Insubordinate ( Gay ) ( BxB )

Chapter Twenty-One ✓

( I see you reading, jackass; vote and comment and love me so I can lovE yoU bAcK )

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"Hello?"

My eyes burn. 

They do not burn with a speck or fumes, they burn with light. I stare into this blazing brightness exceeding the sun. White. Everything is white, confusingly blank. I want to look away, blink, something other than stare into this never ending nothingness. It hurts to look. Blindness is the only thing that could come of such a luminescence. The voice I heard- it feels like I've heard it ages ago- I am still yet to answer. A familiar hello emanating from somewhere far, far away. Time feels physical, brushing past my skin like a goodbye. I'm suffocated and held stagnant like taxidermy. I try to breathe but no air comes to pass. I've evaporated. I'm nothing. 

"Are you almost finished? I'm getting tired of sitting like this."

A shadow. In my vision full of white, a grayed shadow passes my vision momentarily. Briefly, I am able to breathe. Again, the shadow passes. With every passing, like the tick of a clock, the shade grows darker and the shape more defined. I'm being wiped into existence. 

"Hello?" I barely croak out.

A hand. The shadow is a hand waving rapidly in front of my eyes. The deep shade of black begins to drain into skin, paled skin. Long, narrow fingers attached to a fittingly small and freckled palm are what have conjured me into life. Back, forth, back, forth. My nerves return, my vision becomes clearer, my humane abilities are gifted one by one. I'm being rebuilt.

"We're supposed to be studying." They carp. "You're ditching school for that test, remember? I'm supposed to be helping so you can pass it on Monday when you make it up."

A few moments pass as I try to make sense of everything.

"Aaron?" The hand's owner beckons. "You've been staring at your sketchbook quietly for five minutes. Did you zone out?"

"What are you talking about?" 

Wipe, wipe, wipe. My vision clears, the white is replaced by warm sunlight. The feeling of nothingness is replaced with fullness. Fabric slides along my arms; sleeves. My left leg bobs up and down nervously, I hadn't even realized I started or even had legs. Shoes tap against the floor. Everything is dizzy and blurry, but it's too familiar. I feel pinpricks on the back of my neck. My head feels like a bolder held high on a beanpole. 

"You spaced out." He tells me. "I'm tired of sitting like this."

"Where..." I stutter, struggling desperately to focus into the face across from me. "Where am I?"

"What's gotten into you?" He says, kicking my ankle. "Hurry up."

An open window spilling sunlight, a fridge, a counter, and dripping tap. A kitchen. I sit at a table in the middle, one hand rested on my knee and the other rested on top of a sketchbook. My fingers trace the spirals holding it together, a pencil rolls between my middle and index finger idly. I press my fingertips against the wire to leave imprints in my skin. The speaker's face is still blurry, a skin colored smudge whilst everything else springs at my dark eyes vividly.

"Ow- fuck." I say as pain shoots up my leg. When did I hurt my ankle? Did I twist it?

"Oh, shit."  He gasps. "Sorry. I'm sorry- I forgot."