Strangers In The Night

8. 36 Hours, 01 Minutes Until It Ends

Ian was one of the last to leave, his head in a fog and his eyes bleary from weariness. "Has anyone canceled their reservation recently?" he asked a receptionist. "I have a room booked for tomorrow, but... I'm here. I'll pay extra for the room if there's a cancellation."

The front desk receptionist glanced over their monitor before frowning. "No, we don't have anything at the moment. We usually start canceling reservations around midnight. We'll contact you if anything comes up. Is that okay?"

"Yeah. That's fine. You have my number?" The receptionist confirmed his number. "Fantastic." He nodded his head. "Have a good evening." Ian walked out of the building, crossed the entry loop, down the hill, and towards the Holiday Inn parking lots. The asphalt plains were stuffed with cars, too, and Ian started dreading trying to find anything.

He was cursed out the second he pulled out of his parking spot. Ian followed the hotel's trolley bus back to the main hotel's parking lot, stealing a place tucked into a far edge by the golf shop. The second the engine cut out, Ian sat silently, limbs heavy and wishing to be anywhere else. He closed his eyes.

And there was Bo, the faintest of smirks adorning his face, sitting forward. His lips moving, but nothing said. His feelings written all over his face that trying to ignore them felt wrong. So many times that evening did Ian think he would be kissed; the moments felt right, and he wouldn't have opposed it.

Ian opened his eyes. He was still in the darkness of his rented car; the hotel's exterior lights pops of gold as shadows moved around.

'No,' he told himself. 'I don't want to push.' Ian leaned over the center console and grabbed his notebook and pens. "Okay," he sighed. "Let's finish this and...not think about this for the rest of the weekend." Stepping out into the night air again, Ian trekked the thousand miles (or what it felt like) across the parking lot, ready to search for a quiet little nook where he could finish the drawings.

Ian never regretted something more than that.

35 Hours, 55 Minutes Until It Ends
"Welcome back," Ada said the moment Bo pressed his back against the hotel room door, sealing himself away for the rest of the night. The guest room's air was cold, dry against bare skin.

Bo said nothing. He started stripping off his snug clothes, unable to breathe. His throat turned unbearably parched.

"It was nice seeing everyone again," Ada said. "The people I know, I mean. Some of them got ugly."

Her brother grunted a response.

"Nice to catch up with them, though."

Bo peeled off his socks.

"How was Mr. Randolph?"

He froze for a second, resuming his retirement for the night.

"He seems nice."

No amount of him wanted to talk to her about Ian, and he was sure the unease in his stomach, the anxiety tightening in his chest, wouldn't let him, either. Every one of Ian's words in his memory were a summer day, hazy and warm, tinted sepia, soft whistling through tree canopies. It scared him how Ian was like listening to Swan Lake for the first time. The joy of doing a dance routine all the way through and hearing the cheers and applause from the audience. Rain after a too-long heat spell.

Slamming the bathroom door closed, he showered, pressing his head against the tiled walls. Closing his eyes, he could see Ian's easy smile turned towards him, sitting forward and forcing the rest of the world to blur around them. His hands enticing and moving through the air. His hazel eyes sparking and beautiful.

Breathless, Bo regretted coming. This weekend was going to ruin him.