feather

fifteen: so i can barf

"That was fucking low, man," Taylor's voice filtered into the blackness. I groaned a little bit and heard more rustling. "Jamie? Jamie, can you hear me?" 

"Stop talking," I groaned, "I think I'm gonna hurl." I felt like spewing up chunks of animal crackers (which I'd had earlier today as a replacement for lunch because I didn't feel like making food or walking out of the house) and apple juice. My head was throbbing and I was completely disoriented even without opening my eyes. 

"I'm so sorry Jamie," Matthew's voice said. "I didn't mean to knock you out. That punch was for Taylor." 

"I'd so kick your ass right now if Jamie weren't hurt," Taylor muttered, stroking my hair.

"Stop touching my hair," I demanded, internally rolling my eyes. "And get me a plastic bag or two. I don't want to have to clean up upchuck." 

I opened my eyes and looked around, unsure of where I was until I spotted Matthew's old soccer cleats on the windsill. I snuggled deeper into Matthew's comforter and turned on my side to face the two of them, who were sitting in chairs far apart from each other. "Both of you guys suck," I emphasized the last word, and they both cringed. 

"I got your plastic bag?" Taylor asked, and handed it to me. "And I'm very sorry." 

"You damn well should be," I retorted, before leaning over and throwing up into the plastic bag. "I'd stick my feet up your asses but then y'all would enjoy it." 

Matthew stared at me, upset, and I sighed, and reassured him, "I'm fine, Matthew. Just please don't punch Taylor again." 

"I don't like you in his bed," Taylor grumbled, and shot a glare at Matthew. Matthew shot a glare back and then they both turned towards me, ignoring each other. Those two were meant to be together. I no longer shipped Detthew or Malia or whatever; I totally shipped Maylor. Even their ship name sounded so much better than Delia and Matthew's ship name. 

Wait, what would Taylor and I's ship name me? Jaylor? Taymie? That actually didn't sound too bad. 

"Jamie? Jamie?" Taylor waved his hand in front of my face. "Damn it, Matthew, you gave her a concussion and now she's spacing out. More than usual, that is." 

I snapped out of my contemplation of ship names and reached out to smack Taylor. "Shut up you whore," I told him. "I don't think I suffered any permanent brain damage, no thanks to you."

"I only whore for you," Taylor said jokingly, giving me a hug. 

Matthew shuffled his feet a little and cleared his throat. "You're too good for him." 

"Quit being a dick," Taylor snapped, a vein in his throat popping up a little.

I sighed, my frustration starting to show through. Most of the time I tried to contan it around Matthew since it would put him in an even worse mood. But he'd never stepped over the line before by saying smething like that. "Matthew, what's up with you? You need to chill out." 

Matthew gave a little half-hearted smirk/smile and then took a deep breath. "I'm fine." 

"No, you're obviously not fucking fine since you tried to punch out Taylor," I retorted, wanting to smack him. Of course, I didn't do that because I still felt sick and any sharp movements were going to make me barf again. Oh, and the fact that we'd been best friends since we were small might have had a little bit to do with why I didn't smack him; but it was mostly for my well-being. 

"Fine," Matthew growled, balling his hands into fists. I thought he was about to hit Taylor again, who I felt tense beside me.

Then he dropped the bomb (both the f-bomb and the news. Wow, I'm feeling punny): "I like you. There. Are you fucking happy?" 

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