Blaine breathes a sigh of relief when he finally closes the heavy wooden door behind him and steps into the library. The weather has been chilly all week, and getting away from the biting wind and into the welcoming warmth of the old campus library almost makes his whole body sag in relief. His satchel weighs a ton, his fingers are slowly starting to melt inside his woolly gloves, and he really would just like to sink into one of the library's comfortable armchairs, fall asleep with a good book on his lap and get woken up by a librarian right before closing time.

But he's a man on a mission. His paper about the historical development of musical therapy won't write itself, so Blaine makes his way through the library into the reading room, letting his gaze drift over the tall bookshelves and the countless books in them.

Blaine has always felt calm in the campus library, ever since he started his studies. Even when he was little he used to go to the library in his hometown to relax, to unwind after a stressful day. The quietness, the soft scent of paper and wood, the shuffling footsteps of the librarians, the way sunlight makes patterns on the walls - something about it all makes him feel at home, at peace with everything and everyone. Like he's surrounded by millions of other people and their universal longings, hidden away on the pages of different books, making him feel like he belongs. It's a good feeling. A comforting feeling.

The reading room is surprisingly empty when he steps inside. There is an older woman sitting in one of the armchairs in the corner, lost in the book she is holding frighteningly close to her face. There is also a boy with brown hair, a thick scarf wrapped around his neck, hunched over the biggest table in the room. A novel is resting open in front of the boy, his index finger drawing figures on the pages. He doesn't look up when Blaine sits down a few chairs from him, but Blaine smiles at him nevertheless. Readers are always kindred spirits.

Blaine sets his laptop on the table, along with the books and notes he has about musical therapy, and starts working. It takes a moment, but soon he is completely immersed in his essay, writing and editing and deleting, checking his references and marking them correctly (his professor is a stickler for details). Occasionally he stops, stares at the bookshelf opposite him for a while, trying to gather his thoughts, but mostly his eyes stay fixed on the screen of his laptop or on his own handwriting sprawling across his notes, his gaze not straying to the room's other occupants.

An hour or two later, when Blaine is trying to decide whether or not he should mention the most recent developments in the body or in the conclusion of his paper, he hears a soft sniffle. He doesn't pay much attention to it at first; after all, the weather has been cold. Half of the students and lecturers in Blaine's classes seem to have caught the annual winter flu, and quiet sniffles and coughs have become a recurring occurrence.

It's only when he hears someone's breath hitch in a miserable way that Blaine lifts his head and looks around the reading room. The woman in the corner has fallen asleep, but as Blaine turns to look at the boy sitting closer to him he notices that the boy is... crying. Actually crying - his shoulders are trembling, his fingers clutching the book in front of him, silent tears falling down his cheeks as his eyes keep staring at the pages of the book. The boy himself doesn't even seem to notice the tears disappearing into his scarf.

Blaine swallows roughly. He doesn't really know what he should do; whether he should avert his eyes and pretend he didn't see anything or offer some comfort instead. He hates seeing people upset, always has and always will, and he has just decided to ask the boy if he's alright, if something's wrong - but then the boy turns a page, a quiet whimper escaping his throat, and Blaine realizes that the boy is crying because of the book. He's reading something that has taken such a hold of his heart that he can't stop reading, can't stop crying, can't stop forgetting the whole world around him, completely lost in whatever words he is reading.

And now Blaine can't stop staring at him.

Blaine reads books, of course he does, he's always been a bit of a bookworm - but he has never found a book that would have made him cry like the boy is crying right now, unabashed and unhinged, as if the words are piercing right through his heart and soul.

Blaine has never felt like that. Not because of a book. Never. The tears on the boy's face have made Blaine forget everything about musical therapy, about essays and deadlines and references. He just wants to know what the boy is reading, what book is making him cry like that in the middle of a campus library on a cold winter's day.

Blaine keeps glancing at the boy over his laptop after that, as discreetly as he can, and eventually the tears stop. The boy straightens his back, closes the book gently, and huffs out a soft laugh as he wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. Blaine tries to look busy, shuffling his notes here and there, but when the boy stands up and pulls on his coat Blaine manages to catch the name of the book the boy was reading.

The Book Thief.

The boy picks up the book, his cheeks still blotchy from tears, but his whole face is open, as if his whole mind, his whole being has been opened by the book he was reading. He walks past Blaine on his way out, not even noticing him, and then he's gone, disappeared between the bookshelves, leaving Blaine alone with a sleeping old woman and his own scattered thoughts.

That night Blaine lies on his bed, reads and reads and reads, and when the morning sun peeks through his curtains hours later he is clutching a copy of The Book Thief against his chest, his heart beating loudly against his ribcage, his breath hitching and a few lonely tears falling down his cheeks.

He has never felt more alive.

-

The next time Blaine goes to the library the boy is there again, sitting in the same spot with a different book in front of him and a different scarf wrapped around his neck. The sight of him hunched over the desk, lost in the world of words and sentences and punctuation marks makes Blaine smile as he sits down and starts going through his own homework.

The boy doesn't cry this time, but he does giggle, a small and delicate sound escaping from his mouth. The girl sitting a few feet from them raises her head and frowns at the boy, and the boy just shrugs apologetically.

He laughs again a few minutes later, his whole face lighting up, the corners of his mouth turning up, and Blaine can't help smiling himself.

Some time later the boy gets up, puts on his coat and leaves. As he walks past Blaine once again manages to catch the name of the book he was reading. He can't help but be intrigued.

The next day Blaine finishes the book that made the boy laugh, Naïve.Super. He closes the book, flops down on his bed and smiles at the cracked ceiling of his dorm room. Wes, his roommate, asks him if he's high on drugs, and Blaine just keeps smiling.

-

It becomes a pattern after that. Whenever Blaine goes to the library, the boy is almost always there with a new book and a new scarf, the garment always matching the rest of his outfit perfectly. Blaine focuses on his own work, but he keeps glancing at the boy, trying to gauge his reactions, trying to find out what book he's reading this time.

There is that time when the boy looks concentrated, biting his lip and scrunching up his nose in thought. The book he's reading is called The Name of the Rose, and Blaine catches its name when the boy goes to get coffee and leaves the book on the table for a moment.

When Blaine finishes the book almost a week later his own mind is whirring with theories and Latin and medieval murder mysteries, and he can't shake the novel from his head for a long time.

On one sunny afternoon the boy doesn't seem to react in any way, and Blaine is almost disappointed - until the boy reaches the end of the book two hours later. The boy's eyes widen, and he closes the book with an angry slam and gets up, shaking his head and blinking his eyes against tears.

The next day Blaine throws his copy of Atonement across his room, almost hitting Wes with it. It's not fair, nothing about that book is fair, and... Just, no. No.

The next time it's a thinner book, a play actually, and the boy has the most peculiar expression on his face, like he doesn't know if he should laugh or cry, be offended or confused or amused. Blaine can't stop staring at him, mesmerized by the movements of his eyebrows, the way his mouth twitches, the way his fingers flex against the wooden table. The boy picks up a pen and a notebook halfway through the book, writes a few sentences and then continues reading.

Blaine borrows Waiting for Godot the same day. That night he wakes up Wes in the small hours of the morning to talk about the play because he can't figure out what its point is, can't figure out who Godot is supposed to be. The play is brilliant, but he can't put his finger on it, not properly, and eventually Wes throws a pillow at him and orders him to go back to bed.

Then one day the boy is reading a book called The Shadow of the Wind. His eyes are bulging and he's almost gasping for breath, turning the pages faster than ever, and Blaine can barely concentrate on his own paper. He knows it's creepy, to be this enthralled by a complete stranger, but all the books the boy has read have been wonderful so far, have given Blaine a welcomed break from his studies, and he can't help himself. He can't stop staring at the boy, can't help feeling a little disappointed on the days he's not in the library when Blaine walks in.

The boy leans closer to the book as Blaine watches, his scarf falling over the table, and a small awed smile settles on his face. Blaine looks at him, and for the first time he realizes how beautiful the boy actually is, how real and unreserved his reactions are. The boy isn't conventionally handsome, but there's something quite wonderful in his soft-looking coiffed hair, in his high cheekbones and in his eyes that seem to change color depending on what he's reading.

And in his clothes. Blaine has never seen anyone who could make clothes like that work that well.

Suddenly he wishes he had the courage to say something to the boy; maybe ask him about the books he's reading, maybe thank him for giving him such great recommendations without even knowing it, maybe tell him that when he smiles his entire face lights up in a lovely way, making the whole library seem brighter. The boy's smile makes even Blaine's own heart feels lighter and... fuller. It's an oxymoron, but that's how it feels.

For the first time Blaine also wishes the boy would notice him, sitting there on the same spot every time, sometimes even reading the same books the boy has already read. But isn't this all... creepy? Weird? Blaine doesn't know anything about the boy, nothing except the names of the books he has read and his reactions to them. He doesn't know his name, his major, his hobbies, the things that make him tick or bore him.

Blaine doesn't know anything about him, except that the mere presence of the mysterious boy seems to light up his own world in a way he has never experienced before.

The boy suddenly lifts his head, his eyes sweeping across the room as if he's aware of someone staring at him - and Blaine quickly hides behind his laptop, his cheeks burning as he types 'the shadow of the wind' into his search bar.

He doesn't sleep that night. How could he, when there are such beautiful words to be read, such beautiful boys to dream about without even closing his eyes?

-

Blaine has managed to avoid the insistent winter flu so far, but now it has finally caught up with him. He feels miserable, worn-out and tired, and he desperately wishes he could just go home and sleep for the rest of the week - but he does have an exam in a few days. He needs to study, even if his brain doesn't feel completely cooperative right now.

There are more people in the reading room this time, more students ploughing through books and more professors browsing newspapers, but Blaine's usual place is still free. He collapses on the chair, trying to drop his satchel on the table as quietly as he can, and rubs his face tiredly, barely even noticing the other people in the room. Both his body and mind ache like hell. Everyone, Wes included, has told him that the flu is supposed to pass in a few days, but it's not much of a comfort right now.

When he finally manages to lift his head, the boy is looking straight at him over his own book. He looks worried, and Blaine blinks confusedly back at him, too tired to even realize that the beautiful boy he has been creepily staring at for several weeks is actually looking back at him with his beautiful eyes holy shit.

The boy gives Blaine a small, comforting smile and turns back to his book with a slight blush.

Blaine, on the other hand, has suddenly forgotten how breathing is supposed to work.

He sits there dumbfounded, exams and essays far from his mind, until the boy gets up and goes to get coffee from the small adjacent coffee shop. He smiles down at Blaine as he walks past him. Blaine can only blink back like an idiot, once again, and then the boy is gone already, the heels of his shoes clacking against the grey floor as he walks away.

Blaine is struck by the sudden desire to do something, to say anything, but he's too much of a coward to get up and follow the boy or to even say something to him when he comes back. Besides, Blaine is way too sick to deal with spoken words right now. His heart is hammering inside his chest, and before he realizes what he's doing he has ripped a sheet of paper from his notebook and is urgently writing a message on it, pausing only to glance over his shoulder a few times to check that the boy isn't coming back yet.

Perhaps it's the flu, or some weird sense of gratitude Blaine feels towards the boy, but when he finally finishes his message he gets up, swaying a little on the spot, and walks over to the boy's place. The book the boy is reading this week is waiting on the table (The History of Love, and Blaine makes a mental note to check it out when he's feeling better), and Blaine drops his letter over it before he grabs his satchel and practically runs out of the library.

He doesn't know if his cheeks are burning from embarrassment or from the flu.

-

To the boy in the reading room with his books and scarves -

I almost asked you what was wrong the first time I saw you crying. I've always been a worrier, and seeing people upset makes me upset, but then I noticed the book you were reading and realized that you were crying because of it. Because of The Book Thief. I was interested, because I'd never read anything that moved me that much.

I borrowed the book you were reading the same day, and guess what? I cried. I didn't sleep that night, I just read and read, and then I reached the end and cried. That's how it started. Every time I come to this library, you're almost always there, with a completely new book and a different scarf around your neck. You smile or laugh or frown or slam the book on the table or stop to think when you're reading, and every time I check out the book you're reading and read it too.

That was it, really, until I realized how gorgeous you are. You were reading The Shadow of the Wind (what a book!), and I couldn't stop staring at you. My god you are beautiful. Maybe that sounds creepy when I don't even know you, but I honestly think you're the most beautiful man I have ever seen, and when you smile it lights up your face and the whole world and my heart in the best possible way.

It's not just the books you've read that move me. You move me.

I didn't think you'd even noticed me, but today you suddenly smiled at me when I came in. I guess it's not a surprise - I am always sitting in the same place, a few chairs away from you, glancing at you every once in a while and sometimes even reading the books you've already read. I had wished earlier that you would smile at me, and today you did. It... It was beautiful, just like you are, and I wish I'd had the courage to talk to you face to face, but I'm afraid you'll think I'm some sort of a freaky creeper. Or that you won't be anything at all like I've imagined.

Maybe one of these days I'll work up the courage to actually talk to you. Maybe I'll ask you what you're reading instead of sneaking a glance of the cover when you leave. And maybe you'll smile that gorgeous smile again and tell me all about the book, and then we'll talk about all the other books we've read. But until then, I thank you for the book recommendations. I love them. They've made my day, my whole week, more often than you even realize.

Love,

the boy with the laptop, a few chairs away from yours

-

Blaine spends the next days buried under a mound of blankets, sneezing and sniffling and feeling miserable. Feeling like a coward.

Wes makes disgusted faces when he blows his nose, but he also brings him soup and a battered copy of The History of Love, patting his shoulder with a sigh as he walks away.

Blaine falls asleep holding the book to his chest, dreaming of a brown-haired boy with a smile that lights up the darkness inside of him. The boy sits in the middle of several high piles of books, laughing and crying and frowning, and even in the dream Blaine can feel his own heart beating loudly inside his chest.

-

Blaine is finally feeling better, and he makes his way to the campus library that afternoon on the pretense of finishing a paper he should have done when he was sneezing his brains out.

The reading room is completely empty when he walks in, and Blaine feels a sense of disappointment fall into his stomach. He checks his watch, just in case - yes, this is the time the boy is usually sitting here, lost in his books - before sighing and sitting down on his usual chair. He pulls out his laptop and his notes and starts working, trying to ignore the coldness inside his heart.

(What was he thinking, leaving a message to a complete stranger like some lunatic - the boy will probably never come back to the library again, too terrified, and Blaine was stupid, so stupid, stupidstupidstupidstupid -)

"You're back."

Blaine's head shoots up at the voice and the stack of notes he was holding falls over his laptop with a small thud. The boy is standing in front of him, clutching a book and a take-away cup in his hands, smiling a little breathlessly. He's wearing a thick blue scarf today, the color bringing out his eyes even more, and Blaine just stares at him, blinking and feeling like a fish out of water.

"I was worried," the boy continues, and god, his voice isn't at all what Blaine had imagined - it's better, it's beautiful, just like the boy is. "You looked so tired the last time, and then you didn't show up anymore, and I... I was worried about you."

Blaine swallows, suddenly finding his voice again. "You... You were?"

The boy ducks his head, blushing a little. "Yes. Reading just... It wasn't the same without you here."

"Oh." Blaine can feel his own cheeks flushing as well, and his hands start to move restlessly over his notes.

"I got your letter," the boy says suddenly, holding up his book. Blaine can see a familiar-looking piece of paper peeking out from it. "I've been using it as a bookmark, actually."

Blaine tilts his head. "So you didn't, um, think it was weird or creepy?"

"What? Of course not!" the boy exclaims, and then he seems to realize where they are, lowering his voice and smiling. "I thought it was... sweet. I think you're sweet."

Blaine blushes even more. "Oh. That's... good. I honestly wasn't being creepy or anything, I was just worried when you started crying, and then I got curious and the books you've been reading are really good and I -" He stops, scratching the back of his neck with a nervous laugh. "I mean, I'm glad you didn't think it was creepy."

The boy laughs, the sound like music in Blaine's ears. "I didn't. Honestly."

Silence falls between them, but surprisingly enough it doesn't feel that awkward. It feels almost natural, in the middle of all the books and their universal longings, with the quiet snowflakes falling on the other side the large windows.

Blaine extends his hand after a moment. "My name's Blaine."

The boy takes Blaine's hand with a grin and gives a firm shake. "Kurt."

"Kurt," Blaine repeats, tasting the name on his tongue. "Are you... busy right now?" The more they talk, the braver Blaine feels, and now that he's finally started he thinks he'll never want to stop talking to Kurt.

"Not really. I have an evening class today, so I was just going to stay here and read before it starts."

Blaine plays with the hem of his shirt nervously. "Would you - I mean, you can obviously say no, but I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee with me instead?"

Kurt blinks, and then his face breaks into a beaming smile, brighter than Blaine has ever seen before. "Yes," Kurt breathes. "I... I'd love that."

Blaine feels like punching the air or perhaps doing a small victory dance on the reading room table, but that would be sort of ridiculous. He jumps up instead, starting to shove his things back into his satchel. "Well then! There's this, um, great coffee place a few blocks from here, so we could..." He stops, staring at the take-away cup in Kurt's hand. "Wait. You already have coffee."

Kurt opens his mouth and closes it, smiling shyly. He holds up a finger to Blaine, walks over to the waste basket in the corner and unceremoniously drops his cup in it, the soft thud echoing through the room. Then he turns on his heels, shrugging at Blaine.

"Not anymore," he says, nonchalant and smiling. "But I do have a lot of books I would love to talk about with you."

Blaine beams. "Same here." He reaches out to take Kurt's hand, and the way Kurt gapes at him when their hands touch is definitely worth the few beats Blaine's heart skips. "Come on. I know a shortcut."