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Friday night. The bowling alley reeked of industrial cleaner, stale beer and popcorn, and the accumulated scent of the dozens of people who'd passed through today. Style, in his 24 years of life, 11 of which he had spent as an Omega, had long since learned to filter out the persistent cacophony of pheromones.
If he needed something to distract himself from it, he could always turn to Kant. His best friend's Alpha scent – crisp cotton and spring rain – was as familiar as his own. Comforting, even, in the way pack was supposed to be.
Kant sat beside him on one of the white leather couches, fiddling with his phone. They were close enough that their shoulders touched yet there was no tension, no biological pull. Just two friends who'd known each other since they were kids, back before designations even mattered.
“What do you think of this tattoo? Ain’t it a classic?” Style gushed. He had been around Kant’s tattoo shop enough times to want his first tattoo, and had been meaning to ask Kant for an opinion on the semi-realistic Skyline design he had pulled up on his phone. It was the first of his dream cars so it felt natural to have it as his first tattoo as well.
Kant, distracted and looking around like he was waiting for something to happen instead of paying attention, immediately drew his ire.
“Are. You. Listening. To. Me?” Style grouched and patted his friend’s cheek reproachfully with each word. They must have made the most stereotypical picture of a distracted Alpha and an impatient Omega.
“What the hell was that for?” Kant grumbled.
“Should I get this tattoo?” Style prodded, still holding up his phone.
Kant obediently took a look. “Not bad. I can make it look better, though. Looks a bit cartoonish there.”
“I guess.”
Style held Kant’s gaze for a bit and saw the distant look on his friend’s face. The same he had carried the whole night.
"So," Style said, grinning, "when are you finally going to let me set you up? I know this lovely Beta, works at the garage– "
"Style." Kant blinked and turned to him with that patient look he'd perfected over years of friendship. "How many times do we have to have this conversation?"
"Until you stop being stubborn? You damn player. Come on, you can't be single forever. You're too hot for that."
Kant threw his head back, grinning a half-frustrated, half-amused grin. "You know why we never worked out, right?" he asked. "You and me?"
Style rolled his eyes. "Because you have terrible taste and I'm too good for you?"
"Because I'm not wired for Omegas." Kant said it simply, without judgment. "Never have been. Even you, and you're– " He gestured vaguely at Style. "You're you. You're the exception to every rule. But there's just... nothing there for me. No pull. That’s how it’s always been for me."
Style had known this since they were teenagers, when puberty hit and designations manifested and suddenly the whole world expected them to fall into each other's arms. Alpha and Omega, best friends since forever, surely destined to mate.
Except Kant had sat him down and explained, earnestly and apologetically, that Style's scent – lovely as it apparently was – did absolutely nothing for him. And Style, relieved beyond measure because he felt the same nothing towards Kant, had laughed until he almost cried.
"Betas, though," Style said now, a teasing lilt to his voice. "You're into Betas."
"I don't discriminate," Kant protested, but his ears went red. "I just... yeah. Okay. Betas. Other Alphas sometimes. But Omegas?" He shook his head. "It's not you, it's–"
"Biology. I know." Style knocked their shoulders together. "Lucky for me, because you'd make a terrible mate. You're too nice. I'd walk all over you."
"You already walk all over me."
"Exactly. Imagine if we were bonded. You'd never survive."
Kant laughed, the sound genuine and warm. It was one of the things Style loved about being Kant’s friend. That laugh, uncomplicated by pheromones or biological imperatives.
“And you’re in no position to call me out for sleeping around!” Kant gave Style’s hair a playful tousle and shoved him lightly. “You’ve been playing around just the same. This is why we’re friends, man.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Style muttered, miffed.
He knew Kant didn’t mean anything by teasing him about promiscuity, but the social standards were indeed different for Omegas and Alphas outside of their friendship dynamic. Style had heard his fair share of slurs directed at him for “being a loose Omega”, words that Kant never had to hear from anyone’s mouth.
Style stood up, threw his linked hands in the air and stretched his back, making his crop top ride up and put the whole of his midriff on display. He used to do it on purpose to entice people he was attracted to, now it was just another tic he found soothing. If it drew looks and admiration, even lustful gazes his way, he wasn’t complaining.
“I’m just making sure I’m still at the top of the game,” he continued, softening his tone and batting his eyelashes at Kant who rolled his eyes, unimpressed at the display. “Who needs a relationship?"
"You literally just tried to set me up."
"That's different. I'm a catch. I don't need help." Style grabbed his beer back. "Besides, most Alphas can't handle me. They want some docile little Omega who'll pop out kids and build nests and–”
"You build nests," Kant pointed out.
"That's different! I build nests because they're comfortable, not because some Alpha tells me to. Big difference."
"Uh-huh." Kant's attention had drifted, his gaze catching on something across the bowling alley. His scent shifted subtly, and Style recognized the change immediately: interested, alert.
Style followed his line of sight and grinned. A young man, cute as hell, was retrieving a ball from the return. Dark hair, lean build, wearing a bright red open shirt and a white bead necklace. He didn’t seem to have a scent – either strong suppressants or a Beta.
"Oh no," Style teased when he noticed Kant staring. "You have that look."
"What look?" But Kant couldn't tear his eyes away.
"That 'I'm going to make terrible decisions' look. What are you waiting for? Go for it."
Kant took a long swig of his beer, draining the last of it, and stood up. Style amused himself by watching how his friend’s posture underwent significant improvement in seconds, how his steps suddenly swaggered and his dark eyes caught a lustful gleam as he zeroed in on his prey.
“I’ll be right back.”
Style sighed. Kant had a look on him that said he really wouldn’t be if his advances were at all welcomed by his target. “Left behind once again,” he noted to himself aloud.
Style didn’t stay to watch his friend work his magic, instead opting to leave the bowling area to grab something to eat before heading home.
His suppressants were holding steady but he could still feel the ambient pheromones in the air. Alphas preening, Omegas responding or ignoring depending on interest, Betas moving through it all unbothered.
Sometimes Style envied Betas that. The freedom from biological imperatives, from heats and ruts and the constant negotiation between instinct and choice.
But mostly he was fine being an Omega. He'd made peace with it years ago, carved out a life that was his own despite what society expected. He had his garage, his friends, his independence.
He didn't need some Alpha coming in and ruining that with their possessive bullshit.
Even if, sometimes, late at night when his heat was approaching and his body ached with emptiness, he wondered what it might be like to find someone who wanted him for more than his designation. Someone who saw Style first, Omega second.
But that was rare. And definitely not happening tonight.
Tonight was about Kant finding someone cute, and Style eating too many fries, and everything being exactly as simple as it should be. Once he reached the bar, he glanced back once to see Kant demonstrating a bowling technique, standing close to the younger man, and felt a warm satisfaction in his chest. At least one of them might get lucky tonight.
Style grabbed a plastic basket of fries from the counter, paid the bored teenager working the register, and found a high-top table where he could people-watch while eating.
The night was young, and full of possibility.