hazel

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“Fuck you, stalebutt Jones,” A loud, breathless laugh pealed out of Sid as he straddled his friend; flopping atop her belly and fisting both of her wrists to the floor.

“Fuck you, mudblood Bennett,” She cried out from beneath him, where she half lay on her back in flat awkward angles, auburn ringlets scrunched underneath her and over the tiled, flinty floor, like a shrivelled, emaciated hallow.

Sid Bennett had blasted through the doors, and immediately cannonbolted towards where she had camped her slouch, over the stitches of her rickety, overstuffed armchair, snickering at Young Sheldon in her living room. She could have sworn that she caught a dash of bright green flash throughout the home in her side-eye.

He had then proceeded to greet her with a hurtling fist, that had skidded to a halt just an ant's stand before her nose.

The S. Bennett hello, she called it.

“You crook,” He had wagged a judge's finger at her. “You left me. All alone. What a sham of a friend you're!”

“Oh, be flipped off for Sheldon's sake, you daily soap,” Chin on her chest, she had rolled her eyes. “I texted you that I had no other option. Mum had urgently wanted me home.”

“So you'll leave your only friend to be smothered, dragged through eager eyed, flappy winged coakroaches, blood eagled till he rather begs of a gravebed sleep?” A fist on his chest, Sid had gaped at her. “How very white-ly torturous of you. And here I'm, always waiting by your skunk-ful side, not saying one word, no matter how much it stinks!”

She had passively stared at the screen.

“Pretty sure you covered a paragraph there.”

“You, you, you!” His eyes had twitched, and twitched.

She had looked at him, egging him in smiles. “Me, me, me.”

“You'll be shown. Oh you'll be shown.”

And then, in a spider monkey trick, he had gone on to grab her in a chokehold from behind before she could even breathe out.

“Gah, you death eater, back off,” She thrashed against him, her face blooming a breathless cerise, though the gripe was fairly more waggish than his facile fury. “Back off, I said!” She roared.

In their clash of fooltans - as she scuffled to throw his weight across her, getting a little bite here and a little punch back there, and he tussled to lean her back, dodging off her attacks with one hand, whilst his other veteran of an arm garrisoned his hold - something ticked off, and the arm chair, that had been wobbling an on and off brooding harbinger tilt for a while now, at last groaned, and clocked its defeated plea. In a right, loud cloddish angle, her goggle-eyed yelp was squashed beneath Sid's slightest of lardy breadbasket, as his mashed weight thrust suffocatingly upon her.

She somehow managed to free her hand, and chuck Sid's blue whale tons aside, a huff or two of her lost - his black-horned yawp ignored - finally free to right herself, breathe and groan.

“You did this all just because I left you early at one party, one dumpgobbled party,” She groaned. “And for once, once, damn you, in the witnessing history, having a legitimate lawtied-bow reason, and you dare to quiz me on why I call you a theatric headless clown.”

She had crawled back from her cowped throne, the tush-snug seat facing her forlonly in its drooping, silvery cold succumb. The cramped legroom bounded her to fold her feet.

With a rainbow laved word, he braced himself up on an elbow. The room of his eyes breathed in breadth; with wide woody eyes, protruded, lower lip that wobbled, he knitted his brows and looked at her. “Do not snide my sore grievances. I've been hurting, did you even have an inkling to the sour gravity of it? You owe me.”

She blankly stared at her roof.

“Theatric headless clown,” She muttered, the words getting strayed midst the to and fro pace of her breaths.

After a moment, Sid propped himself up to a sitting stance. She did owe him. And he counted on cashing his due.

“I'm due a bear-hug. Here come, stalebutt,” He held out his arms; wobbly, jutting out bottom lip, wide eyes, softly arched brows. His voice pulling a child to play with, a tinge of whining, chin tilted demand in it. “Hug me, you.”

She laid unmoving though, taking out patches of her mind, and squeezing them through the craggy lines in the ceiling, eyes passing in a detached haze.

He breathed in a sigh. “That's it. I'm claiming my counter cents.”

And that's how he landed his claim, as he tackled her, wiggling fingers and smirking intentions eliciting miffed, reluctant grins out of her.

Grinning back at her best friend from beyond those days when the horizon used to be but an ensorcelling, shimmering magenta, and when their puerile minds were delirious with the joy that they found in the unfound isles, still uncorrupted from the glaze of reality, she felt all sorts of childlike and silly.

For a child still napped somewhere in their elfish gaze, in the roundness of their wildly smiling face, in the madness of their bickering, and in their simple heart's earnest love. In the midst of the shaking bridge, that bolstered sixteen year aged wobbly planks, they walked in cautious steps, together, towards the cliff of the grown, blissfully unaware of its mournful chasm in their mid-journey awe, from the stroll's novel experiences and thrills.

Sid leaned in, his dusky, wave ridden frizz drawing a drape around their faces, fastening them delicately in a world undisturbed, just of their own, and to their own leisure.

“You'll trip and lose in your own fashion.” He challenged her quietly. Pretentious malignancy, and loyal smugness dug a dimple in his left cheek.

“Hardly,” Scoffed she.

Inadvertently, he leaned in some more, his face now unnervingly close to the girl laying on her back; caught in the haze of making her take back the words that had caused this altercation in the first place, and which were, in his very own opinion, the decease of all things jolly.

“I will show you hardly, Jones.” His voice was softly dark. His quiet half smile only too powerful.

Her eyes narrowed first, then widened.

“No, no, no, no,” She wriggled, squirmed and writhed beneath him, her movements wild, and panic-stricken. “Fuck no. Absolutely not, Sid!”

“Yes, yes, and yes,” Warbled Sid, “Yes, my Fletcher.” He winked.

“Get off, you oaf of a Beaumont,” Sam huffed out, still twisting and turning for a chance at freedom. “You know I absolutely despise being pillow-smothered. Yes, that's how much, hate simply cannot contain the expression. I fucking despise it.”

“As opposed to whom?” His right brow quirked up, his left hand reaching for the pillow – one that she had clasped while watching the television, but which then laid pitifully fallen upon the floor – whilst the right one captained the wheel of both of her wrists. He crowed, “No one likes it. That's what makes it funny.”

“Darn it Sid, I might fucking die! Just get off mmh humph,” The rest of what she had to say was kidnapped by the fat, fluffy pillow's stifling hug.

Sid crackled. “I think you're very much alive till now.”

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