Strangers In The Night

6. 22 Hours, 45 Minutes Until It Ends

Swallowing, Ian blinked. "...are you?"

"...no. Not really."

"Oh."

"...sorry."

"It's okay." Ian shrugged. "Not really hungry, either, to be honest."

"I just...the wedding's in 2 hours."

"Yeah."

"And I figured – " Bo stopped as they moved out of the line, Ian's hands pressed on his arms, tugging him until his back pressed against the dark stone of the reception desk. "Sorry. I jus – I feel like I've wasted – "

"No, you're okay. Honest."

"You say that a lot."

"Because it's true."

"With me, or in general?"

Ian wasn't sure if the question was a jab or not. Regardless, he smirked and turned his eyes away, exhaling slowly in the hopes of settling his stomach. "Can I answer 'yes'?"

Bo's eyes darted to the collection of freshly made-up ladies trotted past them. His hand held Ian's arm as if restraining him from turning around as the wedding party passed.

Ian swallowed. His eyes dipped until the glitter and laughter of the women passed by them. Despite the heat, he felt frozen, numb in fear of being discovered.

"What's the plan, then?" Bo asked, glancing over his shoulder. "Ian."

It brought him back. Bo saying his name brought Ian back so quickly it made him breathlessly laugh. A grin spread unrestricted across his lips. "I...think I'm supposed to show you things I've designed."

"We didn't eat."

"We can get something from..." Ian glanced around, stomach churning at the growing amount of people in the lobby, before nodding towards the coffee shop. "Cookie?"

"A cookie?"

"Why not?"

"Not really much of a lunch food."

"Says you. My school had cookies in our lunches."

Bo sighed through his teeth, smirking. "That's fine, then."

"Yeah?"

He stared, trying not to snort at that; after a moment, he folded into the exhaustion, and a worn smirk spread. "I'll hold up my end of the bargain only if they have oatmeal raisin."

Ian raised a brow, swinging his foot as they moved forward. "Are you secretly a 70-year-old man?"

"Don't knock oatmeal raisin," Bo said, bumping him in the arm. "I'll hold my music things ransom."

"Fine, fine," Ian chuckled, tucking his hands into his pocket.

22 Hours, 23 Minutes Until It Ends
His fingers tapped relentlessly against his legs. His foot bounced. Ian regretted every moment of cold silence between them when he gave Bo his phone and told him to swipe. He had already lightly criticized a quarter of Ian's photographic collection of his architectural models and sketches, each comment walking a fine line between gentle and scathing. Ian couldn't tell the difference. He was hoping his phone would so ceremoniously die that Bo couldn't see all of them.

"I...think this one's cool," Bo said. He didn't understand. Every design, floor plan, perspective drawing, or model had Ian's name on it; it couldn't have been further from the truth. It was as if Ian was trying to pass off these designs as his. They were colder than the air-conditioned hotel room, colder than a 70-story glass building surrounded by a sea of parking lots in the middle of a Midwest winter blizzard.

"That was a hard one to do," Ian said, "for engineering reasons."

"Huh. Interesting." That was a lie. Bo didn't like buildings that looked like something someone coughed up when they were sick. He kept flicking through the album, wondering when anything would resemble Ian. The artistry and careful drawings were beautiful in their own right, but by the end, Bo felt numb. He tapped Ian's phone in his hands, not offering it back to him but so lost in thought that it hung limply between his fingers.

"And...? Thoughts?"

Bo bit his lip.

"Not everyone might get what I do," Ian stammered. "You didn't ask a lot of questions about them, so – "

"I don't think you want me to be honest."

Ian sat forward. His stomach fell. "What if I did?"

He frowned, shaking his head. "Don't make me regret being honest, Ian."

"I'll listen to you apologize forever, then."

That sent a shiver down Bo's spine, and he wasn't sure if that was flattery, flirtation, or if it was a genuine alternative regardless of feeling. He couldn't stand the idea of it being anything beyond a common courtesy, simply phrased awkwardly. Bo glanced away and rubbed his arm. "I don't like them."

Ian stared.