Chapter Text
The keeper of the house showed him in—Ms. Stevens. She was buxom and personable, and showed him to his room right away. He was to share it with the cleaner, Stanley. He barely had any belongings, but Ms. Stevens sat on his new desk as he unpacked his meager possessions. She introduced herself as Bebe, and asked prying questions about his delayed maturation.
“I’ve just never met an omega that didn’t get heats,” she said in an overly familiar tone, like she was his friend with whom he regularly shared secrets of a personal nature, and not a new superior inquiring about the state of his ass.
“Augh, well… I don’t know any other way.”
Bebe nodded like that had been a sage observation rather than the only thing he could think to say.
“Mine are dreadful, but luckily, it’s never caused me any issue here. The masters of the house are strictly homosexual, if sexual at all, and that certainly remains to be seen. You know, an omega can sniff that sort of thing out. Well, a matured one can, at least. I’m not sure what you can smell, if anything. Anyway, I’ve never smelled them on each other. And they sleep in separate bedrooms.
And poor Stanley is just fixated on Mr. Broflovski but is constantly rebuffed. Well, if you have any other questions, please ask anytime,” she finished with a wink.
Of course, he had not asked any questions, and her tawdry gossip was meaningless to him as he didn’t know who any of these people were yet.
“Once you’ve got your new clothes on, I’ll show you the kitchen and you’ll make whatever you can out of the day’s meat and produce for tonight’s dinner.”
She gestured towards his new clothes lying on the bed. When he unfurled them, he found they were a thin white singlet and a matching pair of shorts far shorter than he was accustomed to. “These, agh, don’t seem very… covering.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s so you don’t catch fire from any dangling bits of fabric. There have been… incidents in the past. Well, come on—let’s get changed!” she said, with an excitable clap. She was far too cheerful in light of what she just revealed.
Tweek only stared at her for a moment, but she raised her eyebrows in defiance, like she was entitled to sit here and watch Tweek change. Maybe she was, and it wasn't as if he had ever had much privacy growing up. He exhaled slowly and stripped off his jeans and the nicest button-down shirt he owned.
“No underwear? What a little minx,” she said suggestively.
He didn’t feel it appropriate to tell her he had not been furnished with any at the orphanage. Of course, what she had said was not appropriate either, but she was his superior.
Pulling the shorts on quickly, he found they didn't even come down to his mid-thigh. The singlet was similarly revealing, the neckline cut a few inches below his clavicles, and clinging to his form.
“Is this… really?” he asked incredulously, looking down at himself.
“Oh, how silly of me!” she said, and Tweek breathed a sigh of relief at the thought that he might be granted an extra garment, something to cover his arms or thighs, or both—just anything.
After rummaging around in the closet for a minute, she instead emerged with a pair of black close-toed shoes in hand. “For kitchen safety!”
With a disappointed sigh, Tweek pulled those on too, wondering how disastrous the accident must have been to lead to the implementation of such a revealing uniform for kitchen staff.
“Ready?” Bebe chirped.
“Ah. Mm-mhm,” Tweek replied, a little uncertain. Even his pajamas were not this revealing.
Besides which, the manor was heavily air-conditioned, forcing his nipples into hard little peaks beneath the thin singlet. He felt obscene. But surely it would be hot in front of the stove. As Bebe led him down an elegantly carpeted corridor, she explained he would be working with the ingredients left for him, at least initially, and provided everything worked out, he could then be involved in the planning. So don’t fuck it up, was heavily implied. It was a trial period, an extended audition.
Tweek wondered briefly if they were going to give him odd ingredients to see if anything would faze him. Although he was usually at least a little nervous about everything, this was an arena in which he was confident. He had studied preparation methods of even more expensive, less accessible ingredients, and worked all the odd jobs as line cook he could, in nice hotels and fancy restaurants—any place that needed a grunt to yell at, Tweek made himself available and he absorbed and practiced all he could.
Largely, though, his experience came from being the main cook in the orphanage in which he had grown up. He was accustomed to making something good out of whatever was around, and he knew he had a knack for it because he was a tiny underdeveloped omega and had been picked on plenty before he learned how to make himself useful in this way. He garnered begrudging respect through his culinary skill, especially since a good meal was something his fellow orphans were not accustomed to otherwise.
Bebe led him into the kitchen finally, with a little, “Ta-da!”
As he might’ve expected, it was immaculate. There was a huge stainless steel stove with spider burners and a massive range hood, and all the other appliances were extremely modern and impressive as well, including the double refrigerator, to which Bebe led him right away. Opening it up, she showed him the shelf on which the produce and meat of the day would be left. It was stew beef and mushrooms today. He also saw carrots in the drawer and there appeared to be lardons. The challenge was obvious. He could do something unexpected, or he could meet it head-on and exceed expectations.
“What kind of onions and herbs do you have on hand?” he asked. “And, agh—what about red wine?”
“Figured it out, huh? We do indeed have the pearl onions you’ll need for—”
“Bebe, don’t tell him what to cook.” Tweek jolted when the low, flat voice of a stranger cut in.
His eyes flitted to the doorway and then back down again. He knew his new employers were a married couple composed of one alpha and one beta. This man was likely the alpha, as tall and deep-voiced as he was. He saw towering height, dark hair and nice clothes, and then the ecru tile floor again. He didn’t want to hold eye contact.
Alphas had never particularly cared for him. He didn’t smell like anything. He didn’t have anything they wanted. He was a waste of the blueprint for an omega, in effect.
“Oh, please, Craig— I’ve seen his resume. Even I know what you expect here. Anyway, how good of you to come meet the new chef!”
“I came to make sure you weren’t guiding him too much,” the man replied, clearly annoyed.
Tweek looked back up at him while he was preoccupied with Bebe. Big mistake. The man looked at him back, right away, with intense, cold gray-blue eyes, well-styled black hair, and sharp features. His navy slacks and white button down shirt were impeccably tailored to his subtly impressive form—not overly muscular but some insinuation of it in his arms and shoulders.
He was undeniably beautiful, and Tweek found himself physically unable to keep looking at him without his breath catching and his heart racing in his chest. It was like his body had forgotten how to function which was a humiliating new feeling to have to experience in front of one of his new bosses. He was just grateful he must not have a notable scent to this man.
“Well, I was just going to show him the pantry and the wine cellar and then be on my way, but I’ll just take my leave now, if you’re so worried about it,” Bebe was telling the man, full of sass and clearly unafraid to toy with him. She turned back to Tweek, informing him, “Tweek, dinner will be served at 7 p.m. sharp and just holler if you need anything,” and departed with a little wink and squeeze of his shoulder.
Why was she leaving him alone with this man? Just to annoy her employer? Tweek didn’t understand the dynamics at play, and it was unsettling to be left alone with someone causing an unprecedented sort of physical response in him.
The man sighed. “Follow me,” he ordered, sounding bored.
Tweek obeyed, following him into a small room adjacent to the kitchen.
“This is the pantry. The onions are in this basket,” he said, gesturing to a basket that was indeed full of onions—including the pearl onions he sought—as well as garlic. “We have probably every spice you might need in these cupboards. If there’s something we’re missing, you can request it of the shopper once you’re working together.”
Tweek looked up to nod, and his breath caught in his throat again. It almost caused him pain to look upon him. It was even worse up close like this. His cheekbones and nose were so striking; Tweek longed to reach up and run his fingers down them, pressing into the hollows of his cheeks. He solved this problem of inappropriate desire by focusing instead on the cupboards and the onions and the floor.
This man was also not looking at him much, Tweek noticed, as he abruptly led Tweek out of the pantry. He gestured towards the backyard just outside. “The garden should have almost any herb you may need. Not that it’s gotten much use thus far. I’ll show you the wine cellar and then leave you to it.”
Tweek trailed behind as he opened a door leading to a staircase. It was pitch black for a few steps and Tweek truly did not mean to, but he grabbed for the man’s shirt, afraid for a moment that he might trip. The man tensed, but then turned on a light switch and Tweek retracted his hand as if burned.
“Sorry,” he whispered. The man didn’t respond and continued down the stairs. Tweek traipsed after him.
It was cool in the cellar, his nipples straining painfully at the chill.
There were several wine racks. “These are the less expensive wines,” the man informed him, pointing at the leftmost rack. “These are the most expensive ones, for special occasions only,” he said of the center rack, and then of the rightmost rack, “And these are for casual drinking.”
“Thank you, ah, sir.” Tweek realized he had no idea of this man’s name. Bebe had called him Craig but that hardly seemed an appropriate address for one’s new boss. He approached the least expensive wine rack and crouched down, looking for a decent Burgundy. He should’ve paid more attention to that flirty sommelier at the last nice hotel, but he found his quips and the attention perplexing.
Once he’d grabbed a wine that seemed adequate, he straightened up and turned, only to find the man standing close—much too close. He could not stifle his noise of surprise but tried not to cower under the alpha’s unblinking gaze. He certainly was an alpha. Even being unripe as it were, Tweek could tell. He made Tweek feel things in the pit of his stomach he had never felt before. It was hard to breathe at all as long as he returned his gaze, but the way he looked at Tweek now—so seriously—made it difficult to look away.
“My name is Craig Tucker,” he informed him. “My husband’s name is Kyle Broflovski, but do not address him by his first name. I prefer simple tastes, and Kyle will be irritated if he thinks you’re showing off. Understood?”
“Uhm. Yes, Mr. Tucker,” he replied.
“Call me Craig. Refer to the other man only as Mr. Broflovski, or sir. Got it?”
“Yes, uh—Craig.”
“Turn the light off when you’re finished.” He stared down at Tweek for a few more agonizing moments, and then turned and went back up the stairs.
Once Craig was nearly out of his sight, Tweek realized he had been holding his breath. His heart was racing. He frightened easily but he had not been threatened or anything just now. A man had merely been looking at him. If anything, he seemed to be providing some guidance for how Tweek might keep this job. So why had he had that effect on him? Was it on purpose?
After catching his breath, he ascended the stairs quickly himself, turning the light off as instructed. The wine would likely be good enough. He could have a little taste to see. It should be drinkable and able to be served with the meal.
First he got his bearings, looking through the cabinets and cupboards to commit to memory where everything was. He used a saucer to sample the wine, once he managed to get it uncorked. Tweek was an unbelievable lightweight and didn’t really know wine, but it tasted decent enough, so he got to prepping his vegetables and aromatics—mincing the garlic, slicing the carrots and mushrooms, dicing the onion, and peeling the pearl onions, locating the beef bullion because he would not be able to make his own stock.
He diced the lardons, then pulled out the largest Dutch oven since it had been about three pounds of stew beef, which he cubed into manageable pieces.
He had made beef Bourguignon quite a few times at the hotel. It was not really complicated but he had to coordinate the prep and cooking time, and figure out what sides would be best and prepare those as well. Craig had said simple, not flashy, and some starch and a vegetable would be needed. A crusty bread would’ve been good, but his favorite recipe had too long a rise time and using one with a shorter one would likely be too distracting. He decided upon mashed potatoes, maybe with some fresh chives from the garden, and maybe green beans or a light salad on the side.
Tweek poured himself another little splash of the Burgundy and got started with his diced lardons. He was in his element searing beef and sauteing vegetables, such that he didn’t notice he had company.
“You’re sweating quite a bit,” someone said behind him. Craig again, deep and rumbly, but also flat and disinterested-sounding. An embarrassing observation to hear delivered so neutrally, honestly.
But Tweek did sweat profusely sometimes; he knew he did. “Nnh, sorry,” he mumbled, scraping the bottom of the Dutch oven and hoping Craig would not give him a hard time.
“Don’t apologize. You’re certainly not overdressed, though. Did Bebe have you put this on?” Tweek tried not to jerk his body away when Craig lightly tugged at one of the singlet’s straps.
“Agh, yeah?” he squeaked, then remembering himself, added, “Yes, sir.”
Craig chuckled—the sound triggered a new sensation that rumbled against Tweek’s back ribs though to his low belly. He thought he might faint.
“Are you not able to reach the fan?”
It had not even occurred to Tweek that there would be a fan, as he was unused to having one in the orphanage, but of course a range this impressive would have a fan. Before he could answer, Craig leaned in to switch it on, pressing his chest against the back of Tweek’s head. He dry swallowed, being enveloped in Craig’s scent. He might not sense these things as acutely as a real omega, but he smelled good, musky. Heady and dizzying. And he was so, so much bigger. He could probably hoist Tweek up with one arm, and then… and then, Tweek didn’t know what else he would be able to do, but there was no way Craig would have wanted to have triggered this response in him. Tweek had likely just been in his way, and he didn’t want his new cook getting his nasty anxiety sweat in the stew, which seemed reasonable enough.
“Do you need anything for your hair?”
“Ah—” Tweek hesitated. He’d worn hats at the hotels and restaurants, hairnets in a few bakeries, and nothing in the orphanage kitchen. He was careful not to touch his hair or face while cooking or baking. But he didn’t know if Craig was urging him to conceal his gross hair as well as potentially his gross armpits. What was he supposed to do when this is all Bebe had provided him? What was he supposed to say?
“Whatever you think is best, sir.”
“Your hair’s quite long,” Craig said, and then Tweek gasped as he ran a hand through the extra length at the nape of his neck, grazing his scalp with his fingertips and then lightly tugging his hair. He couldn’t resist shivering. “Maybe you’d like to have it pulled back. I can see what options Bebe can provide.”
“Mhm,” mumbled, voice pitched from the unfamiliarity of all this stimulation. He couldn’t keep his mind focused on all these questions and proposals.
Perhaps sensing this overwhelm, or perhaps just done with him for the time being, Craig released his hair and the tingling at his scalp abated, the warmth against his back disappeared, and Tweek grabbed the oven door handle to steady himself.
“It smells good,” was all Craig said before departing. Tweek turned to gape at his retreating form in utter confusion.
There was no time to be stymied by all this. He had to finish dinner. The beef Bourguignon was simmering, and didn’t require much more attention, so Tweek checked the pantry and set out to make a nice dessert—chocolate budino—with the ingredients he found there. All in all, it might be an overly rich meal, but he hoped the green beans and potatoes would add some freshness and plainness to the heavy, flavorful beef and decadent custard.
After quickly whipping up the custard base, straining it into the chopped chocolate, and working it into a silky texture with the butter, salt, and vanilla extract, Tweek divvied it up into small cups, and whipped up a bit of cream to dollop on top right before serving. Next, he started on the potatoes. He opted to remove the skins since Craig had said he preferred simple tastes. Then he diced them, added them to a pot of cold water, and turned it down to simmer on low for twenty minutes once the water began to boil.
This was too easy. Would it be enough? He decided to explore the garden. They truly did have almost anything he could think of, even chervil and thai basil. Tweek picked some chives and parsley and returned to the kitchen. The sun was beginning to set but he still had enough time to finish the beef and let it stand for some time to allow the flavors to intermingle.
He had another splash of wine, and then tested a potato for doneness and strained out the water. Then he warmed the cream and butter and began mashing. He prepared the green beans simply, and by the time people trickled in, he was just finishing those, shocking them in an ice water bath to keep them from continuing to cook after a quick blanching. Luckily, it was only Bebe and Craig, and a new person, one with black hair and blue eyes like Craig, only this man wasn’t an alpha and his eyes were much warmer and friendlier.
His features were rounder too, and he greeted Tweek with a “Hey, dude,” and toothy grin.
“Ah, hi. Are you, mmnh— are you my roommate, Stanley?”
“Yes, that’s him, but Mr. Broflovski will be back any moment, so let’s get this shit on the table, hmm?” Bebe said, clapping her hands theatrically.
“Ack—right!” Tweek replied, and he rushed to finish scraping mashed potato into a lidded serving dish, grabbing fistfulls of the plain green beans and shoving them in a bowl, and finding a trivet for the beef Bourguignon, which could be served right out of the dutch oven in which it was cooked.
Craig at one end of the dining table, Stan leaned against the counter, and Bebe with her arms crossed over her ample chest all watched as he scrambled to fetch serving utensils. He was finally throwing the tongs in the bowl of green beans when an older red-haired man walked in, tall and stern-looking.
Bebe urgently motioned that Tweek should come stand by her, and he hastened to do so but it couldn’t save him from the sneer of this man.
“Oh for—Barbara, is this your doing?” the man spat, gesturing at Tweek’s body.
As she poured each man a glass of wine, Bebe simpered. “What ever do you mean, Mr. Broflovski?”
“I don’t want to see the chef’s tits and pit stains while I’m eating, thank you very much. Could you get him a sweater.” His teeth were gritted, and it wasn’t a question, and, his sweat long having cooled, Tweek shivered under his pointed gaze and harsh words.
He noticed Craig was looking, too; it almost appeared he was biting back a smile. Tweek didn’t understand or appreciate that Craig and Bebe seemed to know something he didn’t while he alone drew the elder man’s ire. He needed this job. He didn’t know if anyone else here was invested in him keeping it.
“I don’t know that I have anything in his size,” Bebe replied faux-innocently.
“We didn’t need to hire a new cook, you know. I was perfectly happy with the system we had in place.”
“Oh, please,” Bebe replied. “You were enjoying cold cereal in the morning and takeout each night?”
“Cover him up, now!” Mr. Broflovski hissed.
Amusement seemingly worn thin, Craig sighed loudly, stripped off his thin navy sweater, and tossed it at Tweek, hitting him in the face. “Put it on,” he ordered. Then, turning to his husband, he asked, “Happy?” Tweek was too dazed to comply but it was clear their discord was the star feature here; he was a mere afterthought, a pawn in a game.
“Yes, thank you, Craig,” Mr. Broflovski said, rolling his eyes. “Just give the help all your things—what do I care? Stanley, would you like Craig’s Rolex?”
“Um. Yes—yessir, Mr. Broflovski.”
“He was being facetious, Stan,” Craig said dryly.
“Oh,” Stan said.
Bebe snapped into action, gesturing and hissing that Stan should start cleaning the kitchen. Then she snatched the sweater from Tweek’s absent-minded grasp and pulled it over his head, straightening it out ‘til Tweek was swimming in it. He was enveloped in Craig’s smell like before. As the meal went on, he grew more and more lightheaded. It must have been the wine he had drunk on an empty stomach. He couldn’t remember when he had last eaten.
As the two men ate in silence, Tweek focused on not letting his knees lock. The food did smell good, at least. He hoped he would not be fired if it wasn’t to their tastes.
“A bit heavy,” Mr. Broflovski said then, as if able to read Tweek’s mind.
“Yes, well. It’s beef,” Craig replied. The master of the house scowled at him, and Tweek looked down because he didn’t want it directed at him next. The stress of the conflict was making his stomach turn, though perhaps it was also the swigs of wine. Would it only be like this for his trial period, or was it always like this?
When he looked up, Mr. Broflovski was glowering at him anyway.
“Beef Bourguignon. Figured that one out, huh?”
“How was the office?” Craig asked, redirecting Mr. Broflovski.
“It was the office. It was the same as always, not that it's any of your concern. How was loafing around my estate? Also the same as always?”
“Excellent. I had a great run, and mashed potatoes are my favorite. It’s been a great day. Thank you.”
Mr. Broflovski snorted—a nasty undercurrent to the sound rather than amusement—and then addressed Tweek again. “I suppose you have some heart attack-inducing dessert planned as well?”
“Um,” Tweek squeaked.
Bebe tugged his hand and told Mr. Broflovski of course, they’d return with dessert right away. They grabbed the budino from the fridge, and as Tweek dolloped cream on top of each of the little cups of custard, Bebe rubbed his shoulders and murmured, “Look, I know he’s an asshole, but you gotta get better at responding to direct addresses, alright baby?” Tweek murmured noncommittally and let Bebe take the cups out to the men, trailing closely behind her.
Aside from a bit of huffing and puffing, Mr. Broflovski did not protest any further once the dessert was placed before him. Dessert was Tweek’s strongest point; he had never been allowed sweets growing up, so it was where his passion lay. When the two were finally finished eating, Bebe nudged him to take their plates. He did so, and brought them to Stan who’d finished cleaning the mess Tweek had made. Once he returned to Bebe, he found Mr. Broflovski had already gone but Craig was lingering behind. Bebe told him to meet her in the kitchen when Mr. Tucker was through with him. Tweek went to remove the loaned sweater, but Craig held up a hand.
“Please. Keep it. I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Agh, what about, s-sir?” Looking at him still made Tweek's body buzz uncomfortable, but fortunately, he was too disoriented to be able to focus his gaze on one thing for very long.
“It’s Craig. You did fine. Kyle was leading you to believe the food was too heavy and you’re probably thinking you should cook lighter meals from now on. Well, you should. But it wasn’t too heavy. He’s just testing how well you listen and obey. So make his spartan meals for a bit—egg whites, chicken breast, steamed vegetables—but don’t be hurt when he complains about that, too. It’s not about the food. It’s about control. Does that make sense?”
“Augh… I guess so. Why—” Tweek cut himself off and fixed his eyes on the floor.
“No, say it.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Craig looked straight ahead for a moment, and then back to Tweek, his face blank and unreadable. He shrugged lightly, before saying, “I’m not sure. But it’s the truth.”
Then he walked away, leaving Tweek in his thin sweater that smelled so strongly of him. He was in a daze for a minute. There was something surreal about the space Craig pulled him into already. It had only been a day. Why had he told him all that? Why would he care to help Tweek?
After a few moments, he snapped out of it, and scurried back to the kitchen, where Stan appeared relieved to see him.
“Alright, nice. I hope there’s still potatoes.”
“Egh, there should be. I always make a lot.”
“Oh, yeah,” Stan mused aloud. “Bebe said you came from an orphanage. Must’ve been a lot of hungry mouths to feed there.”
Tweek didn’t respond—of course there had been, and his among them—but instead set to making up plates for each of them. They ate on the floor except for Bebe who was perched on the counter.
“Gosh, this is a lot of food,” she marveled, and Stan, mouth full of potatoes already, made what may well have been a promise to finish what she couldn’t.
Tweek ate quickly before Bebe urged him to slow down. “No one’s going to take it from you,” she said, a hint of amusement in her voice. Her assumption was too close to the truth; it smarted a bit. In the orphanage, he would have to eat quickly where no one could see. There was a reason he was so small even years after his body had known any illicit substance. He might’ve been afforded some respect as the cook of the orphanage, but there was still a strict hierarchy.
He would just have to adapt to the way things were here, there being enough for the three of them.
“Are there any other, ah… workers here?”
“Well, the stable boy, Clyde. He’s a real lech. Oh, the shopper and the man who delivers wine and other spirits. A charmer, that one. I think you’ll quite like him.” Bebe smiled warmly at him.
After she had her fill, Bebe excused herself, and Stan scarfed up her food as promised. When Tweek was finished, Stan took his plate, and he leaned back against the cupboard as Stan washed their dishes.
“Hey, dude,” Stan asked after a few minutes. Tweek must have begun drifting off. “You good?”
“Nnh. Yeah. Tired.”
“This really worse than your other jobs? I heard you worked in some nice hotels. I bet those hours must have been a bitch.”
“Mmm… the yelling,” Tweek mumbled, bracing himself against the cupboard as he slowly got to his feet.
“Don’t pass out on me, man. I mean, I could probably carry you. What are you, like 100 lbs soaking wet? Ugh. My back’s no good, though. I lived on a farm growing up. My dad had a farm, made us work the fields. I hated it there.”
“I’m, ah, fine. You don’t need to carry me,” Tweek replied, though his legs did wobble to bear his weight. A farm didn’t sound so bad, but he didn’t want to say that. Maybe his dad was mean and abusive. If it hurt his back, maybe he was made to carry too much. Tweek could relate to that.
“Come on, dude. You can lean on me a little.”
Tweek had never leaned on anyone before but, despite his bad back, Stan was sturdy, guiding him through the halls and back to their room.
When they arrived, Stan stripped off his clothes right away and pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and then bounded over to his bed. He was far broader than Tweek, black hair dusting his belly and chest. He reminded Tweek of a puppy. He’d always wanted a puppy. But they weren’t allowed pets at the orphanage.
Stan noticed him looking and grinned. “You wanna get changed, dude? We can cuddle if you want.”
“Urgh, why would I want that?” Tweek replied snippily, turning to grab his pajamas from his duffle bag and hide his face. He was probably bright red. Tweek hadn’t been looking at him in that way. He didn’t get those feelings.
“‘Cause you’re an omega. Don’t you cuddle with other omegas?”
“Egh, no… I’m not a real omega. No one’s ever asked to–to do that with me,” he mumbled.
“Well,” Stan replied, “I’m asking. It’s good for you, dude. Helps lower your cortisol and shit.”
“Cortisol?”
“The stress hormone. I can tell you’re stressed.”
“Nnh, no you can’t,” Tweek said, but he turned around and began changing anyway—plaid boxers and a T-shirt of a basketball team he didn’t care about.
The beds were reasonably sized—a double, Tweek thought. They’d only had quite small beds at the orphanage—probably twin beds, or whatever size was smaller than that if such a thing existed. Tweek was lucky to be small there. He did not feel so lucky now. Anyway, Stan was an omega, and Tweek a failure of an omega, so it wasn’t like there was much Stan could do to him, he reasoned. At least, not much he could do to him in that close proximity that he couldn’t do while Tweek was asleep anyway. He had nothing of value to take, and if Stan was a twisted killer of some kind and wanted Tweek dead, he could do so after crossing the room just as easily.
So Tweek relented and traipsed over to the bed. Stan shot him a toothy smile when Tweek flopped down onto the bed, and pulled him over onto his side. “Get in here, dude.” Stan wrapped the blanket and his arms around Tweek.
Tweek went rigid. It was unfamiliar, having someone’s arms wrapped around him, but Stan nestled in behind him and said, “Come on, dude. I don’t bite. I’m no alpha,” with a chuckle.
“How long have you been here?”
“Mmm,” Stan hummed, thinking. “It was right before my 13th birthday. Mr. Broflovski, he saved me. He doesn’t like to take credit for it… or like when I bring it up. But he saved me.”
“So, egh, you like it here? It’s—they treat you well?”
“I think so. The spirits man, when he comes, he tells me there’s lots of worse places. I don’t really have anything else to compare it to. Aside from that goddamned farm.”
“Ah,” Tweek replied, hoping not to hear more about the farm at this time. He was too tired; he wouldn’t be able to adequately show sympathy at the right intervals. Not that he would necessarily find Stan’s farm life tales unworthy of sympathy, but his own experiences had been challenging enough and he didn’t look back on them with such resentment. The orphanage was constant toil, but it was better than what he had known before, and those years were long behind him. His biggest fear had been not finding a good placement. He wanted to know more about this place, figure out how he could secure his place, so he could finally breathe.
But he didn’t have the words or energy to begin that discussion, and Stan asked what all who learned of his situation wanted to know right away.
“How do you know you’re never going to have a heat? Are they, like, sure?” He was a freak to people, an unripe person in a state of indecision, as if he had any say in this.
He hadn’t had any say, but despite the alienation he often felt, he was glad never to have gone into heat while living at the orphanage. He wouldn’t want to mate with an orphan and have a child with someone in just as wretched of circumstances as himself. Who would want that? No, he was better off this way, lucky in so many ways.
“Nnh, yeah, pretty much. I saw a doctor years ago. My, ah… my parents had, uh. They tested drugs on me, different doses. That’s why I’m so small. I won’t ever, uh. Yeah, they were sure.”
“Oh. Shit, dude. That’s a real bummer.”
“Yeah, well, nnh— sorry.” But you were the one who asked, he did not supply.
“Nah, it’s whatever. I got my own sad shit.”
“Nnh?”
“Well. So, I know he didn’t seem nice or anything.” Oh no. Tweek remembered suddenly what Bebe had said, about Stanley and his sad crush. On that awful man? “But I’ve got such a thing for the master of the house. That sneering disdain. I wish—ugh, this is gonna sound so messed up. I want him to, like, spit on me. Wish I could be his footstool or something.”
“Engh?”
“Sorry,” Stan said with a laugh. “It’s probably my heat coming making me extra—you know.”
“Extra what?” Tweek asked, bewildered. They housed him with the betas at the orphanage. This was his first time rooming with an omega.
“Extra horny, dude. Don’t you know anything?”
“Ergh, not really.” It occurred to him that maybe he should tell Stan he’d never roomed with real omegas or gotten anything resembling a sexual education. Stan didn’t seem to care much, though.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, not sounding remotely sorry. “Anyway, we should try to sleep. Gotta get up early to clean Mr. Broflovski’s chambers.”
His tone was dreamy and charmed at the end. He may as well have said he was excited to clean Mr. Broflovski’s toilet seat with his tongue.
Tweek was oddly finding he was looking forward to the morning, too. He would have the opportunity to prove his worth and ability to listen in making breakfast. He wasn’t sure if he’d be responsible for lunch. Maybe Craig would surround Tweek with his heady scent and body heat and inexplicable presence once more. Maybe things would become a little less inexplicable with time and he’d find his place in this strange new household. First, however, he had to make it through this audition phase.
Within minutes, Stan was fast asleep, holding Tweek around the waist tightly, but he was still able to lean over the edge of the bed and reach Craig’s sweater that he had tossed on the floor. The smell had been calling out to him. He folded it loosely into the approximation of a pillow and fell asleep with his face buried in it, dreaming of being encircled by long limbs and a sturdy torso, the vibrations of a low, even voice pulsing through his ribs.