Chapter Text
The birthday cake tasted like nothing. Or perhaps the problem was that it tasted like duty, like an obligation fulfilled with the same coldness and monotony with which one pays a bill on any ordinary day.
Jude stared at the plate in front of him, the crumbs scattered across the white porcelain like small remnants of a celebration that never quite managed to be genuine, but one he was always forced to attend.
Sixteen. He had just turned sixteen, and instead of feeling the lightness that symbolic coming-of-age promised, he felt a pressure in his chest that intensified with every tick-tock of the dining room clock. His parents sat across from him, his mother stirring her tea with a spoon that clinked against the cup in a metallic, hypnotic rhythm, his father wiping the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin.
It was now or never. The decision, made over months of insomnia and solitary runs at dawn, burned in his throat.
"I want to try my luck at a professional club," he blurted out, as fast as the knot in his throat would allow, while a scorching heat began building in his stomach in anticipation.
The sentence hung in the air like a foreign object, a piece that didn't fit into the meticulous order of everyday life.
The clinking of the spoon stopped abruptly; his mother looked at him with eyes slightly widened, eyebrows arched in an expression of surprise that didn't quite reach genuine because, deep down, she had always feared Jude was unpredictable. His father, on the other hand, set the napkin aside, leaned back in his chair, and let out a laugh.
It wasn't a brief laugh or a display of fleeting disbelief. It was a long, guttural guffaw that bounced off the dining room walls and lodged itself in some soft spot in Jude's stomach, intensifying the heat that was beginning to spread through the rest of his body. There was venom in that laugh, a calculated cruelty that needed no words to convey its message.
However, the words came afterward, because his father never settled for a gesture when he could drive blades into his heart with an equally cruel speech.
"A professional club?" Mark repeated, a crooked smile still on his lips. "You? An omega? Tell me, Jude, when was the last time you saw an omega on a professional team? When was the last time you saw one who wasn't in the stands, with a baby in their arms, cheering on their alpha?"
Jude didn't answer. He knew that tone well, that poisoned rhetoric his father usually deployed when he believed he held all the cards. So he stayed still, hands resting in his lap and jaw clenched, forcing himself to keep silent. If he interrupted, he would only prolong the argument. If he let him talk, his father would end up saying everything he had been holding back for years, and then, at least, they would know where they stood with each other.
Mark leaned back in his chair and let out a theatrical sigh, as if the conversation caused him unbearable fatigue.
"Look, one thing was accepting you joining the Birmingham City academy when you were a kid. How old were you, seven? Eight, at most. Your mother and I thought it was a phase, a little kid's tantrum wanting to imitate his brother," he attacked mercilessly, mentioning his younger brother, who wasn't even home that day. "Jobe had just said he wanted to play football, and you, as always, trailing behind him, copying everything the alpha of the house did to get attention."
Jude bit his tongue to keep from interrupting his father, from shouting that Jobe was proud of him and that, just a few nights ago, had encouraged him to follow his dreams. But Jobe wasn't there; he had gone to an aunt and uncle's house a few days ago.
"We were indulgent," his father continued. "Too indulgent, if you ask me now. We thought you'd get tired in a couple of months, that you'd come home crying because you'd scraped a knee or because the other kids ran faster than you, and then we could focus on raising you properly. But no, you clung to this absurd decision of yours."
His father's pheromones condensed in the air, seeking to subdue him.
"You kept at it year after year, and we, instead of nipping the problem in the bud, let you carry on. We thought you'd eventually mature, that you'd understand your place in the world and leave these absurd fantasies behind. But I see that hasn't been the case. That childhood tantrum has turned into a ridiculous obsession, and now you come to this table to talk to me about a professional club as if you were an alpha with a future. As if the world owed you something for being stubborn."
He paused to take a breath, and when he spoke again, his tone was even sharper, laden with a contempt he no longer bothered to disguise.
"You can keep those modern fairy tales for your dreams, Jude. Here, in this house, we talk about reality," he decreed. "And the reality is that you were born an omega and that means certain things, whether you like it or not. I'm not going to allow you to waste time chasing a ridiculous fantasy while the rest of the world keeps turning. Do you know how pathetic it sounds? An omega wanting to be a professional footballer? It's like a dog wanting to be a fish. You can try, you can kick and cry and say it's not fair, but nature isn't going to give you gills. And while you waste time dreaming of impossibilities, omegas your age are already learning to be useful, to prepare themselves for what truly awaits them in life. You, on the other hand, remain anchored in a fantasy that should have ended when you stopped being a child."
Jude felt his cheeks flush with a rage so pure it was hard to keep his hands still in his lap.
He knew that laugh and, likewise, he knew that condescending tone. He had heard it for years, every time he showed an interest that deviated from the script established for those of his designation. When he preferred football boots to dolls, when he insisted on playing with the neighborhood boys instead of attending the young omega gatherings his mother so carefully organized. It was always the same: a laugh, a biting comment, and the feeling that his existence was a constant disappointment to those who should love him unconditionally.
He gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep his voice steady, though inside he trembled with anger. His omega writhed at his father's rejection, but he, as the human being he was, would not let himself be trampled any longer.
"I'm not asking for permission," he hissed, keeping his rage in check. "I'm informing you. There are scouts who go to the youth tournaments. They've seen me play; they know who I am and they know what I'm capable of. It's not a ridiculous fantasy, Dad. It's a real opportunity, something I've been working toward for as long as I can remember. Every dawn, every afternoon, every weekend. When have you seen me miss a training session? When have you seen me give up?" he questioned, his gaze fixed on his father's, refusing to yield to his dominance. "I'm not going to let you tell me I can't just because to you an omega is only good for one thing, and because..."
His mother set the cup down on the saucer with a sharp thud that interrupted the flow of words.
Denise Bellingham was a woman of soft gestures and soft smiles, an omega who had built her life around social expectations and who seemed genuinely happy in that mold, but that led her not to understand her own son.
She loved him, Jude didn't doubt it, but it was a love full of incomprehension, of long glances and silent sighs. She smoothed her skirt with the palms of her hands and looked at him with a mixture of weariness and maternal concern that churned Jude's stomach.
"Don't look at me like that..." he wanted to tell her desperately. "Don't look at me as if you care about me and my interests."
"Sweetheart, listen to me for a moment," she began, with a measured tone she always used for difficult conversations. "No one is saying you don't have talent. I know you're good with the ball, you always have been. But your father is right about something: the world out there is not kind to omegas who try to step off the path," she reminded him.
Jude wanted to scream that he didn't need to go out into the world to feel that hostility she spoke of, when in that house they already showed him how cruel people could be.
"You're going to suffer, sweetheart. You're going to face judging looks, comments laden with venom, and doors slammed in your face. And not just in football, but in life," she reached out her hand, seeking his, but Jude didn't move, flatly refusing any physical contact.
His mother continued:
"Alphas look for certain qualities in a partner, and if you persist with this rebellious attitude, with this constant need to challenge what's expected of you, you're going to end up alone. No alpha is going to take notice of an omega who doesn't know his place. Think about your future, about the day you want to build a home and have a family," she pleaded. "You can't go through life fighting against your own nature."
There it was again: the same speech as always, wrapped in a sweet tone and false concern for his well-being.
The word "nature" turned his stomach. As if his nature was reduced to a functional womb and an instinct for submission that, apparently, he had forgotten to develop.
He looked at his mother and, for an instant, felt pity. Pity for a woman who had accepted her role without question, who had handed over her identity in exchange for security and social approval. But the pity faded quickly, replaced by the determination never to become that dimmed reflection.
"Mom, I don't care what alphas look for," he replied, measuring each word so as not to raise his voice. "I'm not going to live my life waiting for someone to choose me as if I were a piece of furniture in a shop. Is that really what you want for me? That I spend the next few years learning to cook, to sew, to smile and be quiet, all so that one day an alpha shows up and decides I'm acceptable enough to take to his house and carry his children? I want more than that."
His mother didn't answer, but her brow furrowed slightly.
"I want to play football," he insisted, because this wasn't a whim and because he wished his parents would understand once and for all. "I want to be applauded for what I do with my feet, not for how well I can serve tea. Why is that so hard to understand? Why is it fine for an alpha to dream of being a footballer, but if an omega does it, it's a rebellion against their nature?"
"Because it's not the same," his father interrupted, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table with contained aggression, "and you know it perfectly well. We're not talking about capabilities, we're talking about order. You can be the best player in the world on a neighborhood pitch, but the moment you step into a professional locker room, all anyone else is going to see is an omega. You're going to be a distraction, a problem, an easy target. And the worst part is you won't just harm yourself, you'll make us all look ridiculous."
He felt a tug at his heart at those words, so painful it stole his breath.
"What am I supposed to say at work when they ask about my son? That he's run off to chase a pipe dream while omegas his age are already engaged and learning to run a household?"
Jude stood up. He did it slowly, resting his palms on the table and feeling the coldness of the wood beneath his fingers. The gesture made his parents look up at him, and it was at that moment that the physical difference became palpable.
Jude was tall, very tall. He had shot up in the last year, leaving him close to six feet, with a broad bone structure and shoulders that were the complete opposite of the delicate description expected of a standard omega. His hands were large, his legs long and sinewy, and his jaw had a firmness that didn't fit the canons of submissive beauty that magazines insisted on extolling.
He remembered the young omega gatherings his mother had dragged him to for years, those insufferable encounters where boys with tinkling laughs and slender wrists talked about recipes and potential suitors while he felt terribly out of place.
They were petite and graceful, with soft gestures and melodic voices. He, on the other hand, took up too much space, and his mere presence made people uncomfortable because he didn't fit the mold, and that, deep down, was what bothered his parents most: not that he wanted to be a footballer, but that everything about him screamed he was not what he was supposed to be.
To them, Jude was nothing more than an embarrassment to the family.
"I'm not going to apologize for how I am," he said in a low, dangerous voice, with a firmness he didn't feel at all. "I didn't choose any of this: not being delicate like the rest, having this build, being an omega who doesn't fit the mold, and, while we're at it, I didn't choose to be born into a family that would rather lock me in a gilded cage than let me fly."
His mother opened her mouth to protest, but Jude continued, raising his voice a little more:
"But since I'm here, I'm going to do what I decide. I'm leaving next week," he stated, shifting his gaze from his father to his mother. "To Birmingham. There are tryouts for the first division and I'm going to present myself. If they accept me, I'll stay; if not, I'll find another path. But I'm not staying here, rotting in a life that isn't mine."
The silence that followed was thick, charged with sour pheromones.
His mother looked at him with glassy eyes, hands intertwined in her lap. His father breathed through his nose, a heavy snort betraying a barely contained fury.
No one said anything for a full minute, a stretch of time that felt eternal to Jude, but was also liberating. He had let out everything he had been holding in his heart, all that bitterness that wouldn't let him live in peace.
There was no turning back now.
Finally, he looked away and regained his composure, drawing himself up to his full height. He looked at his father one last time, before leaving the room.
The following days were a silent agony. The house, which had never been particularly warm, became a minefield of evasive glances and doors slammed harder than necessary.
His mother stopped speaking to him beyond strictly functional conversations: a monotone "pass the salt," a "there are clean clothes in the closet" said without looking up. His father, for his part, ignored him completely. He would enter a room and leave upon seeing him, as if his presence was a visual offense he wasn't willing to tolerate.
Jude spent most of his time in his room, mentally reviewing training routines, visualizing the trial field, clinging to that absolutely uncertain future. There were no doubts in his decision, but the hostility of the environment twisted his insides.
The night before his departure, while packing the bare essentials into an old backpack, he stopped in front of the wardrobe mirror. He observed his reflection without the urgency to look away, as he used to do when other omegas' comments about his height or his features made him feel out of place.
He saw a boy who didn't fit the mold, true, but he also saw strength and determination. He saw legs that could run for miles without tiring and eyes that weren't daunted by anything. He wondered why society insisted on putting people in such small boxes, why an omega couldn't be strong and desirable at the same time, why ambition was a virtue in an alpha and a defect in him.
He found no answers, but he made a silent promise: he was not going to be the one to apologize for existing.
A week later, the morning arrived. It was one of those gray mornings that seemed to herald a coming storm. Jude walked down the stairs with his backpack slung over one shoulder and his heart hammering in his throat. In the hallway, his mother was standing, leaning against the kitchen doorframe, a steaming cup of coffee in her hands and an expression of anticipated defeat on her face.
His father was nowhere in sight, but Jude knew he was nearby, probably lurking in the living room like a predator waiting for the exact moment to deliver the final blow.
"Are you really going to leave like this?" Denise asked, her voice cracking from lack of sleep and worry. "You could think it over. There's still time, sweetheart; you can still change. You don't have to leave home on bad terms, or give up everything you could have here. You can find someone, a good alpha who loves you, who values you, who gives you a quiet life. That's also a way to be happy, even if you don't see it now. Think about the good things you could have: a home, children, stability. Not everything is fighting against the world."
Jude shook his head, slowly, with sadness.
Was this really happening? Was his mother willing to put her ideals above her own son's happiness?
"Mom, I don't want an alpha to love me the way one loves a pretty possession," he explained calmly. He knew it was futile, but he wanted to do it anyway. "I don't want a quiet life if that tranquility means giving up who I am. I'm not going to change, I can't. And even if I could, I wouldn't want to. I don't want to be the omega you want me to be. I want to be simply Jude. And do you know what Jude wants? He wants to play football and break stereotypes."
It was then that his father's voice resonated from the living room doorway. Mark Bellingham stood there, arms crossed, face stony, jaw clenched tightly. Jude knew his father was holding back a torrent of hurtful words.
"If you walk out that door," he said, pointing at the entrance with a curt nod of his head, "don't set foot in this house again. I don't care what happens. Whether you do well, whether you do badly, whether you starve or whether you become the damn king of football..."
"Mark," his mother tried to interrupt, but the alpha was implacable in his decision.
"This is not a guesthouse you can come back to when you get tired of your whims. If you leave now, you leave for good. Do you understand?" he decreed.
He understood, of course he did. He understood it so well that he felt a strange emptiness in his chest, a mixture of liberation and anticipated grief for the loss.
The door before him wasn't just the exit from a house; it was the definitive border between the world they had imposed on him and the world he had chosen to build. Once he crossed it, there would be no safety net, no warm place to return to dragging broken wings. And yet, he didn't hesitate.
"I understand," he replied, looking at his father calmly.
He held his gaze for a few seconds, searching for some shred of affection, some crack in that armor of pride and social conventions, but he found none. He shifted his eyes to his mother, who had brought a hand to her mouth and was crying silently, tears sliding between her fingers. In her eyes was a mute plea, one last offer of surrender that Jude could no longer accept.
He gave her an almost imperceptible nod, a wordless goodbye, and turned toward the door. The latch gave way with a metallic click. The gray dawn welcomed him with a cold wind that lashed his face and made his skin prickle.
Jude Bellingham, sixteen years old, omega, aspiring footballer, took a step forward and closed the door behind him without looking back. The sound of the slam echoed at his back and, for the first time in days, he could breathe deeply without the air seeming laden with ashes that choked his lungs with every breath.
The street stretched out before him, dark and silent. He adjusted the backpack on his shoulder and started walking toward the station, toward Birmingham, toward a tryout that could change everything or change nothing.
He didn't know what awaited him, he didn't know if professional football would open its doors to him or slam them in his face. But he did know one thing: he had just made the first truly his own decision of his entire life.
The only thing he sincerely regretted was not having said goodbye to his younger brother.