Strangers In The Night

2. 28 Hours, 33 Minutes Until It Ends

Restlessness finally irritating him to no end, Bo opened his eyes. Stagnant air encircled him. Silence ached from every corner. Unable to stand the dryness of his throat, he sat up. The bedsheets sighed as he did, but he did not move much farther. Unfocused, he stared at the foot of the bed, wondering how much sleep he had gotten. Dreams had chased him, and he didn't want to remember them. Bo hurt himself too much already.

His head pounded to the beat of Romeo & Juliet's Op. 64bis: No. 6, fast and unrelenting. A foreboding anxiety for the hours to come.

Swinging his legs out, shivering at the receding darkness as his eyes adjusted, Bo rolled forward, covering his face. He checked the time on his phone: 06:27 AM. He swallowed back a groan, conscious of keeping his sister in the next bed asleep, and fell deep into rehashing the entirety of the rehearsal dinner. Every antisocial, stuttered word uttered curdled his stomach, echoed through him. Ada trying to smooth over ruffled feathers only made him feel worse. Ian's eyes on him, laughing and creasing and making him shiver. Bo wanted to go home, somewhere where the damage he inflicted was minimal.

Stumbling into the bathroom, Bo winced at the white light. His hands fumbled, the glass clattering on the stone sink top too loud. He downed a glass of water. Another. He could sense the gentle off-taste. Bo leaned forward, arms straddling the sink basin, the cold stinging, refreshing against him. "Be in the moment," he whispered, begging. "Why can't you enjoy being away? Do it for Ada, at least. It's not that hard."

Yet his internal clock kept ticking, mind calculating the time until Bo finally left the resort grounds. He could see the pale blue glow of his front desk computer, the vapid movement of a silenced YouTube video to pass the time, hear the occasional brush of the revolving doors on the floor. The brief stints of conversation, superfluous and empty and meaningless. The gentle hum of the lights – not oppressive but still menacing. And the silence. The long stretches of silence and loneliness of the lobby while the restaurant one wall away filled with muffled music and laughter. The same songs playing over and over and over above him. The empty coldness in his chest spreading through his entire being like wet through a rag.

And his house. The look his parents gave him when he returned from work, blankness masking gentle disappointment. Hiding in his room was a habit he'd picked up in high school and one he'd never broken. There was no future for him. This was as good as he was going to get.

He dressed slowly, thoughtfully, baggy clothes draping on him like curtains ready to block out the summer sun. Bo returned to the bathroom, closed the door, sat on the toilet seat lid, and breathed. He didn't know how long he sat, but his eyes adjusted to the scant amount of light.

Bo willed himself onto his feet. He shuffled across the room, the gentle stringy strains of Gioachino Rossini's "Resta immobile" trying to sedate the empty, growing void in him. He didn't know when the hole had started, but it was as much a part of him as the color of his eyes.

He reached for his tablet, the music composition app still opened from the previous night. Its composition – the 31st on the app – was uninspired, uninteresting, and so disappointing that he hadn't finished it. Bo tasted hope every time he looked at it, embittered by time. The melody mocked him, taunted him, that Bo locked the tablet and abandoned it on his bed.

He shimmied the glass door to the balcony open, the lock sticking, and stepped into the light, wincing at the sticky warmth. The view beyond was trees, a great mass of scattered greens against the pale blue sky. There were no clouds. The dense forest reminded Bo of quiet isolation, yet not as suffocating as the night before. There were already people about, sunbathing and yelping at the outdoor pool.

He leaned down on the railing, closing his eyes as he hummed another of his unfinished melodies. Frowning, pops of the rehearsal dinner surfaced behind his eyes, the recollections purposefully fragmented. Bo did not want to remember. It mortified him, left him wanting to hide in a hole. At the same time, something in him peeked out from behind his facade, watching nervously, curiously.

Bo closed his eyes in contemplation, waiting for a breeze that wouldn't come, the air sickly warm and still on his skin. He sank into it. "What time was it, again?" he mumbled, propping himself on his elbows and glancing down to the muddied waters of the man-made lake, the fountain a dome of white. Bo didn't want to move any more than he had to.

He could imagine the wedding already – a white, shiny affair that left everyone red-faced and hurt from smiling. Pale flowers and pops of color used strategically. The bride and groom standing in perfect symmetry, tears building in their eyes. The golden late-afternoon sun blinding everyone. The display in his head almost made Bo start humming another unfinished melody.

He could imagine Ian at the ceremony, smiling forward for as long as he could stand before glancing into his lap. Ian's expression faltered. Sweat dripped down his nose. He imagined Ian pressing his hand over Bo's, in comfort or support, he didn't know, but the second Bo squeezed his hand back, Ian smiled that easy smile he wore like a glove, he let out a relieved-sounding breath, and the world felt a little steadier.

Stomach turning, Bo let out a slow breath while his heart fluttered. It made him uncomfortable in the same way he felt before going onstage to perform. The way Ian held himself, laughed, listened, stirred something in Bo's chest, leaving him lightheaded. He hated it.

'It's nothing,' he told himself, chastising himself for the saturated, saccharine, childish memories. 'I'm just remembering everything wrong.' Bo wouldn't sink into them like summer air, not with such stark-white numbers staring at him as they counted down. 'It's nothing. He's just being nice. Not even that.' He frowned. 'Whatever you're thinking, it's all in your head. He's just doing what Ada told him to do. Babysitting me.'

Whatever peace Bo hoped for vanished under daydreams of Ian's hazel eyes on him. The air tasted clear, tinted yellow and intolerable. He tried not thinking about it, focusing on the comings and goings of the people around him. Strollers with dogs. The occasional staff golf cart puttering around. Joggers enjoying the sun before it grew hotter. The few people walking moved through molasses, limbs slow and fluid.

"Oh, my God. Ia – Mr. Randolph?" Bo called, leaning over.

Glancing around, tugging the single earbud from his head, Ian turned around and around before his eyes landed on Bo one floor above him. He scoffed, smirking. "Oh. Hi. Good morning."

"Why are you awake?"

A quizzical look crossed his face. Ian stepped off the path and onto the grass border, a lazy smile hanging on his lips. "What a question. I could ask you the same thing."

Bo sighed. "I couldn't sleep."

"Same. Tried, but..."

Clenching his jaw, Bo leaned forward a little more. "Wh-what're you doing?"

"You're on it today, aren't you?" Ian seemed to understand the lack of humor in his question before his expression fell slightly; he spluttered, "Walking. Taking pictures. Trying to..." He held up a notebook about the size of his torso. "...sketch. There are nature trails just up that way – " He pointed West. " – and I figured... I'm not sleeping now, so why not? While it isn't too hot, I mean."

"Oh." A pause. "Okay." More of it, but this stretch grated, sending chills down his spine. Bo wasn't sure what he was expecting, but he pressed himself a little more forward, hoping the balcony railing could hold his weight. Something in his stomach sank, desperate and aching for rejection. He clenched his jaw, waiting. Ian's eyes stayed fixed on him, soft and considering, and Bo couldn't breathe with them on him.

Ian's stare darted away for a second before returning to Bo. His smile was broad, toothy, and beautiful. "Would you like t – "

Bo let go of his breath, the air escaping easy and brightly colored. "Wait for me?"

"I will."

"I-I'll be down in just a sec. I just need –"

"Just go," he chuckled into his hand.

Bo darted back inside, shuffling the glass door closed. He slipped on a pair of socks from his bag, shoes, and a spare keycard. He grabbed his phone and left, the door clicking shut behind him.