амега (peterick)

vingt-deux.

Allie vanished about half an hour ago. Apparently it takes that long to choose a bedroom to sleep in for one night. They're all furnished, and ventilated just enough by cracked windows that I don't have to clean them often or worry too much about mould, so I don't see why it should be so difficult to make a decision. 'Less she's been Skyping with her fiance. That would explain the unintelligible jabbering resonating from the top of the stairwell. Yet another perfect relationship for me to envy when I accidentally forget about mine.

"Thank you so much for letting me stay," she says when she finally emerges from upstairs. She's taken off her nails and lashes, and her hair is sopping wet from showering; she's one of those people, who feels the need to drag her entire house and everything in it with her for a weekend away. I dread to imagine what state my bathroom could be in right now (for a house that's supposed to sleep eight, my parents didn't think very practically about guest facilities).

I finish making Allie's tea (with impossibly convenient timing) and walk over to the living area to hand it to her as she takes a seat next to Patrick. "You're welcome as long as you like," I tell her as she takes the steaming beverage from my hands. "There's plenty of room." I relax into the corner of the couch, where Patrick invites himself keenly onto my lap. He's gone small again. He's also decided to put the news on; you know you're life's about to go to shit when the only interesting thing you can find to watch on the telly at ten p.m. is news.

"A young Omega boy, identified as sixteen year old William Laxton, was found in critical condition near the South border of the French Quarter, New Orleans, last night," the newscaster begins, reciting tonights headliner. Patrick burrows his face into my chest. "According to witnesses, he had been 'abandoned bloody and dying, undressed from the waist down, with bruises all over his thighs and a dark, hand-shaped mark embedded around his throat.'"

From his solace in the crook of my neck, Patrick risks a peek at the TV. The images are explicit and horrifying. They only ever show pictures like these after the watershed, so long as permission is given to do so, but I don't understand why they feel the need to show them at all. They show us in school; teach us how to recognize the warning signs; ward us away from bad behaviour. It's nothing we haven't seen before.

Patrick remembers his experience all too well, and with a small, distressed whine he returns his face to its hiding spot. I hug the side of his head with my palm as the newscaster resumes the story. "Police and paramedics are still uncertain of what exactly happened, and no suspects have been found as of yet. William passed away in hospital from vascular injuries earlier this morning."

"Fuck," I hear Allie whisper under her breath.

I'm with her on that one.

"ABO officials are concerned that there has been a spike in Omega abuse within New Orleans and the surrounding areas this month. Cases involving vulnerable, homeless, and underage Omegas are said to have multiplied by at least fifteen percent in the last two years, with as many as three incidents per week being reported. Victims' families have spoken out about temporary disappearances involving their Omega children. Some parents described how their children went missing for entire days, before 'stumbling back home, weak and depressed.'

"The number of unwanted teenage pregnancies has also risen incredibly over the last decade. Although hopeful couples who are unable to conceive have more choice now than ever to give these abandoned children warm homes, the ABO recently stated that: 'Vulnerable Omegas who have been exposed to this kind of trauma aren't getting near enough the support and guidance they need,' and that, '...as a society, we need to be further educated about these issues.'

"Working alongside the New Orleans Police Department today, the ABO have issued an Amber Alert, warning all Omegas, and especially families of the younger, to stay on the lookout for suspicious activity, and to take suppressants if they plan to engage in sexual activities.

"Further support and advice about this issue can be read on our website."

Allie sips her coffee earnestly. "You'd think these Alphas would have learned a lesson by now."

"Sadly, it doesn't seem so," I agree. Patrick nibbles at my collarbone troublingly. He's trying his best not to listen in. "I don't know if Patrick told you, but the night he and I met, I was protecting him from an Alpha who'd somehow gotten into the club unnoticed. I managed to intervene before he got hurt, or worse, but it just goes to show; the streets aren't as safe as they used to be."

Impulsively, I hug Patrick tighter and press my lips against the top of his head. In his nature, he forces himself to keep quiet in times he feels insecure. He couldn't reveal to me his deepest, darkest secret, not even if he wanted to. But I don't care. He's here, in my arms, safe, and that's all I can ask for. 

A hand touches my knee, and when I look up Allie is smiling at me, but it's a kind, empathetic smile, and for the first time since meeting her, I believe completely that she's as genuine as Patrick knows her to be. "You did good," she says. As if she's been here the entire time, overlooking us. A guardian angel. "Keep it up." She squeezes my knee gently before turning her attention back to the TV.

"Next, preparations are being made for next weekend's annual ABO ball..."  Finally, something new and positive to get excited about. Even the anchorwoman can't stop herself from grinning. "Celebrating a whopping 50 years of governance, the party is set to take place at Le Palais Royal, will look back on five decades of equal rights laws, as well as recognizing the amazing people who have dedicated their jobs to making sure the streets of Louisiana remain safe for us all.

"The most lavish of Alphas will be attending the ball, and, for the first time, government officials are being allowed to invite their families and friends to the palace itself."  Patrick's head jerks up from my chest, eyes alert. I know what he's thinking, but I'd rather him not get his hopes up. "Unfortunately, not all of us will receive such a privilege, but, as seen in recent years, it's credible that street parties will be held across America; it is, after all, a celebration of the gender hierarchy, and the progressive possibilities of a discrimination-free country."

Patrick bounces excitedly in my lap. "Petey, can we go?" he lights up.

I tug loose a hair that's jammed itself between his eyelashes. "You really want to?"

"Uh-huh." He nods furiously. "We can ask Dallon to get us special invites."

I wince. I knew I should have seen that one coming. "Were you not paying attention to what the news lady was talking about two minutes ago?" I question, nodding at the TV, where now, a different broadcaster is currently ranting about tax, or something insignificant like that. "I don't think a palace full of celebrities would be the safest place for you to go right now."

He rolls his eyes and grunts displeasing. "You say that like I've been molested."

"You almost were not two months ago."

"But you'd be there to keep an eye on me the whole time," he whines. "And we don't even have to stay for that long. Just an hour or two. Please?"

Over his shoulder, Allie quirks an eyebrow. I sigh heavily. "I'll have to speak to Dallon."

"Does that mean yes?"

"We'll see. But I'm not making any promises."

"Yes!" He punches the air with his fists, and then starts peppering bullets of kisses all over my face. "I love you so much, you have no idea, thank you, thank you..."

There's no way in a million years he's going that party. For now, though, I'm going to continue pretending like I said otherwise, or at least remain in the "I'm still thinking about it" mindset. I'll even convince Dallon to invite us. That way, I won't feel so bad when I tell him we can't go. A temper tantrum still waits for me on the horizon, certainly, but at least I'll be giving myself time to prepare for the inevitable meltdown; it'll be his own bad for getting hopeful.

Patrick bounds off of my lap, babbling hysterically to himself as he sprints up the stairs without another word to me, probably to exert his excitement through trying on as many outfits as possible, outfits of which he could wear to the party. I should really feel terrible. I don't.