Arlen, contrary to popular belief, did not actually live at the library. He had an apartment, around ten minutes’ walk from the building, and kept most of his belongings, as well as his clothes (which, the idea that he only wore one outfit was also a misconception, just so that everyone was on the same page) in the apartment where they couldn’t be lost in the library’s many floors and he couldn’t be accused of sleeping in a place that was technically not suited to house someone.

(That’s not to say that sometimes he didn’t get distracted and fall asleep there anywho. But as a general rule, he tried to make sure he went home every night.)

He would be the first to admit that for all the love and attention he paid to his library—all the decoration, preparation, care, and construction—he more or less neglected every aspect of his actual home. Sure, he had some furniture, and even a small rug at the door that he had found at a flea market, but the interior of his apartment looked…

Lonely. Empty. As if there wasn’t anyone who truly lived in there at all. Arlen’s house looked one step away from moving day, and it had since…

Well, maybe forever. Arlen had always adhered to the structure of “function over form”. At least, until he had started running Ye Bochord, that is. He hadn’t been very interested in the act of making things look nice, especially if his method of housekeeping was working as it was, in his opinion.

Yes, clean and functional. That was how Arlen liked his space. Not a single thing out of place, not a single imperfection that might impede his work.

Yes. Yep. Vacant, quiet and unlived in, just the way—

Oh, heavens hex it—

Arlen dragged all his old paint from the last fundraiser out of his closet and spent the entirety of his evening covering his furniture and floor in plastic, and sketching out a design.

Then, he began to make a mess.

Paint splattered on the walls, on his t-shirt (one he didn’t care much about, of course), on his face and hands—he painted with all the haphazard glee of a crazed scientist about to make his break, with all the glorious freedom of a musician in their solo.

As he painted, he allowed himself to… let go. To stop caring so much about what others thought, to stop being so hung up on the little things.

He was… okay. He was enough of a person, all on his own.

He felt as if he had been waiting for someone to decorate his home for, for something to come along and give him permission to fill his own space.

But perhaps he didn’t need anyone but himself to do that. He could find comfort in his own creations.

And as he sat, staring up at the colorful array that he had created for himself across the ceiling, he finally allowed himself… to breathe.

And to remember all the reasons why Arlen was… well, Arlen. And not anyone else.

Sure, he could be awkward. And weird. And he didn’t historically have the best taste in men.

But he was pretty okay. As a whole. Mostly. And maybe Arlen’s quirks were part of his charm.

He liked to think so, anyways.