Dead and Loving it

“I’ll just have to prove it to you,” Peter smirks against Patrick’s neck.

“Prove what?” Patrick gasps, suddenly out of breath.

“That I’m dangerous.” He places an open mouthed kiss to Patrick’s pulse that makes Patrick’s heart do strange flippy things.

“Then prove it.” Letting his eyes flicker shut, Patrick turns his head to the left, giving Peter an even better shot at his neck.

Peter pulls away, grinning like the wolf man he is. “Oh, I’m going to. You’re going to be begging to leave.”

Opening his eyes, Patrick laughs at Peter’s childish tone. “Do it, then,” he challenges, relieved that Peter isn’t threatening to take him home anymore. He figures the longer Peter keeps him here, the easier it’s gonna be to convince Peter to let him stay.

Peter gets up off of Patrick completely, leaving the younger boy inexplicably cold. “I’m going to scare the shit out of you, Patrick,” Peter gloats, backing out of the room.

Patrick smirks. “Bring it on!” he calls after Peter’s retreating form.

******************

After a few minutes of lying in the bed, alone, he decides to wander around the old house. He is going to be living here, after all; he needs to know his way around his own home.

He looks in all the four upstairs rooms, which contain nothing but rotting furniture. He also just happens to come across a huge, pure white grand piano hidden under a dusty old sheet. Now, he thinks to himself, if only Peter had a guitar hidden somewhere he’d be set for life.

After a few long minutes of appreciating the beautiful instrument, he heads down the rickety staircase in search of something to eat, seeing as it’s been awhile since Peter last brought him anything.

The kitchen, surprisingly enough, is located somewhere in this century, unlike the rest of the house. The fridge is sleek and black, the double-doored kind that has a freezer on one side. It’s kind of like the ones his parents own, but he squashes that thought very quickly. Looking inside, he finds cans and cans of Red Bull stacked in the door shelves, and all kinds of fruits and vegetables stashed in various drawers. The rest of the spacious fridge is filled by a small mountain of chocolate snacks. Great diet Peter has, he thinks to himself, grabbing a ruby red apple from the bottom door. Taking a bite, he shuts the fridge and has to tilt his head back to stop the sticky apple juice from flowing down his neck.

Wiping his mouth and chin, he walks through the arch way set in the left wall of the room. Inside, he finds a cozy, vibrant red room with an open fire place and large black sofa, as well as what looks like a statue of a wolf mid-howl. He takes another bite of his apple and moves to sit on the soft sofa.

And then the wolf moves. Patrick almost shits himself, but instead decides to throw his body over the sofa with a loud squeak of surprise. Peter, who is now standing in place of the wolf, laughs his ass off. Patrick throws his apple at him, but misses.

“Scared you. Wanna go home now?” Peter teases.

“Gotta do better than that,” Patrick smirks at him.

Peter pads silently over to him, like a cat stalking a mouse. “So I need to do a better job? Maybe I should, you know.” Peter grins, tilting his head to the right.

“What? You should what?” Patrick asks, confused.

Peter swings his fist forward and Patrick reflexively closes his eyes, flinching to the side and waiting for the pain…that never comes. He opens his eyes and turns back to Peter only to find a fist about an inch from his face.

“Scared?” Peter whispers, pulling his fist back.

“No.” But, dammit, the fear is apparent in his voice.

Peter nods, walking past him and out of the room, quiet as a mouse.

Patrick looks down at his feet, suddenly ashamed that he couldn’t hide his fear of being struck again.

But before he can ruminate on that any longer, a cloth covers his mouth and nose, and he feels an arm slip around him, trapping his arms at his sides. Patrick struggles hard, squirming and jerking his head from side to side, trying to dislodge his attacker. But to no avail.

Peter’s voice then rings in his ear: “Patrick. Forget about me. Forget about this. Just remember someone loves you no matter what. I love you.”

Chloroform, Patrick realizes dully, and before he can form another thought, his eyelids drop shut like they’re made of lead.

*****************

“What do yo------ Patrick!? OH, THANK GOD, PATRICK!”