Strangers In The Night

3. 38 Hours, 36 Minutes Until It Ends

Bo couldn't take the air anymore. In about fifteen minutes – from food orders taken to the appetizers arriving in front of them – his head spun. He didn't know or care if he was experiencing a heart attack, panic attack, or simply being so revolted by the too-polite atmosphere, but he already felt sick. The vinaigrette on the salad smelled foul. Ada was ignoring him for other people.

He took in a slow breath, hand drifting over his throat. Something behind his nose and under his eyes built in a swell. The second Bo's hand pressed flat on the tabletop, he was standing, excusing himself crudely. No one stopped him as he fumbled to the door of the now-empty terrace.

The air was warm and sticky, gentle against the night. There was the taste of an insufficient breeze. Whatever lingering sunset colors there were plastered across the sky were gone, replaced by darkness. Beyond the glowing colored lights of the fountain in the man-made pond was nothing. Even with the outstretch of forest, Bo couldn't see the horizon. He imagined the hotel from afar, a great, sparkling ocean liner lost in the night.

He checked the time. 08:27 – at least another hour to go before he could reasonably disappear.

"God," he whimpered, covering his face, a shaking sadness rattling in his throat. Bo couldn't fend off the mental exhaustion that moved through him like water poured into an empty glass; he needed a few stolen moments to recollect himself. 'Maybe I just missed something in school,' he reasoned. He couldn't understand how someone like him was allowed out in public, if at all. He didn't understand, either, how people could talk so frivolously about things, how people handled themselves despite probably not knowing anyone. It mystified him, a hazy dream he wanted to remember but couldn't.

It wasn't that he didn't try. People floated around him and sat with him occasionally, and Bo tried. He tried sifting through the nuances of polite small talk, but it pissed him off. He didn't expect any kind of deep philosophical discussions about the flaws of the world, just something more substantial than "How do you know the happy couple?" and "Gosh, it's supposed to be hot this weekend."

'You're so pathetic,' he thought. 'Stop being such a fucking nuisance and do it for Ada. It's the least you can do. Just pretend to listen to people. Shut your brain up. It's not your fault they're all so boring, and it makes everything so slow, and I'll never see them again after this. Just do it. It's not that hard.' His resolve was unquestionably muddled.

Yet in the softened quiet on the terrace, Bo could feel himself breathing a bit easier. He reveled in not feeling so on display. Above him, distantly, a Frank Sinatra-esque song played from the speakers. The bass from the music in the next-door nightclub reverberated through the soles of his shoes. Bo contemplated returning to the hotel room, though he knew this was his dinner option unless he wanted to suffer Ada's ire from using up the incidentals fee she paid. This was it for the night, whether he liked it or not. Ada would, most certainly, give him an earful for leaving, too.

Closing his eyes and ignoring the music around him, Bo waved his fingers through the air, pressing a finger into one ear and tracing the notes of Gergiev's "Cavalleria rusticana: Intermezzo". The fluttering strings carried him, fluttered in his chest. His toes started curling with the music in his head, inhales matching the music's rise and fall. The quiet ache in him moved his heart into his throat. His feet started moving from muscle memory – second position, first position, elevé – and for a brief moment, the world sparkled.

And then Bo caught himself. The world was dark, and the stars were dull. Whatever magic Bo had managed to cling onto was gone. He wanted to dance away into the distant horizon, disappear and be of some use for the first time in his life. The melody collapsed in his head, and Bo leaned forward on his arms, eyes down to the ground. He wanted to go home, somewhere familiar and isolating on his terms.

The terrace door opened.

Clearing his throat, Bo straightened his feet out. He turned his eyes away, praying they were just out to smoke. Or step away. Talking was the farthest thing he wanted.

The other person coughed. "Nice night, huh?"

He grimaced, silently sighing. 'For fuck's sake.'

"God, it's like we're miles from anything." The guest – Bo didn't dare look at him, only in his peripheral vision – reached out his hand, tracing the now-invisible horizon. "It's kind of gorgeous."

Bo huffed. "Feels more like we're trapped." He cursed himself under his breath. In the silence after, Bo bit the inside of his cheek.

"...darkness has that effect, doesn't it?"

He raised a brow. "Even in light, being miles away from anything can be a trap."

The man huffed. The sound was light, and Bo knew he was smirking. "We're not too far from Lake Yerkes," he said, leaning forward on the railing. "It's only, like, a 5-minute drive away. It's a cute place."

"How do you know?"

"I drove it."

"Oh?" Bo asked, turning towards him. "You weren't –"

The man – perhaps half an inch shorter than Bo – stared at him quizzically before an easy smile bloomed on his lips. His eyes were darkly colored under the scant light and his nose ended in a soft boyish point and his eyebrows were perfect and his hair had a windswept look about it. The guest's hands pressed on the railing, delicate and enticing. His face was tinted rose and his stare – his stare – made the world quieter, the music and commotion muffled.

Bo snapped his mouth shut. He felt warm. Frozen. 'Fuck.' His hands fumbled over his ill-fitting clothes, trying to hide himself with such ferocity that he had to stop himself from looking like he was searching for something. So many things fluttered around in his stomach that he wondered if he would be sick. 'Fuck.'

The guest's mouth parted, a quick, agonizing breath falling out. He wrapped a hand around his chin, covering his lips.

"Y –" Bo's voice hitched. His skin crawled. He had never felt so mortified in his life.