Strangers In The Night

3. 28 Hours, 08 Minutes Until It Ends

Bo pursed his lips and withdrew. The nerve he struck the night before was normal, but this one was painful, scratching a wound open again. It stung, reverberated through him like a plea to stop. "I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean to..." He grunted, wiping his gently dirtied hands over his face. "No, I – it wasn't meant to be – " Words failed, and Bo stopped himself.

Ian didn't reply; he didn't know how, either. He turned away, trying to mask the discomfort but knowing he could not. A part of him didn't want to but was too tired to unravel why he didn't. "Why're you apologizing?" Ian asked, forcing a smile. "You're not wrong. Honestly, I really admire that –" Yet the look in Bo's eyes – so disappointed and suffocating and angry and hurt – made him backtrack. "...why did you, then?"

"It's not like I meant to," Bo said, his voice rising in abnegation. He recoiled at the tone. Bo didn't know what had come over him, but he couldn't stop. "No, it's not – I –" He huffed, tapping his foot. "...every person I talk to, it goes one of three ways. Always. Either it's a nothing conversation, they don't hear anything I'm saying, or I disappoint them." He touched Ian's arm. His chest bubbled, worrying him to a sickening degree. "Ian, I'm sorry. Honest. I'm just – I just suck at talking to people. I-I feel like I'm so new to this. It sucks."

His hand was warm, gently sticky, sending shivers over his body. His chest bubbled, and Ian hoped Bo would let him hug him. Hold him. The thought was deliriously sweet to him.

"Ian, I'm sorry. Honest. I'm just – I just suck at talking to people. I-I feel like I'm so new to this. It sucks."

"...tell me about it?"

Bo frowned. "It's like everyone's wearing this mask of 'being okay' and telling me I should be okay because I have a job and all that, but it's...exhausting, wearing it, of lying and being 'okay' when I'm not. So, I try not to talk to people, but that still puts people off. And then, when I pretend I'm okay, it leaves me tired because if I'm not okay. But people don't want to deal with me not being okay. So it becomes my responsibility to make sure they stay happy by not saying anything dumb, or embarrassing. And because of that, all of that, it, just...something about it makes me want to prod. See if there's anything underneath."

Ian watched him, Bo's beautiful, expressive gray eyes scanning the world, trying to find the words to adequately explain himself. His explanation fell like rainfall, rhythmic and hypnotic on Ian's ears. Such a genuineness to Bo drove Ian's senses a little haywire. A little breathless. His heart pounded.

"I just –" Bo breathlessly laughed. "It scares me. You scare me."

"I don't mean to," Ian said. "Is it something I said, or...?"

"It's not in, like, an 'intimidation' scary or an 'I'm going to die' scary. Just..." Bo hummed, desperate for the word. "Maybe 'intimidation' is a part of it. I guess it's more...concern? I don't know."

"So which one am I? A nothing conversation? Not listening? I can tell you, now, you haven't disappointed me."

"None of them, and that's why you really...kind of...scare me." Bo paused. "Don't say 'when'. I could still disappoint you."

Ian shook his head. "Not based on how much you try to explain yourself."

"I still could."

"No, you couldn't." Ian smirked, glancing away. He wanted to add, jokingly, that Bo scared him, too. He didn't. "Someone who takes the time to try and explain themselves wouldn't disappoint me."

Bo's arms flapped at his sides. "It doesn't help, either, that after this's over, we'll probably never see each other again." He eyed Ian for a second, watching him, hoping for rejection, but Bo tore his stare away and forced himself to keep them away. Conflict crept through him. All he wanted, for whatever inconceivable reason, was to lean into Ian, tell him every preconceived idea about the upcoming wedding, for him to listen. Find a quiet place to escape with him and just...talk. Yet his internal clocked screamed numbers, growing smaller and smaller, overtaking him. Bo could not risk it. 'This was just his way of being nice,' he reasoned, pushing Ian back to arms length. He couldn't take up more of his time, potentially wasting it with whatever Bo thought he felt.

"I don't want to let that happen," Ian wanted to say, unconsciously leaning forward to meet the other's gaze. His fingers were outstretched for Bo's arm, his hand, his thumb, just to touch him. It made Ian's fingers tingle at the thought. He wanted to talk to Bo about what he wanted to do with his life, about every dream he's ever had – to know everything about him. Ian wanted to know Bo like a well-tread map, yet something fell, a stone into a deep well where the bottom was obscured by darkness, and all of it became overtly selfish. Folding his hands behind his back, Ian counted out the number of hours left in the wedding weekend, panicking at every potentially unsaid thing, everything he could regret.

Bo sighed, waving away another swarm of mosquitoes. He had never felt so far away from someone standing beside him.

Ian shied away, rolling his shoulders backward. He forced a chuckle.

They stood a moment later, brushing themselves down of scattered bugs and flecks of wood pieces and dirt, fielding more clouds of mosquitoes and wandering out of the thicket onto a road leading to the freestanding villas and back to the main resort.

"Thanks," Ian whispered.

He blinked. "For what? I didn't do anything."

"I don't know. Being at the right place at the right time? I guess?"

Bo turned away, a hesitant smirk spreading across his lips. His breaths were lighter. "Well, you should apologize for how bad these nature trails are. Did you know how bad the mosquitoes would be?"

"Yep," Ian laughed. "All a ruse to get you to myself."

"Well, it barely worked, I'll let you know."

"I consider it an absolute success. What are you talking about?"

Bo laughed – a surprising, unrestrained sound – and it brightened up the sky.