"Would you stop doing that?"

He rolls his eyes back to look at you up-side-down, brows arching and mouth gone comically slack. He's sitting backwards on the desk chair with his upper body dangling over the edge, legs bent over the tall back so that his socked feet kick at the air. He blinks a few times like his vision's a little hazy, and no wonder, bent back so the blood rushes to his head and spinning in slow, lazy circles.

"Doing what?" he asks childishly, grinning and pushing himself a little faster when you roll your eyes.

"That," you insist, leaning forward to grab him by the shoulders and halt his endless spin. "You're making me nauseous."

"It's cool. I can see spots. There...and there..." He reaches out clumsily to grab at something only he can see and you can't quite suppress a grin. His eyes light up with triumph when he notices and the pleased look transforms his whole face, gives him a sweetly foolish expression. "You should try it."

"Thank you, no," you demur, shaking your head at him as he pouts.

"You're no fun anymore," he grumbles, reaching up to grab the back of the chair and slowly lift himself upright. "Ooooh--headrush. Ow, ow, ow."

"I never was," you reply, and this time you don't try to contain the laughter tickling your throat. He turns his head at the sound and a mixture of amusement and panic grips you at the glint in his eyes. He rises gracefully from the chair, taking a step toward you with dark purpose. "Todd--no--I have to work on thi--ahh! Stop IT!"

"Oh, but this is so much more fun, isn't it?" he inquires sweetly as he pins you down with a strong forearm and tickles you mercilessly. You can't find your breath long enough to answer, just giggle--god, if anyone knew you giggled!--and paw at his hands and make those breathy hyperventilating sounds in the back of your throat. After awhile he takes pity on you and lets you up, dancing back with a chuckle as you take a swipe at him.

"Bastard," you swear, hand on your stomach, still panting gently. He grins and sticks out his tongue in reply, and you can only glare. "See, this is why you're six years old."

"Don't worry," he teases with a smirk as he heads for the living room, leaving you to your writing--"I won't tell anyone you smiled."