Special Collections

This story was requested by Jamie and written by Kit Marlowe.

* * *

Rain pounded against the windows of the university library. Thomas watched the droplets slip down the glass, mentally betting on which would reach the bottom first. This was what his life had become, entertaining himself with water patterns while shelving dusty tomes nobody had touched in years.

The library emptied around six as usual, students scrambling away to whatever passed for excitement in this dreary university town. Thomas had taken his degree in a city bustling with nightlife, offering all the stimulation and excitement a teenager fresh from home could possibly want. Harrington was staid by comparison, the local town little more than a village, the pubs stacking the chairs on the tables by 10 most nights.

He ran his fingers along the spines of his neat rows of books as he made his rounds, taking note of the few stragglers who still crouched over reading desks, backs of heads cast into stark silhouettes by the low lamps set in each little nook. He liked these quiet moments in the evening, the quiet hush that settled over the place.

Not that he was a stranger to being alone. It was six months since David had packed his things, pulling apart a life built over eight years without any explanation. Six months of coming home to silence, of waking up to cold sheets, of the empty spaces where a person used to be. The library had become his refuge since then. The silence here felt purposeful rather than cold.

He pushed his cart in the direction of the philosophy section. The rain was picking up outside, drumming against the high windows and echoing through the cavernous reading room. Most of the lights had dimmed automatically as evening came on, casting the tall shelves in a warm glow that softened the edges of everything.

As Thomas rounded the corner he noticed a man sitting alone at one of the reading tables, completely absorbed in whatever he was reading. He wasn't a student - too old, probably early forties, of a similar age to Thomas. His dark jumper looked expensive in an understated way, and there was a stillness around him that Thomas rarely saw in academics. Most of them were twitchy, fidgeters, full of pent-up intellectual energy and unmedicated ADHD.

Thomas shelved three books, stealing glances in the man's direction. He hadn't looked up at the sound of Thomas' cart, was seemingly unaware that the library had emptied around him. Thomas found himself wondering what could be so engrossing. Something about the intensity of his focus was strangely intimate, like he was witnessing something private and secret.

Just as Thomas was about to move away, the man looked up, eyes landing directly on Thomas' face. No way to hide the fact that he'd been staring.

Shit, he thought. His instinct was to flinch away, to pretend he'd never been looking. But that never worked, of course. That just drew attention to it. So instead he held the man's gaze, straightened his shoulders, approached the low desk.

"We're closing in twenty minutes," he said, his voice little more than a murmur, sounding oddly formal even to his own ears.

The man smiled, and the dim light somehow managed to catch the gold flecks in his hazel eyes. "Already? Time gets away from me in libraries."

His voice was lower than Thomas expected, with a slight burr to the edges. The kind of voice made for reading poetry aloud in darkened rooms. Thomas imagined that his breath would smell like peaty scotch, warm and welcoming.

"I know the feeling," Thomas said, then immediately felt idiotic. Of course I know that feeling. I work in a library. Time gets away from everyone at work. He cleared his throat, looked away from the man's intense, unblinking stare and off into the gloom of the reading room. "Can I help you find anything before we close?"

"Actually," the man said, closing the book he was reading - Leeming's biography of Baldwin - and leaning back in his chair slightly, to better look up at Thomas. "I was hoping to access your special collections." He extended his hand. "I'm James Merritt, visiting lecturer with the English department. I'm working on a paper about Auden's later works, and I heard you have some first editions."

Thomas took his hand - warm, dry, strong but still gentle somehow, grip firm without being aggressive - and shook, suddenly aware of the exact pressure of his own grip, of the slight clamminess to his palm. "Thomas Wells. Head librarian," he said. As their hands separated James' fingers slid across his palm, leaving tingling trails in their wake.

"The special collections are typically available by appointment only," he said. Then, without knowing he was going to add it, "but I could make an exception. Just this once."

James smiled again and Thomas felt something in his chest shift slightly. "I'd appreciate that, Thomas."

It felt like the stranger had been saying his name for years rather than seconds, and he suppressed the urge to shiver as a soft chill danced up his spine.

Thomas led James through the stacks toward the back of the library, acutely aware with every step of the man's presence behind him. His keys jingled as he removed them from his belt, the sound excessively loud in the quiet building. All the other reading nooks were empty now, their occupants leaving while the two men had been talking. Thomas hadn't noticed them go, had been too engrossed in the presence of this stranger who didn't feel like a stranger.

"It's a beautiful space," James said as they walked. "Much more character than the sterile modern things they build now."

"That's one way to describe a building with broken heating and windows that leak the second the wind touches them," Thomas said, then immediately regretted the negativity. "But yes, it has character."

James laughed softly. "I've always preferred places with a few flaws. A bit of age showing. Perfection is overrated."

Thomas fumbled with the lock, suddenly aware of how close James was standing behind him. He could smell something woodsy and subtle - cologne, maybe, though not the overpowering scents that younger men seemed to bathe in. He'd never been a lover of colognes, could usually only smell the alcohol base and nothing else, but this scent seemed to mingle with James' own natural scent in a way that made him incredibly present in the space. Thomas found himself breathing deeper than he normally would, drinking in the smell as the lock clunked open under his fingers.

The special collections room was small but impressive, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a single reading table in the middle of the carpeted floor. James moved to the locked cabinet where the library housed its most valuable editions.

"Here," he said, carefully removing a slim volume. "I know you're working on the later works, but this is the nineteen twenty-eight private printing of 'Poems'. Slightly different contents to the more well-known nineteen-thirty edition." He flushed, suddenly self conscious. "But I'm sure you know that already. We actually have a-"

"This is gorgeous," James said, taking the book from him with evident reverence. He looked up, not immediately opening this book. "Thank you for this. I know you're breaking protocol. And you're probably keen to get home."

"It's fine," Thomas said, watching his fingers trace the embossed title. "It's nice to see someone appreciate these things properly."

Their eyes met over the book and for a moment everything went very still. The rain, the building, it all seemed to pause. Thomas felt a breath catch in his chest. Something passed between them - recognition, perhaps. Then the clock on the face of the building chimed the hour, and the spell was broken.

"I should..." Thomas said, gesturing back in the direction of the main library.

"Of course," James said, offering the book back.

"Take some time with it," Thomas said. "I have some things to do before I close up for good."

"I appreciate it," James said. "I promise I won't keep you long."

Thomas closed the door, leaving the man to his research. He realised his heart was beating faster than normal. He told himself it was just the short flight of stairs they'd had to climb to get to special collections. Definitely not the way those eyes had lingered on his, or how James' voice seemed to resonate in the room long after he'd stopped speaking, a deep thrum that Thomas felt in his own chest.

He returned to his cart, determined to finish reshelving before he went home. But as he worked, he found himself glancing in the direction of special collections more often than was necessary, and for the first time in months, he wasn't in any hurry to leave the library when closing time finally came.

The final book slotted into place with a satisfying thud. Thomas glanced at his watch, shocked to realise it was nearly half an hour past closing time. He hadn't even locked the front doors. The rain still battered against the windows, almost violent now, and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.

He knocked lightly on the special collections door before entering. James looked up from the desk where he'd spread several volumes, his expression brightening.

"I was wondering when I'd see you again," James said.

"Just checking if you've found what you need," Thomas said, trying to sound professional despite the quickening of his pulse.

James' finger traced a line in the book in front of him. "Auden believed desire was the great unspoken truth behind all poetry," he said. "Listen to this. How should we like it were stars to burn, With a passion for us we could not return?." His voice dropped into that resonant register as he read aloud, seeming to vibrate in Thomas' chest.

Thomas moved closer, leaning against a bookcase, trying to appear casual. "If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me," he finished automatically. "His imagery always struck me as intensely physical."

James looked up, something flickering in his eyes. "You know your Auden."

"I know a lot of things that surprise people," Thomas said, and heat immediately rose to his face. He once again felt the urge to look away, but he forced himself to hold contact with those eyes.

James closed the book, keeping his place with one finger. "What drew you to librarianship, Thomas?" He said the name like he was savouring each syllable, and Thomas' skin prickled in response.

"The silence," he said. "The order. Every book has its place."

"And every man?"

His breath caught. "That's... a more complicated question."

"The best ones always are." James reopened the book, found another page. "Auden also wrote about loneliness. The winds must come from somewhere when they blow."

"There must be reasons why the leaves decay," Thomas continued, moving closer to the table. "Are you suggesting I'm lonely, Professor Merritt?"

"James," he corrected, his tone gentle. "And I'm suggesting that we're drawn to poems in which we recognise our own conditions."

Thomas took a seat across from him, the small table suddenly feeling very intimate. "And what does Baldwin tell you about yourself?" he asked, nodding toward the biography James had been reading earlier.

James' smile turned wistful. "That love is worth the risk of pain. That passion shouldn't be hidden away like these books, only brought out when it's safe and controlled."

The library had fallen completely silent except for the rain and the sound of their breathing. Even the old building seemed to be holding its breath.

"I separated from someone recently," Thomas said, surprising himself with the admission. He wasn't traditionally an over-sharer. He'd been called 'cold' more times than he cared to think about. Closed-off. But something about this unknown man made him want to open himself, to be paged through and read. "Eight years together," he said. "And then nothing."

"The silence afterward is the hardest part," James said, and it wasn't a question. He'd been there too. Thomas could hear it in his voice. He turned another page, and Thomas noticed his hand trembling slightly. "If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me."

"That poem is about unrequited love," Thomas said softly. "Does it fit, here?"

"Is it?" James closed the book, let his fingers rest on the cover. "I've always read it as a willingness to be vulnerable. To risk loving more openly than the other, even if some would say that makes us weaker."

"Do you think it makes us weaker?"

His hand lay just inches from Thomas' on the table, and Thomas was acutely aware of the diminishing space between them. They'd slowly been leaning closer, their words becoming softer, more hushed. "No," he said, and Thomas barely heard the word, the sound little more than an aspiration.

"We closed almost an hour ago," Thomas said, not moving.

"Should I leave?" James asked, not moving either.

Thunder cracked outside, rattling the windows. They both jumped, and James let out a small laugh.

"It's raining quite hard," Thomas said. "Perhaps you should stay a while longer."

James looked at Thomas for a long moment, then nodded. "I'd like that."

The silence stretched between them, filled only by the persistent drumming of rain against the windows and the occasional rumble of thunder. Thomas watched James' fingers trace the title on the book's cover.

"You mentioned other Auden works?" James asked, at long last.

Thomas nodded. "Yes. 'About The House', his later collection. The perspective is quite different from his earlier poems."

"I'd be interested to see the shift," James said, closing the book in front of him. "Is it here in special collections?"

"No," Thomas said, standing. "It's in the main stacks."

They stepped out of the small room into the main library. The storm had intensified, rain now lashing sideways against the dark glass above them. Most of the overhead lights had dimmed for the night, leaving only the emergency lighting to cast long shadows across the floor.

"This way," Thomas said, leading James into the labyrinth of bookshelves. The stacks always felt different after hours. More intimate, like they were filled with secrets. The narrow passages between towering shelves seemed to close in around them. Thomas was intensely aware of James following close behind, could almost feel the heat radiating from him in the confined space.

"I've always loved libraries at night," James said, his voice low. "Everything feels possible in the quiet. All these ideas, all these voices, just waiting in the darkness," he said. "And only us to hear them."

They reached the poetry section, the shelves here particularly close together, tall stacks stretching toward the vaulted ceiling. Thomas traced the spines with his finger, scanning titles in the dim light.

"Here," he said, reaching for a volume on a higher shelf. As he stretched he felt James move closer, steadying him with a hand on the small of his back. The touch, light as it was, sent a current up Thomas' spine. He froze, book half-pulled from the shelf.

"Sorry," James murmured, though he didn't remove his hand. "Didn't want you to lose your balance."

Thomas turned, the book clutched against his chest, only to find himself nearly pressed against James in the narrow aisle. Neither stepped back.

"Thank you," Thomas said, voice barely audible.

James' eyes dropped to Thomas' lips, then lifted again to meet his gaze. "You have the most remarkable eyes in this light."

Thomas felt like the air between them thickened in an instant, found himself unable to draw breath. He could smell James' cologne again, stronger now, like the warmth of his body was radiating it outward. He found himself leaning almost imperceptibly forward, and realised James was doing the same.

Their faces were inches apart, breath mingling in the cool air. Thomas felt light-headed. James' hand slid from his back to his waist, a gentle pressure that grounded him in the moment.

"Thomas," James said, and the sound of his name in that voice nearly undid him.

The book slipped slightly in Thomas' grasp, and he adjusted his grip without looking away from James' eyes. A faint smile played at the corner of the other man's mouth as he leaned closer still.

A violent crack of thunder shook the building and the emergency lights flickered, plunging them into total darkness for a long, heart-stopping second. Thomas gasped, instinctively grabbed James' arm.

When the lights stuttered back, dimmer than before, they were still holding onto each other, but Thomas could tell the moment had fractured.

"I-" Thomas began, but couldn't find the words.

James' hand was still on his waist, warm and steady.

"The storm's getting worse," he said, making no move to step away.

As if in answer, the wind howled through the gaps around the windows, and the lights flickered again.

"Perhaps we should move somewhere more protected," Thomas said, reluctantly. "Away from the windows."

James nodded, his hand falling away. Thomas felt its absence, an empty warmth lingering on his flesh.

"Lead the way," he said.

Thomas led James through the maze of shelves towards the centre of the building. Their footsteps echoed in the empty library, occasionally punctuated by the violent rattling of windows and the deep, guttural groans of the old structure as it weathered the storm.

"The staff room is through here," Thomas said, unlocking another door with hands that weren't quite steady. "No windows, so we'll be safer. And it will be quieter, too."

The small room was sparse but comfortable, a worn sofa against one wall, a round table with four chairs, a kitchenette with a kettle and mini-fridge. Thomas flicked a switch and a single lamp bathed the space in warm light.

"Better than emergency lighting, at least," he said, heading to a cupboard in the corner. "We keep supplies for situations like this. Not that anyone's usually here this late."

James stood in the doorway, book still tucked under his arm. "Do storms like this happen often?" he asked.

"Often enough that the university installed a generator," Thomas said, retrieving a battery-powered lantern and several candles from the cupboard. As if on cue the lamp flickered, then faded to a dim glow. "Though it seems to be struggling tonight."

Thomas set the lantern on the table and arranged the candles on the small countertop, striking a match with practiced efficiency. The flame caught, spreading a soft orange light that danced across the walls.

"Tea?" he asked, filling the kettle. "It's nothing fancy, but-"

"Tea would be wonderful," James said, finally stepping fully into the room. He placed the Auden volume carefully on the table and draped his jacket over the back of the chair. "May I help?"

They moved around each other in the small space, retrieving mugs, finding tea, the mundane domesticity of the actions creating a curious intimacy. Thomas was acutely aware of James' presence. Every time the other man brushed past his arm or passed behind him Thomas felt a warm shiver running down the base of his spine, the hairs on his arms and the nape of his neck standing on end.

"Sugar?" Thomas asked, holding up a small jar.

"Just milk," James said, standing closer than was strictly necessary.

Their fingers brushed as Thomas handed him a mug, and neither pulled away immediately. The lamp flickered once more, then went out completely, leaving only the candlelight and the lantern.

"Well," Thomas said, voice low. "There goes the generator."

In the gentle glow of the flames James looked different - softer around the edges, his face half in shadow, the low light somehow making him look younger. Thomas felt himself being studied just as intently, and he wondered if the darkness made him look different, too.

"Should we sit?" James asked, nodding in the direction of the sofa.

They settled at opposite ends, angled towards each other, mugs warming their hands. The sofa was small enough that their knees almost touched. The candles threw strange, elongated shadows across the walls, and the lantern created a small circle of safety in the darkness.

"It's strange," Thomas said, breathing in the steam from his tea. "I've worked here for twelve years, and I've never been stuck here overnight."

"Are we stuck?" James asked, a hint of something in his voice that Thomas couldn't identify.

Thunder boomed directly overhead, answering the question for them. James smiled, and Thomas found himself smiling back.

"It appears we are," Thomas said, relaxing slightly into the old cushions. "At least until the worst passes."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, sipping tea and listening to the storm rage beyond the library walls. Thomas found himself studying James' hands, his elegant fingers gripping the mug, a small scar across one knuckle, nails neatly trimmed. Hands that had touched him with such subtle confidence in the stacks.

"You mentioned a separation, earlier," James said finally, his voice soft in the candlelit room. "Eight years is a long time."

Thomas tensed slightly, then consciously relaxed his shoulders. "Yes."

"What happened? If you don't mind me asking."

Thomas stared into his tea, watching the dim reflection of candlelight ripple across its surface. He never discussed David. Not with colleagues, not with the few friends he had managed to cling onto since the breakup. Certainly not with strangers. And yet...

"I don't really know," he admitted, at last. "That's the worst part. One minute we were planning a holiday to Greece, and the next he was packing his things."

Thomas took a sip of tea, watching James' face for a reaction, heart suddenly pounding. There it was, the moment of revelation. Despite the growing intimacy between them, despite the way James had looked at him, despite the hand that had lingered on his waist and his back, there was still that moment of uncertainty. That fear of misreading signals that every gay man knew too well. He watched James' face carefully.

James' expression didn't change. No surprise, no discomfort, not even the too-careful neutrality of someone carefully schooling their face into a lack of reaction. Instead he nodded, with what looked like genuine understanding.

"That must have been difficult," he said. "Especially after so long together."

Thomas felt something uncoil in his chest, a tension he hadn't fully acknowledged until it released. "It was," he agreed, relief making him light-headed. Or perhaps that was the way James was looking at him now, with a new openness, a shared understanding. "His name was David. Is David. He said I lived too much in my head, that I was 'emotionally unavailable'."

"I know something about that accusation," James said, with a wry smile. "My ex said almost the same thing when he left. That I was physically present but mentally elsewhere. Always thinking about work, about books, about ideas. Not looking enough at the person sitting across from me."

Thomas nodded, warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the tea. "David said something similar," he said.

"Is that why you appreciate the order here? The silence?"

"Partly." Thomas felt exposed, but not uncomfortably so. "Books don't suddenly change the rules on you. They don't wake up one day and decide that they need something else."

"No," James said, with a small laugh. "They're consistent. Safe."

"But limited," Thomas added, surprising himself.

Their knees were touching now, though Thomas couldn't remember either of them moving closer. The candlelight cast a warm glow on James' face, highlighting the slight stubble along his jaw, the curve of his lips.

"Can I ask you something personal?" James asked.

Thomas nodded, heart quickening again.

"When you saw me in the reading room tonight, what made you break your rules? Why let me stay after hours?"

Thomas considered deflecting, offering some professional platitude about academic courtesy. Instead he found himself saying, "I liked how still you were. How completely absorbed. Most people move through the world so carelessly, but you..." He trailed off, suddenly self conscious.

"But I what?" James prompted, smiling again, a smile that said It's okay. You can be vulnerable. It's safe.

"There was something about your focus that felt familiar. Like we understood something about each other before we'd even spoken."

James set his mug down on the side table, shifted slightly closer. His calf was pressed up against Thomas' now. "I felt it, too," he said, his voice lower than before. "When you approached me. I'd been watching you for nearly an hour."

Thomas looked up, surprised. "You had?"

"Between pages. Every time you'd pass by with your cart." James smiled, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "I was hoping you'd notice me."

"I thought I was being subtle," Thomas said, warmth spreading across his face.

"About as subtle as I was," James replied.

The candlelight flickered between them. James reached out slowly and took Thomas' mug from his hands, placed it beside his on the table. The small gesture felt monumental somehow, as if removing the final barrier between them.

When James turned back his expression had changed, the scholarly reserve replaced by something more direct, more honest. Thomas felt something inside him respond in kind, a wall beginning to crumble, a door long closed starting to open.

Outside the storm continued, but it felt distant now, an irrelevance in the small world they'd created in this room.

James leaned forward, his eyes never leaving Thomas'. "I should tell you," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "that I didn't come here tonight just for Auden."

Thomas' breath caught. "No?"

"I've seen you before. In the faculty lounge, at orientation." James shifted closer, the sofa cushion dipping under his weight. "I wanted to introduce myself, but-"

"But?"

"You seemed so contained. Complete in yourself." A small smile played across his lips. "I thought you might not welcome the interruption."

Thomas felt something unravelling inside him, a tension held for so long he'd forgotten it was there. "I would have welcomed it," he said.

James reached out, slowly, deliberately, and brushed his fingers against Thomas' temple, tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. The touch was feather-light but electric, sending currents racing down Thomas' spine.

"May I?" James asked, his hand hovering near Thomas' face.

Thomas nodded, unable to find his voice. James cupped his cheek, thumb brushing gently against his lower lip. His heart was racing, his skin hypersensitive to every point of contact.

"I've been wanting to do this since I saw you in the stacks," James murmured.

"What's stopping you now?" Thomas asked, surprising himself with his boldness.

James smiled, eyes darkening. "Professional boundaries, for one."

"I think we may have already crossed those," Thomas said, pressing his leg harder against James', feeling pressure as the other man pressed back.

"True." James' thumb traced the outline of Thomas' mouth, sending shivers through him. "Then there's the fact that we've just met."

Thomas turned his face slightly, pressed his lips against James' palm. "It doesn't feel that way, does it?"

James inhaled sharply. "No. It doesn't."

"I want to kiss you," James said, the directness of his words making Thomas' stomach tighten with anticipation. "I've wanted to since I first saw you."

Thomas leaned forward, closing the distance between them. "Then kiss me."

Their lips met softly at first, a gentle exploration. James' lips were soft, warm, matching Thomas' pressure without being aggressive. James' hand slid to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, drawing him closer. The kiss deepened, became more urgent as James' tongue probed against his lips, months of solitude dissolving in the heat between them.

Thomas felt himself being gently pressed back against the arm of the sofa, James' weight shifting over him. He welcomed it, hands finally free to explore the body he'd been surreptitiously admiring all evening. He slipped them up James' back, felt muscles flex and roll beneath his shirt, traced the hard lines of his shoulder blades.

James broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. "This is-"

"Unexpected?" James offered, his own voice unsteady.

"Perfect," James corrected, pressing his forehead against Thomas'. "But perhaps not on this sofa in the staff room."

Thomas laughed softly. "Not the most comfortable spot, no."

"Is there somewhere..." He trailed off, eyes questioning.

Thomas considered for a moment. "The reading room has these old leather chaises. Victorian. Surprisingly comfortable." He paused. "Big enough for two."

James smiled, a slow, heated smile that quickened Thomas' pulse. "Lead the way, librarian."

Thomas stood, extending his hand. James took it, lacing their fingers together in a gesture that somehow felt more intimate than their kiss. He picked up the lantern with his free hand, its glow creating a small sphere of warmth around them.

"Are you sure about this?" Thomas asked, suddenly hesitant. "We hardly know each other."

James stepped closer, until they were sharing breath again. He brushed his lips against Thomas' again, briefly. "I'm sure," he said.

The lantern cast elongated shadows across the reading room as Thomas led James through the darkness. The rain continued its assault against the tall windows, but the thunder had moved further away, rumbling in the distance.

Thomas guided them to an alcove where three leather chaises were arranged in a semicircle facing away from the windows. They were relics of another era, deep burgundy leather worn to buttery softness through decades of use.

"These were here when I started," Thomas said, setting the lantern on a nearby table. Its dim golden light caught the rich leather, warming it to the colour of aged wine. "The university keeps threatening to replace them, but I've managed to protect them so far."

James ran his hand over the smooth surface. "I can see why," he said. "They're beautiful." He looked up, meeting Thomas' eyes. "Like their protector."

Thomas felt heat rise to his face again. He wasn't used to compliments, had forgotten how to receive them gracefully. James seemed to sense his discomfort and smiled, reaching out to draw him closer.

"Come here," he said, softly.

Thomas stepped into the circle of his arms, felt James' hands slide around his waist. The heat of him was intoxicating, his body solid and real against Thomas' own.

"I'm not very good at this," Thomas said, his hands settling hesitantly on James' shoulders.

"At what?" James asked, his thumbs tracing slow circles against Thomas' lower back.

"This. Being seen."

James' smile deepened, his eyes flashing gold. "Then let me look at you properly."

He stepped back, his hands moving to the buttons of Thomas' cardigan. He unfastened them slowly, one by one, his eyes never leaving Thomas' face. Thomas stood perfectly still, heart hammering against his ribs as James slipped the cardigan from his shoulders, draped it carefully over the back of a chair.

"May I?" James asked, fingers hovering at the knot of Thomas' tie.

Thomas nodded, unable to speak. James worked the knot loose with deft fingers, drawing the silk slowly from under his collar. The whisper of fabric against fabric sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet room, even against the backdrop of rain hammering above them.

"Your turn," James murmured.

Thomas reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he began unbuttoning James' shirt. The fabric parted to reveal warm skin and a soft dusting of hair across his chest. Thomas found his confidence growing as he pushed the shirt back, exposing broad shoulders and the defined muscles of Thomas' torso.

"You're beautiful," Thomas said, words little more than an exhalation.

James smiled, capturing Thomas' hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. "See? You're better at this than you think."

He drew Thomas towards the chaise, guiding him to sit. The leather creaked softly beneath them as James settled beside him, their thighs pressed together once more.

James leaned in, his mouth finding Thomas' again, deeper this time, more urgent. His hands worked at the buttons of James' shirt, his touch leaving trails of heat along Thomas' skin as the fabric parted. When his fingers brushed against a nipple, Thomas gasped into his mouth.

"Sensitive?" James murmured against his lips. Thomas nodded, words fleeing him again.

"Good," James said, replacing his fingers with his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue sent electricity coursing through Thomas' body. As James' mouth explored his chest he leaned back against the chaise, surrendering to sensation. His hands found James' hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as James moved lower, trailing kisses across his stomach.

James slipped to the floor, kneeling between Thomas' legs and looking up at him, their eyes meeting as his fingers worked at Thomas' belt. The question in his gaze was clear, seeking permission. Thomas nodded, his throat too dry for words. The leather creaked as he shifted, allowing James to slide the belt free, to unfasten his trousers with deliberate slowness.

"I've been thinking about this all night," James murmured, his breath warm against Thomas' skin as he eased the fabric down.

Thomas shivered as the cool air touched his newly-exposed skin, then gasped as James' warm hand replaced it. His head fell back against the chaise, eyes closing as James continued his exploration downward.

"Look at me," James whispered.

Thomas forced his eyes open, meeting James' gaze as the other man settled between his legs, hand circled loosely around the base of Thomas' cock, grip so soft that Thomas could barely feel it. The sight of him there, candlelight playing across his features, was almost too intimate to bear. Thomas had forgotten what it was like to be wanted this way, to be the centre of someone's attention.

James' voice was deep with desire when he spoke. "I want to taste you."

James lowered his head, and Thomas watched as he disappeared inside the other man's mouth. The sensation was almost overwhelming, wet heat enveloping him, the gentle pressure of James' tongue circling around him. Thomas' fingers tightened in James' hair, drawing a pleased hum from the other man that sent vibrations through his entire body.

James continued his attentions, his hands gripping Thomas' thighs as he explored with his mouth. Thomas lost himself to the sensation, all thoughts of the library, the storm, even his own name dissolving in the pleasure building within him. His world narrowed to the point where they connected, to the sight of James moving between his legs, to the sounds of their shared passion echoing softly in the reading room.

Thomas felt himself approaching the edge, tension building in his core. His hand tightened in James' hair in warning. "James, I can't-"

James pulled back, releasing him with a soft, wet pop, and smiled as he met Thomas' eyes. Thomas groaned, cock pulsing between his legs as the source of pleasure was removed. His breath was ragged in his chest. Thomas' lips glistened in the dim light. "Not yet," he said.

James rose from his knees with fluid grace, his eyes never leaving Thomas'. He began to unfasten his own trousers, movements deliberate and unhurried despite the obvious tension in his body. Thomas watched, transfixed, as James revealed himself fully.

"You're beautiful," Thomas breathed, echoing his earlier words.

James smiled, the expression a mixture of vulnerability and desire. He leaned down, hands resting his weight on Thomas' thighs, kissing him deeply. Thomas could taste himself on the other man's lips.

"I want to feel you," James whispered against his mouth. "All of you."

Thomas nodded, words still beyond his grasp. James raised his knee onto the chaise, then the other, positioning himself over Thomas. Again he leaned down and they kissed, Thomas feeling himself pushed back into the leather, the weight of the other man crushing him into the chaise. Thomas' hands settled on James' hips, steadying him as he hovered above.

James broke the kiss for a second, raised his hand to his mouth, coated his palm with his tongue. Then he dropped his hand between them, grasping for Thomas' cock as they kissed again, spreading his spit over Thomas' flesh. Thomas gasped, felt a surge of pleasure.

Then James' hand was gone, the man reaching behind himself, probing where Thomas couldn't see. His head was pressed into the hollow between Thomas' clavicle and his neck, his breath warm on Thomas' skin as his breath caught.

"I've been thinking about this since I first saw you," James said, again.

Thomas' hands tightened on James' hips. "Show me," he said.

James positioned himself above Thomas, their eyes locked as he slowly began to lower himself. Thomas fought to keep his eyes open against the overwhelming sensation of James taking him in, tight heat enveloping him inch by exquisite inch.

"Thomas," James breathed, as he settled fully into Thomas' lap.

They remained still for a moment, adjusting to the sensation of being joined. Thomas reached up to cup James' face, drawing him down for a kiss that was surprisingly tender.

"Okay?" Thomas asked against his lips.

James nodded, beginning to rock his hips in a gentle rhythm. "More than okay."

He braced his hands on Thomas' shoulders as he moved, finding a pace that made them both gasp. The ancient leather chaise creaked beneath them, a counterpoint to their quickening breaths and soft moans. Thomas' hands roamed across James' thighs and back, feeling the muscles flex and release with each movement. His nose was filled with the scent of the other man, that warm musk he'd smelled earlier now surrounding him, intoxicating him.

James rode him with growing confidence, his body arching as he found the perfect angle. Thomas watched in awe as pleasure transformed James' face, any reserve in the man completely abandoned in the heat of their connection. When Thomas reached between them to wrap his hand around James the other man gasped, his rhythm faltering momentarily before resuming with new intensity. He throbbed in Thomas' grip, hard shaft of muscle pulsing as he plunged his body downwards onto Thomas.

"Thomas," James moaned, his movements becoming more urgent. "I'm close."

"Yes," Thomas breathed, his own release again building, inexorably, undeniably. "Let go for me."

James' body tensed, his head falling back as he found his release. The sight of him coming undone, the feeling of his cock pulsing in Thomas' grip, the hot wetness cascading onto his stomach and chest, pushed Thomas over the edge. His hips lifted off the chaise as he pulsed deep inside James, the other man's name a litany on his lips.

They remained joined as the aftershocks subsided, James collapsing forward onto Thomas' chest, his breathing gradually slowing to match Thomas' own. Thomas wrapped his arms around James, holding him close as they both drifted in the aftermath of pleasure.

When James finally moved to lie beside him, the chaise barely accommodating their entangled bodies, Thomas felt an unexpected vulnerability wash over him. It had been so long since he'd been this intimate with anyone, not just physically but emotionally exposed.

James seemed to sense the shift in his mood, his sudden hesitation. He pulled him closer, stroking his hair with gentle fingers. "Stay with me," he murmured. "Don't retreat into your head just yet."

Thomas exhaled slowly, allowing himself to relax into James' embrace. "I'm here," he said, softly.

"Good," James replied, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Because this isn't just about tonight for me."

Thomas turned to look at him, surprised by the admission.

"Too much?" James asked with a small, uncertain smile.

"No," Thomas said, realizing it was true. "Not too much at all."

They lay together on the narrow chaise, limbs entangled, sharing warmth against the cooling air of the library. The storm had subsided to a gentle patter against the windows, no longer furious but soothing.

Thomas watched the shadows cast by the lantern dance across the ceiling, his fingers absently tracing patterns on James' shoulder. The weight of the other man against his side felt both foreign and familiar, as if his body had been waiting for this particular presence without his knowledge.

"What are you thinking?" James asked, voice soft in the quiet room.

Thomas hesitated. His instinct was to deflect, to offer some innocuous observation about the weather or the comfort of the chaise. But something about the still darkness, the intimacy they'd just shared, made honesty seem not just possible but necessary.

"That I didn't expect any of this when I came to work this morning," he said. "That I'm not sure what happens next."

James shifted, propped himself up on one elbow to look at Thomas properly.

"What would you like to happen next?" James asked.

Thomas let his eyes trace the lines of James' face, the slight stubble on his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the small crease between his brows that deepened as he waited for an answer.

"I'm not good at this," Thomas said, finally. "The aftermath. The morning after."

"It's not morning yet," James reminded him. "And I'm not asking for some grand declaration." His hand found Thomas', interlacing their fingers. "Just... would you have dinner with me tomorrow? Or today, I suppose."

Thomas felt a smile tugging at his lips. "That simple?"

"That simple." James pressed a kiss to Thomas' knuckles. "Though I should warn you, I do have ulterior motives involving more access to your special collections."

A surprised laugh rumbled up from Thomas' chest. "Is that what we're calling it?"

James grinned, the tension breaking between them. "Well, you do guard your rare editions very carefully."

"I only allow access to very select researchers," Thomas said.

They fell silent again, Thomas feeling lighter than he had in months, content to listen to the soft sounds of their breathing and the distant patter of rain. He found himself wondering about practical matters - what time it was, whether the storm had passed enough for them to leave, what state they were going to leave the place in.

As if reading his thoughts, James sat up. "We should probably find our clothes," he said. "Clean up a bit."

"Probably," Thomas agreed, making no move to disentangle himself.

James smiled, pressed a kiss against his shoulder before swinging his legs off the side of the chaise. "I'll help you put everything back in order. Wouldn't want anyone to suspect the head librarian had been engaged in extracurricular activities."

Thomas watched as James stood, admiring the play of muscles beneath his skin as he stretched. He'd always thought there was something profoundly intimate about watching someone dress, somehow more intimate than watching them take their clothes off in the first place. Each piece of clothing James put on rebuilt the public persona that had been temporarily set aside to reveal the private man beneath.

Following suit, Thomas gathered his own clothes. As he buttoned his shirt, a thought occurred to him. "How will you get home? It's the middle of the night."

James paused, his own shirt half-buttoned. "I hadn't thought that far ahead," he said. "I was a bit distracted."

"I live just across the quad," Thomas said, before he could second guess himself. "It's only a five minute walk, even in the rain."

"Is that an invitation?" James asked, eyebrows raised, though his tone was light.

Thomas felt a moment of panic, then relaxed. "Yes," he said, simply. "If you'd like it to be."

James crossed the space between them, helping Thomas straighten his collar with careful fingers. "I would," he said, pressing a soft kiss to Thomas' lips. "Though I should warn you, I'm a terrible blanket thief."

Thomas smiled against his mouth. "I'll take my chances."

They finished dressing in companionable silence, then set about restoring order to their impromptu sanctuary. Thomas arranged the chaises back into their proper positions while James collected their mugs from the staff room and extinguished the candles.

By the time they were ready to leave the rain had nearly stopped, just a light drizzle remaining. Thomas performed his closing routine quickly, checking doors, turning off lights, setting the alarm, all while acutely aware of James waiting patiently by the main entrance.

"Ready?" James asked as Thomas finally approached, keys in hand.

"Ready," Thomas said, opening the heavy doors - still unlocked, despite the late hour, somehow he'd never quite got around to closing up properly earlier - and gesturing James through.

Outside the air was cool and fresh, everything cleansed by the storm. Puddles glimmered dark and orange in the night, reflecting the streetlights, miniature constellations on the pavement. The quad was deserted, the university buildings dark.

They walked side by side, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed, neither speaking but both intensely aware of each step taking them closer to Thomas' home.

At the entrance to his building Thomas paused, key in hand, suddenly nervous again. "It's nothing special," he warned. "Just a small flat. Barely more than halls of residence, really."

James smiled, reached out to brush a raindrop from Thomas' cheek. "I'm not here for the accommodations," he said softly.

A warmth spread through Thomas that had nothing to do with physical desire and everything to do with what he saw in James' eyes, the promise of something that might last beyond this rain-soaked night.

He turned the key and led James inside, thinking that perhaps David had been right about one thing. He had been living too much inside his own head, too contained within himself. But sometimes, he realised, the most violent storms brought the most welcome changes.

Outside, the first birds began to sing, greeting the clearing sky with song that seemed to promise a new beginning.