Ā Ā heās stuck in a cycle of monotony, as per usual, and it brings the same level of comfort it typically does. itās easy, routine, practically muscle memory at this point. filing books, or sitting tucked away behind the front desk, eyes downcast, attempting to look like heās doing something important until someone decides to check out. if heās being honest, his job mostly entails sitting around and doing a whole lot of nothing. making up useless tasks, or taking category of the people scattered around the wide open space, attempting to figure them out based solely on their choice of reading material. assigning each stranger a specific sort of personality type to go with each fantasy heās created in his mind. idealizing. heās no stranger to that. itās kind of weird, but it keeps him occupied. heās grown mildly attached to a few regulars because of it, which is even weirder, but heās easy like that. sometimes he thinks all someone has to do is look at him the right way, offer a friendly smile, and heād never get them out of his head again.
Ā Ā heās constantly taking stock of every subtle interaction, every easy conversation, as few and far between as they are. not that he has anyone to share the blame with there. he keeps to himself, for the most part, at ease in the comfortable silence heās created for himself, the simple life. thatās what he tells people anyway. and sometimes, when you lie to other people enough, you start to believe it yourself. heās cracked the code. the key to happiness, he thinks, is to pretend youāve already found it. itās worked out okay for him so far.Ā
Ā Ā itās not like he has to justify anything to anyone, except for himself. his social life is pretty lacking, his love life is nonexistent, and his momās weekly check in calls have turned to monthly check ins, to bi monthly, to lucky if he hears from her at all. itās fine, really. he has his work, his books, his coveted 1st generation ipod, which has been a permanent fixture on him for as long as he can remember. itās admittedly on itās last leg, but he keeps it held tightly, fiddles with it mindlessly, his mind nice and quiet with the low hum of music always quietly playing in the background. his own sad soundtrack. thereās a cliche in it somewhere, but it makes him feel better. it also makes people less likely to approach him, headphones effectively creating a block between him, and the rest of the world. again, he does this to himself. itās all very premeditated.Ā
Ā Ā heās doing it right now, in fact, sitting behind the desk with his knees drawn to his chest in a position that might look uncomfortable, and maybe slightly strange, but itās been slow today, so heās let himself drift off a bit. heās got a copy of catcher in the rye balanced precariously against his knees, and he feels a little bit lame about it, sort of predictable. he doubts anyone else is judging him based on his taste of literature, though. he doubts anyone is looking at him at all, realistically. so the sound of someone speaking startles him, immediately straightening out a bit so heās sitting normally. he lifts his gaze, and he recognizes him, of course he does, because heās become one of his regulars. he tries not to make a face at that thought, the his, as if he has some sort of claim over the stranger. all he really knows about him is his name, and thatās only because he read his library card the first time heād handed it over.
Ā Ā he wants to know his now too, though, and it catches him off guard, leaving him gaping at him stupidly for half a second. he looks down at his own name tag like heās forgotten what it says, as if his own name has just slipped his mind. āoh. yeah, itās dominic,ā he says finally, keeping his voice even.Ā āor dom,ā he does make a bit of a face at that, a small downturn of his lips.Ā āi donāt really like that though.ā he doesnāt know why he told him that. no one calls him dom. except for his dad. well, not anymore. he shakes his head a bit, as if thatāll help clear his thoughts.Ā
Ā Ā he takes the book heās slid in his direction, turning it over in his hands like heās forgotten how to do his job, and then he checks back in suddenly, scanning it for him.Ā āinteresting choice. very, uh - violent, no?ā he says, or more like asks, because he tends to stray away from that sort of thing. he has a general idea of the premise, though.Ā
Ā Ā heās always had a certain eye for details and an impressive memory to go along with it, as if his mind is some sort of database, made to soak in his surroundings, to pick apart, to make sense of. if he were any regular person, it might be a little maddening, to know so much without needing to ask, but to him itās always been considered a sort of GIFT. heās caught a glimpse of the novel clutched in his hands, one he wouldāve recognized by cover alone, and heās already combing through the plot in his mind before the other even has a chance to speak, for anything that might possess some sort of meaning.Ā
Ā Ā everything has meaning. he decided this a long time ago, and lately the sorts of literature heās been choosing to read have been a point of interest to him. shitty romance novels that practically boast an easy target. it also tells him that heās at least a little bit attention-starved, but he couldāve put that together without the books. he doesnāt often go anywhere, or have any company, heās learned that from the handful of VISITS heās made to his place. he couldnāt help but follow him home after work a couple weeks ago, and a few times since then. he needed to know more. it was harmless. he didnāt trespass. he only watchedā took a few photographs. no harm done.
Ā Ā he likes watching the recognition pool into his eyes when he looks at him, only proving the success of his attempts to make himself feel familiar, SAFE. it makes the smile on his lips feel a little more genuine, and he supposes it is, but to him it feels more like the grin of a predator cradling his unsuspecting prey in his hands for the first time. it only sort of widens watching him sort of fumbling for a moment until he can answer him. cute, he thinks.
Ā Ā he catches the small frown on his lips for only a brief moment, the way he backtracks almost immediately and itās exactly what he wants, the chance to put him at ease. he must be nervous. ā sāokay, i wonāt call you that. iāll call you whatever you like, ā he assures him, his voice even and almost soft, ā does anyone ever call you nic ?Ā ā he asks because it would be nice to have his own little nickname for him, something PERSONAL between them even if he does like the way his full name feels on his tongue.
Ā Ā he sort of hums in agreement with him as he scans his book, ā youāre right, but itās not so much about the violence to me, ā he starts, which is a truth and a lie, ā itās about this sort of innate darkness in humanity, the lengths we would go for the things we feel that we NEED, regardless of the consequences. ā itās a little ironic now that heās saying it out loud. he waits a beat before speaking again, ā sorry if thatās a little too dark for your monday afternoon, ā he adds, keeping his eyes trained on him, trying to keep from letting his gaze dip to look at that pretty throat, right in front of him.
