Strangers In The Night

6. 22 Hours, 19 Minutes Until It Ends

"What're you going to do about it?"

Ian laughed, and he knew the sound wasn't right. He crossed his arms over his chest, sighing.

Bo pressed play, and the strings began. "You're at your birthday, and everyone's celebrating with you. It's a –"

"I recognize this," Ian whispered. He sat forward, eyes still shut, his fingers lacing together in a tight lock close to his lips. "Where do I know this from?"

He let the music play, watching Ian's face scrunch in contemplation. He could see the stage of Swan Lake in its colorful glory, the dancers moving in great leaps across the stage in celebration, in momentary glee and excitement, waltzing and moving to the sways of the music as easily as paper dolls being tossed and turned by a gentle summer breeze.

Behind Ian's eyes, he saw a great walled-in garden, awash in colors while everyone danced. A great Renaissance-esque castle stood overhead, towers reaching dizzying heights, its walls streaked in gentle grime and flags. Servants coming out perfectly timing with silver trays of food. People laughing and dancing. Hidden behind his hands, Ian couldn't help but smirk.

Bo stopped it about halfway. "You okay?"

"Mm," Ian hummed. "Where is that from?"

"Swan Lake."

His eyes narrowed. "Why do I know it?" Ian asked, his voice soft and hoarse.

"Hard to not know it. It's, probably, the most famous one from it, but I think the entire thing is gorgeous. Lush."

"Can I get another one?"

"How are we on time?"

"A little over an hour and a half. I think?"

"One more."

"One more," Bo echoed. After scrolling for who knew how long, he opened his musical composition app. He pressed PLAY, realizing how badly the strains of the violins began the medley, flooding the room with what sounded like wails in a forest, gently at first, swirling in light and color before building at a breathless speed. A part of him wanted to scrap the piece in its entirety now that he was listening, but Bo couldn't stop himself. He watched as Ian started swaying, taken by the rises and falls of Bo's waltz, his brows furrowed in understanding. No part of the display wasn't charming, much to Bo's chagrin. Much to his relief.

Behind Ian's eyes was a tremendous gilded ballroom with a pale-blue fresco painted across the ceiling; gods and creatures of mythology watched from above, smirking and drinking and laughing. Across the wooden parquet floor, glowing gold against the white walls, swirls of color danced in rings. Around the perimeter, servants floated about with drinks and food while partygoers watched the revelry, smiling and laughing and scheming. And there was Ian, swinging himself with Bo, their eyes sparkling, lost in the crowd, moving like a perfectly timed clock.

The music petered out slowly. First, the drums, then the piano. The xylophone, the strings one by one until a collection of violins whispered through the air. The incomplete piece left the two in humming silence.

Bo closed the app and pressed the edge of his phone against his forehead, staring down at his feet. The emptiness was agonizing, like it was Ian's answer to a question Bo hadn't even asked. His ears were hot, burning, challenging the summer sun. "...yeah," Bo whispered, standing up. His words wobbled. "That-that's my music thing."