it is at moments after i have dreamed {Edward}

[WESTON BRODERICK]

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

Slowly, carefully, Wes’s fingers brushed their way across the books’ spines, tapping a sort of unknown rhythm as he made his way down the aisle and back around, as aimless in his wanderings as he ever was without the presence of Angel and her spontaneity. Some would probably say he couldn’t function without her. He didn’t much mind. Of course, he knew he could—he’d done just fine getting to the library, and would do just fine finding his way back to the dorms as well, like always—but the point didn’t really bare arguing, because at the same time, he was well aware he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t, rather. Either way, he didn’t much like to think about it, just so long as things stayed the same.

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

Which was why he was here, of course. Without her. Libraries and Angel didn’t get along, and never really had; they’d discovered this at a young age, and he had since to return with her, even if the errand was for her benefit. Sometimes though, he liked the quiet. Like if he just stood there, buried far enough back in the shelves and just closed his eyes and breathed, he could hear them speak. Now, he knew he knew the thought was crazy—Angel had told him so, when the first shared the theory with her a few years ago—but that never stopped him. The library, whether in Venice Beach or New York City, was a place that oftentimes gave him more rest than the average night, typically spent tossing and turning in a fit of half-sleep and dreamless fatigue. He was used to it, but still. Wes came to the library when he was tired. He was tired often.

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

Today, however, Wes wasn’t simply looking for silence or solace or anything, really. He was browsing. Aimlessly wandering as only a teenager with more time than they knew what to do with could. He’d started in the classics section, but none of that had really interested him; too much Catcher in the Rye and not enough To Kill a Mockingbird. Too much of both, really, the more he thought about it.

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing


Besides, he had something he was looking for. Something…important. He hadn’t known, of course, until he’d actually made it up to the stairs and to the poetry section, but the minute he set foot down the aisle he’d apparently been looking for, he knew he’d nailed it. Cummings. The single greatest poet ever to have lived, in Wes’s opinion. In truth, he had many of the man’s works memorized, as well as an old, worn paperback copy of about one hundred poems stuffed somewhere in his dorm room, but he didn’t want any of that right now. Now, he wanted to read. To feel the crack of a hardcover opening and smell the old, ripened smell of pages well worn and words well traced. Well, maybe that was a bit dramatic. Still, this was specific. There was something he needed to remember, or he was going to stay up all night thinking about it. Which was probably going to happen anyway, but still. At least in finding it, whatever it was, there would be an illusion of safety.

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

He closed his eyes, pulling a book off the shelf at random, fingers ceasing their aimless tapping along the shelves. Eyes opened, he flipped to the table of contents, finger scanning its way down the page until he finally came upon what he wanted. There. Perfect. It’d been bothering him all day, this nagging feeling of incompletion, and finally, he was going to be able to put it to rest.


“Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands,” Wes whispered in a voice that was quiet even by library standards, a grin wider than most he gave when not in Angel’s vicinity spreading across his face. Fantastic. It had definitely been worth the wait.

[EDWARD PEARSON]

❂ ❂ ❂ ❂ ❂This library was essentially his home here. People looking for him, of whom there were none, would sooner find him here or in Starbucks than find him in his dorm.

There were various reasons why he felt so happy there. It pleased all his senses, in ways that he'd never experienced in any other way.

The sound of silence was the most noticeable. It wasn't quite silent, no where ever was, but oh it was so close. No meaningless noise, no idle chatter. He could almost hear people's minds at work, and he could certainly hear the book pages turning. Oh such a beautiful sound, the sound of paper hitting paper, reminiscent of wind blowing through leaves. The stark contrast between this and his home, without a moment's peace, was startling when he first arrive. By now, it was a joy. It felt like returning to a loved one. His ears welcomed the change from the bustling streets of New York, with it's loud residents and louder traffic.

His nose caught on to the change next, once it had lost all the bitter scents of the coffee and fast food that it found outside. The smells here were older, much older, dust and old paper and the slightly harsh smell of old binding glue invaded his nose. He inhaled deeply as soon as he stepped into the building, letting the air calm him, and move down to find his tastebuds. It washed away any leftover taste of his breakfast and lunch that he arrive with, and somehow left him with less to think about; ready to fill his brain with new information, more important than what he'd eaten that day.

And it was with this lack of thoughts that he came to follow the familiar path up to the higher levels, his eyes scanning over all the students and academics nestled in their chosen study areas as he went past. Some chose the more conventional chairs and desks, finding it easier to spread their work out, while others chose to sit in the aisles, surrounded by the books they enjoyed so much. Edward tended to stay in the aisle, leaned back against a wall or pillar, picking up book after book - often changing halfway through.

He climbed up a little higher, his fingers lightly tracing the bookshelves on the way past before coming to rest on the top of the banister as he noticed another person standing in front of the books he hoped to find. He decided to wait; normally people moved away in time and there was little point in clearing his throat or such for now. Perhaps after a little while, but for now he was content to wait.❂ ❂ ❂ ❂ ❂

And one man in his time plays many parts.

word count:458
mood:Happy ^.^
tag:Weston
credit:jacksome111@caution 2.0!
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[WESTON BRODERICK]

He noticed the intruder, of course. Wes always noticed when people were out of place, particularly when the place they were out of meant coming into his space. Still, he didn’t move. Maybe they’d go away. Maybe they’d grab a book and leave, as people were supposed to do among the bookshelves; he’d never quite gotten used to that aspect of libraries. Wes was a shelf reader. He picked, flipped and scanned his way through books as he perused the aisles, only taking stories home if they—as he liked to describe it—whispered to him. And even then, well, he hardly ever read outside of the library (that was, unless Angel happened to be in detention or somewhere else without him), time being so constantly consumed with one manner of shenanigan or another. If he didn’t look at the shelf, who was to say he’d ever look at all?

Paying the stranger he could vaguely see out the corner of his eye no mind, Wes shuffled the book’s pages until he came across yet another poem, titled “you shall above all things be glad and young.” He knew it, of course. Cummings was his favorite for a reason. Still, there was most definitely a difference reading from the page as opposed to merely remembering. Everything was much sharper.

He paused, coming to the end of the poem, for the stranger still hadn’t left. It figured. Shutting the book with a soft thud, Wes turned his head to look at the man, who was certainly a few years older than he. Expression not anywhere near annoyed, although he felt he had every reason to be irked, Wes spoke casually, the normal volume of his voice just perfect for a library setting. “Are you looking for something?”

He had to be, of course; most people didn’t just daydream at random. Even so, Wes felt obligated to ask. He put the book he’d been holding back on its shelf, gentle in his movements as though he might break the thing.

[EDWARD PEARSON]

❂ ❂ ❂ ❂ ❂He panicked a little; people weren't supposed to talk to each other in libraries. It just didn't happen. You went to libraries to sit and think and read about other people thinking. You didn't discuss it, you didn't ask other people things...you found it out. You learned by yourself. So this sudden voice in a sea of thoughts startled Edward. He floundered some before managing to mumble out, "Just...looking around, that's all. Don't want anything in particular..."

Keeping his limbs as close to him as humanely possible, he edged around the younger man, trying to get to the books he was very definitely not wanting in particular. He'd never felt so awkward. That was a lie. However, this situation was certainly not in his top five, "Best situations of his life," list; it wouldn't even be there if he had such a list. After picking out a book at random in the hope that it would be a good one, he glanced briefly at the book the boy had picked. e.e.cummings. A very good choice, though not exactly the normal reading of...teenage boys. How old could the kid be anyway? Seventeen or so, he supposed. Not your usual library go-er, nor your usual Cummings reader.

Not wanting to hang around for too much longer, Edward took the book he'd grabbed and fled off down the aisle to sit, cross-legged, on the carpet at the end of it. Opening to the front page, he found it to be a similar book to the one Weston had been reading; a poetry anthology. Satisfied for now with his lucky dip choice, he settled himself down, let the strap from his bag slip off his shoulder, and let himself get lost in the verse flowing on the page. ❂ ❂ ❂ ❂ ❂

And one man in his time plays many parts.

word count:310
mood:Sleepy kitty, purr purr purr
tag:Weston
credit:jacksome111@caution 2.0!
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