Strangers In The Night

6. 22 Hours, 08 Minutes Until It Ends

Ian frowned at the sight and glanced away, sitting back in the chair. Uncomfortable in the growing quiet between them. Moments where he could be saying anything were taken up by the soft paddle of footsteps in the rooms above, people calling in the hallway just beyond. "That sounded familiar," he said, chest heavy. "Where was that from?"

"That –" Bo grumbled under his breath. "I made that."

"You made that?"

Bo couldn't dignify that with an answer. He wouldn't know what to say, anyway.

"That was –" Ian found himself on his feet, eyes wide and sparkling. "That was amazing!"

"It's still unfinished –"

"Who cares? That was – oh, my God, that was so – so – !" He started moving, feet rampant over the carpeted floor. "Y-you made that. Oh my God, sometimes, I play music when I design, and that – that was perfect! The only thing that sucked was that it ended like that."

Shoulders rising to meet his ears, Bo hid himself. He kept his eyes away as he flushed red under Ian's words, kind and sweet and so genuine that it was hard for him to ignore, as badly as he wanted to. "It wasn't that great."

Ian stared. "Are you serious? That was beautiful."

"It's been unfinished for years – "

"But you made that. That was – that was so – !"

"Who cares?" Bo asked, his voice swallowing every sound around them for a second. He stood, moved away from Ian. "It's just another incomplete composition in a long line of trying and failing. Honestly, I shouldn't have shown you that at all. It's just – it was a lapse of judgment." He paused, chest heaving. "Music composers are a dime a dozen."

"Bo, I'm being serious. You're talented – "

"If I wanted to be a two-bit hack composer, I would've followed through on it. No. I put all that uselessness aside and grew up."

Ian's skin prickled. "Don't call yourself that."

Bo shot him a look. "Why not? I am."

"I'm not going to fault you for having a passion, Bo. Am I a two-bit hack for becoming an architect?"

"No. No. An architect is different than a composer."

"In this instance, how?" he asked softly, wondering.

Clenching his jaw, Bo looked away.

"You shouldn't give up on something like that."

"I didn't," he said defensively. "I...I told you. I put it aside. Priorities shift. I got tired. I was alone, and I got tired."

"Alone?"

Bo recoiled. His hands shook. "N-not, not 'alone' alone. I-I had my family. Friends. It was –"

"You were alone," Ian echoed carefully, "and you got tired."

Heart pounding, Bo felt exposed in a way he hadn't felt before, raw and opened by seven words so effortlessly, like slicing through warm butter. A flurry of everything tumbled through him, dizzying and breathless. Bo clenched his jaw. It was too much to bear anymore.

Ian knew he had done something, pressing the way an infant slams their hands over light-up buttons. He wanted to splutter apologies. Take back what he said. Instead, he settled into this dreaded sinking feeling, a slow and painful death. His hands itched for his phone.

The ticking down, down, down screamed in Bo's head. He glanced down, biting his cheek to stop himself from feeling...anything. "I- I should go. The wedding's soon, and..."

He nodded. "Yeah. No, I get it." Ian's chest felt tight with every inhale, and he grabbed his phone again.

"...what are you doing?"

He stared at it, unlocked it, and started scrolling. Ian offered the phone. "You were right."

Bo shook his head. "About what?"

He said nothing.