Strangers In The Night

6. 37 Hours, 34 Minutes Until It Ends

'Shit. Shit. What did I say wrong?' Ian wondered, his stomach falling as the slightly taller guest – whose face had expressed a confusing mix of disappointment and reassurance – glanced over his shoulder. Ian hesitantly followed his eyes back to the wedding party, though he wasn't sure where the guest's stare was landing. He stole glances back in the quiet moments.

The guest's face was soft-looking under the golden lights. His lips were parted slightly in apprehension, eyes the same color as steel. The bridge of his nose was arched and gently pointed down. The world was hazier as if everything within an arm's length of them didn't matter anymore: faces obscured, music garbled, edges eased. Every feeling was written clearly across his face, though maybe it was just Ian's ability to tune in, but the flush of pink on his ears and cheeks suggested embarrassment. Confusion. Hiding something deeper that Ian wanted to uncover.

That he wanted to be right.

But the guest barred his teeth and sighed. "That's...fine. Okay, now pretend we're talking."

Ian was perplexed yet intrigued all the same. "We are talking," he pointed out, uncertainty slipping from his tongue. The tone was not what he was expecting. "Anything, in particular, you want to talk about, or – "

"No, like – my sister's looking at me right now, and I need to make this look convincing. So, just talk to me. Or, at me. That's...fine, too."

His brain shorted, mouth hung ajar. "Uh...o-okay? What, um..."

The taller guest sighed, discomfort washing over his face. He waited.

"Oh, my God. I usually have, like, a list of topics I go to. Why am I blanking out now?"

"I don't know, but this's good stuff. Keep going. Looks really organic."

Ian drew in a slow, labored breath and asked, "What...uh, what do you do when you're not making me forget conversation topics?"

His eyes narrowed. "Oh, God, not that. Anything but that. I'd rather eat my shoe than do small talk. It's just...empty, polite words, and it's so..." "Insincere" hung in the air with such obviousness, but the guest didn't say it. He pursed his lips and asked, "What, what about more specific questions? What's wrong with those? Like, if you were on a deserted island and could only bring three things, what would you bring?"

"What a basic question." Ian glanced around to make sure no one heard him.

"No, it's not."

"Yeah, it – well, okay, the question itself isn't basic, but the 'deserted island' aspect is." Ian hummed. "Okay, here's one – someone comes up to you and offers you just enough money to do one of your bucket list things. Which one do you pick?"

"I'd argue that's more of a basic question."

"It requires thought."

"So does the 'desert island' one."

"We have very different ideas of what 'basic' means," Ian smiled, his stomach settling. "My question still stands, though. For me, I'd build my dream house with a studio for me to work in."

"What style?"

Ian raised a brow, heart fluttering at the question. Two words, and he suddenly felt his knees turn to jelly, and no amount of him felt like he was overstepping, oversharing. "Um, I-I don't know. Older styles are..." He wouldn't say "charming" or "beautiful". Architecture school had taught him that no one liked the old styles, even if they said they did, and that beauty was so subjective it was basically taboo. "...kind of eh, but I'd want to do something groundbreaking. I don't know what. I want to, kind of figure out my own style, like Frank Henry Sullivan, and...." Ian stopped himself, gauging the guest's reaction.