A BREATH OF FRESH AIR (REAL)

October 8th, xxxx

PRECIOUS OFTEN WONDERS whether he's of two people sometimes. Most days cramped in the office, he's irritable but buries any emotion deep within like his hearing—any illogical thinking can upend years long curated calm.

Take the presence of the Ambassador for example. He'd been about ready to snap his neck in half, consequences be damned, pissed off as he is.

About ready to set the mound and mound of paperwork on fire and maybe take a long sleep only to be awoken some hundred years later and all his problems are solved.

Dangerous thinking like that helps nobody, lest of all him as he's the solver of those said problems. And Precious transmits calmness from deep in his guts to the heat steaming in his head whenever he works.

Whenever he works, his one track mind pounds hardwork solves all no matter how trying the slogan becomes. He's in control. He wrestles those problems until they become tame like pets.

However, the few times he bothers to step out and stay outside longer than a purposeful walk, his breathing slows like he's slipping into a trance. It grounds him, hugs him like a blanket.

He should come out often—a mantra he tells himself that becomes a lie when he's inundated with work.

It is such a morning. He'll never tire of calling it beautiful, just damn gorgeous like the singing of the birds, the orange of the ground, the fire in the water, white beds in the sky, the freshness of the air, the breeze, the hum of life.

The residential part of the little village is sparsely populated this time of day; children to school, adults out in the sun, soldiers on their daily training, the Elders in their backyard stretching.

Towards the west is the most densely populated area. Visitations from him is often few and far in between, his presence not entirely welcome because that'd mean something is either wrong or will have to change—the latter being the same as the former.

Their fish production has been reduced in half—they're exporting faster than the fish can reproduce. It's become a problem. Another problem, Precious thinks as he tries not to shake his head.

Thank goddess for small favours. The mammals are going strong, their alpaca notably so. If those were to have a problem, it'll become a disaster. A debilitating disaster as the alpaca is their major source of income—their economy boost.

Pivoting from that direction, his legs takes him south, the ground changing from soil and grass to hard ground, hills and red—covered entirely by leaves from the not so barren trees.

You'll think with all the falling, the trees have nothing to offer. But they're still as full as they were during spring.

Autumn isn't over yet.

The barracks, rather the Musclehouse—as it is popularly called—comes into view, looking more like two ranch houses forced to be one than an unremarkable building of logs.

The Musclehouse stands like it was dropped from the sky without much thought—built like lumps of dough, the storey on top folds in depression, the ceiling bending like a resignation bow.

A funny looking building that's had more reconstruction than any other building. Than even the barn that the goats are chewing through. Beyond the Musclehouse are hills upon hills, just right below the incline of the canyon.

The canyon. Their canyon.

As Precious gets closer, he picks up chants coming from the house, coming from everywhere, the reverberation like static through the ground.

The Musclehouse doubles as a training centre, a residence and a guarded like prison for captured omegas.

Oh wait, that's triple. You'd think it's a tight fit but a handful of the soldiers squats together with the civilians in the central scope—residential area.

He stops right in front of the steps clustered with flower pots with nothing in them but fresh soil and fertilizer. Must have seeds newly planted.

Why he came here eludes him. No, that's not right. He's looking for a pair of blue eyes and the Musclehouse is a good guess as any. But it looks like they're busy. Besides, what will he even say? That he promised a walk?

That sounds like a feeble excuse, even to him. Before he can save himself, the door swings open out pouring two soldiers in an headlock—Anduan's headlock.

Two soldiers he quickly recognizes as Blue Sun omegas whose infectious laughter have made them easy targets for roughhousing.

It's been almost six months since they arrived and it's looking as if they'll soon assimilate themselves as a North Star, like Nuka.

Mostly because they're dying to be formally accepted by him, the Alpha. Precious allows himself a smirk when he thinks about how furious that Alpha will be if he turns all twelve omegas North Star.

"Alpha," the omegas' lit up, cheeks smudges of pink at being choked.

Looks fun.

"Alpha North," Anduan drawls, a shit eating grin plastered on her sweaty face. "If you're here for the Cap, you're in shit luck. He's in one of his mood," she rolls her eyes as if it's absolutely hilarious.

To her, it definitely is.

"Isn't he always. No, I'm looking for Kamil."

"Ah, Major Dutiful. He's not here. He's digging holes in the Winter Forest, garden side."

Near the east gardens.

"Not digging holes," one of the omegas blow a breath, flushed but not making any effort to escape her slackening grip. "Checking perimeter."

"That's what I said."

Nodding, Lighter on his feet, Precious briskly makes his way, waving at Shifters when they call out to him, even picked up a whistle from them.

For a moment, he'll forget the Ambassador is dining in his board, eating his food, relaxing in his chairs.

He'll forget that if the Consul had their way like they did before 1943, they'll be chained in zoos, taxidermised in museums, locked up like the beasts the human government pretend they are.

Fuck that noise.

The blast of the Winter Forest chill takes him by surprise but he doesn't slow down, doesn't try to pinpoint the humming of the animal sounds, doesn't feel sorry for himself. Oh, poor Precious. Oh poor partially deaf Precious.

The dullness of sounds grounds him on mornings like this when he's alone. When he's searching for a pair of blue eyes to smile at him.

It's a date, his brain scrambles at the words. So much so that he doesn't see where he's going but hears the whoosh and on reflex, dodges and flies to the ground.

Flat on his back, the sound of barking rush to him like running stream, the suddenness of it making him wince.

"Goddess above, Alpha!" Kamil runs to him and drags him up by the arm, talking a mile a minute but none of it sticks.

He spots an axe buried so deeply in the crack of a tree he only sees half of it.

"You're a shoot first ask questions later, aren't you?"

"That's... That's not funny. You could've died!" a finger grazes his cheek and a frown settles between Kamil's brows. "I was practicing my axe throwing that I didn't see—"

"It's fine—"

Kamil shakes his head. "No, it's not. Fuck, if something had happened to you..."

Precious says nothing as Kamil dusts him off, fussing about him. When he declares that Precious is infact intact, he reluctantly steps back, eyes roving him from head to toe as if Precious will start combusting.

"I was looking for you—" he trails off, noticing two things.

One, Kamil is shirtless, wearing khaki trousers that doesn't hide the bulk of his thighs, of his legs but it's the chest Precious sight focuses on.

Like someone had drizzled honey on him, his caramel-like skin glows, sweat shining the broadness of his shoulders, pecs and abs. Stunned by the largeness of him, the rock hardness of him, Precious' mind completely blanks: imagines him jogging, panting, out of breath.

Precious should take up boxing again.

Oh, and the dog barks for their attention but Precious doesn't give it. Kamil does, turns around and... Fuck it, the broadness of his back, his spine, his sides where all fat seemed to have gone looking as soft as bread and will definitely be softer if he touches....

Without pause for thought, Precious ambles closer reaching out but it's not flesh he touches. Kamil must've turned around at some point because goddess harder abs, the stomach pulsating under his palms, warmer, wetter, slickier.

At a sharp intake of breath, Precious raise his head to find blue eyes watching him that he jerks his hand back, embarassed at his forwardness.

"Shit. Sorry. I didn't mean to." He totally did. "Guess I'm a shoot first, ask later."

"It's fine. I don't mind. I can't as well hit my Alpha, can I?"

"If they overstep your boundaries, you totally should. Abuse of power is never okay."

"Well, if it was anyone else, I'd have punched them. But anyone else isn't you."

Silence.

"You can touch me again."

"I'd rather not." He takes a step back and jams his hands in his pockets not trusting them.

"Why were you looking for me?"

"What?"

"You said you were looking for me."

As if he has no filter, Precious the embarassed blurts out, "I want to take up on the rain check. You know, keep my promise. Fresh air. Fresh air is nice."

You're blabbing, shut up.

"This place is as good as any," he continues when Kamil says nothing, staring at him as if trying to bore into his soul that he repeats,

"Fresh air is nice."

"It would be. But it'd be wasted on you."

"Why?"

Nods towards his clothing. "That tie is bothering me. It looks tighter than my ass."

Precious chuckles.

"You should loosen it. Take off that jacket and is a vest really necessary?"

A laugh he can only describe as throaty rumbles out of him. "It's called fashion. You know, being clothed. Something you clearly know nothing about."

The command comes as sudden as a swift wind. "Untie it."

Precious shivers at the tone, the authority in his voice, at the challenge on his passive face that without hesitating nimbly undid the tie, overshook when another command comes.

"The jacket. And vest too."

He swallows, fingers trembling but manages to unbotton the clothing that when it hangs loose on his shoulders like a beast free, he sighs but it turns to a low-rise moan when

Kamil walks closer and effortlessly pops the top two shirt buttons.

Precious gasps—inaudible like a breathless moan when Kamil darts his head in the crook of his neck and inhales, the flutter of his eyelashes writing goosebumps all over his skin.

He buckles, unsteady when in a fleeting touch, Kamil caresses the dip of his throat and breathes down on his neck that he loses his head there and then.

Like the command, Kamil steps back and smiles acting as if nothing had happened,as if Precious wouldn't have stripped if he'd asked him to.

"There. Now you can breathe again."

The moment Kamil whistles to the dog, Precious blinks, clears his throat and without a backward glance heads to the exit, the cold of the forest sending chills down his spine.

Kamil walks behind him, the dog sniffing as she goes. He'd been right. Fresh air is the best when stupid pile of shit barrels through your peace of mind, through your home to demand children.

Precious has to remember this moment whenever he feels like murdering the Consul's favourite messenger.

"The Ambassador is being a ray of sunshine again. Bringing so much joy that Nuka is running himself ragged chasing the Alphas secretaries. Cellular chase of course," he surprised himself by saying but doesn't think to stop.

Goddess, Pack business isn't only his business. He needs to let this out or else he might dissolve.

"So, what do I bring Alphas that wouldn't be happy about the late appointment request and would even be extremely grumpy about the Ambassador's recent news?"

"Which is? The news."

He hesitates but only for a second. "The government have added a list of unfair, unfavourable conditions for Packs to meet or they'll impose heavy embargo. Dramatic, that government."

"What? No. They can't do that. That'd be catastrophic for all parties involved."

"They outnumber us. We might not have a choice. What's another world war."

"The condition that's bothering you. Tell me."

"It's everything. But...You won't like it."

"Tell me."

"You know how the Packs are forced to give DNA to the government for their 'scientific breakthrough for humankind'?"

"Bullshit."

"Well, they want to go back to before 1943," he explains in one breath, a slow pang, pang bouncing at the back of his head.

They've exited the Winter Forest heading towards the east gardens, the dog further down.

"No. No. That's madness. We signed a treaty amd everything. Multiple treaties. There are organizations and factions to protect us from this kind of bullshit. They can't do that."

Precious smiles at the passion in Kamil's voice. He knows that he'll be justified if he were to put a bit of flavour in the Ambassador's food. But that'll solve nothing.

"They 'discovered' several discrepancies in the agreement. They want to collect."

"Fuck."

They quieted, each lost in their thoughts.

"They also want to increase tax. Land, hunting, health.. Anything they can price tag really to redefine our relationship."

"Humans are so messed up."

"Tell me about it."

"We'll get through this," Kamil reaches for his hand, squeezes and lets go. "We've weathered worse."

"Yeah. We've weathered worse."

Precious looks on ahead at the garden coming into view, its purple, silver, white and red of flowers, the horizon of the sun dancing on the lake like a river goddess but this isn't what he sees.

What he sees is a land that can be taken away at anytime—the human government, Blue Sun Pack, by his inability to fight for what is his, for what is theirs.

But Precious doesn't say this. He doesn't think this. Not now when the flowers beckons onto him like blissful dreams he doesn't dream anymore.