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Miles stared at the light switch, then at the colourful plastic gun, then at the switch again. Buried beneath several thick blankets, the only body part he could move was a single arm, whose mobility was about to be tested. To properly aim a gun full movement was a must, and usually that included the whole body, but Miles was desperate not to leave the soft, cozy warmth of his bed.
With his trusty Nerf gun loaded with several foam bullets, he took a deep breath, steadied his hand, and carefully peered down the bright orange sight.
'3… 2… 1…'
A loud click echoed throughout the bedroom as Miles watched with bated breath the little blue bullet fly through the air. His eyes trailed to the light switch on the other side of the room, its white casing standing out against the dark wallpaper. It almost felt like it was taunting him and his many failures of turning it off from his bed. The stick, the football, even a goddamn complicated string mechanism that took him two days to set up, and yet, every time he had to push all the warm blankets aside, step down onto the freezing cold floor, and turn it off himself like a chump. But this time, this fucking time, he was going to stay in bed, no matter what. That little blue fucker was going to hit the switch with a satisfying thunk, Miles was going to cheer like a madman and probably wake up the neighbours, and the light switch was going to go fuck itself.
'Come on, you can do it! Fuck that bitch up!' He silently cheered the foam bullet on.
Until it sunk to the floor before it could even make it to the wall. Miles wanted to groan or maybe throw his Nerf gun across the room, but he didn't. As mildly frustrated as he was, he wasn't going to throw away his one chance at winning. Besides, he had a whole stash of bullets, so losing one wasn't a big deal. Nope, no sir, not at all. The only thing to be heartbroken over was that he wasn't able to get it on the first try.
Loading the gun again, Miles took his time aiming, making sure his arm was stretched out more to close the gap, even if it was only a little, between him and the light switch. He took another deep breath, steadied his hand, and pulled the little plastic trigger.
Aaannnddd… It quickly fell right at Miles' feet, just out of his reach. Great. At least he knew where to find it when he inevitably had to clean up his mess in the morning.
Wasting no time, he grabbed yet another bullet from the nightstand and quickly loaded the gun. He didn't take the time to aim, instead firing it as soon as the bullet entered the chamber.
Maybe it was overthinking his shot that made him miss. If he just shot wildly, a bullet would have to hit the switch eventually, right? If he were being completely honest, he was quickly losing patience with the gun, the bullets, and that stupid switch. All he wanted was to turn the light off from his bed! Why was it so hard?
And, of course, the bullet landed nowhere near the wall, instead falling into the void that was the bedroom floor. It wasn't even that messy (Waylon made sure of that), but Nerf bullets always found their way into the vacuum of nothingness as soon as you lost sight of them. But that was a problem for future Miles. Right now, however, another bullet was loaded.
And to no one's surprise, every little blue Nerf bullet failed to even reach the wall. Some went to the floor, others the closet, but the most popular spot for them to fall was directly on top of Miles, right in view so they could mock him and his shit aim. But that didn't stop him from reaching out and grabbing another bullet.
That was until he only felt the solid wood of the nightstand. A deep panic quickly settled in the bottom of his stomach as he frantically slid his hand around, trying to find anything within reach.
'Oh no. No, no, no, no!' There was nothing.
Fuck! Stupid light switch, stupid gun, stupid fucking aim! Miles slumped back into the pillows in a huff, letting his arm droop down off the side of the bed in defeat. He wasn't sure if the light hanging above him had ever been so annoying with its weird yellow tint and dull buzzing cutting through his head like a hot knife. Even pulling the thick comforter over his head did nothing to soothe the pain.
With one final grunt of frustration, Miles gripped the handle of the toy gun until the plastic creaked, winded his arm back, and without looking, threw the gun as hard as he could. He was secretly hoping that it would somehow hit the switch and he could call that one of the greatest clutches of all time, but alas, the hollow thud of plastic hitting the door crushed any remaining hope.
Miles buried his face into the pillows as he reluctantly accepted that he would be sleeping with the lights on that night. Of course, he could have very easily gotten out of bed and turned it off himself, but that meant he would lose. So instead of going through the humiliating process of admitting his loss, Miles chose to stay in bed, hoping that Waylon would be home soon.
/////
Waylon wasn't surprised to see that all the lights were on when he returned home. Miles liked to stay up at ridiculous hours mulling over possible cases, stories, or anything to do with Murkoff; so much so to the point where Waylon had to physically drag the man to bed, much to Miles' dismay. And it looked like it was another one of those nights. Great.
Sighing loudly (admittedly for dramatic effect), he hung his bag, shrugged his jacket off, and mentally prepared himself for the hell that was a fussy, sleep-deprived Miles. At least, hopefully, they could both get a few hours of sleep before morning. God knew they both needed it.
'Be kind, be patient, don't acknowledge his weird questions, it'll only make things worse…'
Yet as he entered the living room there was no sign of the brunette hunched over a laptop, no cans of energy drinks piled on every surface, and no obnoxious buzzing of the Walrider looming nearby. Huh. As grateful as Waylon was to finally not see Miles up and stressed so late at night, it was unsettling seeing the couch cold and the T.V a solid black.
And yet, all the lights were still on.
Waylon peaked around the corner and into the equally lit, but empty kitchen. Still no sign of Miles. He pulled open the glass door leading to the balcony, letting in a gust of freezing wind from the pitch darkness. Sadly, he became slightly colder in vain as there was, yet again, no sign of Miles sitting in his usual spot outside.
If Miles was missing from his usual spots or wasn't anywhere outside…
'Oh god…'
Did that mean- Could something like that even be possible?
Waylon slowly walked down the hallway, delicately stepping over any creaky floorboards just in case, in the very small chance, Miles was sleeping (Genuinely sleeping! God, Waylon hoped it was true). He would never forgive himself if he disturbed the rare peace the brunette got.
But when he caught sight of the faint glow of light peering through the cracks of the bedroom door, he paused, and his shoulders slumped. Sighing deeply, it was clear that Miles was simply being stressed in a different part of the house while simultaneously crushing any hope Waylon had of a peaceful night.
'Whatever.' Waylon tried to tell himself. Though it wasn't really whatever. But he didn't want to spend precious time that could be used getting Miles to bed and sleeping for exploring the deep depths of his disappointment.
With one final weary sigh, Waylon pushed open the door, bracing himself for the onslaught of putrid-smelling energy drinks and the psychological damage the Walrider may inflict on him for "harming its host". But surprisingly, Waylon wasn't immediately assaulted by black fog, nor the disgusting scent of a dozen cans of beverages that couldn't even be considered safe for human consumption.
Instead, he found himself standing on a soft, colourful battlefield of fluffy blue bullets that covered nearly every surface. And in the middle of the chaos was Miles, under a pile of blankets, asleep.
Waylon nearly gasped out loud, but the discovery had honest to God taken his breath away.
Barely able to comprehend how badly the sight made his heart soar, the blonde slowly moved toward the bed, carefully dodging every bullet as if they were landmines. They may as well have been because if he were to slip on one it would be all over.
As anxious as the thought made Waylon, it went mostly ignored as he reached the bedside, which was somehow covered in even more Nerf bullets than the floor. It was as hilarious as it was heartwarming to see poor Miles passed out cold with his head buried deep into the blankets and pillows, though it made him feel bad for laughing at the thought of the other failing over and over again.
Waylon took the time to gently brush any foam bullets off the bed before carefully attempting to nudge Miles over just a little bit so the blonde could at least sit on the bed. But before he could get Miles to move a single inch, a head suddenly popped out of the blankets at break-neck speed. Waylon's heart nearly leapt out of his chest as a pair of tired brown eyes stared wildly at him, like he was the one acting crazy.
"Geez, give me a warning next time, okay?" He laughed in a sad attempt to hide his near heart attack. Miles simply stared at him for a few silent seconds before lazily moving over to the far side of the bed and looking at him expectantly.
"Hold on, I'll be there in a second."
Waylon pushed up from the bed, quickly moved to flick the light off, and moved back just as fast to flop down onto the bed next to Miles with a soft smile. They both lay in comfortable silence for a while before Miles quietly spoke up.
"I'll clean up the bullets tomorrow." He looked guilty, like a child being scolded.
"Huh?" Waylon paused for a moment. "Don't worry about it, it was kinda funny anyway. I'm just glad you got some sleep." He offered a comforting smile.
Miles huffed playfully.
"You're way too nice. You should be murdering me over any mess I make." He laughed.
"Nuh-uh. You're way too cute to kill."
"No, I'm not cute. I'm super cool and sexy. You're the cute one." Miles groaned.
"Nope. Total cutie-patootie. I mean, look at you! All wrapped up in blankets and being super adorable and sleepy." Waylon teased, giving Miles' hair a soft ruffle, making him squirm.
"Ugh, just get under the blanket, you big sap." The brunette rolled his eyes playfully before creating an opening in his fortress for Waylon to shuffle inside.
He was immediately enveloped in warmth as he moved right up next to Miles and pulled him into a loose hug.
"Wh- it's so warm! You're gonna die of heatstroke at this rate!" He laughed, but he was silently a little concerned about Miles' health. His skin felt abnormally warm and flushed, which kinda made Waylon worry just a little.
"Nah, it's no biggie. I like being warm, anyway." Miles held him back, wrapping his arms around Waylon's neck and nuzzling his head between his neck and shoulder.
"It's cold outside, Way. We gotta have lots of blankets to stay warm." He added.
"Fine, but I get to take off as many blankets as I want if it gets too claustrophobic."
"Deal."
Waylon smiled triumphantly as he trailed his hand up to Miles' soft hair to mindlessly play with it, taking strands and letting them fall through his fingers. Miles leaned into his touch, letting his head be cradled softly.
"Cutie."
"Nuh-uh." Miles yawned, understandably so, as it was probably already around one or two in the morning. "Fuck, I'm so tired…"
"Then go to sleep."
"But then I won't get to see your pretty face."
"You charmer." Waylon huffed a laugh. "Don't worry, I'll be here when you wake up."
"Promise?"
"Always."
With that settled, Waylon gave Miles a small peck on the forehead before letting the warmth and comforting, real solidness of Miles put him to sleep.
.
.
.
.
.
"Hey, have you tried just getting the Walrider to turn the light off?"
There was a long pause.
"Oh my God."