Strangers In The Night

4. 27 Hours, 37 Minutes Until It Ends

"Sure. Yeah." He inhaled, propping his chin on his wrist. His eyes unfocused. "It's too late now. Too much time's passed."

Ian took in a breath but found his lungs filled with humidity. The air was warmer, stiflingly so, to the point where he wasn't sure if he could stand to gulp down another breath and not break out in perspiration. He wanted to reach. Ian didn't want to press Bo further; he pulled out his phone. It was 7:35 AM, and Rachel and Reed messaged him again. The building never felt more unbearably hot.

Bo sat back, wiping his drink across his forehead again, lukewarm against his skin. His eyes were still unfocused, darting about as he chastised himself for the umpteenth time. Inky sadness washed through him, numbing his fingers. 'I shouldn't have done that,' he thought, his nails digging into his skin to cut off that need to itch. He pressed harder, harder until he figured he broke skin or it was the color of a raspberry. Dizziness swept through him, and Bo swallowed back this welling hurt rolling up his throat. This was a mistake, that he was sure.

"I'm sorry – "

"What I wanted to do with music just..." He swallowed again, glancing down. Bo wrinkled his nose and licked his teeth, sweet from the drink. "It sits in me, like this lead weight in my chest. It's like tuning people out. Some days, it's easier to ignore. Other's it's harder." He shrugged, the gesture sluggish. "Lost things."

"...lost things," Ian echoed back.

"Visceral. They hurt the moment you think of them."

Ian wanted to cry. Scoot his chair beside Bo, hold him, and whisper sweet nothings about how he understood, how Bo had managed to verbalize this achingness in him better than anyone else had ever done before. It marveled him. He wanted to shower praise over recognition, beg him to hear him play the cello. He didn't. "Yeah," Ian whispered, measly and weak. "I get that."

They sat in prolonged silence, the conversation's natural ending leaving them with nothing left to discuss.

Tracing his thumb over his fingertips, Ian reached forward, his hand lying across Bo's.

Bo withdrew at the touch. His gray eyes studied him in confusion, his brows pulled into hopeful misunderstanding.

Ian stared back, his expression unmoving. His gaze screamed for Bo.

Bo deflated. His hand slid back to Ian's, sliding cold fingers against lukewarm skin. Hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He felt exposed. Childish. So very, very relieved and despicably sad. He covered his face. A force built behind his eyes, and Bo didn't want Ian to see the pain.

Sitting forward, Ian's fingers twitch around Bo's. Electricity shot through him. He felt elated. Worried. So very, very hyperaware and yearning despicably. "I know this sounds stupid and probably means nothing to you, but...I kind of wish I could've seen you dance."

Bo withdrew again, slowly, out of Ian's warmth. Something twisted in him, that lead weight reeling in disgust. 'No. No. You're not supposed to say that.' He stayed withdrawn for a few more slow moments before whispering, "No, you don't."

"Bet you were better than everyone at it."

He wrinkled his nose, irritation flashing through him. "Not even close. Fucking Joe Carlin had us all beat."

"Screw him, then."

Gray eyes remet hazel ones. Bo found himself breathlessly laughing.

Ian smirked, relieved at the change in tone.

"I wish I could see your designs."

"Just tell me where you want me, and I'll – " His phone chimes cut through them. Ian sighed, annoyed at the distraction, and flipping out his phone. He frowned, hissing through his teeth when he saw who was calling. "For God's sake. Sorry, hold on." He pressed the phone to his ear. "Yeah?"

The lobby roared with activity, and Bo realized where he was. He cupped his eyes with his hands, abandoning the too-sweet/too-sour drink and turning away from Ian. It made him feel ill with such ferocity that there was no choice but to leave it. No eyes were on him; he knew this, but Bo couldn't help growing frustrated at the few cursory stares, the looks of people moving through life. The coffee shop was busy. Someone needed the seat, and here Bo was, lingering when he didn't need to. It didn't help, either, that he felt so far from Ian.

"Sorry. I – that was Rachel again. She needs – "

"It's fine. I should go back." Bo was already on his feet.

Ian followed. "Bo, if that was me, I'm sorry – "

"No. Not you," he said, uncertain whether it was an explanation or a warning. Bo clenched his teeth and repeated slowly, "Not you."

Ian's legs wobbled as he stood, a veritable chasm opening between them. "Bo, I – if that was me, I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "No, it... it's not...you. I mean, it kind of is – "

"I know," he said, a breathless laugh under his words. "Still. If that wasn't clear enough, you...talking with you's great. I... don't want to make this awkward, you know? Even if this won't last the weekend." He didn't mean it. No part of him meant it.

Yet something in Bo's stomach turned, upset and angry that his words were repeated back to him so casually. He met Ian's hazel eyes, staring dead-on into personal oblivion, before he found the strength to move; he shifted from one foot to the other. "It – you shouldn't have to apologize for my shitty choices, Ian."

He shrugged, saying nothing.

"I – " Bo glanced to the unadorned skylight, grumbling.

"Bo, I was wondering – "

"God, what is happening to me. Look...I – okay, so I don't..." He whined, hiding his face. Bo could feel his face growing red. Flushed.

Nothing about it wasn't charming and kind of adorable to Ian.

"Would you want to get lunch with me? Before the wedding?"

Ian scoffed. "I was actually going to ask you that, too."

Bo shot him a look. "What."

"Great minds truly think alike."

"Oh, my God." He tried hiding his smile. "But, only if you show me things you've designed."

"Only if you show me music things."

Breath stilled in Bo's throat. He shied away.

Ian could feel the apprehension. "Sorry, I – that was too much."

"Okay."

"What?"

"Okay," Bo said, a little louder but no more definitively. "But, but only because it's fair." A smirk, against his better judgment, snuck onto his lips.

Wiping his face, Ian laughed, the sound uncertain and grateful. "What time?"

"12? Ada's going with the wedding party to the spa and then getting ready with them. For some reason. So she won't be bothering me."

"12 it is."

"And...Ian, I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "Don't be. Honest."

And the conversation dissolved into the hum of the hotel. Their padded steps in opposing directions swallowed their departure as the air grew hotter.