амега (peterick)

vingt-cinq.

"Have you heard anything more from the ABO?"

"As far as I know, it's definitely happening this Saturday night." Dallon puffs out a long, slow drag of smoke before handing the cigarette back to me. He's not a smoker, but, like me, he isn't opposed to sharing a blunt or two when the stresses of his days fuels his need for it. "Most of the hosts don't know."

I haven't been smoking much recently, either, I've noticed. I don't know what encouraged me to stop, or how I've been able to keep it up for so long. The cravings are still there; they're just easier to ignore now. "Most?" I echo Dallon's words. "Who did you speak to?"

"An Alpha, who I assume was part of the group, but he refused to take part any longer. They kicked him out before he got a chance to find out the details of what they're doing. He won't be at the ball, but he did tell me this: At least one of the party hosts is working with the group, and will be guarding them throughout the night to ensure nobody finds them. They will have been invited; most of them will be hiding amongst the rest of the guests, but I do know of a few back entrances that even the palace residents can't use."

"You think they're hiding the missing Omegas in the palace?"

"Possibly," he says. "What we're going to do is find out why. I'm already invited, so I can get you in easy. We'll pose as members of the group, posing as guests. All we have to do is spot the other group members and follow them into their secret meeting."

"Double cover. I like it." I prop my elbows against the railing and flick a tuft of ash from the tip of the cigarette. It glistens in the white moonlight like a cluster of snowflakes as it floats to the ground from our resting spot on the third storey balcony. "I don't suppose it'll be as easy as you just made it sound," I say.

"Probably not," he agrees. "Best to cross that bridge when we get to it, I think."

I inhale a mouthful of smoke, tipping my head back to let it billow against the back of my throat like vapour in a witches cauldron, and when I breathe it out again, every worry dissolves, coating the moon with a thin, pale mist. Somewhere inside, Patrick sings away to himself leisurely. I hold the stump of the spliff out to Dallon. "You want another before I chuck it?"

He shakes his head and smirks. "I'd rather it not become habit."

I stub out the cigarette and throw it over the railing, signalling my friend back into the house with an outstretched arm. He nods and heads inside, and I follow closely, bolting the gallery doors shut behind us. 

Patrick stops singing. I admire his patience; he knows how to put up with himself when the adults need their quiet time. No questions asked. I adore him. I adore thinking of him when he isn't with me, and I adore him even now, as he bolts out of the dressing room wearing only his panties.

"Petey, come on, I need to show you!" He grabs my hand and starts pulling me frantically toward the dressing room. I cast a petrified glance over my shoulder at Dallon. I don't expect him to follow us, but apparently he has nothing better to do, so he does. The dressing room is a mess; I think pretty much every item of clothing we own resides where the carpet used to be, aside from a selection of suits and dresses, which hang neatly from the mirror. "I've been planning out the whole thing for us." Patrick lets go of my hand and starts tripping about the room flinging around random outfits. "I don't know if I wanna wear a suit or a dress, though. You're gonna wear a suit, obviously, but do you think I should wear a suit too, or a dress? And which colour? Because black would match better with you, but red goes good with my hair, and-"

"Hold on, babe, slow down," I laugh, snatching his hips and hauling him to me. He turns in my arms and pounces, looping his own around my neck to keep himself pinned in place, our torsos touching. "Why are our clothes all over the floor?" I ask. "Are you taking me out on a date?"

"They're for the ball." Shit. His grin falters. "We're still going, right?"

I hesitate. "Dallon and I are, yes."

"What?" He unclasps his legs from around my waist and lowers himself to the floor. "Why?"

"To find B." I adore Patrick, I really do, however, I don't adore the one that's about to scream the house down. I look to Dallon for assistance, but he just crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs apathetically. "We went through this," I tell the Omega.

"But you said I could come, too," he objects, his temper slowly riling. "You promised."

"I never promised you anything," I say insistently.

"But I wanna go!"

"You're not going."

His line snaps. And he starts throwing things at me. "I," he asserts angrily. (A stocking, which I smack away indolently with my hand.) "Want..." (An empty tube of lip gloss, which I also hit away successfully with minimal damage.) "To go!" he shrieks, this time flinging a handful of coat hangers my way. One of them ought to leave a bruise.

"Don't you dare raise your voice at me, Omega," I bellow, jabbing a finger at him. "You're not going, and that's it. Now you better pick this shit up off the goddamned floor before I take away your orgasm privileges for a month." I'm vacantly conscious of Dallon watching this unfold. In the mirror, he has an eyebrow quirked and his bottom lip pulled between his teeth to hide a smile. I hope he's enjoying this as much as I'm not.

"I really hate you sometimes," Patrick grumbles.

Cue me feeling terrible for raising my voice. He's wicked, but he's fucking good. I hunker down at his feet, reaching for his hands. "Listen, honey," I say. He refuses to comprehend. "I'm sorry I shouted at you. But it's just too dangerous. There's gonna be a lot of nasty Alphas there. What if one of them takes you?"

"They won't," he murmurs. "Because you won't let them."

"Baby, look at me," I plead. "Tell me what's wrong."

He sighs heavily. "I just don't want to stay at home all by myself," he confesses.

If it helps, I don't feel entirely confident about leaving him home alone, either. But home is the safest place for him right now. If Allie hadn't been so desperate to vacate the premises last weekend, I'd have loaded him off with her when she left. "You'll be safe here. I promise." I don't think Patrick believes so much in promises. I try to, but it can be hard, sometimes. This is one of those times. "You can be a be a big boy for me, right?"

"Uh-huh," he mumbles.

"I'll make sure to lock all the windows and doors when I leave, and my phone will be on loud if you need to talk to me. You can do whatever you want; stay up as late as you like. I'll even leave you something tasty to drink."

"Cocktail?" he pipes up.

"Sex on the beach. Just the way you like it."

"Ok," he drawls, rolling his eyes. "I'll stay. For you."

Steady on my knees, I engulf him in a rash hug, the flesh of my cheek swelling against his chest. He almost stumbles from the impact. "Thank you. And I'll make it up to you, I swear." Swears are better to warrant than promises, because a swear is a promise that you can't technically break. To swear something is to state the truth, so, while I might not always be capable of keeping to my promises, at least I'm not prepared to hide behind layers of lies.

"I know you will," Patrick says as he nonchalantly massages the top of my head. My knees are starting to ache now, but they're like glue against the floor, and my arms refuse to unwind themselves from his lower back. Not that he minds; for once, I don't have the higher ground. "Can I at least help you try on your suit?" he asks.

I peep up at him and grin. "Only if I can help you try on that little black dress of yours."

A smile splits his face, and he breaks away from me, leaping into the air. "And you shall go to the ball!" he cries joyously. 

Dallon helps me to my feet as the Omega dances around the dressing room, garments flying left right and center.  "You're not half bad, Wentz," he says. "Not at all."