Dear Dream,

"I can help you get the book you wanted if you like."

George stops in his wake, sparring the man behind a raised brow.

The blonde man shrugs, "I saw you looking at one of the books, no one comes to the library anymore anyways."

George fully turns to him, suddenly intrigued. He's felt like he's seen this man around before, he feels almost familiar, like a sort of distant memory he just can't recall.

George replies hesitantly, "Top right." He gestures to the light pink book by the corner.

The man smiles, it's tentative. George notes.

He goes over to the shelf, slightly raises his feet and plucks the book right out of its nook. George stifles a scoff.

The man holds the worn book out to him, with a soft chuckle he says; "Oscar Wilde? Good choice."

George doesn't get what he's saying but takes the book anyway. He gives the man a small nod, as he glides his fingers over the gold tilting. Now that he can see the name of it, it's some sort of Latin-like wording that he can't decipher.

He must have been staring too long for comfort because soon enough, the same man perks up.

"De Profundis, meaning heartfelt cry of anguish or sorrow."

George gazes back up at him, a sliver of a smile gracing his lips. It's nice to find another person as interested in books as him. Especially in times like these.

"Oh? What's it about?" He inquires, immediately the other man's face lights up.

"It's a letter written by the author- to his friend during his imprisonment--"

The man begins to ramble, stringing together a tale with his quick spoken words. George is sucked by the way he describes the story. He makes the most mundane parts of it feel so vivid and alive. He gestures animatedly while explaining, his hands waving pantomime.

He rambles, making everything seem much more interesting than what it is.

George can feel the smile crawling up his lips. The man slips and stutters on his words at times, he looks at George, embarrassed. And George can't help the small huff of laughter that escapes his lips.

"Sorry-- I got carried away." The man blurts, cheeks dusted warm pink.

George chuckles, "No, it was nice."

The man smiles again, all the nervousness from earlier completely gone. It's bright and spreads across his entire face like a beam of sunshine. It makes the freckles that scatter across his cheeks all the more visible. It's a pretty smile, George thinks.

"Oscar Wilde is a favorite of mine, more so with De Profundis. It's oddly poetic for its caliber." He notes offhandedly.

"Really? I'll be sure to look more into his works then." George says, opening the book to the first page. A small piece of paper falls out and flutters to his shoes.

They both stare at it, George with curiosity and the other man with mortification.

"What's-"

The other man quickly scampers towards the paper, hurriedly picking up and clasping it tightly in his hand. He looks at George bashfully, the pink tinge on his cheeks are now full-blown scarlet, as he lifts an arm to scratch the back of his head.

"Sorry! I--uh, take notes in books sometimes, like my favorite lines." He stutters, turning to avoid George's gaze. "It's nothing- don't mind it."

Suddenly, George's interest piqued.