The entire reason he'd brought himself to the library that day was to be left alone. Interacting with people was always a struggle for him to actually enjoy and occasionally irked him beyond rational reason. While he might not have minded speaking with the handsome, dark skinned young man, finding out his origins, his quirks... the young man was more interested in what he'd corned chosen to read. Completely obsessed over that book, out of an entire building of tomes, an entire section just for horror and dark tales but that single novel in Julian's hands was the one the man became aggressive over. 

( So aggressive. )

Vincent didn't find himself in public often. Within the confines of Death's Door he was more or less safe. The depraved and degenerate souls that frequented the whorehouse often just as twisted as he was. Just not as sick. His mind gave him few reprieves from its plague but those fleeting lucid moments were something precious. He needed to enjoy them out in the open air.

He had been literate in his youth, before his brain became diseased. He couldn't form the text into letters into words anymore, but he liked to wander the library and pretend. Of course he couldn't just be allowed to pet the books and stroke the pages without the usual gaggle of hecklers. If the youths would have been quiet he could have endured it, but their jeers ( weren't in inside voices. )