My Favorite Everything

Chapter Five

As Wilder slowly stretched his arms above his head, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His hair was messier than usual, and he looked under the covers to discover that he was still in his clothes from the night before. Right as he began to roll over, he stopped moving once he realized that Frankie's back was facing him.

Laying as still as possible, Wilder's heart skipped a beat. His eyes were plastered on the ceiling as he recalled the few events he actually remembered. The boy grimaced as the image of himself hurling in front of Frankie entered his brain. Raising his hand to his forehead, he sighed, wondering if he could ever do something that didn't end in utter humiliation.

After lying still for about five minutes after he woke to the stir of his best friend, Frankie turned over sleepily to face Wilder. The partially blind boy eventually opened his eyes as he spoke to him. "What time is it?" Frankie mumbled, his eyelids fluttering.

Wilder pushed himself up and glanced over Frankie to read the alarm clock. "Ten thirty-two. Why? You busy today?" he asked, while a wave of nausea racked his body. Desperately wanting to stop himself from hurling in Frankie's sheets, he slumped back down onto the bed.

Frankie waved a hand at him and groaned. "Too early. Don't talk to me."

    Wilder sat up abruptly. "I'm probably gonna barf in, like, two minutes. Got it though, boss," he said with a shaky salute.

Frankie's eyebrows knitted in concern as he watched Wilder attempt to get out of bed. He huffed, reaching for his bedside table to slide his glasses on, before getting up.

"Hold on, relax. Let's get you to the toilet first," he offered, grabbing Wilder's waist to guild him like he had the night before.

The dark-haired boy immediately tensed up at Frankie's touch, but the possibility of him hurling all over his completely far from endearing best friend was enough to let Wilder lean into him.

Once the pair made it to the bathroom, Frankie helped ease Wilder to the cold tile next to the toilet. He groaned, earning a frown from his best friend, who watched Wilder's cheeks turn red with embarrassment.

"Frank," he said with a tense swallow. "I really don't want you to see this."

Frankie shook his head. "Shut up. You've gotta get this out of you somehow. I'll get the aspirin and some water."

Before he was able to come back, Wilder had already expunged about 90% of his stomach contents. His arm rested upon the toilet seat with his head slumped against it. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the humiliation that was sure to set in quicker than his normal intake of Xanax.

"Oh, shit. You alright, Wiley? Here, take this," Frankie said, sitting down next to Wilder. He handed him a cold glass of water. "Come on."

Wilder threw his head back. "Seriously, it might make me puke again."

"Wilder, please. Just for a second," Frankie said, his voice quieter.

Wilder simply blinked at him, before a sudden coughing fit saved him from addressing the way that made his stomach feel.

Once it was over, Wilder looked at Frankie pointedly. "Fine. I'll drink it, but not because you want me to--because I'm thirsty, and tired of you always telling me what to do," he stated, matter-of-factly.

Frankie rolled his eyes. "Right, okay then."

It was quiet for a moment.

"Was I that bad last night?" Wilder asked.

Frankie laughed to himself. "You're always that bad." His head snapped up with a second thought. "Are you staying over for a while?"

Wilder thought for a moment before the guilt settled in--the weight of his burdens.