Chapter Text
The rain came down in silver sheets, so thick the streetlights blurred into soft gold smudges against the dark. Anthony hunched deeper into his coat, soaked through. He swore quietly under his breath as water slipped down the back of his neck. Typical bloody October. His work van had chosen today of all days to develop a whining noise, and after twelve hours rebuilding a waterlogged garden in Hampstead, he’d missed the last bus by seconds. So now he was walking. Three miles still to go.
Wonderful.
The little bookshop appeared almost by accident. He almost walked straight past. The sign above the windows read:
Globe Books, New & Old
One front window displayed recent paperbacks in crooked stacks. The other held ancient leather bound volumes resting on velvet cloth beneath warm amber lighting.
The shop looked old in the comforting way. Lived in. Slightly cluttered and clumsy. Yet safe. The rain hammered harder. Anthony hesitated maybe half a second before pushing the door open. The bell overhead gave a soft, tired jingle. Warmth hit him first. With the smell of paper, dust, old books and time itself, stuck between the pages
Anthony exhaled slowly, adjusting to the warmth of the shop.
An older man looked up from a crossword puzzle, spectacles balanced low on his nose. His grey hair stuck out wildly in every direction.
“Hello,” Anthony muttered quickly, shuffling into the shop.
The older man eyed his soaked coat. “Christ. You look drowned.”
“Feels like it.”
“You sheltering or buying?”
Anthony blinked. “Uh.”
The man snorted. “Sheltering’s free. Tea costs two pounds. Browse if you like.”
Anthony smiled at his bluntness. “Thanks.”
The shop stretched farther back than he expected, narrow aisles twisting between overflowing shelves. Books were stacked sideways, piled on stools, balanced precariously on windowsills.
The place felt looked after, loved. Somewhere deeper in the shop came the quiet scrape of paper. Anthony wandered toward it before he really meant to. At the back sat a large wooden workbench beneath a hanging lamp. And behind it a man bent over an open book, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows.
Blond curls fell untidily around his face. Round glasses slid low on his nose while delicate fingers worked carefully along the torn spine of a book older than Anthony’s grandparents. Tiny tools covered the desk. Brushes. Thread. Pots of glue.
The man didn’t notice him at first. Anthony should probably have looked away. Instead he found himself staring. Not because the man was beautiful. Well, he was. He was soft looking, pale and slightly rumpled in a way that suggested he forgot himself often. Anthony stared at the man, as he handled the damaged book like it was alive. Gentle, with patience and care he'd never seen before. All that care. For a book.
The blond man finally glanced up and startled so much he nearly dropped the brush. “Oh!”
Anthony immediately stepped back. “ I'm Sorry. Didn’t mean to...”
“No, no, it’s quite alright.” The man interrupted and sat up too quickly, knocking his knee against the desk with a dull thunk. “Ow! Sorry. I mean, hello.”
Anthony blinked. Rain rattled softly against the windows. “I was just looking,” Anthony said awkwardly, gesturing around the shop.
“Yes. Right. Of course.” The man pushed his glasses up nervously. “That’s generally what one does in a bookshop.”
Anthony huffed a laugh before he could stop himself. The blond man looked startled by that too. And pleased. Like he hadn’t expected the laughter. Anthony suddenly recognised the expression. He's shy, he thought to himself. Not quiet, but shy. The kind that came from uncertainty rather than dislike.
“You fix them?” Anthony asked, nodding toward the book.
The man glanced down instantly, relief softening his shoulders. “Oh. Yes.” His fingers settled automatically against the spine. He gently stroked the book in a way that stirred envy in Anthony.
“I restore old books for Derek. Mostly repairs. Sometimes rebinding if they’re in very bad shape.”
Anthony stepped closer before he realised what he was doing. “What happened to this one?”
The man’s expression turned genuinely mournful. “Someone stored it in a cellar for twenty years.”
Anthony winced instinctively.
“I know,” the man said softly. “Terrible thing.”
There was such sincere distress in his voice Anthony nearly smiled. “What’s your name?” he asked.
The blond man hesitated. As though names were personal things. “Asa.”
Anthony nodded once. “Anthony.”
Something flickered briefly across Asa’s face at that. Recognition, perhaps, of another shy creature trying not to seem shy.
“Nice to meet you,” Asa said quietly.
Anthony noticed then that Asa never quite looked directly at him for long. His gaze drifted away quickly, then back again in careful little increments. He was nervous. Anthony understood nervousness all too well. His failed relationships taught him that.
The latest lasted only a year, with someone who loved loud parties and endless talking and touching for the sake of touching. A year of being complained at for being distant, closed off and too quiet. By the end Anthony wanted to be alone. It was easier. Easier with plants. They made sense. Then again, he found neglected things often did.
“You’re dripping on the floor,” Asa said suddenly, horrified.
Anthony looked down. “Oh. I'm sorry.”
“No, no, that’s not. I only meant...”
“Umm, I'll move back to the front door. I think the rain is easing now.”
Asa looked unconvinced. "No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. It's fine. Stay."
From the front of the shop, Derek shouted, “Asa! Stop apologising to customers for existing!”
Asa closed his eyes briefly and Anthony bit back a grin.
“That Derek?” he asked.
“Yes,” Asa sighed. “Unfortunately.”
“I heard that!” Derek yelled.
“You were meant to!”
Anthony laughed again. This time Asa smiled properly. It was small, but beautiful enough that Anthony felt it somewhere beneath his ribs. Anthony checked the window reluctantly. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle. He should go. Why did he feel reluctant to leave this bookshop? His feet were unwilling to move. But his flat was still miles away, his clothes still damp, and tomorrow’s work started at seven.
“Asa,” Derek called from the till, “stop staring at the customer like a frightened deer and offer him something to buy.”
“I am not!” Asa began, scandalised.
“You absolutely are.”
Anthony looked down quickly to hide a smile. Asa turned pink all the way to the tips of his ears.
“Ignore him,” he muttered.
“Can’t,” Anthony said. “He’s very loud.”
“That’s how he survives.”
Derek made a victorious noise from the front of the shop. Anthony shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Well,” he said. “I should probably get going.”
Something in Asa’s expression dimmed slightly before he smoothed it away. “Oh. Right. Yes.”
Anthony hesitated. He wasn’t usually good at this part. The reaching out bit. It always seemed easier to leave before things became complicated. But Asa was standing there with glue on his fingertips and worry in his eyes like Anthony disappearing might somehow inconvenience him personally. And for reasons Anthony didn’t entirely understand yet, the thought tugged at him.
“So,” he said slowly, “I might have to come back.”
Asa blinked. “You might?”
“Need a new book.”
“Oh.”
Asa’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the table. “What sort?”
Anthony pretended to consider it seriously. “Gardening, probably. Or maybe…” Anthony glanced toward the fiction shelves, “something else.”
Asa looked adorably confused. “Something else?”
“Maybe you could recommend something.”
“Oh.” Asa swallowed visibly. “I could do that.”
“A romance, maybe.” That got him.
Asa stared at him like Anthony had abruptly started speaking another language. “You read romance?” he asked softly.
Anthony shrugged one shoulder. “Sometimes.” Mostly when he couldn’t sleep. When he wanted to remember that people could find each other gently. He didn’t say that part.
Asa still looked startled. Then cautious hope crept slowly into his expression. “I know some good ones,” he admitted.
“Yeah?”
“Oh, definitely.”
Anthony smiled. There it was again, that warmth beneath his ribs. Dangerous, he thought.
“Well,” he said quietly, stepping backwards toward the aisle, “guess I’ll have to come back when I’m less waterlogged then.”
Asa smiled too. Small at first. Then brighter when Anthony smiled back.
“I’d like that,” he said.
Anthony left the shop, but carried the thought of returning soon with him all the way home through the rain.