Cars flew down the streets, shining beneath the incandescent lights that artificially illuminated the vibrant streets of Drummond, New Hampshire. Signs flashed, advertising bars and cheap hotels that lined the downtown area. The streets were never silent, even in the waning hours of the night, fading into the early hours the of morning. They always were bustling, the chilled air filled with the sounds of roaring engines, blaring car horns, or the shrill whine of sirens if the night decided to become adventurous.
Drummond, New Hampshire: the one place where people could be themselves and simultaneously have people be kind to them. Unless, of course, if one was an Omega.
It was the unfortunate thing about being an Omega. Battles with heats and primal desires weren't enough, the pheromones of Alphas always domineered nearly every decision Omegas made, people always assumed Omegas delicate and worthless, as well as the media over-sexualizing them. Heats and primal desires, they could be suppressed by prescribed drugs. Stupid people and Alphas' pheromones, however, had no cure known to humankind.
Nico di Angelo reminded himself that he could be famous for making Alphas less prominent in the world by creating a medicine that could make their pheromones less influential. But, right now, he was just a teenage Omega with no place in the world but to live.
He sat comfortably in his room, where it seemed he always had a place. The walls were cream-colored after he painted it the summer before with his best friend, Mitchell, when they decided Pastel was the style they wanted to go with. He didn't regret it; in fact, he loved it. Posters of Indie bands were plastered on the walls, and fairy lights hung from the crease where the wall met the ceiling. The 1975 was playing loudly from his phone. The lights, along with a lamp on a nearby table, illuminated his hair and skin as he sat at his vanity, painting his nails light pink. He finished his pinky nail with a clean swipe and lifted his hand to inspect them.
Were they bubblegum pink, or just light pink? he wondered. He shrugged and continued his work on the other hand. He dabbed excess polish from his skin with a cotton swab, and, once all his nails were cleanly painted, he carefully capped his nail polish and shook his hands dry.
He moved to sit on his comfy bed, which was covered with a light duvet and had sheer fabric draped over it in a canopy-like fashion. If it was girly, he didn't care. Men were allowed to be feminine. He was an Omega, anyway. He shook his head; his second gender didn't matter. If he was a Beta, he could paint his room bright pink with purple flowers and princesses, if he desired. The world was too dictating and quick to judge.
He was tired of watching movies where Omegas were always depending on an Alpha to help them. He was completely independent. Not all Omegas were desperate, slutty housewives. He wished others thought the same. They all thought he was destined to be some Alpha's bitch to slap and fuck around with. He wanted to prove them all wrong.
He paused his music and texted Mitchell before scrolling through his Instagram feed.
"Ten Ways to Control Your Heat," one advertisement read. He considered tapping on it, but he assumed it was merely clickbait and continued scrolling. It reminded him he was almost out of his heat suppressants.
Due to the massive amount of people claiming to be Omegas and getting the medicine, then selling it as a recreational drug, the government issued Omega Documentation to the citizens who were registered Omegas—people were registered after they had their first heat; his was at age thirteen—to lessen the spread of the drugs. It sucked that he had to wave a piece of paper to claim he was an Omega, but people had to be idiots and get high off of medication he used to not have excruciatingly painful and sweltering heats.
Well, the world had to have idiots. It increased the diversity of the planet.
He sighed as he laid back on his soft pillow and stared at the blank ceiling. He probably should have put glow-in-the-dark star stickers up there just to have something to look at when he couldn't sleep.
He heard the door downstairs close, denoting his mother had come home. He heard her heavy footsteps trudging up the stairs before her door opened and closed. She was probably tired; she usually greeted him once she got home, checking on him and asking him how his day at school went. He checked the time. She was home later than usual. He decided not to bother her.
He turned on his side, plugging in his phone, and flicked off the lamp, engulfing most of the room in darkness, except for the planes of wall that were lit by the string lights. He began to count them before he felt himself nod off. He removed his glasses, folding them and placing them on his nightstand before kicking off his converse and tucking into bed. His head burrowed into the feather pillow, smelling strongly of laundry detergent and his own citrusy scent, inherent in most Omegas. He fell asleep not too long after, snuggled in the comfort and warmth of his bed.