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Pete ended up taking a trip back to LA for some stupid meetings and when he got back to their house in Chicago, something was different. "Trick?" he called, and heard a muffled response from Patrick's office. He passed by the couch, and it took a couple of seconds for what he'd seen to sink in.
He backed up and looked again. The couch was shredded, like it'd gotten into a fight with Wolverine and lost. Cushion fluff was everywhere and Pete couldn't help but think about horror movie disembowelments. At least there wasn't any blood, or internal organs.
"'Trick, what happened to the couch?" Pete kept his tone light and even; no reason to start a fight five minutes after he walked in the door.
"Dunno what you're talking about, Pete," Patrick said, his voice growing nearer. "The couch—oh. Hmmm."
Patrick didn't really look surprised, which convinced Pete that something was going on and Patrick knew what it was. "So?"
"So, what?" Patrick had that innocent-boy-next-door look, and he'd gotten away with so much over the years because no one would believe someone with that face could wreak such havoc. When they'd been on tour, Patrick was always the very best at getting away with the most outrageous pranks.
But Pete knew better. "So, what happened to the couch?"
Patrick squinted through his glasses. "It looks like it got shredded."
"By what?" As Patrick shifted his weight from foot to foot, Pete noticed that the bottoms of Patrick's jeans were tattered; those were fairly new jeans. He looked around the room, seeing the subtle signs of destruction for the first time: the gouges in the baseboards, the curtains that seemed to have been shortened by a foot. "Is that blood?"
"Uh, maybe?"
Pete rounded on him. "What the hell is going on, 'Trick?"
"Mew." It was a tiny meow, coming from the tiniest kitten that Pete had ever seen, which seemed to suddenly appear out of nowhere. It was fuzzy and black and had abnormally large fangs. It looked up at Pete from a spot on the floor.
It was scary and cute at the same time, which Pete thought was maybe just a good definition of his life. "What were you thinking, Hemmy's gonna eat it alive."
Patrick smirked at that. "Hemmy and Bunny Jr. have worked out their differences."
"Bunny Jr.?" Pete's blood ran cold. "Oh, no, no, Patrick, please tell me you didn't. You didn't let Mikey talk you into adopting one of his hell kittens."
Shrugging, Patrick tried for sweet and innocent. "Bunny Jr. was the runt of the litter and was getting beat up by the other kittens, and Mikey was really worried about her not surviving if he didn't find another home for her."
"Patrick." Pete enunciated clearly and slowly, because this was important. "Bunny Jr. is a vampire kitten. She's a killer." Bunny Jr. mewed pathetically. "Or she will be, once she grows up a little."
"She doesn't need that much blood, and Mikey says that there are alternatives, that Bunny doesn't feed on people or other animals." Patrick picked Bunny Jr. up and she flapped her bat wings, like she was testing out her ability to fly. It was clear she was much too young. "She's adorable, Pete."
"No."
"But look." Patrick held Bunny Jr. up to Pete's face, and she hissed at him before settling down into Patrick's hand and purring loudly. She had bright blue eyes and white whiskers.
"No."
"She'll die without our help," Patrick pleaded.
"She'll destroy our house and—fuck, stop looking at me like that." Pete knew the game was over. "Fine. But if I get turned into a vampire, you are going to have to donate some blood to me."
Patrick smiled, and it was sweet and filthy. "Deal."
-fin-