Chapter Text
Timothée aced his SAT, even got accepted in New York University in his desired program. It was a bright, promising future; he could use his education to slowly bring his life up. That’s a child’s dream though. Timothée believed it only until he was seventeen. One morning, the news came that his father died in a fatal crash, taking with him more than just half of his mother’s sanity and the entirety of their financial support. Pauline immediately dropped out of college to work three jobs to support their mother, moving to their small town in Le Chambon-sur-Lignon where their grandmother lives. Timothée was left alone in New York, living off of the mercy of his aunts who couldn’t afford much on their own. That was the last time Timothée had been in France. He couldn’t afford to go back after.
At seventeen, Timmy abandoned all his delusions of college and professional jobs and worked from waiting tables to nude modeling and everything in between. It’s been four years since their lives turned upside down, yet none in his family has gotten back securely on their feet. Nothing got worse, but nothing improved either. They were just stuck.
There are very few things Timmy wouldn’t give to return to France and hole up in their town with his family, but Pauline ordered him not to. It’s better to stay in New York and pursue his education, she said. It didn’t happen then, and it still hasn’t happened now. They were all just getting by, with no direction to go to and no support to help them move. Timothée doubts it will ever happen. He understands anyway. Pauline carries the household there on her shoulders. Adding to the weight of her responsibilities isn’t really what he should be doing.
So Timothée stays. He saved up enough to get himself a studio apartment in Flatbush and every night is a run for his life but it would have to do. Being located in a sketchy side of New York meant that the place hadn’t been in demand, so for the price and the condition of the flat, it’s a good enough deal. Little by little, Timothée managed to fill his place with furniture he got from the flea market or the thrift shop and he actually managed a decent aesthetic with his meager income.
If all of it isn’t enough to earn Timothée a pitying shake of heads, then knowing that he’s an omega might just do the trick. Times are better now, but that doesn’t mean they have it good. It’s expensive to be an omega. There’s of course the constant need for scent blockers, because if he smelled good enough and an alpha pounced him then maybe he asked for it. On top of that, Timothée also pays for heat suppressants for the obvious reason that he absolutely trusts no one to touch him during his heat. All of the medications he takes cuts off nearly twenty percent of his income, and his food budget takes the hit of it.
It’s hard to be a twenty-one year old self-supporting omega, but what else is Timothée going to be? So he just lives with it, even if he knows that people gossip behind his back. Why is that omega alone in life? Was he disowned for his secondary sex? Did he run away from an arrangement? He lives with it, even if he gets slurs for absolutely no other reason than they find out that he’s an omega. He lives with it, even if he works four jobs to keep this god awful life. At least it’s his.
From 7:00 a.m to 3:00 p.m from Tuesday to Friday, Timothée works a full-time shift as a barista in the cafe two blocks away. From 6:00 p.m to 2:00 a.m from Friday to Sunday, he’s bartending. On Saturdays, he would tutor Mrs. Corden’s daughter Elisse in French. Timothée also accepts translation works, French to English and vise versa. He’s long been burned out in this life that it’s already lost its meaning.
Still, Timothée gets up at an ungodly hour in the morning to go to work. It’s good that he works in a cafe, and he just eats the food there for breakfast. Some days, it’s a fresh pastry, other times, he gets the ones nearly up on their shelf lives. It works out. Timothée wouldn’t complain. It’s free coffee and free pastry if the cafe could spare the latter and that’s good enough.
“Timmy!” Saoirse chirpily greets, leaning over the counter and grinning at him. She’s an alpha gliding cheerfully in life. “Is boss man in?”
Timothée glances over her and gives a smile. “Not until noon, no.” He returns to wiping the countertop as they get ready for opening. “You need something?”
“Yeah, my paycheck.” Saoirse replies with a click of her tongue. “You free this weekend?”
He shakes his head. “You know I work every weekend.”
Saoirse sighs. “Yeah, all you do is work though.” She’s worried for good reason.
Bartending isn’t really cut for omegas. If he hadn’t been on constant scent blockers and they’re desperate for staff during weekends, Timothée won’t even be considered.
“It’s a hard life.” Timothée says lightheartedly, but adds the dismissive tone to it.
Saoirse got the hint. She smiles and opens her arm to him. “Alright, I’m going now, I have class. Bye!” She hugged him tight then skipped to the door.
Later that afternoon, Timothée would find himself to be immensely grateful that Saoirse came by during the opening. It had been the kindest interaction he’s had over the counter. Josh and Paige, his coworkers, kept glancing at him worriedly, but they already knew to step in only when Timothée asked them to. For the duration of his shift, Timothée has endured verbal humiliations and harassment. It’s not everyday it’s like this. It’s just a bad day. Although, if he’s being honest, he’s had way more of the bad than the good. He’s long stopped dissecting the whys.
“You can go ahead, we got this.” Paige tells him when their shift ended.
Timothée wants to bolt out the door, but he asks anyway. “Are you sure?”
Josh clapped a hand on his shoulder, startling him. “Man, I swear it’s fine. You cover for us three days a week.”
It was true. The only reason why Timothée won’t work these extra hours to clean up after themselves was because he has a shift in the bar in three hours. He nods to them both, smiling awkwardly and murmuring his thanks. Paige chuckles and coos at him, while Josh teases him for still being shy around them. They’re both betas, very normally functioning people who are only happy to get out of the way if an alpha or an omega loses their temper for whatever reason.
It wasn’t so much as shyness as borderline social anxiety, but it’s a much tamer term. He’ll take it. Timothée gets his duffel from the back and waves one more time to Josh and Paige before leaving the cafe. For every Friday, he doesn’t stop for much of anything else other than for eating, restroom break and this three-hour window he has where he can either nap or read. He decides on eating, dropping some bucks on his first proper meal of the day.
Being on constant grind makes Timothée feel unsettled when he’s not doing something productive. The diner isn’t buzzing with people, so he takes out the French contract he’s translating for a small business and reviews it. Browsing turns into annotating, and when Sarah taps on his table and points on his plate, Timothée can only smile sheepishly at her and nod.
“You work yourself to skin and bones, Timoteo.” Sarah remarks while she points a chiding finger at him.
They’re familiar with each other. Timothée comes here often, and she’s the daughter of the owner who’s also waiting tables. An omega. They get each other like that.
“Well, if I had a choice, you know I would never. ” Timothée makes a light of it, which Sarah also appreciates.
She shrugs but chuckles at him. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Eat up and be careful later, okay?” She stares at him until he responds. “Good, and maybe get a sugar daddy from that posh bar.”
Timothée tries to laugh and is successful enough. Sarah smiles kindly at him one last time before moving to other chores. The time is already past four, so Timothée heeds Sarah’s order and puts his work away to finish his meal.
What they don’t talk about outright is the fact that Timothée’s secondary sex could be the reason why it’s hard to keep his bartending job, yet also the reason why he got it. He’s an unmated, unclaimed omega who’s objectively very pretty. The manager who got him in didn’t shy away from pointing that out. Timothée felt like an unregistered goods on display, but then what’s new?
When he arrived, the bar was already filled with people celebrating the end of the weekdays. Don greets him when he enters the staff room, gruff as always but he means well. He’s an alpha in his late twenties, mated with two kids, not very happily, but they’re trying. Timothée supposes that plays a major factor to his general disposition.
Don scoffs at the crowd pouring into the bar. “It’s gonna be a tough night, I can already tell.”
Timothée can’t bite down his response if he tried. “Every night is a tough night.”
“Well then relative to other nights.” Don doesn’t ever bat an eye on the fact that he’s an omega, even when he’s prying off people trying to pick him up during his shift. The kid said no. He’s not interested in you. Can’t you see he’s working? Never once did Don ever point out his secondary sex, even if that’s what’s attracting trouble in the first place.
It could merely be pity, just like how every other person in a five kilometer radius feels about an omega who’s all alone in life. Like with any other, Timothée would say it doesn’t matter.
Even if he thinks all nights in the bar is tough, Don is still correct. It’s relatively tougher tonight. A fight seems to break out every thirty minutes, there’s always a drunk person or two hanging on the bar and demanding more drinks, even Don got hit on. The consolation there was his face. Nearly two meters tall with a full beard and a buzz cut, buff with visible tattoos up to his neck, and looking at this stupid, drunk out of his mind alpha hitting on him. Don shouts for the bouncer so fast.
Naturally, Timothée had his fair share of getting hit on, which consisted of objectification and borderline sexual harassment. Slurs, too, when he turns them down. Don keeps an eye on him but thankfully none of it ends in a scuffle.
When Timothée feels something change in the atmosphere, his head whips up and the beer spills over. Don has always been attentive, finishing the order before walking over to him. They exchange a knowing look and Timothée allows him to take over the order while he cleans up his mess.
“What’s up?” Don juts his chin at him, subtle and quiet.
Timothée tosses the cloth by the sink. “Nothing,” he answers, but checks around to make sure.
“I can smell you.” Don glances over to the door to the staff room.
Although scent blockers do sometimes wear off for whatever reason, it’s the first time it happened at work. Timothée obviously can’t tell himself, but if Don says so, then he’s trusting him. He turns away from the bar and stalks right into the room, and there he finds the manager Sabine eyeing him curiously.
“Aren’t you on blockers?” She asks.
Timothée feels ashamed even though there isn’t any in the way he’s questioned. “Yes. It wore off, for some reasons. I’ll take one again.”
“Why? Did someone try to get to you?” Sabine pries further, dropping the files on the table to face him.
There is a clear implication to her words. She’s asking if an alpha triggered his hormones, breaking the medication due to the sudden rush. It is one of the possibilities, but then there goes drug resistance. After all, Timothée has been on this same brand since seventeen. It’s the cheap option.
“No, no one.” Timothée holds her stare as he replies. “I’ll look into switching. Maybe it’s not working as well as it used to.”
Sabine doesn’t look convinced but she lets it drop anyway. “Thirty minutes. Is that enough?”
Timothée nods. The blockers would kick in again in that time span. “Yes, thank you.”
“Make sure to get back.” The conversation ends there.
It wasn’t much, but it’s sympathy enough. Timothée swallows his pill and waits thirty minutes. When Sabine turns to him, less than twenty minutes later, she sniffs the air, then nods to the door. Timothée understands, and so he returns to work.
When Don finds him even before he shows up to his side, Timothée knows his scent hasn’t completely faded yet. Don looks like he wants to say something, so Timothée beats him to it.
“I took blockers. Sabine said I’m good enough to go.”
Don turns away after nodding. They picked up their work wordlessly after that. Even if Timothée has functioned normally after the fluke, the shift in the room still hangs heavily in the air. It keeps him on edge, high alert and waiting for the other shoe to drop. It only went away around midnight, Timothée realized with alarming certainty.
“You don’t know who it is?” Don asks him when the orders become far in between.
Since it’s the first time that Don blatantly addressed his secondary sex like that, Timothée can’t help but blink in confusion before clearing his throat to force himself to answer. “You think it’s someone?”
“Pretty sure, yeah.” Don shrugs, his eyes trained on the crowd. “If it’s working perfectly all this time and then suddenly,” he snaps his fingers to indicate the medication failure. “It would’ve been better to know who it is, so you can adjust but then.”
Yes, only but. It was a bar full of people. There’s no way that Timothée could’ve found who it was unless he raked through the crowd, person by person. They let the subject drop. It wasn’t likely to happen again anyway.
Saturday French class with Elisse begins after lunch at one. They’re on a much better side of Brooklyn, which is why they can afford a personal tutor for their daughter. Not that Timothée charges a lot, but Mrs. Corden pays him thirty dollars per hour, and he teaches Elisse only until five.
Elisse is only thirteen, yet everyone is already treating her like an omega. Secondary sex only appears around sixteen to eighteen, so she still has a few years to go. Timothée is of the opinion that they’re being unfair to her, but he earns hundred and fifty dollars per afternoon over her parents’ faulty logic. He swallows his protests and knocks on their door.
Corazon, the housekeeper, ushers him inside. “Ah, Timmy, you’re here.”
Timothée always gets struck with longing for his aunt in the Upper West whenever he sees Corazon. It was bittersweet. “Yes, hello. How is Elisse?”
“Excited to see you, you already know this.” Corazon pinches his cheek. “Come, did you have something to eat?”
“Yes, I’ve eaten. I promise!” Timothée insists when Corazon looks skeptical at his answer. He had toast and coffee. It was filling enough. “Besides, I’d get snacks later. I’m looking forward to it.”
Corazon still doesn’t believe him completely but doesn’t say anything more. She calls for Mrs. Corden, telling her that he’s arrived. Mrs. Corden is nice enough. That doesn’t mean she’ll go out of her way to meet the tutor. Timothée greets her briefly and she acknowledges him with a smile. He goes up to Elisse’s room after.
“Hello, Elisse. Did you finish your homework? ” Timothée questions lightheartedly as he closes the door behind him.
Elisse pouts at him and waves the worksheet. “Hello, Timothée. It’s hard!” She can manage simple sentences in French now. Her pronunciation is good, but it’s always the grammar that’s the problem.
“No more Google translate?” He teased.
“That’s once!” Elisse protests, already walking to her desk where they work.
Timothée laughs and sits beside her. “I know, I know. Now, tell me where you find it the hardest and we’ll work on that.”
When Elisse gapes at him, Timothée figures his instruction came too fast and a bit complex.
“Which is hard?” Elisse understands him that time, and Timothée follows her finger as she points to the third exercise. “Did you answer?”
“Yes. Here,” Elisse shows him a piece of paper.
Grammar is a lot of work. They better get started.
When Timothée started this job for Mrs. Corden, he’s immediately flooded with a warm, satisfying feeling. Initially, his first choice was nursing, which was also the program he got accepted for in college. Right now, Timothée is reconsidering his options. Teaching seems nice. It’s equally challenging and gratifying. He thinks it might be good.
Their afternoons would be halted by three, so Corazon can bring up a tray of snacks and tea. When they first started, Elisse hadn’t been a big fan. Timothée taught her to make her tea like his late father did, just enough splash of milk and two cubes of sugar. It became a much enjoyed recess after that. The rest that would come after would be more lax than the extensive preceding hours. It won’t be much use if Elisse was bombarded with more information than she knew what to do with. In that case, Timothée would just engage her in a conversation in French, or even just talk to her in English and listen to her stories. The best thing about her is that she does want to learn, and for that reason she would say the sentences in French if it’s within her knowledge.
Elisse would always see him out when it’s time to go. Timothée would promise to see her the following Saturday, and they would part as such.
There isn’t much time between that and his next shift to the bar, so he would usually grab something to-go and eat it on his way. It’s another exhausting day.
Sundays are free until six in the afternoon. Still, Timothée uses it to work. He takes translation very seriously even if it’s tedious and underpaying. Once he submits it by the following week, he’ll be accepting another from his posting online.
It’s the cycle of his life, and all of it revolves around keeping his head above the surface. If Timothée loses his job at the bar, his food budget would suffer. If it’s the cafe, then it affects his rent. The translation and tutoring are supplementary. They’re for his bills, medications, and if he earned good tips then maybe he can buy himself something he wants, or maybe a treat of some sort.
Pauline would call him regularly. She would put their mom through the line, and then their grandmother. They would exchange a few words. Nicole has always been bound to end up in teary apologies, for always a different reason than the last. Their grandmother thinks he’s living his best life and they’re happy to keep her in the dark. As far as Pauline knows, her brother works as a barista, tutors on the side, and freelances in translation. The calls always make Timothée ache. On some days that are harder than usual, it also makes him cry. The thought of their lives breaks his heart.
It was an ordinary shift in the cafe when Timothée felt it again. It’s nearly a month since, but he vividly recalls the signs. The room changes again, the air getting heavier, and he knows it before the smell hits. His curiosity got the better of him. It was his break, but he goes out the open door to their break room to check.
When his eyes landed on a tall, blonde man, Timothée knew in his core that it was him. It froze him on the spot, but broke out of it when his panic hit. The alpha smelled the change in the air, his neck craning as he seeks where it’s coming from. Alarmed, Timothée swiftly turns on his heels and back into the break room. His scent blockers failed again. It’s no coincidence. Paige walks in a few minutes later. It’s her turn, and Timothée should return behind the counter.
“Is the tall, blonde man gone?” Timothée asks, huddled in the corner and holding a glass of water.
Paige won’t be able to tell that his scent is potent now because she’s a beta. “Is that a crush?” She teases, then peeks back to the cafe to find him.
“Paige!” Timothée almost yells, but catches it in his throat. He still sounds as forceful as he wants. “No, don’t. My scent blockers failed.”
Understanding crossed her face immediately. She rushes to his side and sits there. “It’s him? Do you know each other?”
Timothée shakes his head. “I felt it in the bar about a month ago. My blockers failed then too, but we never met. I didn’t think I’d actually see him.”
“Oh, Timmy,” Paige’s voice is tinged with worry. She cups his face into her palm. “He’s married.”
That was a punch in the gut. They don’t know each other, but it still stings to know that the first connection Timothée has had, he can’t even explore. Paige kept him company, telling Josh about the blonde man and he doesn’t think twice about covering for them. The man didn’t linger. Timothée returns to work mocked by the leftover scent of the man.
With the knowledge that the tall, blonde man is married, Timothée is happy to move on with his life. Once he got over the initial shock of it all, he finds that he’s actually even more relieved to not be so helplessly tangled with a man who cannot be anything else but trouble. That’s not saying that Timothée doesn’t think of him.
Too often, if he’s being honest. Timothée thinks of him when he’s at work either in the cafe or in the bar. He thinks of the man and the chances of them meeting again. Idly, he also wonders. Connections like that are often mutual, but not always. Timothée does not discount the fact that he might’ve felt it with his spouse. He looks way older too, perhaps in his early thirties. Maybe he would look at Timothée and laugh goodnaturedly; tell him he’ll find his own reciprocated connection, too. Tell him he’s young and there’s much more in life than this. Timothée already knows all of it. Despite that, he still can’t help to think about it.
In the privacy of his home, Timothée has touched himself countless times and has grown frustrated. He then thinks of the man, huge enough to cover Timothée completely with his body, strong enough to pick him up. The orgasm that hits him at the fantasy of his touch, as satisfying as it is guilting. When the haze in his mind clears, Timothée almost cannot bear to look at himself for coming at the idea of a married man getting him off.
Two weeks later, Timothée finds himself frozen where he stood again, this time as he watches the man walk towards the door and into the cafe. The scent blockers failed even before he stepped in. Josh is on a break while Paige is wiping tables. There’s no one else to deal with the man but him.
The effect was instantaneous. The man goes through the door, and Timothée gets to watch as his scent hits, and he feels the man’s scent hit him in return. It’s beyond satisfying to see him slowly freeze just as Timothée had, and then alarmed and panicked for the same reasons that he had been. This cannot be. He’s married.
Instead of turning around to leave, the man seeks where the scent is coming from. Timothée instinctively shrinks into himself, as if that could do anything to hide him when he clearly is standing behind the register, waiting to receive the order.
Timothée knows the man is standing in front of him even before he lifts his head to look.
“I’ll have a flat white.” The man tells him, eyes fixed on the menu when Timothée finally gathered enough courage to glance.
This isn’t new. Transactions are very clear cut and short. He knows the drill. Timothée barely manages a smile but it doesn’t matter when the man isn’t even paying attention. He asks the size, if he’d like to have anything with it, offers their selection, asks if he’s having it here or to go, takes his name for the cup, settles the bill.
Armie, is his name, and he got a large flat white with monte cristo, and he took to it his table wordlessly. Paige was on her way back to the counter when she saw the man then whipped to check on Timothée. He gave her a curt smile and she immediately took over so he can take his scent blockers again.
While in the break room, Timothée stares at his bottle of scent blockers and counts the number left. Ten days worth to go, less if he encounters the man again or fails him for other reasons. He tries to compute his income and how much he has saved. Changing blockers meant visiting a doctor, and that’s an additional fee. The tips in the bar could be generous, but since he doesn’t allow himself to be subjected to unwanted advances, he hardly got any.
Timothée dreads how he knows it’s the only option left to make ends meet. But he’ll do it.
The next shift in the bar, Timothée is a lot friendlier to everyone. It got him the tips he needed, and Don caught on right away. It made him watch over Timothée even more closely than he used to. He’s grateful, but shame pricks him still. It's a different intensity when someone else knows the low you stoop down to for money.
“You know who’s causing your blockers to fail?” Don asked him as they cleaned up.
Timothée forces himself to answer. “Yes, I saw him in the cafe.”
Don frowned. “And he’s not helping you?”
Timothée appreciates it. Not very many people would look past the opportunity to blame the omega for existing. “We don’t know each other. I served him his coffee and that’s it. He’s married.”
They never talked about it again. Don makes sure nothing happens to him even when he’s accepting the advances that make his skin crawl, but that’s the most acknowledgement the issue ever got.
The fact that it first happened in the bar should’ve already warned Timothée that it could happen there again. It’s only been past the week mark, and he still needs to work another weekend of dangling himself for more tips to be able to afford a visit to a doctor. It’s Friday night, still hectic but not nearly as crowded due to a promo by another pub somewhere. The man walks in with three other men, his colleagues, it looks like. Don clears his throat as Timothée stares. He’s seen the alpha, and now he smells Timothée.
It makes him want to crawl away and just hide.
Don crowds into him until Timothée is behind him. It’s an obvious cue for him to leave, take another blocker and return when it takes effect. It could also mean that the alpha has found him behind the bar, and Don is trying to keep things under control. Despite his awareness, Timothée wants to be seen.
All that urge is pushed down when he forces his feet to take him to the staff room. When he opens the bottle and sees it empty, he’s ready to cry out of frustration. He can’t afford it yet, but with the situation it seems like he’ll have to make do with his old blockers. It would send him back considerably, all that he saved for that appointment would be cut.
Timothée returns after fifteen minutes of panic. Don is visibly unhappy with this, but he doesn’t say a word.
“I ran out.” He confessed.
For the first time since they’ve known each other, Don actually looked at him with the same sympathy as the rest. It builds a lump in Timothée’s throat and he feels as though there are rocks dropping in his gut. He goes back to work.
The lingering scent became a twisted advantage of sorts, and he’s flocked with customers that he milked to the fullest. It was so, so dangerous. The more he did it, the stronger the shame in his chest. There’s Don keeping an eye on him, and if that isn’t embarrassing enough he’s actually doing it where the alpha could see. There’s nothing else that Timothée wishes for more than for the connection to not be mutual.
Following the shift, Timothée has made up his mind to get his old blockers again for the time being. It’s no use forcing that doctor’s appointment. The bottomline is he can’t afford it now, even if he’s sold his dignity for it. Since he’s already down the drain, Timothée figures to take a cab home. It’s bad enough that he’s going home this late. He has no plans on doing it while letting everyone know he’s an unclaimed, unmated omega.
The sound of a car door slamming shut is followed immediately by the gush of wind that brings the alpha’s scent to his direction. Timothée wants to run, because even if he’s not looking he can tell that the distance between them is disappearing as the alpha stalks right into his space. When Timothée looked up, it was positively an attack on his senses.
The alpha stood so close to him that Timothée could see his freckles. He knows he’s not breathing anymore, and if he resumes he’s not really sure if he can handle the smell of the man. All that’s left of his better judgment is telling him to turn on his heels; hail a cab and go home now. It sounds so simple yet impossible to do as Timothée helplessly stares, takes his fill of memorizing the details of the man; his stature, his blue eyes, his light stubble, his swept, dark blonde hair.
“Who are you?” The alpha asks.
Timothée’s breath returns to him like a shock in his chest. He drops his head down, unable to take in the sight along with the scent going up his nose at the moment. Claimed, but not mated. It's sending his brain in shambles. “I - I’m sorry. I don’t - I have to go.”
He tries to bolt, and if this moment will ever be looked back upon by either of them, at least Timothée could say that he hadn’t caved in. The alpha snatches him by the wrist and forces him to stay planted where he stands.
The touch sent a jolt up to Timothée’s spine. When he looks at him, he knows it’s mutual. The alpha is not handling it better than him though. He looks terrified, in shock, disbelieving. He smells like it, too. No matter what else he’s feeling, those three aren’t looking too good. They’re not even breaching the fact that his wedding ring is digging into Timothée’s wrist at the moment.
“Please, let me go. It was a fluke. My blockers; I’m getting resistant.” Timothée is past the point of caring, would beg to be let go so he can hide in the comforts of his home and stay there until he’s not as scared of the possibilities as he is now.
It seemed to have done it. The alpha released his wrist. He stares him down for a bit before nodding. “Excuse me, that was unacceptable.”
“It’s fine.” Timothée doesn’t want this. “Can I go now?”
Every bit of the alpha’s face and smell say the opposite of his response. “Yes, of course.”
The ride back to Flatbush disappeared under his feet. Timothée only became aware of himself once he’s back inside his flat, shedding every piece of clothing and collapsing on the bed. The scent of the man lingers on his wrist, and Timothée brings it to his nose as he touches himself, coming so hard and soiling his sheets completely. He feels so, so ashamed.
The next day, he bought the same wretched blockers that keep failing him. He set off on his week on this pill and a prayer.
After a week, Timothée had no idea how visibly shaken he’d been after the encounter until Elisse asked him if he was okay. They had just finished their afternoon tea, chatting listlessly about anything that came up as they talked.
“Is something wrong?” She asked him after the tray had been taken away.
It is a well known fact that being spoken to in your mother tongue affects you differently as compared to when it’s spoken in another that you merely know. Timothée hasn’t heard anyone check on him, his family opting for messages these days as Pauline went away for Paris looking for a steadier job. It is different; to hear it in the language he grew up in and with a question he hasn’t even stopped to ask himself.
No matter how much Timothée wants to spill his guts and confide, Elisse is only thirteen, and his student at that. “No, darling. None at all. I work everyday, yes? Just tired.”
“Sure? Are you sick?” Elisse is really concerned now, touching his forehead with the back of her hand.
Timothée shakes his head. “Not sick.”
The temperature check appeased Elisse enough. The conversation steered into their usual chat, and she’s always happy to tell stories about school, her friends, her new hobbies, a show she’s watching. Timothée listens attentively, if only it could take his mind off everything that’s weighing him down.
The alpha hasn’t returned to the cafe or the bar. It was for the better. That doesn’t stop the crippling feeling in his chest though. Timothée longs to see him again, even to simply stare at him from afar. It doesn’t even matter if he acknowledges Timothée. He’s married and claimed. With the way the alpha looked at him that night outside the bar, it was clear that he’s not happy about it.
It also tells him that the connection is mutual. Timothée hates how something in him rejoices at the fact. Similarly, it builds his dread more and more. The alpha is married. He might even have kids. He’s obviously well-off with a high paying job. Timothée could never compare.
The vulnerability that this connection leaves him in sways him in agreement with the rest of the world. Perhaps to be an omega is truly a doomed fate to rotten beings. Needless to say, it brought his spirits down even more than his life previously has.
“Saoirse asks why you’re not picking up.” Paige tells him during their shift. “She doesn’t think she’s done anything, though.”
Saoirse has indeed been trying to reach out to him, get him to go out and have a life. As it happens, Timothée feels his days to be more taxing with this knowledge gnawing at the back of his head. He spends his free time at home, translating or making Elisse’s lesson plans, then later at night touching himself repeatedly and wallowing in the guilt that comes afterwards.
Sighing, Timothée says “No, it’s not that. Don’t worry, I’ll respond when our shift ends.”
Paige looks unsure but asks anyway. “Is it the alpha?”
The short answer is yes. Timothée would lie, but he’s too drained for it, so he opts for another face of the truth. “I’m looking into changing blockers. I can’t afford the appointment though.”
“Fuck this healthcare.” Paige cusses, tossing the cloth away with passion.
It made Timothée smile at the very least.
No one makes any comment on the fact that he’s overly friendly at work now. Certainly not Don, and now not even Paige and Josh. Saoirse has been so worried about him, and Timothée tells her the same reason he told Paige. It also answers why he can’t spare some loose change to hang out. Everything works out.
Even though Timothée has seen the alpha in the cafe at least twice but thankfully not when he’s assigned at the register, and another in the bar, his life has been going okay. Sure, his scent blockers disintegrate at the very presence of the man and it stirs unwanted feelings in his core, but otherwise it’s just going still. The tips had gotten significantly better. It lifts his mood the slightest bit. Things are looking better for that appointment that he wants so bad. He might be able to go the following week if he can keep this up.
Pauline got back in touch with him through video calls. She went home to the countryside. She’s waiting for a call from an insurance company that she applied to. Originally, she attended business school in Paris. It’s a far cry from where she used to be, but it’s better than nothing. Timothée doesn’t tell them about the alpha, or how they connected right away and without even trying. It’s better left unsaid, with the way that it is.
Just because he’s chosen to ignore it, doesn’t mean it would cease to exist. Sunday nights are still pretty busy for the bar, but usually it’s carried by a table or five of college kids who can definitely walk off a killer hangover. To Timothée, they’re a different kind of dangerous. Sure, older customers are more persistent and forceful, but there’s nothing like young, privileged kids who got nothing to lose. No job or reputation or families at stake. Timothée is just an unclaimed, unmated omega dangled in front of their wasted faces. He expected the advances. What took him by surprise was the alpha walking through the door and sending his hormones haywire.
It’s just an easy recipe for disaster. A college jock immediately sniffs the air and finds him behind the bar. Don is quick to catch on, huffing beside him but he has orders to sort. Of course he’s scared, but there are enough bouncers around anyway. Timothée can worry about the aftermath later.
“What’s a pretty thing like you doing here, hmm?” The jock is already leaning over the bar, his alcohol-ridden breath mingling with his haughty, alpha smell.
Timothée will not play along. “Working. What can I get you?”
“Your time. When do you get off? I can show you around.”
“I live here.” When the jock tries to reach forward, Timothée jumps back like it burns. “Don’t touch me.”
The jock is still going for it. “I don’t believe you. You don’t look like you’re from around here.”
“Your advances are unwelcome. You can stop now before I call the security on you.” Timothée gives him a flat look, turning away and pretending to be busy by the sink.
The wave of the alpha’s scent comes merely a second before Timothée hears a crash. Whipping around in surprise, he finds the college jock sitting on the floor while the alpha takes a stool and flags him down.
“I’ll have whatever’s on the tap.” He tells Timothée cooly, not paying mind to the college kid he pried off the bar.
“Who the hell are you?” The jock follows it with a string of curses.
The alpha barely acknowledged him. “Your father’s money won’t save you if you piss me off.”
That’s Timothée’s cue for deciding that he does not want to be involved in this exchange. He takes a beer mug and runs the tap, waiting for it to fill then serves it to the alpha. The jock was picked up from the floor by his friends. He’s thrashing and cussing still, though thankfully no one listened.
“You’re too nice to your customers.” The alpha says without looking at him. “It gives them the wrong impression.”
The shame and dread filled him fast and wholly. Of course he would notice that Timothée had been entertaining the attention. Knowing it doesn’t help with how reprimanded he feels.
“Gotta do what you gotta do.” Even he was surprised with how even his voice came out.
The alpha eyes him behind his glass. “You ought to switch.”
The blockers, is what he’s referring to. Timothée feels defensive and allows himself to lash out. “That’s none of your business.”
With the way the alpha’s brow raised, it was obvious that he put two and two together. It wouldn’t even take a genius, honestly. A scrawny kid hustling for tips and working two jobs after he confessed to failing medications. What’s not clicking?
“That’s true.” He settles his bill and walks away. The glass still has two inches of beer in it.
Don takes the glass and the money when Timothée seems to shell shocked from the encounter. “Quite a piece of work.”
They don’t talk about it for the rest of the shift.
The second time that Timothée finds the alpha after work, he wouldn’t have thought the cops would be thrown into the mix too. The alpha doesn’t need to turn to know that he’s there. In fact, he sees the recognition with the way the alpha’s shoulders relaxed. The jock is just as intoxicated as Timothée remembers, his friends huddled with him while the cops take statements. One of his friends finds him, a female alpha who launched immediately to his direction, making Timothée flinch and step back when growled.
“It’s this bitch!” She screeched furiously, an arm extended forward to drag him into the fiasco. “This whore offers up himself like a fucking display and then-”
The alpha steps between her and Timothée, effectively blocking her as he stalks to his side to shield him. “For once in your life, play along.” It was a whisper, meant only for the two of them to hear.
Timothée is too dumbfounded by everything he found upon leaving his work to even function at the moment. Even more derailing was the alpha putting him behind protectively.
“I’m with him. What happened was harassment, plain and simple. Don’t return and this won’t get bigger than this.” The alpha warns them.
College kids are only so brave. The rest of the group is resigned to back out already. The cops nod and they’re escorted away. There were still slurs and curses thrown by the jock and his female alpha friend, but they’re all irrelevant to Timothée at the moment.
God, he’s so turned on that there’s absolutely no hiding it.
The alpha is tense but not any less affected. Before turning to face him, he takes a deep breath. “I had been around when I saw him waiting out. Drunks aren’t very secretive of their intentions.”
Timothée is blushing furiously as he forces himself to nod. It stops to matter that there was a college kid who had wanted to beat him up for refusing his advances. The arousal is so thick in the air that they could taste it. It was mortifying yet enticing.
Another shaky breath. The alpha doesn’t know how to go from here either. “You can’t take a cab like this - fuck.” He’s pacing now. His scent is a mix of his strong arousal and frustration.
Timothée squirms and looks back to the bar. “I can just wait it out. Take my blockers again.”
“Those goddamn things!” The alpha runs his hand through his hair. “Come on. I’ll drive you.”
Now, Timothée feels entitled to opposing outright. “Really? At this rate?”
The alpha returns his stare. They look at each other, massively unimpressed. “Fine, I’ll call you an Uber. Where do you live?” His phone is already out, waiting for Timothée to give his address.
“Flatbush,” Timothée replies, and the alpha’s face just hits a different level of aggravation.
“At this rate?” The alpha returns his words to him.
Timothée already knows they’re on opposite ends of the social strata, but that doesn’t mean he’s not enraged when it’s rubbed on his face. “I never asked for your help. You’re just as unwanted here as that jock.”
The fury is coming off of him in waves. The alpha is taken by surprise, so Timothée takes this opportunity to push past him and hail himself a cab. He doesn’t make an effort to push down his anger, much better this than the blatant arousal that threatened them both earlier. It shouldn’t happen, and they’re both inviting temptation with what they’re doing. Timothée knows it’s not what he wants, but God, he needs.
If they’re really so connected, then naturally the alpha would know what he truly feels about this. Just as Timothée thought, he was grabbed by the arm and dragged to a car parked nearby.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” He demands, but his feet go willingly.
“You’re telling me where you live and I’m dropping you off.” Nothing more. It needed to be said, especially with how riled up they got with each other.
Timothée feels stung by it, as though he’s rejected when logically it’s the right thing to do. “Let me go! What gave you the right over me?”
The alpha pressed him against the side of his car, unlocking it and pushing him inside. Timothée struggled to get away yet it only spurred the tension between them. When his hands caught the fabric of the alpha’s clothes, it became hard to tell if he pushed or held him there. It didn’t matter so much in the end, when the alpha climbs in the car and crawls over him.
They’re kissing. Timothée only realized it fully when their tongues are shoved in each other’s mouths, when their hips are grinding their groins. There’s slick in his ass, so turned on that his body wants to give fully into it. There’s growling and moaning, so intertwined that there’s no telling who made which sound. It took a pained yelp to throw them back to reality.
There’s pain spreading from the back of his head, and the alpha is looking at him worriedly. Timothée doesn’t know anymore how he got it, but it does the job. They don’t need words to say it, and he pushes the alpha gently off of his body, nodding his compliance, wishing that they could get this over with and put it all behind them.
“No one needs to know.” Timothée promised him. “You have my word, I swear it.”
“My God,” The alpha crawls back out of the car and tugs his hair angrily. “Who are you? ” He demands again.
Timothée wants to return the anger, but they’re fast turning into an attraction if they don’t turn this down. “I’ll tell you anything you want. Please, please come back in. Let’s drive away.”
The alpha’s eyes are glazing over as he speaks. Timothée doesn’t have the heart to let him down. Whatever might be asked of him on the way to Flatbush, he knows he would deliver.
It took a few more steadying breaths before the alpha walked to his side of the car. Timothée doesn’t know what to make of the fact that he owns a car in New York, but before he could begin to dissect the implications, they’re already hitting the road.
“I’m causing your blockers to fail.” It’s not even a question at this point.
Timothée looks out the window. He has no clue on how they plan to do this. The stench of their sex is still thick in the air, just the same are their own individual arousals, then Timothée’s slick. It was the most uncomfortable edging that they both know will get no relief.
“I need to save up to see a doctor, get a new prescription. I’ve used it since I presented; cheap brand, can easily fail with little triggers.” Timothée thinks of more to say to add to the dismissal in his statement.
The alpha only scoffs, not buying it. “Yeah, sure. Totally nothing to do with how we’re driving each other nuts.”
“You’re claimed and married.” Timothée reminds him, but it’s as bad as sandpaper on his tongue.
The alpha grips the steering wheel tighter. “Who are you?” He repeats.
“Timothée Chalamet.” It’s an inadequate response. It answered absolutely nothing. “You?”
“I told you my name in the cafe. You’ve heard it.” He answers.
“Armie?” Timothée tries to get a feel of the name.
The alpha catches himself just as he’s turning his head to look. Armie, indeed. And he’s just as helpless to their pull as Timothée is.
That’s good. And bad. God, there’s really no telling those apart anymore.
“We shouldn’t bother getting to know each other.” Timothée wants to stand his ground. Despite the stink, their scents, his slick.
“I agree.”
And that was that. The next time they opened their mouths to talk, it was to tell Armie where exactly he is in Flatbush. The more they go deeper into the neighborhood, the harder Armie frowns. Yes, it’s not the best. Yes, it could be dangerous. Yes, he goes home late every weekend. Timothée knows it’s not a good choice, but it’s looking much brighter right next to where he finds himself at the moment.
“That’s my building.” Timothée is already unlocking the door before the car could pull over.
Armie reaches over and slams the door shut. “Let me help.”
Timothée glares at him. “I don’t want your pity.”
“I don’t pity you. I’m being accountable. I’m one half of this problem. Let me help.” Armie meant the doctor’s fee.
“I’m only a couple of bucks short. I’ll manage.”
“By what? Selling yourself to patrons?”
Timothée wants the ground to open up and swallow him. At the same time, he wants to claw at Armie and demand to know just who he thinks he is to barge into his life like this. Timothée had been good. He worked to afford to upgrade his failing medication. He kept his distance. He’s trying his best.
“Look, I’m sorry. I-”
“Stop! Shut up.” Timothée can barely see past the tears gathered in his eyes. He can’t let them fall, no matter what. “Let me out, let me out!” He starts to slam his palm on the window when the door won’t give.
“Timothée, please, stop-” Armie reaches to his shoulder, but he flinches away.
“Don’t touch me!” He screams, hysterical with shame and fury and pain. “I’ve been good. I did everything on my own. I know you’re married. I didn’t do anything. ”
“Yes, yes you are. You’re the better one between us two, come on. I need you to calm down.”
The same instincts that pulled him to the man lulled Timothée to ease into being pacified. He hates just how largely affected he is, how his body is just bending over backwards to move as Armie wants him to. It’s only when he finally settles back into his skin that he realizes the caress on his head. Armie is stroking his hair. It was the best comfort he’s ever felt in years, and it comes with the shattering guilt in the pit of his stomach. He shrugs off the contact. Armie takes his hand away.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean it like that.” Armie is tentative as he says each word. “I don’t know you, or your life, and I don’t have the right to any of it. I just want to do this one thing.”
Only silence follows it. Timothée lets it drag on for long, until he hears Armie sigh.
“I’ll write you a check if you don’t-”
“Five hundred dollars.” Timothée blurts. “I’ll take it, and we can forget about each other for the rest of our lives.”
Armie takes his wallet out and plucks out his bills. “Seven hundred. Take it all.”
Even if he sounded eager to get rid of Timothée, he’s not offering the cash.
“Do you want me to sign somewhere?” Timothée demands sarcastically.
Armie doesn’t rise to the bait. He gulps audibly and gives him the money. The doors unlock.
“Don’t come home to your spouse smelling like me.” Timothée doesn’t look back to see Armie’s reaction. His smell tells it all.
Armie is devastated to see him go.