The library is quiet.

It's a gigantic building; four floors of books and computers. Winston is on the third floor, separated from Gary due to the tragedy of homework. The lighting is bright, the shelves tall, and the tables plenty. It's an excessively modern building, Winston thought the first time he stepped through the doors. Very clean colors, metal shelves and not a comfy armchair in sight.

Humming—quietly—under his breath, Winston makes his way though the stacks, eyes on the highest shelves. The books come in every size, color, and material, a veritable rainbow on every shelf. It's an effort to read the tiny labels on the spines, the squinting starting to hurt after a while.

Eventually, his gaze catches on a particular title, and he grins, stretching up on his toes and snagging it with a quiet word of success. Then, he turns—

And walks right into a brick wall.

"Oof," he breathes, stumbling back two tiny steps, arms flailing wildly for balance. His heart trips over itself in his chest, Winston's exhale loud in his ears. Then, finally, he stands still on secure legs and pats his chest silently in comfort, exhaling slowly in an entirely controlled manner. Smiling wryly, he looks up and says, "Sorry, I wasn't... looking."

Oh.

Shit.

It's Jason Hill.

"Fuck," breathes Winston, wide-eyed and suddenly very short of breath. Jason's looking down at him with a slack expression that then slowly furrows as Winston watches. Jason's eyes are even prettier up close, Winston could not possibly miss. They furrow together now, a little wrinkle in between them that he aches to put his finger in. (...Is that weird?)

Winston licks his lips. Takes another step back and holds the book to his chest like a shield. "I'm sorry," he rushes out, gaze drifting from side to side. He's not certain where to look; at Jason's beautiful blue eyes? The artfully tousled blond hair? The thick muscles bulging through his t-shirt, or the wide shoulders?

Jason's expression shifts below Winston's gaze, the openness shuttering close the longer Winston stares without saying anything. The silence lasts for a breathtakingly long moment, Winston's heart beating far faster than healthy, until Jason finally says, "It's fine. Don't worry about it."

Winston's exhalation is obvious, and Jason's lips twist downward. Jason's eyes are scorching on him, Winston's next breath contained in his chest for longer than also is healthy. (He's starting to think he's a little silly around Jason.)

But the closed expression is... Jason is a emotive person. He smiles easily, laughs, is never one to shy away from showing how he's feeling. Winston doesn't know Jason, not truly, but he knows this. And so he steels himself, straightening as far as able (which still only lets the top of his head reach up to about Jason's chin) and says, "I'm sorry. Again. I hope you have a good day."

Grimacing, Winston takes a step back, then one more, and then he's suddenly running away, entirely too aware of Jason's gaze on his back. It's cutting into him, scorching, and he turns a corner and blatantly runs away. His footsteps are loud as thunder, a fellow students hissing a "Quiet!" at him from a table. Winston waves something over his shoulder, not even slowing down.

Running through the tall stacks, avoiding disgruntled librarians and annoyed students, Winston makes his way to a corner staircase and hides on a step. Out of view, he squats down and hugs his knees, burrowing his face into his knees and breathing very, very calmly while he counts down from ten in his head.

What did he just do?

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," mutters Winston, eyes shut. His heartbeat thunders in his ears, his palms sweaty, and his stomach is doing some kind of strange thing he can't describe even in his own head. He ran into Jason—again—and this time managed to make an utter fool of himself in less than five minutes.

Fuck.

Groaning, he only barely hears the sound of footsteps approaching rapidly on the stairs. Holding his breath, Winston freezes into a statue. A gargoyle, if you will. It's a more poetic description of his current state, at least. And sometimes some sweet poetry is nice!

The footsteps stop. Presumably they're also a gargoyle now, which would be kind of cool. Winston, not to brag or anything, likes gargoyles. He sketches them sometimes but it usually just looks like lumps—he's not good at sketching. But it's soothing, calming his nerves, and he tries to pictures a sketchbook in his mind now, tries imaging drawing a perfect little gargoyle baby on it.

The footsteps move, away this time. Winston exhales softly as he relaxes, straightening out and leaning his head against the wall. Sightlessly, he pats at his pocket until he gets his phone in hand, pulling up his contancts with hardly a thought.

It doesn't take Gary long to respond.

"Yellow," greets Gary in a distracted tone. After a second of no reply, he adds, "Winnie? You there?" Another second, then, "Did you butt-dial me? I thought that only happened in old movies? Does your phone not have that sweep protection thingy-dingy?"

"I ran into Jason again," says Winston.

"Oh. I take it didn't go well?"

"I would—yeah, it didn't."

"That sucks, dude."

"Yeah."

A minute of silence later, and Winston says, "Can I stay the night?"

"Of course, dude. You know you're always welcome."

"Thank you," says Winston hoarsely. He clears his throat, coughing gently, and moves his legs out of the way as someone else hurries down the stairs without paying him a lick of attention. That's kind of nice, at least. He doesn't even want to think about what he might look like.

He brushes a hand over his eyes, then rubs them for good measure, and says, "I'll head straight for your place?" but it ends up sounding like a question for some reason.

"Definitely, dude," Gary says. Winston does his best to smile, but it feels a little lopsided. Pressing a hand to his eyes, he listens to Gary's, "And you know Liam just adores it when you comes over." At that, Winston giggles.

"He's a little asshole, huh," Winston muses.

Gary's gasp is loud and over-dramatic, and he drawls, "Why, I never. Heard such slander before in my life. You are a blasphemous heathen, my friend."

"Exactly as I intend."

HE stands, with the help of the wall, and then with Gary prattling in his ear return to the third floor. It takes him a moment to head in; he peeks his head through the door-frame and glances around like Jason is going to pop up behind a shelf for a horror movie jump scare. But Jason isn't in sight, no matter the angle Winston turns his head. Or how far in he goes.

Frowning a little, his shoulders loosen and he back slouches somewhat. He trails his finger over the many books spines as he goes between the stacks, returning to where he was when the unfortunate incident took place.

It's empty.

Jason isn't hiding between the stacks to jump out and demand an apology—Winston doesn't even know where the fear came from. Why he ran away. Jason wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't even say something mean. Jason is just—ridiculously kind, and yet when he started frowning Winston's mind went blank and he ran like it was a life or death matter.

(He thinks... he thinks maybe that's not normal.)

Picking up the book from the shelf, where somebody has put it back all properly, Winston heads for the check-out counter.