tracking words with his eyes at a steady pace. The way he absently shifts his toothpick around with his lips is not attractive anymore, it’s unsanitary and douchey. His threadbare t-shirts are just an embarrassment, nothing else. Forty books.
Honestly, Arthur is kind of pissed at Eames for ruining the sandy-haired guy. Sandy-haired guy had been on a pedestal; Eames had stumbled in, holding his forty goddamn books, and knocked the pedestal over with a spectacular crash.
Arthur realizes that his nose is tensing up because he’s glaring so hard. He starts putting books away, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk.
“Sorry to interrupt your therapy, but that’s a bit loud.”
Arthur just says, “Forty books.”
“I’ll pay the fines,” Eames says.
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point, then, Arthur?”
“The point is that you’re here every day, reading about Turkish history, and you can’t find time to return the books that you’ve checked out decades ago.”
“I intend to return each and every one of them, they’re just a bit...scattered at the moment,” Eames says thoughtfully. “I am very fond of books, but I am horrible at keeping track of their whereabouts. For example, I’m fairly sure that a family of raccoons has made off with a copy of The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat.”
“You’re aware that you’re breaking practically every cardinal rule of the library code. I shouldn’t even be talking to you based on that.”
“There’s a library code,” Eames repeats with a smile.
Arthur’s only response is to grab the cart and move to the next aisle over. Eames comes around the other side and leans against a shelf. “Are you a proper librarian, then?”
“I have a degree in Library Science, yes.”
“Really? I’d’ve thought you were in construction,” Eames says without missing a beat, then tilts his head, as if recognizing Arthur’s urge to both laugh and hit Eames in the face.
Arthur lets the silence grow until he starts feeling uncomfortable. “Why are you reading about the history of Turkey, anyway?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Considering your current book list, it’s kind of an outlier.” This isn’t true at all. Eames’s booklist has possibly the widest range Arthur has ever seen; the history of Turkey could easily be slotted in between World Politics: The Menu For Choice and The Historian.
“So you think you know me based on my literary tastes now,” Eames states.
“I don’t think I know anything,” Arthur says. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. “What’s your first name?”
“I have just the one. Like Madonna.”
“Like Lucifer,” Arthur says darkly.
“How about Oprah,” Eames suggests.
There’s another urge to laugh, but Arthur tamps it down and rolls the cart away again instead. This time Eames doesn’t follow.
Good Times, Bad Times shows up in the pile of books the next morning. Arthur picks it up, holding it by the open edge and softly letting pages flip past his thumb until he gets to the note.
Dear Librarian Arthur --
I found this one in the pantry.
- Eames
Arthur puts it on the cart.
*
Books start coming in more regularly in varying numbers, but always with the unfailing note. One day, it’s this:
Dear Librarian Arthur --
The Ender’s Game series: is it worth reading?
A couple days later:
Dear Librarian Arthur --
Would you recommend Pedro Paramo or Cien Años de Soledad?
Or something like this:
Dear Librarian Arthur --
I suppose you won’t be the least bit surprised, but I have a confession to make: I think I prefer children’s books over these classics.
Every Friday, Arthur gathers up all the paper scraps and sends off answers in the form of a postcard with a numbered list on the back. Then there’s the fact that he still sees Eames several times a week, where Eames will come up to Arthur as he’s re-shelving, then amble back to his usual table until Arthur squeaks by with his cart to pick up the conversation where they’d left off.
The letters get to the point where it seems like there’s a small forest in the form of printer paper, Post-Its, and fortunes from fortune cookies stashed in Arthur’s bottom desk drawer. Finally, one day he takes out a blank postcard and starts writing.
1. My first name is Arthur, not Librarian.
2. I don’t know if you’ve progressed past the Pony Express or telegraphs, but there are easier means of communication. Or are you a technophobic luddite in addition to being a book hoarder?
“Honestly, what’s with the epistolary romance?” Yusuf asks, right into Arthur’s ear.
Arthur snaps upright, his pen trailing off in the middle of writing his e-mail address. He flits a glance at Yusuf and says, “It’s not an epistolary romance. It’s not an epistolary or romantic anything.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence like that,” Yusuf tells him. “But sure, I’ll let you wade around in denial for a bit longer. I hear it’s nice this time of year.”
And he actually keeps his word. That is, until the end of the week, when he sidles up to Arthur’s desk with a funny look and says, “By the way, you got a letter.”
The funny look turns out to be the muted version of a shit-eating grin. Yusuf hands Arthur the postcard and disappears into the office.
Dear Arthur --
It’s admirable that you put so much effort into veiling the fact that you essentially begged me to call you by your first name and e-mail. No worries, I got the message.
The first message from co0kinturkeyx@yahoo.com gets routed to Arthur’s junk mail on Outlook. He marks it ‘not junk’, but decides against adding him to his contact list. Because that’s the boundary now, apparently.
*
Arthur has just finished giving a tutorial on Google Scholar -- and the entire internet, for that matter -- to a group of blank-faced high schoolers when Yusuf catches up with him in the breakroom.
“Hey. Gym tonight? It’s been a while,” Yusuf asks. “I’m taking a spinning class, but there’s an open gym if you’d like.”
Yusuf had been taking a pilates class the previous month. Before that had been Bikram yoga and jazz dancing. His propensity for trying different things is admirable.
Arthur agrees to come with, as long as he doesn’t have to see Yusuf’s weird roommates, and they get to the gym around sundown. There are people milling around on the machines, but it’s nowhere near crowded.
When Arthur first spots Eames, he thinks he’s hallucinating, even though it’s perfectly logical that someone who lives in the area would also attend this particular gym. Even so, as stupid as it sounds, Arthur is thrown off-balance by seeing Eames outside of the library, lit by harsh fluorescent bulbs instead of the sun through the library’s windows. This Eames is breathing quick but steadily, tiny beads of sweat forming on his hairline and upper lip. His mouth is slack in concentration, something more fixated and intense than the soft focus he directs toward books.
Arthur watches for so long that he realizes Eames is walking towards him only when it’s too late. The echoing look of surprise on his face makes Arthur look at Yusuf, who suddenly finds interest in the ceiling.
“This was you?” Arthur asks.
“Gotta go, my spinning class is starting,” Yusuf says while walking backward. He disappears into one of the small rooms lining the west wall, where there will definitely be witnesses if Arthur follows him in and attempts to strangle him.
Meanwhile, Eames is still standing there. “Hello,” Arthur says, for lack of a better greeting, but Eames treats it like Arthur is knighting him or something.
“Yusuf is a prince among men, it seems.” Eames grins. “I assume he doesn’t partake in this library code you mentioned.”
“He’s a second year science grad student. Works over the summers,” Arthur explains. He fiddles with the kangaroo pockets of his hoodie, then gives Eames a onceover, taking in the tape wrapped around his hands and feet.
“Pugilism,” Arthur says with faint disdain.
Eames puffs his chest out. “A man’s sport.” He nods at Arthur and says, “Capoeira. Or taekwondo, I can’t tell. Something with a lot of kicking and legwork.”
It’s the former. He hasn’t done it in years but he still has the lean cuts of muscle on his thighs, still has the extension when he works out in his apartment. Eames has apparently taken Arthur’s silence as an affirmative, seeing as how he’s walking over to the wall and picking out some padded gloves. He hadn’t even asked Arthur to partner up, but Arthur follows him to the mats anyway.
Eames slips the gloves onto his hands and holds them up near his head. “Too high?”
Arthur responds by axe-kicking and hitting the glove on the way down, with his ankle instead of the top of his foot. There’s a resounding slap. Eames raises his eyebrows.
Time passes quickly from then on. Arthur thinks he hears Yusuf yell goodbye somewhere along the way, but he’s too busy avoiding getting his face crushed by the bottom of Eames’s foot, so he’s not really sure. They end up staying until half the lights flick off in a courteous way of letting everyone know it’s almost closing time. By that point, both of their shirts are soaked through with sweat. They’re a good match, fighting-wise -- Eames is considerably bulkier but Arthur is faster. He feels rabbit-quick, adrenaline hopping him up onto his toes more often than not, Eames’s challenging smile sparking a reluctant one onto Arthur’s own face.
The next morning, Arthur wakes up feeling like someone’s taken a battering ram to his legs and back all night. Even his feet feel cramped. He brushes his teeth and rhythmically splays out his toes against the cold tiles, wincing every time he does so.
When he gets to work, Yusuf, looking fresh-faced and awake, asks, “Why are you walking like a drugged horse?”
“I have bruises all over my knees,” Arthur sighs.
“What have you been doing,” Yusuf asks suggestively, then adds, “Wait, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant, have you been giving a lot of blowjobs lately?”
“I’m never going anywhere with you or doing anything for you again,” Arthur tells him, but ten minutes later he gets him coffee anyway.
When he looks through the book truck, there are eight books in the bundle. The note is just a squiggle, then: Can’t write, arm hurts.
Arthur waits until the end of the day before putting the books back onto their shelves, one by one.
*
“Twilight,” Eames announces grandly.
Arthur tucks his phone between his cheek and his shoulder. He glances at the wall clock and says, “It’s ten past noon.”
“Eclipse,” Eames continues.
“Are we playing a word association game?”
“By Stephanie Meyer,” Eames says.
“Alright,” Arthur says, putting his pen down, “I know there’s a waitlist for this one.”
“It’s not even overdue, I’ve got until tomorrow.”
“Are you serious.”
“God, this is horrible. It’s amazing. Listen to this.” Eames starts reading out loud, running the dialogue together and generally being a terrible narrator. Arthur hears snatches about declarations of love and something involving sweet blood and marble slab chests.
“Wait,” Arthur interrupts, “chest as in a trunk or storage unit, or chest as in body part?”
“That was three paragraphs ago, Arthur, please try to pay attention.”
“Okay, okay,” Arthur grumps.
And then he realizes that he’s listening raptly to Eames reading him Twilight over the phone at work. There’s a book in one hand, his other hand hovering over the keyboard, but he’s long since forgotten what he was supposed to do with either of these things.
“I find that I’m sufficiently cheered up,” Eames announces, snapping Arthur out of his thoughts. “I’ll be returning the book tomorrow, you won’t have to worry about bloodthirsty Twilight fans mauling you.”
“Right, I appreciate that,” Arthur says absently. “Goodbye.”
True to Eames’s word, the book is returned the next day. And, that’s that, actually -- Arthur pulls up Eames’s account and sees only empty space where there had once been a list of forty books.
It’s a bit anticlimactic.
On a whim, Arthur walks up the stairs to the third floor and sees only a group of high school students working on a project and one older man flipping through a magazine about Tahiti. The whole thing just feels strange, knowing that he no longer has any justifiable reason to keep up this kind of communication with Eames.
Nothing has changed, really, but then again, everything has changed.
He wishes sandy-haired guy had remained sandy-haired guy, and E. Ames had remained E. Ames -- he wishes that Eames wasn’t someone who charmed, infuriated, irritated, and amused him, all at once. He wishes that Eames wasn’t someone he keeps thinking about so much.
*
When Arthur gets back downstairs, Yusuf is getting prepared for his reading session. He raises his eyebrows and asks, “Something wrong?”
“Nope.” Arthur shakes his head.
Yusuf doesn’t speak for a moment. “I feel like I should have been cataloguing this as a chronological timeline,” he comments as he removes his jacket and drapes it over his chair.
Arthur rubs the back of his neck. “Don’t.”
“It’s just massively frustrating to watch, I’ll have you know,” Yusuf says, and he sounds very serious even as he’s pulling the brand-new sock puppets onto his hands, a product of Eames’s fines.
“Doesn’t make it any less daunting,” Arthur says. He picks up the stack of thick, cardboard-paged books and leads the way into the children’s section, where there’s already a crowd of moms and kids waiting.
*
After Yusuf’s massively successful story time, Arthur, against his better judgement, sends an e-mail:
Learned enough about Turkish history yet?
The reply comes about an hour later, as Arthur is getting ready to leave.
Just enough, actually.
It’s the most vague answer that Arthur has ever gotten. He stands there for a while, then logs off the computer and heads home.
*
Now that Eames has squared away his fines and everything, Arthur is prepared to see him sporadically, if at all. Which is why it’s a surprise to see him the very next day, hanging around the information desk and browsing through pamphlets as if he’s genuinely interested in MLA format.
“You’re officially free from the shackles of debt, you know,” Arthur says. Eames turns around immediately and it hits Arthur all over again, how Eames is -- Eames.
“Hello,” Eames says.
“Hi,” says Arthur.
Eames taps out some arrhythmic pattern onto the countertop before abruptly shoving his hands into his pockets. “Alright, I’m just going to say it out loud. Essentially I’ve been courting you for the past few months.”
“Okay,” Arthur says after a pause.
“If I asked you out on properly, what would you say?” Eames shakes his head. “Or it doesn’t even have to be that. We can say that I just want to make sure you’re a corporeal human being, not a ghost who’s tied to the library and disappears once we step outside.”
Arthur’s fingers feel slippery against the book he’s holding. “You saw me at the gym,” he says.
“True. But trying to headbutt someone hardly counts.” Eames smiles lopsidedly. “What would you consider to be a good first date activity?”
“Naked skydiving,” Arthur says, deadpan as usual, and he expects Eames to one-up him, also as usual.
But instead Eames just leans against the counter and looks at him, not serious, not teasing, not anything. Just looking.
Arthur stares at him steadily as well, even though his heart is pounding in a way that reminds him that he should be nervous. This seems all wrong: Eames standing in the atrium with his threadbare shirt, looking at Arthur like that. Still -- it’s happening.
“I did some digging,” Arthur finally says, and his voice is steady.
“Did you,” Eames says.
“The Redford branch is much closer to you. Your card there is still active. Coming here actually must be really inconvenient.”
Eames shrugs. “It’s cozy here. And I really am interested in Turkish history, and this branch has the most extensive choices.”
Arthur hums.
“Or maybe I was setting extensive groundwork for wooing a particular librarian. I think I just ended up making things much more complicated than needed.”
Arthur hums again, but he’s smiling this time.
“Since apparently you’ve been swooning over me, looking me up on the system and all,” Eames presses. “Having vapors amongst dusty old history books. It’s a fetish, isn’t it?”
“You can’t pull that off anymore,” Arthur tells him. “I see right through you now.”
Eames relents, leaning in a little and smiling when Arthur reciprocates. “To be honest, Arthur, I’m surprised it took you this long.”
Pagina Uno
Prompt: Arthur is a librarian, Eames is the patron with the highest fines in the library's history.
~6k
WARNINGS: THERE ARE SEVERAL. First off, I have read about 8-12 books in my entire life. Secondly, I haven't stepped foot in a library in about...a decade. I have no idea what a librarian actually does. This will probably bother some of you and I'm sorry D: Thanks to jibrailis for answering some questions of mine, such as "WHAT IS BOOK" and generally trying straighten my herpy-derp ways.
Arthur likes libraries.
Some people who don’t know him in the slightest say this is clichéd and predictable. These are people who depend on dumb assumptions when constructing a personality for someone -- they see Arthur and his penchant for dressing nicely, Arthur who likes libraries, and assume they know everything about him. He mostly keeps to himself, so he must be into books. Sometimes he doesn’t talk much, which translates to him being an introvert whose personal motto is ‘if you don’t have anything nice to say...’, etc. He doesn’t give away laughs, so he’s serious and must really be into books.
Arthur likes libraries; this much is true. He also likes shooting ranges and driving manual-shift cars. One of his many goals is to visit every taco truck in the tri-county area. When he’s trying to help a patron who’s being difficult, he wants to punch them while insulting their mom. After work, he exercises the best he can, sometimes taking a run around the neighborhood or joining Yusuf at the gym. He hates a lot of books. His life isn’t brimming with joy all the time, but it’s not some pitiful sketch that others have come to expect, either.
Arthur likes libraries. He lives, quietly.
*
It’s a Monday when it all starts. Arthur knows because his coffee is already gone and it’s not even ten in the morning. This only happens on Mondays.
“Hello,” he greets the girl hovering between the public search computer and the information desk. “Can I help you with anything?”
She slides over to him. “Yeah, I’m looking for The Corrections? It says it’s checked out and I was wondering how long it would be until it’s back.”
“I’m sorry about that, let me just take a look,” Arthur says, trying not to sound rehearsed. He utters this phrase so many times a day that sometimes he wants to record it and play it as a soundbite whenever needed.
He pulls up the database and types in the book title. Only one copy available, paperback, checked out by E. Ames, overdue for --
Arthur can’t help the, “Jesus,” that slips out.
“What?” the girl asks.
“It’s -- well, we do carry it, but it’s very overdue,” Arthur hedges.
She makes a face. “Is there anything you can do?”
Arthur smiles wanly. “We’ll send a reminder postcard soon.”
As soon as she leaves, he prints out the generic postcard about a book being overdue, then figures that this E. Ames must have gotten tons of them already. He changes his mind and just handwrites a note instead.
To E. Ames -
I am a librarian at Newtown Public. It seems you owe a fine of over $50 for The Corrections. The fine is secondary to the fact that there’s been an empty spot in our ‘Fiction’ section for almost half a year now. Since our automated postcards apparently aren’t spurring the book’s return, I am writing you personally. Please return the book as soon as possible. It would be greatly appreciated.
- A.
Yusuf is around, popping in and out of the back office, so Arthur grabs a cart and takes the elevator up to the third floor to walk around for a bit. The bulk of it is nonfiction, history, and travel; it’s always less crowded than the other two floors, with the scent of worn spines and sunlight coming through the windows, highlighting tiny specks of dust. When Arthur exits the elevator, the sandy-haired guy that Arthur’s been pretending not to eye for months passes by, hefting several large books in his arms. He gives Arthur a small smile, as per their ritual, and Arthur smiles back with closed lips, also keeping to the ritual.
One of the many perks of his job is people-watching, or seeing who comes up to the counter and asks for what. A bubbly girl checking out the entirety of Murakami books, the teenage boy looking for Agatha Christie recommendations, a man in a biker jacket wanting Sylvia Plath. Sandy-haired guy has been reading various books on Turkish history for months now.
Returning books to their shelves is a mindless process, and that’s the excuse that Arthur uses to justify the way his thoughts tend to wander toward imaginary conversations with sandy-haired guy. Maybe Arthur would pass by with his cart and peer at him until he looked up and said something. Or maybe he would get up and ask what kind of books Arthur was re-shelving.
In reality, Arthur just shelves books and sandy-haired guy just keeps reading. It’s easier that way.
*
The first thing Arthur does when he gets in on Wednesday morning is check the system to see if this asshole E. Ames has returned the book. To his surprise and slight disappointment, The Corrections is now shown to be on the checkshelf. He’s surprised because, really? All it took was a handwritten letter? The disappointment is just because he has no grounds to blindly hate this person anymore.
He rolls out two carts of books and starts in the fiction section, putting them back almost by memory. Before long, he’s settled into the rhythm, gauging his pace by the crinkle of plastic sleeves, the thunk-hiss of books sliding back into place. Most of them are hardbacks, so when his hand grips around a paperback, he instinctively glances at it. It’s The Corrections. Just then, a piece of paper flutters out from behind the front cover and lands on the floor, half-leaning up against his shoe.
Arthur automatically picks it up. Three of the edges are straight but the last one is torn at an angle; there’s writing that follows along the line of the ripped edge.
Dear Librarian A. --
Many apologies. I could say that it slipped my mind to return said book, but I’d be lying. In all honesty, I was simply too lazy to find it. It seems I needed a kick, which you’ve given me. Hope the book finds its way home once again -- it’s been safe and sound and only vaguely stained with coffee.
- Eames
Arthur quickly closes the book and shoves the note into his pocket, as if he can erase its existence if he just moves fast enough. Who the hell puts notes in a book? He flashes back to middle school, when he would watch girls write notes and furtively tape them to the underside of their desk for friends to find during the next class period. He doubts that this E. Ames is a middle school girl, though.
When Arthur finishes, there’s about twenty minutes left before a fourth grade class is due to come in for a research field trip. He stands around the information desk, twiddling his lanyard as Yusuf sits at his computer, clicking madly with the mouse.
“What’s the biggest fine you’ve ever seen someone rack up?” Arthur asks abruptly.
“Biggest fine? There’s actually someone who’s got several horses in that race right now,” Yusuf says.
“What?”
Yusuf looks at him over the monitor. “Really? I know you’re usually holed away while doing your job or whatever it is that you do, but really?”
Arthur puts his hands in his pockets and waits as Yusuf looks back down and types something into the computer.
“Here,” he says, shifting the screen a bit as Arthur comes around. “E. Ames. They’ve been checking out books without returning any for months.”
With this reveal, the blind hate comes rushing back in one convenient wave. “How have they not had a restriction placed on their account?” Arthur bites out.
“Well, they have, now. But by that time it was too late.” Yusuf points to the bottom of the page and reads, with flourish, “Forty-two books.”
“Forty-two books?” Arthur’s voice actually inflects the question as such -- above and beyond, actually -- which almost never happens. “Forty-two books, all overdue?”
“Yes, almost all of them. It’s actually pretty impressive.” Yusuf pulls up his Solitaire window again and starts clicking around. His method of playing seems to involve making the least strategic moves possible.
Arthur is still reeling from the number when a crowd of kids bursts through the door, yelling and shaking their backpacks and being followed by chaperones with pinched expressions. He puts his hands into his pockets, then decides against that action when he accidentally touches the crumbled note.
“Hi, everyone,” he calls. At least he’ll have a distraction for a while.
*
Three hours later, the kids have departed in a whirlwind, leaving Arthur with disheveled hair, several crayon streaks running down his shirt, and a paranoid mindset. Half a pot of coffee has only served to make him jittery. He’s been jogging his leg up and down while staring at the computer screen for about ten minutes.
As it turns out, E. Ames’s account information at Newtown is pretty much a joke -- born in 1899, living at Privet Drive, phone number starting with a 555 -- but Arthur had cross-referenced the name with other libraries and an E. Ames had come up at the Redford branch. The information looks legitimate this time, with a street address that sounds vaguely familiar and a phone number that Arthur finally punches into the dial-pad.
After four rings, someone on the other end picks up and grunts.
“Hello, may I speak to Mr. or Mrs. Ames?” Arthur asks brusquely.
“Yes?” A man’s voice, with a soft accent. “Who is this?”
“Mr. Ames,” Arthur begins, but is interrupted almost as soon as he speaks.
“It’s Eames.”
“But it says E. Ames on your account -- I’m Arthur, a librarian at Newtown -- ”
“Ah,” Eames says after clearing his throat. He sounds like he just woke up. “Alright. Hello, Arthur. One of the librarians said I couldn’t leave a blank space for my first name and I was cowed by such authority, embarrassingly enough.”
Arthur rubs his eye. “Why couldn’t you just write your first name.”
“America has an enormous problem with identity theft,” Eames says breezily. “I couldn’t take the risk. Listen, have you read this book? The Sound and The Fury? Faulkner seems like one solemn bastard.”
Eames’s manner of speaking reeks of annoying charm, of someone who’s spent their entire life not encountering any difficulty with winning people over or bending things to their will. He could probably drop in by parachute on any conversation in the world and manage to insinuate himself within thirty seconds. Meanwhile, Arthur has discovered yet another crayon scrawl, this time on his pants, and half of his handouts had ended up as crappy origami strewn all over the floor.
“Mr. Eames. I’m not your English teacher. I’m not a sounding board for your pedestrian thoughts and I’m not here to pat you on the back for having a first grader’s analysis on Faulkner’s style. I’m calling because you apparently have over forty overdue books on your account here,” Arthur bites out.
There’s a pause.
“Quite an impressive eyebrow and mustache combination, though,” says Eames, as if he’s having an entirely different conversation. “Faulkner, I mean.”
Now it’s Arthur’s turn to offer only silence.
“Also, you’re a bit abrasive to be working in customer service,” Eames adds, though nothing about it sounds angry or confrontational. In fact, it’s easy to imagine the words being pushed out through a smile.
“You’re right, I apologize,” Arthur says stiffly. “I was out of line. Please know that my actions in no part reflect those of the library or other employees -- ”
Eames interrupts. “Oh, not the robotic spiel. You rang me at home, I thought we knew each other better than that by now.”
“Do you make a habit of trying to befriend debt collectors?” Arthur asks dryly.
Eames laughs. “That’s a bit overdramatic and self-important. But listen, about the books: I’m a horrible person, I’m taking away from the well-read potential of the city’s population. I really should start thinking of the children,” he says. “Good lord, yes, the children. Won’t someone think of them.”
“It would be more effective if you toned it down a notch or two,” Arthur says. “I assume you’re not considering this a very pressing matter.”
“Well, there are four other libraries in the county. Newtown is the smallest branch,” says Eames. “No matter, ignore me. Of course I’m being a complete ass. Please accept my apology. Arthur,” he adds with a slightly exaggerated drag on the vowels.
Arthur says, “Your accent doesn’t excuse you.”
“Indeed it doesn’t, but it does make my excuses easier to swallow,” Eames points out astutely. “So, your books. It’ll take me a bit to sort out where they’ve all gone. Not to worry, though, I fully intend on paying any and all fines. Thank you for your call.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Arthur says a bit lamely.
“Have a good day, now,” Eames prompts.
Arthur had started this conversation in the driver’s seat. He wonders how and when Eames managed to take over the wheel. “Yes, you too,” he says.
They hang up. Arthur clutches the phone and stares at it. It’s an innocuous piece of plastic, but he feels like hitting it against the desk. At the same time, the note is practically burning a hole through his pocket and he kind of feels like his ear has been molested by Eames’s voice.
Before he leaves, he swings his messenger bag over his head and throws out the note.
*
The book truck is about halfway full, and sitting right in the middle is a whole bundle, tied up with what looks like butcher’s string. A note is tucked behind the front cover of the topmost book.
Dear Librarian Arthur --
I’m asking forgiveness once again. This bundle is for the children (WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THEM, GOOD GOD).
- Eames
Postscript: have you read The Westing Game? Brilliant book.
Arthur reminds himself over and over that calling a patron a gigantic rat bastard is out of line. As he rifles through the stack, he finds that it contains The Westing Game, Danny: The Champion of The World, The Phantom Tollbooth, and The Ear, The Eye, and The Arm, among others. Maybe Eames has a kid or something. Working in a library has its deeply personal moments, when bits and pieces of lives are revealed in passing, and Arthur finds himself wondering about Eames.
Objectively, he has no real reason to be angry. Annoyed, sure, if only because the sheer audacity, but no one is on the waitlist for those books and the fines that Eames is racking up could go toward paying Yusuf to do more reading sessions of children’s fiction, or maybe even asking some guest speakers to come in. Newtown’s always been off the radar, scraping by on whatever they can get. From that viewpoint, Eames is a potential goldmine.
Nobody’s waiting to check out The Westing Game, so Arthur ends up taking it home with him that night and shakily reads the whole thing while jogging on his treadmill.
*
A few days later, Arthur scratches out another postcard:
Someone signed up for the waitlist to check out The Secret, god knows why. Please return it. Also, this is the last time I’m acting as your personal reminder system. You have 32 books left in your possession and a couple hundred dollars in fines. Maybe you should start digging underneath the couch cushions.
- Arthur
Once again, there’s a prompt reply:
Dear Librarian Arthur --
It’s not that bad, for a self-help book. I found my self being helped many times over. Also, is that some personality leaking through? I think I like it.
- Eames
*
Arthur heads up to the third floor, rolling the cart out of the elevator and seeing sandy-haired guy immediately. They smile at each other before Arthur turns into the fourth aisle and starts putting books back.
He’s almost done with the top layer when something cuts into his periphery. It takes a moment to recognize the New Age-y cover of The Secret, and another to take in the smooth-nailed thumb that’s gripping the bottom of the book. The thumb is attached to a hand, which is attached to a solid forearm; when Arthur looks all the way up, sandy-haired guy is looking back at him.
“What,” Arthur say dumbly, not quite getting it.
“Considering the gross amount of fines I have to my name, it’s probably time I finally introduced myself,” sandy-haired guy says with a very familiar voice, one that practically licks its way into Arthur’s ear canals, leaving a slight blush in its wake.
Arthur’s heart leaps into his throat, then hovers there uncertainly while he processes all the pieces. Once he finally puts it together, it stomps back down to his chest and grumpily resumes beating.
“Mr. Eames,” Arthur finally states, turning so that he’s wholly facing him.
Eames grins, showing crooked white teeth and laugh lines on his cheeks. “It couldn’t have been anyone else, could it?”
He’s right. It really couldn’t have.
*
Eames-as-a-person is very disconcerting. It’s as if he’s materialized, fully-formed, from the phone call and the letters. There’s still a disconnect between this guy with the massive fines, the one who is essentially obnoxiousness wearing a human suit, and the quiet patron who always sits on the third floor, flipping through pages with a toothpick sticking out of his mouth and only looking up when Arthur walks by with his cart.
Now that all those characteristics have forged into one Mr. Eames, Arthur would like to think that it’s not quite as enthralling to see him sitting at the usual spot, slowly tracking words with his eyes at a steady pace. The way he absently shifts his toothpick around with his lips is not attractive anymore, it’s unsanitary and douchey. His threadbare t-shirts are just an embarrassment, nothing else. Forty books.
Honestly, Arthur is kind of pissed at Eames for ruining the sandy-haired guy. Sandy-haired guy had been on a pedestal; Eames had stumbled in, holding his forty goddamn books, and knocked the pedestal over with a spectacular crash.
Arthur realizes that his nose is tensing up because he’s glaring so hard. He starts putting books away, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk.
“Sorry to interrupt your therapy, but that’s a bit loud.”
Arthur just says, “Forty books.”
“I’ll pay the fines,” Eames says.
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point, then, Arthur?”
“The point is that you’re here every day, reading about Turkish history, and you can’t find time to return the books that you’ve checked out decades ago.”
“I intend to return each and every one of them, they’re just a bit...scattered at the moment,” Eames says thoughtfully. “I am very fond of books, but I am horrible at keeping track of their whereabouts. For example, I’m fairly sure that a family of raccoons has made off with a copy of The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat.”
“You’re aware that you’re breaking practically every cardinal rule of the library code. I shouldn’t even be talking to you based on that.”
“There’s a library code,” Eames repeats with a smile.
Arthur’s only response is to grab the cart and move to the next aisle over. Eames comes around the other side and leans against a shelf. “Are you a proper librarian, then?”
“I have a degree in Library Science, yes.”
“Really? I’d’ve thought you were in construction,” Eames says without missing a beat, then tilts his head, as if recognizing Arthur’s urge to both laugh and hit Eames in the face.
Arthur lets the silence grow until he starts feeling uncomfortable. “Why are you reading about the history of Turkey, anyway?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Considering your current book list, it’s kind of an outlier.” This isn’t true at all. Eames’s booklist has possibly the widest range Arthur has ever seen; the history of Turkey could easily be slotted in between World Politics: The Menu For Choice and The Historian.
“So you think you know me based on my literary tastes now,” Eames states.
“I don’t think I know anything,” Arthur says. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. “What’s your first name?”
“I have just the one. Like Madonna.”
“Like Lucifer,” Arthur says darkly.
“How about Oprah,” Eames suggests.
There’s another urge to laugh, but Arthur tamps it down and rolls the cart away again instead. This time Eames doesn’t follow.
Good Times, Bad Times shows up in the pile of books the next morning. Arthur picks it up, holding it by the open edge and softly letting pages flip past his thumb until he gets to the note.
Dear Librarian Arthur --
I found this one in the pantry.
- Eames
Arthur puts it on the cart.
*
Books start coming in more regularly in varying numbers, but always with the unfailing note. One day, it’s this:
Dear Librarian Arthur --
The Ender’s Game series: is it worth reading?
A couple days later:
Dear Librarian Arthur --
Would you recommend Pedro Paramo or Cien Años de Soledad?
Or something like this:
Dear Librarian Arthur --
I suppose you won’t be the least bit surprised, but I have a confession to make: I think I prefer children’s books over these classics.
Every Friday, Arthur gathers up all the paper scraps and sends off answers in the form of a postcard with a numbered list on the back. Then there’s the fact that he still sees Eames several times a week, where Eames will come up to Arthur as he’s re-shelving, then amble back to his usual table until Arthur squeaks by with his cart to pick up the conversation where they’d left off.
The letters get to the point where it seems like there’s a small forest in the form of printer paper, Post-Its, and fortunes from fortune cookies stashed in Arthur’s bottom desk drawer. Finally, one day he takes out a blank postcard and starts writing.
1. My first name is Arthur, not Librarian.
2. I don’t know if you’ve progressed past the Pony Express or telegraphs, but there are easier means of communication. Or are you a technophobic luddite in addition to being a book hoarder?
“Honestly, what’s with the epistolary romance?” Yusuf asks, right into Arthur’s ear.
Arthur snaps upright, his pen trailing off in the middle of writing his e-mail address. He flits a glance at Yusuf and says, “It’s not an epistolary romance. It’s not an epistolary or romantic anything.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence like that,” Yusuf tells him. “But sure, I’ll let you wade around in denial for a bit longer. I hear it’s nice this time of year.”
And he actually keeps his word. That is, until the end of the week, when he sidles up to Arthur’s desk with a funny look and says, “By the way, you got a letter.”
The funny look turns out to be the muted version of a shit-eating grin. Yusuf hands Arthur the postcard and disappears into the office.
Dear Arthur --
It’s admirable that you put so much effort into veiling the fact that you essentially begged me to call you by your first name and e-mail. No worries, I got the message.
The first message from co0kinturkeyx@yahoo.com gets routed to Arthur’s junk mail on Outlook. He marks it ‘not junk’, but decides against adding him to his contact list. Because that’s the boundary now, apparently.
*
Arthur has just finished giving a tutorial on Google Scholar -- and the entire internet, for that matter -- to a group of blank-faced high schoolers when Yusuf catches up with him in the breakroom.
“Hey. Gym tonight? It’s been a while,” Yusuf asks. “I’m taking a spinning class, but there’s an open gym if you’d like.”
Yusuf had been taking a pilates class the previous month. Before that had been Bikram yoga and jazz dancing. His propensity for trying different things is admirable.
Arthur agrees to come with, as long as he doesn’t have to see Yusuf’s weird roommates, and they get to the gym around sundown. There are people milling around on the machines, but it’s nowhere near crowded.
When Arthur first spots Eames, he thinks he’s hallucinating, even though it’s perfectly logical that someone who lives in the area would also attend this particular gym. Even so, as stupid as it sounds, Arthur is thrown off-balance by seeing Eames outside of the library, lit by harsh fluorescent bulbs instead of the sun through the library’s windows. This Eames is breathing quick but steadily, tiny beads of sweat forming on his hairline and upper lip. His mouth is slack in concentration, something more fixated and intense than the soft focus he directs toward books.
Arthur watches for so long that he realizes Eames is walking towards him only when it’s too late. The echoing look of surprise on his face makes Arthur look at Yusuf, who suddenly finds interest in the ceiling.
“This was you?” Arthur asks.
“Gotta go, my spinning class is starting,” Yusuf says while walking backward. He disappears into one of the small rooms lining the west wall, where there will definitely be witnesses if Arthur follows him in and attempts to strangle him.
Meanwhile, Eames is still standing there. “Hello,” Arthur says, for lack of a better greeting, but Eames treats it like Arthur is knighting him or something.
“Yusuf is a prince among men, it seems.” Eames grins. “I assume he doesn’t partake in this library code you mentioned.”
“He’s a second year science grad student. Works over the summers,” Arthur explains. He fiddles with the kangaroo pockets of his hoodie, then gives Eames a onceover, taking in the tape wrapped around his hands and feet.
“Pugilism,” Arthur says with faint disdain.
Eames puffs his chest out. “A man’s sport.” He nods at Arthur and says, “Capoeira. Or taekwondo, I can’t tell. Something with a lot of kicking and legwork.”
It’s the former. He hasn’t done it in years but he still has the lean cuts of muscle on his thighs, still has the extension when he works out in his apartment. Eames has apparently taken Arthur’s silence as an affirmative, seeing as how he’s walking over to the wall and picking out some padded gloves. He hadn’t even asked Arthur to partner up, but Arthur follows him to the mats anyway.
Eames slips the gloves onto his hands and holds them up near his head. “Too high?”
Arthur responds by axe-kicking and hitting the glove on the way down, with his ankle instead of the top of his foot. There’s a resounding slap. Eames raises his eyebrows.
Time passes quickly from then on. Arthur thinks he hears Yusuf yell goodbye somewhere along the way, but he’s too busy avoiding getting his face crushed by the bottom of Eames’s foot, so he’s not really sure. They end up staying until half the lights flick off in a courteous way of letting everyone know it’s almost closing time. By that point, both of their shirts are soaked through with sweat. They’re a good match, fighting-wise -- Eames is considerably bulkier but Arthur is faster. He feels rabbit-quick, adrenaline hopping him up onto his toes more often than not, Eames’s challenging smile sparking a reluctant one onto Arthur’s own face.
The next morning, Arthur wakes up feeling like someone’s taken a battering ram to his legs and back all night. Even his feet feel cramped. He brushes his teeth and rhythmically splays out his toes against the cold tiles, wincing every time he does so.
When he gets to work, Yusuf, looking fresh-faced and awake, asks, “Why are you walking like a drugged horse?”
“I have bruises all over my knees,” Arthur sighs.
“What have you been doing,” Yusuf asks suggestively, then adds, “Wait, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant, have you been giving a lot of blowjobs lately?”
“I’m never going anywhere with you or doing anything for you again,” Arthur tells him, but ten minutes later he gets him coffee anyway.
When he looks through the book truck, there are eight books in the bundle. The note is just a squiggle, then: Can’t write, arm hurts.
Arthur waits until the end of the day before putting the books back onto their shelves, one by one.
*
“Twilight,” Eames announces grandly.
Arthur tucks his phone between his cheek and his shoulder. He glances at the wall clock and says, “It’s ten past noon.”
“Eclipse,” Eames continues.
“Are we playing a word association game?”
“By Stephanie Meyer,” Eames says.
“Alright,” Arthur says, putting his pen down, “I know there’s a waitlist for this one.”
“It’s not even overdue, I’ve got until tomorrow.”
“Are you serious.”
“God, this is horrible. It’s amazing. Listen to this.” Eames starts reading out loud, running the dialogue together and generally being a terrible narrator. Arthur hears snatches about declarations of love and something involving sweet blood and marble slab chests.
“Wait,” Arthur interrupts, “chest as in a trunk or storage unit, or chest as in body part?”
“That was three paragraphs ago, Arthur, please try to pay attention.”
“Okay, okay,” Arthur grumps.
And then he realizes that he’s listening raptly to Eames reading him Twilight over the phone at work. There’s a book in one hand, his other hand hovering over the keyboard, but he’s long since forgotten what he was supposed to do with either of these things.
“I find that I’m sufficiently cheered up,” Eames announces, snapping Arthur out of his thoughts. “I’ll be returning the book tomorrow, you won’t have to worry about bloodthirsty Twilight fans mauling you.”
“Right, I appreciate that,” Arthur says absently. “Goodbye.”
True to Eames’s word, the book is returned the next day. And, that’s that, actually -- Arthur pulls up Eames’s account and sees only empty space where there had once been a list of forty books.
It’s a bit anticlimactic.
On a whim, Arthur walks up the stairs to the third floor and sees only a group of high school students working on a project and one older man flipping through a magazine about Tahiti. The whole thing just feels strange, knowing that he no longer has any justifiable reason to keep up this kind of communication with Eames.
Nothing has changed, really, but then again, everything has changed.
He wishes sandy-haired guy had remained sandy-haired guy, and E. Ames had remained E. Ames -- he wishes that Eames wasn’t someone who charmed, infuriated, irritated, and amused him, all at once. He wishes that Eames wasn’t someone he keeps thinking about so much.
*
When Arthur gets back downstairs, Yusuf is getting prepared for his reading session. He raises his eyebrows and asks, “Something wrong?”
“Nope.” Arthur shakes his head.
Yusuf doesn’t speak for a moment. “I feel like I should have been cataloguing this as a chronological timeline,” he comments as he removes his jacket and drapes it over his chair.
Arthur rubs the back of his neck. “Don’t.”
“It’s just massively frustrating to watch, I’ll have you know,” Yusuf says, and he sounds very serious even as he’s pulling the brand-new sock puppets onto his hands, a product of Eames’s fines.
“Doesn’t make it any less daunting,” Arthur says. He picks up the stack of thick, cardboard-paged books and leads the way into the children’s section, where there’s already a crowd of moms and kids waiting.
*
After Yusuf’s massively successful story time, Arthur, against his better judgement, sends an e-mail:
Learned enough about Turkish history yet?
The reply comes about an hour later, as Arthur is getting ready to leave.
Just enough, actually.
It’s the most vague answer that Arthur has ever gotten. He stands there for a while, then logs off the computer and heads home.
*
Now that Eames has squared away his fines and everything, Arthur is prepared to see him sporadically, if at all. Which is why it’s a surprise to see him the very next day, hanging around the information desk and browsing through pamphlets as if he’s genuinely interested in MLA format.
“You’re officially free from the shackles of debt, you know,” Arthur says. Eames turns around immediately and it hits Arthur all over again, how Eames is -- Eames.
“Hello,” Eames says.
“Hi,” says Arthur.
Eames taps out some arrhythmic pattern onto the countertop before abruptly shoving his hands into his pockets. “Alright, I’m just going to say it out loud. Essentially I’ve been courting you for the past few months.”
“Okay,” Arthur says after a pause.
“If I asked you out on properly, what would you say?” Eames shakes his head. “Or it doesn’t even have to be that. We can say that I just want to make sure you’re a corporeal human being, not a ghost who’s tied to the library and disappears once we step outside.”
Arthur’s fingers feel slippery against the book he’s holding. “You saw me at the gym,” he says.
“True. But trying to headbutt someone hardly counts.” Eames smiles lopsidedly. “What would you consider to be a good first date activity?”
“Naked skydiving,” Arthur says, deadpan as usual, and he expects Eames to one-up him, also as usual.
But instead Eames just leans against the counter and looks at him, not serious, not teasing, not anything. Just looking.
Arthur stares at him steadily as well, even though his heart is pounding in a way that reminds him that he should be nervous. This seems all wrong: Eames standing in the atrium with his threadbare shirt, looking at Arthur like that. Still -- it’s happening.
“I did some digging,” Arthur finally says, and his voice is steady.
“Did you,” Eames says.
“The Redford branch is much closer to you. Your card there is still active. Coming here actually must be really inconvenient.”
Eames shrugs. “It’s cozy here. And I really am interested in Turkish history, and this branch has the most extensive choices.”
Arthur hums.
“Or maybe I was setting extensive groundwork for wooing a particular librarian. I think I just ended up making things much more complicated than needed.”
Arthur hums again, but he’s smiling this time.
“Since apparently you’ve been swooning over me, looking me up on the system and all,” Eames presses. “Having vapors amongst dusty old history books. It’s a fetish, isn’t it?”
“You can’t pull that off anymore,” Arthur tells him. “I see right through you now.”
Eames relents, leaning in a little and smiling when Arthur reciprocates. “To be honest, Arthur, I’m surprised it took you this long.”