Insubordinate ( Gay ) ( BxB )

Chapter Twenty-Three ✓

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        I can nearly swear I feel my pulse reverberating through my forehead, pushing at my brow like some creature begging to get out, beating steadily. 

Head bowed into my palms, I stare at the table beneath my elbows, my lips parted as I suck in cool air.  The clatter of dishes snake through my ears, grating and annoying, the soft chatter of the few people around us resonate much too loudly. The smell of coffee, cigarettes and breakfast foods would be comforting any other time; but, right now, the smell turns my stomach. I can feel a headache steadily snowballing in my skull. 
Swallowing hard, I taste blood; maybe it's from my lip- I've been chewing it angrily, relentlessly. With the taste comes the vision of blood- spattered across Neo's face, in his hands; the blood of a man, of livestock, a cocktail fit for a Grim Reapers glass. Blood, so fascinating, has lost it's appeal this morning. 

"You don't know," Neo had said to me shortly before everything fell apart in one swift gale of shit. "Do you?" 

I have considered all things he may think that I do not know, but I was unable to concur something reasonable. There's not much that I know that he thinks I don't. So that only leaves things I don't know and he knows that I don't know. With that, the possibilities expand into millions. Impossible. 

"It was nice meeting you, Aaron Beckett." Was the last thing he'd said to me, a token of good measure chauffeured by a smile. "Thank you."

It almost stung. Neo, always thinking; in handcuffs, out of his right mind, cold and blood stained- he still thought of me. I didn't deserve it, but I am forever thankful. He follows this seemingly instinctual need to ensure my- and other's- well-being over his own, even when his is completely fucked, just like it was tonight. Neo is a fine actor, but he is also exceptionally genuine; he's him. 

Goddammit. 

"Aaron," Coen's voice breaks through the walls of my mind. "You're going to have to talk, eventually. You can't just ignore me."

"My head hurts." I mumble.

"I bought you coffee. Drink it, it may help." Coen suggests as I continue to stare mindlessly downwards.

"I doubt it."

"Just try. I'll take you wherever you want, after this." He says. "If it doesn't help, I'll get you medicine."

"Wherever I want?" My eyebrow twitches. "You gonna' take me to Disneyland?"

"I meant your apartment or my house; wherever." Coen clarifies. "I just want to see you wake up a little bit. You're bothering me with this silent and solemn bullshit."

"I'm really not feeling so hot, Coen." I say, toneless as a droning professor. "If you haven't gathered enough evidence to figure that out, already." 

A few more moments of silence pass. I feel drained. My lips purse and then fall open again as I fail to conjure out some more words to say. In place of words, the clink of a mug resonates against the table when Coen set's his coffee to rest.

"Is the table nicer to look at than I am?" He asks. 

"Ah," I murmur, a halfhearted smile pulling at my lips. "No."

"For that answer, you look pretty fascinated by it." 

"I have a headache, not a table fascination." 

"For fucks sake," He exhales in frustration. "Just take your cue to look up. It's uncomfortable to just stare at the top of your head." 

"Am I supposed to care?" I let my face sink further between my elbows.