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“Fuck off Way.”
“Miles it’s almost 10, if you don’t get your ass out of bed I will drag you outside and obliterate your ass with the hose.”
Miles snuggles deeper into the soft nest of his and Waylon’s shared bed, sighing deeply into the cocoon of warmth. Walrider even seems to agree, humming lackadaisically in the back of his head.
“Miles.” Waylon says, “I’ll fucking do it, I will.”
Miles groans. At first you would assume that the blonde man is talking shit, but as Miles knows from personal experience, Waylon will indeed blast him with jets of water if he doesn’t comply and roll out of bed.
“I think,” Miles starts, “If you joined me in my little cocoon, then you would understand why I can’t get up.”
“Miles…” Waylon warns.
Miles pouts like a toddler when they don’t get their way – which to be honest, he might as well be.
“C’mon Way, it’s Sunday! Nobody wants to do shit on Sundays.”
His audience remains silent, glaring at the blanket covered man in annoyance.
“White Southern Moms™️ don’t count.” Miles argues. “They’re always doing stuff like making tables out of their dead uncle or some shit.” Miles internally celebrates the small breath of laughter that brings out of Waylon.
The undead man holds a hand out to Waylon as an invitation, making the most pathetic looking puppy face he can muster.
Waylon huffs and bats away Miles’ hand.
“Only this once, ok?” Waylon says not at all convincingly.
As the the shorter man crawls beneath the covers to cuddle with him, Miles knowingly thinks about the fact that this will undoubtedly happen again.