Strangers In The Night

7. 37 Hours, 02 Minutes Until It Ends

The first time they remet was by accident. Ian, fumbling out of a conversation he'd dug himself into about architectural beauty (which ended up being way more controversial than he was expecting), stood and excused himself for the bathroom.

At the same time, Bo, breathless, whispered about getting some air. He couldn't handle the conversation anymore. It was too overwhelming.

They crossed paths, dancing back and forth, trying to move out of the other's way. A quiet desperation radiated between them, calling for help, but both bit back their words. Ian sighed, his hand on Bo's arm as he pressed around him. Bo lingered, almost glancing back. He didn't.

36 Hours, 54 Minutes Until It Ends
The second time they remet was short-lived. Ian returned from the bathroom, walking fast like he had missed something from the dinner.

Bo reentered from the terrace, trying to recompose his resolve and energy. He hadn't even noticed Ian's return until, eyes down, he bumped into Ian's side. "Sorry," he stammered, head growing hot and glowing. "S-sorry. I-I didn't – " Bo gave no time for him to reply, darting back to his seat.

Ian watched him, incredulous and disappointed, before sitting back down.

36 Hours, 46 Minutes Until It Ends
When they remeet, their eyes meeting from their respective tables, they quietly agreed to sequester themselves on the terrace. The lull from dinner meant desserts would be picked at slowly. The air was too hot to breathe. Everything seemed touched in orange or red. "Which one do you think will be drunk dancing first?" Bo asked, his words quick past his lips before realizing what he was asking. He tapped the glass in his hand, stupidity washing through him. He wanted to disappear.

The guest from the terrace stared. "What?"

"Okay, ignore that. That was –" Bo's head was spinning. Hot. "Sorry."

He snorted. "What a question. I plead the fifth on that."

Bo stared, brow raised and heart rising into his throat, before scoffing. His hands trembled. He bit the inside of his cheek. "If you're pleading the fifth, a part of you is willing to answer."

"Only because it's such a ridiculous question." He smiled.

"I'm...not going to lie, that's still tempting."

"Just barely."

"Okay, then, seriously. Who do you think?" He tipped his head back, hanging it low towards the other's ear. "I think it'll be Mrs. Ozechov. I don't know why. I could see her drunk dancing."

"With her fractured foot, I don't think so."

"That doesn't mean she can't try," Bo said. "I could see her, sloppy drunk, singing ABBA while doing the Macarena."

"That's...very specific. Weirdly specific."

"I saw it on a cruise once. It was...God, I wish you were there to see it. Such a mess. Hope that guy's okay."

The guest snorted. He pursed his lips, humming his disapproval. "No, Mrs. Ozechov doesn't drink like that. She has a glass of wine religiously in the evening, and that's it."

Bo pursed his lips, sighing. "I forgot. You dated the bride. I'm a bit jealous that you've got all the insider knowledge."

"God, sometimes I wish everyone would forget that." He pulled out his phone, glancing over the screen before putting it away.

"Sorry, I didn't –"

"At least you didn't accuse me of trying to break up the wedding," the guest said.