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He would like to say that it was the books that drew him to the store, but that was hardly the case; the building though… the building itself was a beauty to behold. The narrow shop was lined, floor to ceiling, with books and with traces of brick peeking through the empty spaces between them. The shelves were made of soft, warm wood, and they were frayed at the edges from use, some of the varnish having worn away in places. There were free standing bookshelves as well, making walkways that were set at just the correct height so that even he couldn’t see over them; filled to the brim with titles that he had no chance of recognizing. They led all the way to the staircase, and it wasn’t until someone moved to the side that it became apparent that the shelves themselves also ran up the supporting side walls that lined the bottom of the stairs.
The staircase itself was a grand thing; wide at the base and narrow at the center of its sweep, only to widen out once more in a perfect arch when it reached its peak. Polished bronze rails and spotless Purple Heart Wood shone under the lighting, and blended seamlessly with the weathered brick floors of the first level. The majesty of it carried up to the second floor, and made the perfect entrance to the lavish reading room that dominated that space.
One wall slanted outwards: a brilliant cut of glass and bronze that led, with crystal doors stained in hues of reds, violets, oranges and yellows to the patio outside, with its wrought iron furniture and its bronze railings. Victorian settees, dressed in crushed burgundy velvet, dominated the interior space with their sweeping grandeur, set off by the delicately footed, silver and cream veined chaise lounges that sprawled across the floor with languid poise. The counter of the bar was the same dark wood as the finishing on the furniture and it stood out dramatically from the antiqued violet Heart Wood of the floor, but mingled impeccably with the rest of the room. Dark wooden bar stools sat against one side, currently occupied by a handful of people, and the fixtures faded into the rest of the façade, in gleaming black and glowing bronze.
The air smelled sweet from the aroma of freshly ground coffee grinds, that wafted down the stairs, and the plants that beckoned at the open doors of the patio; only to be tinged with a bitter and damp aftertaste by the dank, aged scent of old books, with their fungal glue and their yellowing pages.
The shop’s outer door was fashioned from heavy slats of mahogany that strained apart from one another, held together with roughened iron nails and the swirling, sharp Celtic sailor’s knots, fashioned from metal, that were laid across the joints. It melded with the brick of the building’s exterior though the rest of the neighborhood would perhaps disagree, for Opus and Rust stood out sharply against the sleek white stone and pale metal buildings banked on either side of it.
Leonard would be lying to himself, though, if he said that it was the building and the books alone that kept him coming back.
“Jimmy-boy!”
The upstairs lounge was never quiet, by any means, though he had at first assumed that such a tranquil looking space would be just that. It was all a careful construct though, from the curling, faded emerald vines and violets where they sat nestled in their cream wallpaper to the way that the furniture had all been thoughtfully set out. There was nothing peaceful about the upstairs lounge in Opus and Rust, not when Scotty worked. The young doctor didn’t care, though, not with the company that he got to keep there.
“Scotty! Dae’me a fav’er ‘n pour me a mug.”
The thick brogue in the man’s words was the exact same, every day, and it was just as fascinatingly endearing as it had been the first time that he listened to it. It had taken months for the words that he heard to become things that he could comprehend and, even now, the thick sound of Ireland in the blonde man’s voice made it difficult at times to understand more than every other word he said. Every time though, Leonard felt his heart do its own little dance, within its boney cage, and his eyes would peer up over the edge of whatever book he was trying to read.
Today the Irishman, Jim, looked tired, with the waving blond strands of his hair flatter than usual, and the thin wire frames of his glasses askew on his nose. His stubble had grown out, a thatch of ginger tinted hair that pillowed across the sharp lines of his jaw, hiding the hinge of it from sight. It made him look handsome though, the days of growth, and Leonard’s stomach clenched up at the sight of it.
“What d’ye be needin’ in yer mug today, Jimmy boy?”
The satchel that was over Jim’s shoulder dropped down onto the smooth expanse of the counter top, and the open end of it spilled out old books, thick and thin, scrawled with titles like Alcaeus, Sappho, Ossian and Petrarch. There was no easy way to read them, though the rest of the text that he could see from the spines spoke in languages that he didn’t understand.
Leonard had heard Scotty talk to his cousin (“Course ‘es my cousin, Len! Jimmy-boy’s from just on t’other side o’ the watter! It’s a wee sweet swim from Duns’veric’ te Port Ell’n!”) often enough though, that he knew the way the other man’s tongue formed around foreign words and languages, and it made him ache to taste them from his chapped lips.
Jim collapsed into the stool then, as if the strings that held him up had been cut, and his lean body splayed out across the surface of the bar as he just crumpled there. Scotty reached out, fingers petting at those golden waves, and Jim just grunted, moving his head into the contact. They were so easy with each other, and the familial bond was visible in the slope of their noses and the slant of their brows; in the shape of their eyes and the way that they crinkled, just so, with their full-bellied laughs.
“Tae, Monte’. Black’st mug’a tae that ya gots.”
The older man looked sympathetic, then, with his ginger brows pulling down and his head dancing on a nod even as he moved away. Jim stayed there, all spread out like he owned the place - Montgomery Scott did, actually, but that was really a little known fact- and he had no intention of moving. His long legs and his feet jiggled just so to the sharp sounds of Culann’s Hounds as they cried from somewhere behind the bar.
"Sure ye ain’t wantin’ me hooch, boy? Am got the good stuff, thes time ‘round?"
“Monte’, pl’se, jus’ gev’meh the tae.”
The words slipped off his tongue in a tantalizing slur, and Leonard burned with a desire to know how they would feel, felt spoken against his own lips, how they tasted. His fingers curled on the edges of his book, pages crinkling quietly, but he paid no mind to the rustling, watching the two Gaelic men instead. Slowly though, he closed the book, not caring to mark his page, and set it aside on the arm of the chaise longue as he rose to his feet.
“Aye, aye. I’ll give ye the bloody ‘ erb watter’! Despite ye disrespectin’ ma hooch like ye are.”
Standing, he could see the way that those long fingers fluttered in the air, making mocking motions behind the Scotsman’s back in time with his words. There was a smile on Jim’s face though, from what he could see, and that gave him courage, because he would do it. He was a doctor, he did daring things every day; he saved people and pulled long hours and snapped at interns. He could buck up for long enough to ask the Irishman on a date.
Hovering beside Jim was different than watching him from across the room, though, and Leonard’s throat felt tight, tongue thick with fresh nerves that tingled across his skin. He was more than beautiful up close, with the freckles that dusted across his skin, and the contours of his face with their sharp angles and shadowed hollows. His lips were full, and his eyes were thick lashed, though the blue of them was just as bright as it had seemed from a distance, and they weren’t even looking at him yet.
“Will you marry me?”
Those weren’t the words he had intended to say, and Leonard felt his eyes go wide as Jim turned to look at him in shock.
They were, though, kind of intentional, because he did want that. He wanted to hold Jim’s hand when they went out somewhere, and he wanted to sit beside that man and do absolutely nothing but enjoy his company. He wanted to press finger kisses into the freckles on his skin and whisper words of poetry about the color of Jim’s eyes. He wanted to go to sleep beside him every night with the feeling of Jim’s skin against his own, and wake up with lazy morning sex and rushed, tea flavored kisses on the way to work.
But he didn’t mean that now, and Leonard felt himself blushing with a furious kind of force. Jim’s eyes were wide, striking things that he would stare at as long as he were allowed to, at any other time, and Scotty was laughing at him from behind the counter, snuffling sounds muffled with his hand, fingers twisting in on themselves. Leonard felt like he was going to be sick, could feel it in the rush of bubbles in his stomach.
Jim’s eyes crinkled at the edges, though, right as the nauseous feeling started to slip up his throat to acid burn his esophagus. He grinned, a sharp toothed thing that melted behind the rumbling boom of his laugh. There was no malice on his features though, just amusement and - a blush, that spread slowly from under the cover of his beard and eased its way up his cheeks, then down his throat to disappear under his shirt collar.
“Aye, mist’ah! I’ll’a marry ye, tho’ I’m ‘fraid y’ell have’ta date meh fer some tim’ first. I’m a bit o’ a fickle t’ing!”
His heart was still pounding and, dimly, he could hear Scotty crooning his name in sympathy through the blubbering sounds of his laughter, but Leonard grinned. His head felt light and his nerves were still buzzing, but there was a breathless happiness in his chest that made it feel like he could have been dancing. He didn’t dare check his feet though, didn’t dare jinx himself in the wake of his first slip.
“Darlin’, I’ll take you on as many dates as you want.”
Those full lips stretched further into their grin, and Jim’s fingers were warm against his own when the other man pulled him down into a stool. Just as quickly, those hands framed his face, and the breath slipped out of Leonard’s lungs, surprised, when that mouth pressed against his own. Jim held him tight, stealing his air and spinning his head, and the swift swipe of a tongue across the seam of his own lips had Leonard gasping, even as Jim pulled away with another roar.
“Monte', get meh fuckin’ tae, sawbones ‘ere be buyin’!”