амега (peterick)

deux.

Patrick sits naked in the tub clenching and unclenching his fists. He pretends to be interested in the bubbly water lapping against his stomach, but I can tell from the way he gnaws uneasily at his bottom lip that he's trying with all his might to refrain from touching himself.

Initially, he'd asked me to get into the bath with him, but I'd insisted it was far too small for the both of us to fit together (I'm lying; it's the biggest fucking bath you've ever seen). He's already proved himself to be an excellent listener, and strangely I'm feeling like quite the man of the house, though slumped cross-legged on the bathroom floor, seemingly too exhausted to get up and do something practical, like clean the windows or wash the dishes that have been piling up in the sink for the last week. Then I reconsider; this is practical. My priority is to keep a watchful eye on this damaged Omega - be it cooking his dinner or ensuring he doesn't drown himself in the tub - and at this moment in time, sitting here doing nothing looks to be the most correct thing to be doing.

It's currently six PM. Buzz had never specified an exact time for Patrick to take his second daily dose of suppressants, but new relationships mean new routine, and therefore wild guesses have to be made to tick off all items on the to-do list.

"Are you ready to take your pills?" I ask, breaking the awkward silence.

Patrick's head shoots up, and he stares at me as if he's seen a ghost. "Will you wash my hair after?"

My lips lose their ability to speak as I fumble through the pockets of my brain for an answer. The appropriate response is "yes," but I'm not sure I'm comfortable undertaking such an intimate, parental task at this early stage in the relationship, and although he wouldn't question me if I refused, I don't think I have the heart to tell him no, either. So I don't. "Of course."

Patrick smiles faintly, but promptly goes back to tightening his hands into fists. Already, I've learned that the boy prefers to avoid confrontation at every cost, a typical trait in most Omegas. Either that, or he simply finds it difficult getting to know new people. But that's exactly why I'm here, isn't it? To get to know him. To allow him to build trust in me.

Stretching my legs out from their crushed position, I push myself up from the floor and reach for the medicine cabinet above the sink. In the mirror, I note my uncombed hair and hazel eyes drowned in sleep, before opening it to reveal a dozen capped bottles of suppressants. I take one and turn back to Patrick. The label instructs me to take no more than two tablets, twice a day, and to wash them down with water. I tap two of the tiny white pills into my palm and dig around the med cabinet for the small glass I keep there, swilling out the dust under the tap before filling it with water.

Patrick takes the possessions from my hands gratefully, being careful not to snatch them. He pops both of the pills into his mouth at once, swigging a mouthful of the water and chucking his head back to swallow. He then holds the glass, still half-filled, up to me. "You should take some, too," he suggests. I say nothing but take the glass from him anyway, raising a confused eyebrow. "They'll subdue your senses," he explains. "So you'll be in more control of your urges when you're around me. When I'm on my heat, I mean."

Intrigued more so than compelled, I tip two of the capsules onto my tongue and roll them to the back of my throat, swallowing them dry to make out that I'm a competent man who isn't scared of anything. It doesn't work. Patrick sniggers behind his hands as I lose my balance and hunch over the sink, choking myself half to death. Note to self: Don't be an idiot.

"You don't have to act cool for me to like you," Patrick giggles, sloshing his hands around in the water the way a small child would. I wait a few seconds before responding, gulping dryly to make sure the pills haven't gotten stuck halfway down my throat. They take effect quickly, and almost immediately I feel the heated, nauseous pool in my stomach evaporate. Now, we can have a civil conversation.

"Do you not think I'm cool?" I grumble with a crooked smirk, tucking the suppressant bottle back into the med cabinet. I lower myself back to the ground and kneel against the side of the tub, resting my elbows against its rim.

"I think you're nice," Patrick says.

"Can't argue with you there."

"Narcissism won't get you anywhere, though."

I cock my head sideways. "You're a sassy one, aren't you?"

"Oh, you haven't seen sassy." He elevates one hand out of the greying water to walk his middle a forefinger across the edge of the tub, flicking them forward in such a way to make them look like they're strutting. Once they can go no further, he pokes my elbow and smiles, his eyes glinting beneath dark, fluttering eyelashes. "Will you wash my hair now?" he asks innocently. "Please."

I blink, shaking myself back into the present, and it takes me a fleeting moment to realise that I've been staring. "Yeah, sure," I say, shifting my weight so I can grab the shampoo bottle from the foot of the ceramic tub. His blond locks are already swamped with bath water, so I get right down to the good stuff, squeezing the shampoo into my hand and massaging it into his scalp. "I'm really not sure I'll be so good at taking care of you," I admit.

Patrick closes his eyes and leans into my touch, signing contentedly. "Instinct," he murmurs. "Trust it."