Strangers In The Night

4. 27 Hours, 41 Minutes Until It Ends

Still, Ian shook his head. "It makes me sound like I'm whining."

"And you're not allowed to whine about things?"

"No, it's not... it's not the whining itself. It's..." He trailed off, and something settled in his chest, relieved and uncomfortable. "I...I should've known how hard this would've been, but...I mean, half my class dropping out should've tipped me off. Hell, the project critiques were hard, but I..." Ian sat back, and Ian met Bo's gray eyes. "I don't want to believe the world doesn't care about its built environment, that we don't know what beauty is anymore because people decided it's 'subjective'. Because if it is, then what's the point of doing any preservation, then? Remembering any kind of history. If we need to keep marching forward, what's the point of museums, and remembering where we came from?"

Bo said nothing. Something about Ian's frustration ran parallel to him, and it didn't sit right with him. That realization felt raw and uncomfortable, leaving Bo a bit lightheaded. It thrilled him, but he shifted on his seat, fighting with himself to dismiss Ian outright for opening up to him, for offering a side of vulnerability that no one would typically dare show him. He knew, though, that there were few words in the English language to quell the disappointment Ian felt. It burned in him, familiar, tangible.

Ian pursed his lips, sitting back. He crossed his arms over his chest, exposed. He started regretting opening himself up like that, but a part of him was relieved he did. Still, the deceit ate away at him like a burn's phantom pain long after the wound had healed. Ian tried meeting Bo's eyes again, but shame coursed through him, and he turned away. "I...just wanted to explain."

"I asked you to."

"I just... didn't want you to think I was...ungrateful for everything. I'm not. I've had opportunities some could only dream about. I just – "

"I get it. I do." Bo sighed, glancing away. He turned his gray eyes back to Ian, hazel eyes fixed on Bo so tightly like he was the only person in the room; he flushed and looked away again. The world was muffled and quiet again, and Bo's heart flipped. He scratched at another bug bite on his leg. "It doesn't make me pity you, Ian. I hope you know."

"That wasn't the intention," Ian chuckled, the sound too forced for him to feel comfortable with it, misplaced to feel genuine. He ran his nails over an itchy patch of skin on his arm. "I just..." He trailed off, saying nothing, glancing over the crowded lobby.

Bo sat back, drumming his fingers over his thigh, shivering every time his fingertip grazed a bug bite. He harrumphed, short and exhausted, eyes fixed on a blemish on the tabletop. He knew no one was staring at him. He tried not to move so much, actions awkward and uncomfortable.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"How do you do it?" he asked. "How are you able to, just, turn off that part of you that's hyperaware of people and say what you want?"

"...I don't," Bo said after a moment of contemplation. His expression softened, growing weary. "I have a sense of when people don't like me, and it makes me...scared, I guess. To do...anything. Because I'm in the way, I'm too loud, I'm pissing people off." Bo sat back, frowning. "It turns into this thing to try and ignore, tune it out. Think about it after the fact. It comes in waves, of being quiet and loud, and you learn to survive that way."

"Doesn't it make you lonely?"

Bo shrugged. "Yeah," he said, sighing, "but it's worse than trying something and failing so hard you remember it for the rest of your life."

Ian's heart sank, spinning into his stomach, burning acidic. He sat forward. "So you, just... don't?"

Bo tried ignoring him. He couldn't. "Does that bother you?" he asked, angry at the uncertainty in his voice. "Don't you – "

"Did you ever want to do something with music?" Ian asked quickly but regretted asking the moment the words left his lips. It was so minute that no one would've seen it – the twitch of Bo's eyes, the sudden glossy unfocusedness, how his hands just barely tightened – that Ian clenched his jaw. "I hit a nerve. I-I didn't mean – "

"You did." Bo supplied a slight smirk. "Serves me right, right?"

"No."

"... I'll tell you if you want."

Ian's eyes widened. "You don't have to."

Bo ignored him, unable to stand the welling emptiness in him. He wanted to reach. He was confident he'd look in a mirror and not be able to recognize himself after this very moment. Whether that was a good or bad thing was to be determined later. He sat forward, stare unfocused and body still tense, and sighed. "I was that kid with a lot of dreams, but they were all about music. Maybe my parents played Beethoven before I was born; maybe I was, just, born with this inherent love for century-old music. I don't know. But I wanted to dance. I wanted to write music. I wanted to play every instrument. I wanted to do something with music, anything that let me be involved with it, where I could compose and listen and enjoy it." He licked his lips, sitting back up straight. "I did...for a while. But when I got older, all of it just grew a little further out of reach."

"...why?"

Bo swallowed, nails tracing along the edge of his lemonade, and his eyes grew glossy. He didn't want to think about it. The answer was pathetic, such a nothing response that it made him appear pitiable. Condensation ran down the gaps in his fingers. "I got tired."

"...what does that mean?"

"It means what it means," he answered slowly, his gaze still away. His tone was soft but definitive. For a second, Bo wanted to cover his face with his hands. He didn't. "I did dance once upon a time. Tap and ballet and ballroom. I wanted to learn the samba at one point. I knew how to play the piano and the cello at one time." He pressed his hands flat to the tabletop, rolling his shoulders back. "But then I...got tired. Priorities shifted, school got in the way, and I loved music still, but...music wasn't loving me anymore. At least in the same way. And then years passed, and..." Bo breathlessly scoffed. "You know how people who want to write a book but never do say things like, 'I've always wanted to write a novel' or 'I just need this one thing to happen, and then I'll sit down and write it'? That was me...for a long time. Minus the excuses."

"...did you ever want to do something with music?"