Tender Hearts Only Get Torn Apart

[Jason's POV]

Libraries were never my thing. I preferred arcades, y’know? Loud noises, kids running around and yelling, going in with fifty dollars worth of quarters and coming out with nothing but the wad of chewed gum you’ve had on your shoe since playing that DDR game with the Japanese kid who’s always there. Libraries were always old, and dark in a bad way, not lit by videogame screens. What kid wants to make their eyes bleed reading? To be honest, I’d much rather lose my sight while mashing the keys to Ms. Pac-man. Seriously.

So why am I sitting here in a rickety wooden chair that’s hard as hell on a warm August day, a day perfect for mashing a game at the Arcade just two blocks down the road until my fingers bleed? Because I’m ‘volunteering’- unwillingly, of course.

It blows. I spend four hours straight sitting on this chair, scanning the dumbest children’s books for aging mothers and their younguns’ and stamping them because the old bat who runs this place is too cheap to just buy a fucking computer. The library here at scenic Nowhere, New York is not a pleasant place to be. And I’m not even getting paid!

I have to spend two months here doing this until I’m free. Turns out the city doesn’t like it when you spray graffiti all over their nice, clean supermarkets. It was either this or picking up trash on the curb of the road, but at least the library is air conditioned. No way am I sitting in the sun for four hours. I’d rather be getting paper cuts up the ass and giving old ladies fake smiles.

And currently, I’m sitting here with nothing to do. My fingers are tapping out some obscure tune I can’t remember the name of on a stack of overdue books I’m supposed to be adding the charges for, and only two people have come in during the past three hours that I’ve been in this same spot. I wish they’d at least give me something better to do. I’d be a great shelver, if only they trusted me not to just throw the books in the trash and walk out whistling. Sadly, the old bag who owns my time for another hour is smart enough to know me better. Damnitall.

I’m about to fall asleep when someone slams their books right in front of my nose and clears their throat rather noisily, waking me from my musings. Honestly, such great manners. I glare at the stack of books and rise slowly, flipping my bangs to the side and picking up the small cheap plastic scanner on my way up. I drag the first book of the immense stack towards me and groan, glancing hastily at the bright silky cover before popping it open and scanning it lazily.

“Didn’t you forget something?”

Oh, fuck you. I roll my eyes, now realizing my mistake. The scratchy and whispery-high voice grated on my already short nerves and I held my hand out, still not looking at the patron.

He clears his throat- I can tell it’s a guy because the voice is so damn nasal. “I don’t have one.”

Oh my god, well then why the fuck are you even here? I just look up and smile the fakest fucking smile I’ve ever smiled in my entire life, still not looking at the man.

“So, would you like to register for one?” I ask, my head throbbing and my own deep baritone sickly sweet with agitation.

A shuffle of feet and a hasty nod that I just barely catch out of the corner of my eye, and I’m slipping a stack of papers across the oak desk that separates us, a pen sliding after it.

“You’ll need to fill those out then. Have fun.”

I go back to shifting uncomfortably and trying to sleep. I notice after about two minutes that the forms are still there, and there’s a glare aimed at me. I can feel it. It’s cold on the back of my neck, and I’m about to snap.

Control yourself, or it’ll be curbside community service for you, Jace!

And I do. I’m proud of myself as I look up and see the most strange looking man still glaring at me, staring at the forms like they’ll bite him.

“Is there a problem?” I ask. I surprise even myself with the way my voice is even. Just another hour, just another fucking goddamned hour, Jason.

He shifts. “Yeah, there is. Sorry, but I don’t think that anyone should have to give out allergy information to get a damned piece of plastic,” he says, glaring at the forms. A lightly tanned hand with a chipped green nail job flits up to push back stringy brown hair. He avoided the large sunglasses perched on his head rather expertly, and I noticed he was wearing four belts, all different colors, with white girl‘s jeans and a tight blue plaid shirt.

What a creep.

I look down to where his other hand is pointing at the ALLERGY section of the forms and nod my head, agreeing but not saying anything. Really, I’m not the one who makes the rules here.

“So could you just direct me to the nearest comic book store?” He’s restless and agitated, I can tell from the look in his eyes. They’re an offhand coffee color, too bright to be completely brown but too dark to be anything else. They’re bright and warm, very large. He has the most amazing lashes, the way they curl up so even and black across the lid, thick and probably soft. His brow, lifted to a fine arch, is thick, masculine, but clearly plucked. A small chuckle and a hand waving in front of my face kinda bursts my crazy ogling and I shake my head. Yeah, no clue where that came from.

“Uhmmmm…” I offer stupidly. Real intelligent Jason, real intelligent. “It’s a pretty small town. Are you new here, or are you just new to comics?” I hope he’s not pissed by my nosiness, and I let my eyes flit over to the stack of books. Sure enough, the silky cover of a Hellboy comic glares up at me, reflecting the light.

He grins brightly, two rows of tiny uneven teeth stained slightly by nicotine revealed. He reaches a hand over and pats my cheek. I stare at him stupidly, somewhat shocked when he laughs.

Wow. Weird much?

“Yeah, I’m pretty new. So about those comics…?” A tilt of the head- too cute to resist- and I'm pulling my own worn out library card from my pocket and scanning it. Why, I have no clue. The man looks a bit baffled for a moment, but I explain.

“This is Nowhere, dude. They didn’t name the town that for no reason. There’s no such thing as a comic store. This is as good as it gets…” I nod to the stack of comics and slide my card off to the corner where it teeters before he pushes it back up with a single finger. He nods his thanks and I start scanning the books, my bad mood suddenly broken.

I’m on the last two books and he’s been waiting patiently, rocking slightly and humming the same tune I was tapping. I think it was a Mayday Parade song, but I’m still not sure if I can place a name on it. It’s somewhat irritating to try and pinpoint the name, so I simply let my mind go blank. I’m good at doing that, y’know?

Of course, even this can’t go by without me embarrassing myself. “So, uh… what’s your name? When did you get here?” The last book is in my hands, and disappointment flutters in my stomach. I don’t want him to leave, fuck no!

But he just looks at me a bit weird before answering with a smile. “I’m Alexander Marcuson, just moved into the vacant house down Yew street yesterday…” He holds out his hand and I hastily shake it, noticing how warm it is compared to my own cold grasp.

“I’m Jason,” I reply shakily, suddenly nervous. “Jason Brooks.”

Alex stands there biting his lip for a moment, pushing his wavy hair back behind his ear again and looking awkward. A few tendrils fall into his eyes, and the picture he makes is endearing.

I clear my throat. I don’t know where it comes from, the sudden burst of courage to ask…

“I get out in about twenty minutes… We don’t have a comic store, but we do have a café in town. Maybe we could…”

“No.”

I’m not even finished asking when he denies me, softly and shakily. He’s giving me a strange look while grabbing the small stack of comics, and my heart drops. Denied, yet again. Was I really that repulsive? Or maybe he just wasn’t into guys.

“Look, thanks for helping me out with the comics and all, but I’m pretty sure you’re making a mistake. You don’t know me, and I can guarantee that you don’t want to. Besides, I’m twenty-one, too old for you. A-and I have stuff to do. Bye.” And with that, he’s swiftly turning with a tense raise of his hand, leaving me to sit dejectedly and watch him leave the door swinging with a flourish before letting my head thump down on the oak desk.

I glance at the door, heart thumping loudly in the quiet space. I feel cramped in the walls with those shelves, and my eyes have a thick pressure welling behind them. I refuse to cry and can only thank the gods no one was around to see that. I don’t even know what I was thinking… asking out some guy I don’t even know who just moved into the murder house, some weirdo with a creepy old guy name and a million reasons not to hang out with me, Jason Brooks, the black sheep juvenile delinquent of town. And now I’m just trying to make myself feel better.

One sad pouty face and two sniffles later, I’m glancing at the clock.

I sigh. Just nineteen more minutes. Nineteen more fucking goddamned minutes.