Insubordinate ( Gay ) ( BxB )

Chapter Thirteen ✓

                         "Wow." Coen swoons, half leaning against my shoulder as I unlock my door. "You really are poor, aren't you?"

I fumble with my key, attempting to jam it through the lock. I'm completely baffled by the fact it fails before I realize it's upside down. A convenient realization, really, because my door comes right open when I flip it.

"I manage." I tell him.

"Ah, wow." Coen says again, pushing past me into my abode. 

It is the fifth time he's said wow since we pulled into the parking lot outside my building. He's an annoying drunk. Throwing up everywhere, yet still managing to be amazed enough to say wow at everything he sees. Outside before we entered the lobby he had thrown up once more, wiped his mouth, then mumbled wow under his breath. 

I close the door securely behind us. Coen waddles, looming in front of one of the windows, running his fingers through his uncharacteristically disheveled hair. He appears to be thoroughly amused. 

"Wow."

"If you say wow one more fucking time, I'm..." I attempt to threaten him, but a wave of nausea causes me to lose my words. I pinch between my eyes and straighten my stance so that I'm less compelled. All of his vomiting has gotten me choked up.

Coen tilts his head back at me over his shoulder, drearily making eye contact. "You'll what?" He asks. "Hurt me?"

 "Maybe." I mumble, making my way to the kitchen, leaning and resting my forehead flat against the cool island. I close my eyes, absorbing the feeling of coolness and not having to look at the drunk bastard that blackmailed his way into my apartment.

"Oh," Coen grins. "Don't threaten me with a good time, Aaron."

"Okay, that's... still strange." I respond.

I continue to forget the subject at hand halfway through my sentences between my swimming head and nausea. I steadily attempt to lift my head up again, feeling a migraine working its way into my skull. Maybe I've become too accustomed to beer. Whisky has been fairly rare practice up until tonight because, well, the bars I attend put up higher prices for it. Am I out of practice? I have the urge to cry. I always thought of myself as one of Canada's best drinkers. 

"Ich mag das, Aaron." Coen slurs.

I look over my shoulder dumbly for Coen. When I am unable to find him where he was previously, I look to the other end of the room to find him sprawled at the end of my bed, legs hanging off so his feet touch the floor. I feel the need to laugh at first because he looks like a starfish, especially with the pinkness in his face- but it quickly vanishes when I make the secondary observation that he is, in fact, on my bed. 

"Hey- no, no!" I bark, shrugging off my coat and tossing it on the island. "That's my bed."

"Really? I though it was the neighbors." He says, voice saturated by sarcasm. "Your couch looks so dirty. "

"I don't give a shit what it looks like, that's where you're sleeping."

"I can't get up."

"Move. Are you out of your mind?"

"Make me, then." Coen mocks drunkenly. "Go on."

My spite comes closer to the surface the closer I get to him. I can feel my emotions coming and going like ocean waves. Anger swims fiercely as the alcohol. I stretch my arms behind my head, pulling so hard at my joints that it hurts, grinding my teeth in restraint.