Strangers In The Night

8. 36 Hours, 04 Minutes Until It Ends

"You can go if you want," Ian whispered, sitting upright. He stretched his arms above him, wrists clicking as he turned them. "I'm going to hang out for a little while longer." He wouldn't admit he was planning on swinging up to the front desk after everyone was gone to see if anything had become available. "Maybe get another drink."

"Are you done with me already?" Bo asked, staring. He sat forward, chin resting in his hands, watching him. His expression was torn – mental exhaustion, hesitation. Yearning.

Maybe Ian was reading too much into it. Still, he smirked. "No. Not that at all."

Bo seemed resolved in that answer; his expression softened. "You know, you can say 'no'." Ian was going to ask what he meant, but Bo said it exactly – there was no room for argument – yet the six words were disappointed, laced with exhaustion. He waited, watching Ian with confused, tired eyes as he laced his fingers together, propping his elbows on the tabletop. "What Ada said. You can say 'no'. I don't want to take up your time if I don't have to."

Ian cocked his head, hurt, for some reason, at the comment. "You say that like I'm babysitting you. Even if your sister used the word 'keeper'. I'm not. If anything, we mutually agreed to bother each other this weekend."

"But you can still say 'no'."

"I don't want to."

"You're not obligated – "

"So you don't want to bother me this weekend?" he asked.

"No, I – yes, I – " Bo groaned, glaring pointedly at him. "Shut up, you're being annoying. I just – I'm saying that...you have a right to say 'no'. You know people here. I don't. I don't want to be some kind of dead weight who clings to you like a fucking child, drowns you for the entire weekend, and then never sees you again."

"You're not dead weight, Bo." The name tasted odd, too intimate on his tongue; Ian flushed; at the same time, that rage in him bloomed, but at what, he wasn't sure. "Why do you assume I'm just doing it out of obligation?"

Bo said nothing. He grimaced, crossing his arms over his chest, and his expression softened, tinted blue under the light. "Because it's easy to assume?" he offered carefully. "Because you're the errand boy for the bridal party."

Ian frowned and sat back. He wiped his eyes.

"Holy shit, I'm sorry. I didn't..." Bouncing his foot, slow at first, then growing impatient, Bo relented, his arms falling against his sides. He sighed, and his shoulders slumped. "That was...that was...just super assholish of me."

"It's okay." It wasn't. Ian didn't want to be seething at him, of all people.

"Yes," Bo whispered, defeat in his voice. He grunted, sitting forward before shifting the seat back. "I don't want to make excuses for my bullshit. Maybe I'm just tired and...I-I mean, I'm used to that. People not wanting to deal with me. I don't know. Maybe it's been a long day, and I don't..." Bo swallowed and clenched his jaw, hands moving nervously over his lap, trying to find somewhere to rest. "I am sorry. For what it's worth."

"Well, I appreciate the apology. I do." Ian's breaths were steady, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Bo sighed. "I'm tired."

"Me, too."

Neither moved.

The restaurant was nearly empty, with only a handful of people remaining. Finishing wine and stories under the golden light and lukewarm summer air. For the first time all day, Ian felt alone; with Bo, it was perfectly alright.

Finally, after time seemed to catch up with itself, Bo stood from his seat. "See you tomorrow?"

Ian didn't want to leave; he didn't want Bo to go. He wanted a few more minutes, a couple more hours with him, the rest of the weekend, talking about nothing and everything. He wanted to know Bo's stance on everything – music, politics, buildings, the future. He wanted to know Bo inside out, like the back of his hand, and relish in every second of it. Ian wanted him to criticize every stroke of his pencil as he sketched and revised the drawings for Reed.

He couldn't take up more of Bo's time. He couldn't ask him to stay; it was too selfish of him.

"If you want," was everything he managed to say. Defeat washed through him, aching and desperate.

"I do," Bo whispered, soft and gentle.

Ian smiled. "So do I."

Bo shrank, curling into himself. He shook his head, glancing back to Ian. "I am sorry, Ian. Honest." He took his seat back at the table. "I'm just... there's a lot – "

"I know. I can tell."

"I don't – I have this stupid urge to, like, explain myself to you. I don't even fucking try to explain myself to my own goddamned sister, so you're an enigma. Which...just annoys me to no end."

Ian chuckled, uncertainty in the motion. He sat forward, wringing his fingers like fresh taffy on the tabletop. "Why?"

"I don't know."

"...have the night to think about it?"

Bo huffed. "There's a chance I'll convince myself you're just doing it out of obligation."

"Then you can explain yourself tomorrow, and I'll rebuff you. Okay?" Ian smirked. Something in him ached to touch him, close the intangible distance between them. He imagined Bo's skin a gentle warmth, patches of rough and softness filled with scratches and forgotten bruises, rises and falls of a life lived, a blank map meant to be explored. Ian bit the inside of his cheek, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach.

Sighing, Bo nodded. "Fine. We'll reconvene tomorrow. Before or after the ceremony?" He hummed, rubbing his fingers over his eyes. "Doesn't really matter." He stood, pushing in his chair. "Goodnight, Ian."

"Night, Bo."