"A cat?" Jesse scratches his head, leaning against Blaine's headboard, a magazine sitting in his lap. "I thought you were a dog person," he comments, smirking as he flips a page, eyes returning to his lap.
"I am a dog person," Blaine says, sitting in his chair, tapping his pen on the wodden desk. "But most apartments in New York don't allow them. And besides, a cat would be cute, don't you think?" He looked at Jesse, smiling as he closed his notebook and pushed it aside. Spinning around in his chair, he moved over to the bed.
"I think we should name it Chopin. Maybe Tchaikovsky," Blaine suggested, completely serious.
"Tchaikovsky?" Jesse said, squinting his eyes. "If we're going to go down that route, we should at least name them Sondheim," he stated as if it were the most obvious decision in the world.
"Tchaikovsky was a genius," Blaine said, adding emphasis on the word genius.
"And Sondheim wasn't?" Jesse added in, raising an eyebrow.
"Touche," Blaine retorted, moving onto the bed to lay down next to Jesse, his head ending up in his lap. "We're still naming it Tchaikovsky, though."
"Whatever gets you through the day," said the older boy, running his fingers through Blaine's hair.