амега (peterick)

dix-huit.

Behind my house sits a large, man-made park. Nobody can agree if the creek that weaves around it is a river, lake, or pond, but it flows cleanly through the deep green trees nonetheless, kept just warm enough by underwater heaters for ducks to paddle peacefully. Elegant wooden bridges arch over the thinnest parts of the pond, lined with old-fashioned street lamps, fern green columns that also line the edges of the river every few hundred yards. The park is a tranquil place for a stroll, alone, or alongside a four legged friend. You could go for a gentle jog, or sit and admire the strange yet colourful sculptures dotted along the footpath as the sun sets, reflecting against the pond like a watercolor painting. It's something out of a fairytale.

The central island of the park is home to La Galerie, an assortment of posh cafes and restaurants, mostly Italian and French, with a few seafood dedications thrown into the mix. La Galerie was only built recently, in the last couple of years. There used to be other buildings in its place - old farm houses and stables - but they've since been demolished and replaced by greenery.

I've never been much of a free spirit, but with the park being so easily accessible from my doorstep, I've always wanted to take somebody there. Not on a date, per say (I'm not a romantic, either, as you know), but for a drunken chat with a mate, or a picnic in the shade of the orchard with my parents. Or simply to wander.

So, I thought, what better way to spoil my Omega to help ease him through his next heat.

"You didn't have to do this," he says as I pull out his chair for him. He glances around the restaurant anxiously as he sits, fingertips twitching against his lap under the tablecloth. "You know I'd rather be in bed."

I take my own seat across from him. The table is circular in shape and just big enough for the two of us to sit. A single candle flickers in the center between our empty plates and champagne glasses. I could have reserved one of the secluded booths against the walls, however, many couples like to use them to hide their obscene sexual activities, and knowing me, knowing Patrick, we probably would, too, which sort of defeats the object of this date. No one's telling us we can't be romantic; I just want to assure myself that there's more to owning an Omega than sex.

Before we'd left, I'd told Patrick to dress up nice, and he hasn't disappointed. He's wearing skinny jeans and a cardigan, sleeves tugged down over his knuckles. It's a far cry from his usual style, but I like it; it's cute. As for myself, I've gone for a more groomed look: Crisp white, freshly ironed, button up shirt, topped with a blue denim jacket, and no tie. Undeniably smart, but not so much that is screams, "I'm a rich motherfucker and you're not."

"I know there's a million things you'd rather be doing right now," I say, absently straightening up my knife and fork. "But we need to get to know each other better. In less of a sexual way, and more of a friend way."

A Beta waitress wanders up to our table offering us food menus, a bottle of prosecco pinched in her right hand. She pours me a glass first before angling the neck of the bottle toward Patrick, and both she and the Omega look to me with adoration, expectant for me to give the ok. Patrick bounces in his chair like a kid in a candy store. I've never seen him drink, and judging by the amused look on the waitresses face as she hovers the bottle over his glass, this restaurant doesn't serve too many Omegas. After a few teasing moments, I nod, and the Beta pours a reputable amount of the tipple into Patrick's glass. Straight away, he makes a grab for it, but a spillage looks imminent, and I throw him a stern glance to remind him to use his table manners.

Once the waitress leaves, I pick up my menu, and over the brim I watch Patrick copy the movement to a tee, his eyes scanning the paper hungrily as if the food will melt right out of it. He doesn't take long to decide. "The bed is preferable," he states. "But being bedridden doesn't mean we have to have sex all the time."

"You think it's easy for me to avoid not having sex with you all the time?" He giggles, agreeing with me by shaking his head. I grin and go back to my menu, stomach rumbling. "We need distracting."

He sighs stiltedly. "I don't know. This is nice, but... it's too much. I don't deserve any of it."

Disgraced, I toss the menu aside and look at him. "Patrick, you deserve all of this." I spot the waitress nearby, and I flag her down to come and take our orders. "All of this money I have has gotta be spent somewhere," I add, shrugging and sitting back in my chair.

"What can I get for you two handsome boys?" the waitress asks upon reaching our table.

Patrick flushes at her compliment. I don't have an issue; we are all mismatched in gender; showing appreciation for someone else is just basic human decency. I could quite happily let Patrick sit in front of a long line of people, of all genders, ready to swamp him in salutations. They can do my job of making him feel loved, and it wouldn't bother me, because I know they can't take him for themselves.

"I'll have the meat feast, please," I say to the waitress. "Twelve inch, extra cheese, with a garlic dip."

She scribbles the information onto her notepad, then turns to Patrick. "I'll have steak with fries, cooked medium to rare," he recites. "Please."

"Will that be all?"

"Yes, thank you," he replies politely.

"Great. Service is a little busy tonight, but we'll try to get your meals out to you in twenty minutes."

"That's fine," I say, gathering up our menus and handing them to her. "All the more time I can spend with Patrick here." She smiles once more before walking away. "Well, isn't this evening lovely?" I declare, turing back to Patrick.

"You're so embarrassing," he groans behind his hands.

"You love it, though."

"Says every embarrassing person on a date."

Atop the table, Patrick's phone starts to buzz. I'm unsure why he's brought it with him, but then I see the name flashing on the screen, and I realise why; Allie's been trying to get ahold of him every day for the last few weeks, and he still hasn't found the guts to respond.

"You should answer that," I tell him.

He shakes his head. "I'll call her back later."

He goes to hang up, but I grab his wrist to stop him. "You said that last time she called and you never did. Answer it now, or you never will." I let his hand go and sit back. "Food's probably going to take ages, anyway."

Patrick stares at the device as if it might sprout a human head. Before, he owned one of those glitchy Nokia's. He never used it, but I couldn't stand looking at the atrocious thing, so I bought him a brand new phone he could slip his old sim into. 

 "Alright," he decides finally, standing awkwardly from his chair. "I won't be long."