"No!"
His voice is muffled, his face swallowed up by the cream coloured pillow under him. He screws his eyes shut, clinging on to the sleep he so desperately needs. The sleep he so desperately wants.
He's extremely close to falling back asleep, his thoughts are all hazy, his body relaxes; yet as sleep begins to consume him, the duvet is ripped from him.
"Oi!" He groans, hands blindly reaching out for the cover. He needs to get the window pane fixed, his room is always cold in the mornings. "M'tired."
"It's cleaning day," you respond, a smile crossing your face at the sight of the exhausted boy.
"You're bloody mental," he whispers." S'not even ten in the morning and you want me to clean. Who even came up with cleaning day?" He grumbles, rolling over so he could face you. With hooded eyes, he roams your face and begins to mutter to himself.
"You," you snicker. "You're the one that came up with it." Because he did. He came up with cleaning day when he was bored out of his mind one day.
"But m'tired and I just wanna cuddle with you," he expressed, sliding his hand over his stomach, finally resting it under his belly button. He juts out his lower lip and opens his eyes; he knows it's a face that makes you weak in the knees. He uses the face when he fails to persuade you.
"No." He cackles as your eyes fly shut; the face is working. It always does.
"C'mon, baby," he says the term of endearment tauntingly. "Come back to bed and we'll clean later." He offers, later saying. "I promise that we'll clean the whole house from top to bottom, fix the broken leg of that tiny table downstairs and go out for lunch, if you come back to bed."
"You know I really hate you,"you reply.
"Uh huh," he murmurs unconvinced, watching you remove your slacks. "S'why you're jumping into bed with me, eh?"
