Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain was soaking Ethan’s jean jacket, as he was running to catch the bus. The Denver skyline was plagued with granite-colored clouds that menacingly hung over the city for days without any intention of disappearing. The bus halted next to him, and the muddy water from the nearby puddle splashed over his jeans. He couldn’t even manage a sigh. It was just his bad luck, and he preferred to leave it unacknowledged, in a childish attempt to infuriate it. But the misfortune that was his shadow in recent months didn’t seem to care much. Ethan pushed into the morning crowd of alpha businessmen reading their newspapers, holding onto the railing above their heads, while the omega housewives and husbands were sitting down, cradling their numerous offspring, taking the little ones to school or kindergarten. Just like everywhere else, Ethan didn’t fit into the perfect, cookie-cutter mould of urban traffic etiquette. He found it best to avoid the alphas by taking the unoccupied seat next to a woman with a perfect ginger perm who was cooing a three- or four-year-old girl in her lap while hugging her heavily pregnant belly. She scoffed at his pathetic appearance and had the nerve to roll her eyes at him, almost like she knew. He muttered a weak excuse under his breath and attempted to dry his ruined pants with a napkin he retrieved from the pocket of his equally soaked jacket.

He was used to "the stare," as he called it. He should have by now, at least. It had been years since his classmates looked at him with a mixture of pity and superiority in their eyes until one day Ethan was escorted to the principal's office, where his parents sat with the most enraged expressions. His mother was sitting cross-legged, which was an event that happened once in a blue moon and indicated that she was, indeed, very serious. His father, as always, looked uninterested and annoyed to be here.

"I didn’t do anything!" was the first thing that came to mind, and he voiced it in a high-pitched plea.

"That’s true. It’s not your fault." The stern facade of the principal abruptly collapsed, revealing the skeleton of the all-too-familiar pity. At least Ethan’s mom was now calm enough to uncross her legs and put her shaking hands in her lap. The patriarch of the family remained unphased. "But we think it’s best if you leave our establishment. It’s better for your peers... and you."

Mrs. Torchio gasped. Mr. Torchio didn’t look the least bit surprised by the suggestion.

"You are expelling me because..." Ethan began to protest but was shushed by his mom.

"We are not expelling you; you are honorably discharged from our school, and we suggest you continue your education at home. Your mother is a capable enough omega to homeschool you."

Ethan took a deep breath and placed his hand in his lap—the family sign of defeat. He stared out of the window as the sight of the city was turning into an impressionist painting of dark figures in coats without faces on and pastel-dress featureless dots smudged over the background of shop windows displaying the newest baby carriages and tiny children's clothes. It was all he could see lately. Kids. Motherhood. The framed picture of the nuclear family. He strayed his gaze away and looked up when the bus stopped and allowed new passengers to enter. The space around him became even more crowded and alpha with a large suitcase in one hand and newspaper in the other loomed over him. The man looked identical to any other person in this vicinity: tall, sharply dressed, and smelling like body musk and cologne. Ethan everted his eyes when the alpha’s icy, glazed irises stared at him, and he caught something on the page of the gazette. The page of personal ads was facing him, and the large rectangle in the middle of it stole all of his attention. It was bright—mustard yellow, to be exact. Someone paid extra to have his advertisement noticed, so Ethan decided it was only polite to read it. The stocky font was smudged from a large droplet of water in the center, but the text was still readable.

Ethan gasped and then pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. On one side, the grocery list his mother entrusted to him this morning was written in perfect, tiny cursive. He turned the card to the empty side and scribbled the number with the pen he was carrying in his inside jacket pocket.

When he saw the outline of the large white building that from any side looked like a shoebox, he stood up and pushed through the grunting sea of alphas that refused to part willingly to let him out. When the bus stopped, he hopped to the sidewalk and ran across the street, riding the green wave of the pedestrian traffic light.

At the reception of the clinic, Molly was on welcoming duty. She was one of Ethan’s favorites. She had a sing-song voice that, on certain syllables, sounded like a Christmas bell. She was one of the few people who didn’t give him the trademark sympathetic look that the other folk familiar with his situation did. And she always gave him hard candy, the very sour lemon ones his mother refused to buy because no one else in the household except him liked them. And it was a big expense for his large family of nine to justify.

"Doctor Mason is available now," Molly said as she pushed the plastic candy bowl toward him. Ethan picked up a piece and popped it into his mouth. Maybe the day wouldn’t be so bad.

He followed the large, sterile hallway of the fertility clinic to the familiar door number 7. As he learned the hard way, seven wasn’t his lucky number. Ethan stared at the posters of smiling women and men holding babies up in the air that advertised new drugs to boost fecundity in omegas and avoided the ones that showed a young girl desperately clutching a pregnancy test, that offered abortion pills. As if the sight alone might influence the results of the blood that he gave three days ago.

"Come in, dear." the balding beta doctor said when he opened the door and gestured him in.

"Dear" was never a good sign. He was called "darling" when, at thirteen, another medic in a white coat, whose name he didn’t remember anymore, told him the diagnosis. And "honey" when the countless nurses put the needles in his veins, filling him up with all sorts of hormonal cocktails and what they called "experimental options.".

Ethan moved slowly to the couch and sat down. He learned it was best to be sitting when receiving any sort of news. Even if he thought he was prepared for what was to come, the punch to the gut that was each new confirmation of his irregularity had the habit of knocking him down.

"I reviewed your tests a few times." Dr. Mason started circling around the uncomfortable topic, and Ethan already knew.

"Give it to me straight, doc." He insisted with an unusual sharpness to his tone. Omegas were supposed to be meek and docile, to have a calming way of speaking and soothing voices, but the raspy mess that came out of his mouth was anything but.

"I think it’s best to put a stop to the therapy for now. You have done a lot of damage to your body over the past decade. I would recommend that you take a break and wait for another option that might come up on the market in the next few years."

Ethan nodded. He was really thankful he was sitting down because, even if he knew the fatality of his predicament, there was still a glimpse of hope that he had beaten the odds. "Thank you," he said finally, with a small, defeated voice that resembled nothing like the harsh tone from just a moment ago. He collected himself and stood up, walking towards the door. Dr. Mason said something behind him, but Ethan was in a haze and unable to hear him.