Chapter Text
“Fitness trainer Alev Kirnichev arrested for encouraging a renowned athlete who came out as an Omega to abuse illicit heat-suppressing substances.” — PulseWire Sports
The first reports surfaced years before he even stepped into a kart.
At first, they were just forgotten debates among experts, buried in digital magazines and late-night shows:
“Heat suppressants: how far does performance ethics go on the job?”
“If Omegas participate in sports, they should be required to follow protocol, says doctor”
Then came the scandals.
Coaches arrested. Pharmaceutical corporations investigated. Athletes collapsing on live TV. Articles claiming suppressants saved Omegas’ careers; others claiming they destroyed these people.
But to the public, to sponsors, as long as records kept getting broken and the economy kept running, nothing really mattered.
⸻
Max learned early on that instincts were dangerous.
Not in an abstract way.
Literally dangerous.
He grew up in a home where emotions always preceded violence.
Anger meant screaming.
Affection was too unstable to trust.
And heat… heat meant loss of control.
Being alpha was easier. Dad had instincts, but he seemed more in control than ever; he didn’t need permission to leave the house during heat, didn’t have to take any medication, didn’t need to rely on hugs and comfort for a week—he was cruel, he hit, but it worked. Mom was good, Mom was kind, but he saw all the doors that were closed to her just because she was an omega. Mom was faster than Dad; he saw that in the old videos from when Mom competed—she was a champion! And she was one of the few people of the omega denomination who won championships.
But it all ended when she went into heat.
(Because of him)
Max exists, and he’s grateful for that, but sometimes he thinks he ruined his mother’s dreams, even though she says he was one of the best things that ever happened to her, just like Victoria. Dad had been too, but he started hurting Mom.
Dad always said Max would be an alpha. He used to say that the key to being a champion was self-control—not feeling anything, not letting anything, not even instinct, get in the way. If Max sometimes found himself longing for a long hug, if he instinctively arranged the stuffed animals or the sheets in a way similar to how his mom did when she went through those phases where all she wanted to do was curl up with her kids in their nest, hug them, love them, and tell them everything was okay, that nothing in the world would hurt them—that didn’t matter. Dad didn’t need to know (Dad would hate it if he saw his alpha son acting like an omega, but that’s okay—he hasn’t come out yet, and he’s definitely going to be an alpha).
(Even if he feels more like himself in those moments when he acts like Mom, Dad doesn’t need to know).
Mom had always been loving toward him; she told him not to be ashamed of who he was (Mom knew he wouldn’t be an alpha, but she wasn’t going to tell Dad), she told him not to let the world forget who he really was and that he could always count on her.
She had to leave. If Max wanted to fulfill his dream of becoming a Formula 1 champion, he would have to dedicate himself to karting and learn everything the champions did. Mom didn’t approve of Dad’s methods, but that’s okay—Dad wants to make Max a champion, and he knows what he’s doing. Dad was a Formula 1 driver; Mom is just too kind. she wouldn’t let Max go through what’s necessary for him to become a driver; she cares too much, she feels too much, she’s too much of an omega, and Dad is going to do the best he can to make Max the perfect alpha, and when the time comes, everything will work out.
⸻
Max remembers news stories about Omegas advocating for more equal employment conditions; the main critics said that Omegas don’t need to work, they just need to find an Alpha and be happy and accept everything the Alpha gives them because the Alpha is the protector, the provider; an omega should just strike a pose and be pretty. That’s why if an omega ever thinks about having a career outside of domestic life, they’ll never rise above the rank of subordinate. That’s why there are no omegas in corporate leadership positions, because they’re too sensitive, they care too much, and that would distract them.
(From what they told him, when Mom competed, she wasn’t distracted in the slightest; in fact, she was more focused than many of her rivals, and she was one of the few Omegas who managed to go so far in her karting career.)
Omegas are not encouraged to participate in sports because the aggressive nature of the activities themselves can be harmful to their well-being; omegas must be protected from injury, as their precious wombs must not be harmed. they carry life, they bring children into the world; it doesn’t matter if the omega is ambitious and wants to be something more than that, or if society has simply relegated them to this role as receptacles (he doesn’t even know why he pays attention to these topics; he’s going to be an alpha and find a beautiful omega who will have dreams too, and unlike his dad, he’ll never raise a hand to his omega; he saw how Mom, despite being an omega, was the best person in the world and had ambitions and dreams; she could have made it to Formula 1, but her designation ended her career; if his omega has ambitions, Max will do everything to remove any obstacle in his way).
⸻
Max remembers the news playing on TV while he ate dinner in silence.
Omegas marching in the streets. Signs held high above the crowd. People shouting about equality at work, equality in sports, equality anywhere but inside the home.
The commentators always seemed weary when they talked about it.
“Omegas don’t need to work.”
“If an alpha is capable of providing, why insist on it?”
“Maybe certain roles just aren’t biologically appropriate.”
Max listened to it all in silence.
Sometimes Dad agreed with the TV without even looking up from his plate.
Mom never responded in front of him.
But later, when they were alone, Max saw her expression change as she washed the dishes in silence. He saw the way her shoulders tensed. He saw her fingers gripping the plate too tightly.
As if she were swallowing something bitter.
Max didn’t fully understand it back then.
He only knew that there were doors closed to Mom even before she tried to walk through them.
Even though she was faster than many drivers he knew.
Even though she had been a champion.
Even though she was better.
On television, a man said that Omegas were “too sensitive” for leadership positions.
Another said that companies needed emotional stability.
Another laughed as he said that Omegas should “stop competing with Alphas and accept their own role.”
Max remembered Mom taking care of him and Victoria during the heat waves.
The way she turned blankets and pillows into makeshift nests in the living room.
The way she hugged them both as if the whole world could hurt them.
And he thought—
If Omegas were so protective of their own, wouldn’t it make sense to trust them precisely for that reason?
Wouldn’t it make sense for someone like that to want to protect a team as well? A company? People?
But he never said these things out loud.
Because it didn’t matter.
He would be an Alpha.
And Alphas didn’t think that way.
And Formula 1, traditional as it was, would never allow an omega to compete in the sport, even if he stuffed himself with suppressants and had the most neutral scent possible.
Max had heard this his whole life.
On television, commentators talked about “biological safety” whenever anyone asked about omegas in motorsports.
“We’re talking about cars going over three hundred kilometers per hour.”
“A hormonal failure puts everyone at risk.”
“The FIA simply prioritizes the drivers’ physiological stability.”
Stability. Control.
Words that came up all the time when adults talked about alphas or betas.
Never about omegas.
⸻
Max remembered a journalist asking during an interview why the FIA allowed Alphas to compete even during periods of intense rut.
The official simply smiled.
“Alphas remain functional under stress.”
Functional.
As if Omegas were defective machines.
Dad agreed with that.
He said Formula 1 was about absolute control. About aggression. About withstanding pressure without hesitation, and Omegas felt too much.
Things he always said while they watched races together, and they were obvious things. Feeling too much is the worst thing anyone can be.
And Max learned that an overly aggressive Alpha in the paddock would still be seen as competitive, strong, and dominant.
But a perfectly capable omega inside a car would still be treated as a risk. Because the sport didn’t want omegas.
It wanted versions of them empty enough to be tolerated.
Max tried not to think too much about it.
Overthinking never helped anyone.
He would be a Formula 1 driver.
That was what mattered to think about.
Not the fact that alphas would always be allowed to be violent while omegas had to ask permission just to exist.
Not the fact that the sport seemed to prefer aggression over vulnerability.
Not the fact that, even without ever having presented himself, Max understood instincts better than he’d like.
He understood the need for closeness.
He understood the almost painful desire to belong somewhere.
He understood the absurd comfort he felt when Mom pulled him and Victoria into her nest and promised that nothing in the world would hurt them.
He understood these things on a level he shouldn’t understand if he were truly an alpha.
⸻
Max isn’t too worried that he’s turned 14 and still hasn’t presented yet; his dad hasn’t said a word, but it’s clear he’s coming to terms with the idea that his perfect alpha son won’t be an alpha after all, but a beta.
(Dad is annoyed that this week Max seems more distracted than usual, more caught up in family memories, wishing in his sleep for a hug from Mom. At least Max isn’t feeling as hungry, so he doesn’t have to listen to complaints about his diet.)
But that’s okay. Because he’ll probably be a beta. At 14, it’s already too late for an alpha presentation, and even though Dad would never say it out loud, Max can see the irritated resignation in his eyes. Beta isn’t perfect, but it’s still acceptable. Controlled. Safe. Betas aren’t slaves to primitive instincts, they don’t need suppressants, they don’t ruin careers, they don’t end up trapped inside their own bodies. Max can live with that. He just can’t understand why he’s been so tired lately. Why sometimes he feels like curling up in blankets and disappearing from the world for days. Why he’s started sleeping hugging sweatshirts without realizing it. Why the scent of Charles Leclerc has grown so strong in recent weeks that it constantly irritates him. And especially why, after that damn race and the freezing water soaking his clothes, all Max can think about while his whole body aches is that he wants warmth. He wants silence. He wants someone holding him tight enough to make that horrible sensation inside his chest stop.
(He’s going to be a beta. Someone who won’t be a leader, but who at least has enough control not to let himself be carried away by his instincts—well, at least he won’t worry so much. Even though society values alphas, betas also have many merits and society likes them because they feel nothing related to basic instincts. Perfect control.)
But he doesn’t feel quite so in control of his emotions after the race while arguing with the stewards about the disqualification, courtesy of that idiot kid with the Justin Bieber haircut. Damn Charles Leclerc, that insolent jerk who’s been bothering him since the South Garda Winter Cup, with his stupid accent, stupid hair, and stupid green eyes. That jerk of a kid, just because he thinks he has the right to try to pass him and by doing so pushes him, he thinks Max would let it slide, because of course not, Max pushed him back, but of course the Frenchman (he’ll call him French if he can to annoy him, even if Leclerc can’t read his mind) had to find a way to end both their races by getting them disqualified.
And he still dares to call it just an “incident”????????
Incident.
INCIDENT.
As if that annoying Frenchman (Monegasque, Charles’s voice inside his head would immediately correct) hadn’t ruined the race for both of them, as if it were just a harmless little bump.
Of course he can see merit in Leclerc’s skills; only someone as good as Max would be able to keep up with him, someone unafraid to use every card available to secure a win. Max admits that’s what he admires in the brown-haired, green-eyed kid with the drawling accent that’s actually kind of charming. If only he weren’t so tied to a jerk like Leclerc.
(It’s strange; Leclerc has been smelling stronger than usual these past few days, and it’s bothering Max.)
Leclerc’s scent is the scent of an alpha, the scent of seawater and salt. Of course Leclerc is an alpha; he can’t understand how the other boys ever thought Leclerc would present himself as an omega, ever since they were 10 and started hanging out at the same circuits, Max knew that Leclerc’s hunger was the hunger of an alpha willing to have it all, to take it all, but everyone only sees the cute exterior of the Frenchman’s face (Monegasque, Charles’s voice would immediately correct). He can’t wait for him and Charles to compete in Formula 1 and have battles that would leave others in awe and focused solely on them. Max is just a beta, but he can’t wait to challenge the alpha and win the Drivers’ World Championship.
(And maybe, he can finally bring pride to Dad for not having presented himself as an alpha)
(But seriously, Max is a beta, so why is Leclerc smelling so strongly?)
He feels so exhausted after the race—who would’ve thought getting knocked into a puddle of water would wipe him out? He feels tired, hungry; he just wants to curl up, stay in a warm spot, all wrapped up, and hide from the world for days. He wants the same feeling he gets when Mom used to stay with him and Victoria in her nest.
At least their “little” meeting with the stewards is over and he can finally go back to the trailer and rest, but of course that damn Leclerc had to come up to him—what the hell does he want with Max? They can barely have a conversation without first starting to argue and breaking into a fight that ends in punches, requiring someone to pull them apart.
And Charles approaches him, he gets closer and closer to Max and opens his mouth to say: “You’re an idiot.”
“As if you aren’t one too, Charles.” He feels compelled to respond.
Charles crosses his arms, clearly irritated as well, but then his expression changes for a second. Too slight to be almost imperceptible. A furrowed brow. A discreetly wrinkled nose.
“What do you want, Leclerc?”
“Honestly, I came to ask if you’re okay. You’ve been acting weird since we got here; you even seem distracted.”
Max almost laughs in his face.
“Of course I am fine.”
“No, you’re… weird.”
“Shut up.”
Charles ignores the answer, which only makes things worse. He takes a step closer, close enough for Max to smell the strong scent of the sea and salt clinging to him, hot and suffocating, just as every alpha should be.
Charles frowns even more.
“That’s weird… You smell like strawberries. Did you steal your mom’s perfume because you knew you were going to lose the race and wanted some comfort? What a baby!”
Max immediately feels his stomach churn.
Charles’s words hit Max like a punch.
Because that doesn’t make sense. He didn’t put on anything, no perfume.
Betas don’t change their scent.
Betas don’t get tired like this.
Betas don’t feel the urge to hide under blankets and in nests and warmth and—
“You’re fucking pale,” Charles says, but that’s not enough to stop Max’s spiral of thoughts, so much so that he doesn’t even notice the irritation in Charles’s voice now mixed with something dangerously close to concern. “Verstappen, I’m serious. There’s something wrong with you.”
“Fuck you, Leclerc!” That’s all Max can think and say before running out of there and finding his father’s trailer as fast as possible and hiding there, because something’s wrong, he’s a beta, he’s a beta, he’s not an alpha, but he can be a beta, he can still race in Formula One, he can’t be that, he can’t…
He runs to the trailer, ignoring whatever Charles Leclerc says.
The trailer feels way too hot when Max walks in.
Not just hot.
Suffocatingly hot.
The air sticks to his skin as he slams the door shut and leans his hands on the small sink, breathing heavily. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong.
He slowly lifts his head.
The boy in the reflection looks terrible.
Pale. Eyes shining too brightly. Irregular breathing.
Max turns on the faucet immediately and splashes cold water on his face.
It doesn’t help.
His skin still burns.
His body hurts.
Not like after practice. Not like after he crashes the car or when Dad is more demanding than usual.
It hurts deep inside.
He needs something, he doesn’t know what, he feels like he wants something—comfort, warmth—
He feels cramps strong enough to make his legs give out for a second.
Max grips the sink harder.
No.
No no no no
Betas don’t feel this.
Betas don’t have a scent.
Betas don’t—
The sweet scent fills the trailer again.
Strawberries.
Max chokes.
Because now he can smell it too.
Faint. Sweet. Warm.
Coming from him.
His stomach churns violently.
He rips off his pilot’s suit as if that would solve anything, but the scent remains trapped on his skin, growing stronger, mingling with the sweat and the suffocating heat burning inside him.
“Max?”
His father’s voice on the other side of the door makes his blood run cold.
Max looks around desperately.
And he realizes.
The blankets on the small bed in the trailer are bunched up in a corner.
His clothes pulled together without him realizing it.
Like a nest.
Like omegas...
No.
The doorknob turns.
“Max, open the door.”
Max recoils immediately.
Because suddenly he understands why his mother used to crave comfort and to be with the people she loved most during the heat waves.
Because this doesn’t feel like weakness.
It feels like surviving a fire trapped inside your own body.
“Max, open the door.”
His father’s voice is harsher this time.
Max tries to answer, but another spasm shoots through his abdomen so violently that the air simply vanishes from his lungs. He doubles over immediately, one hand pressed against his stomach while the other tries in vain to brace itself against the narrow wall of the trailer.
This isn’t happening.
This can’t be happening.
He’s a beta.
He can be a beta.
Outside, the doorknob turns again.
“Max.”
That tone.
The warning tone.
The same tone that always came before the screaming.
Max forces his body to stand up, breathing too fast. The sweet smell in the trailer is getting unbearably strong now, sticking in his throat.
Strawberries.
Too sweet.
Too wrong.
The door finally opens.
His father enters, irritated, clearly ready to complain about the disqualification, the childish behavior, running off the track, and letting Leclerc intimidate him.
And then he stops.
Silence.
His eyes scan the trailer.
The blankets pulled to the corner.
The clothes crumpled near the bed.
Max trembling.
The smell.
Max sees the exact moment his expression changes.
First confusion.
Then understanding.
Then something worse.
Horror.
No.
Not horror at Max’s state.
Horror at what Max is.
“No…” Dad says quietly, as if the word had slipped out without permission.
Max immediately shakes his head.
“I’m a beta.”
His voice comes out broken.
Pathetic.
“I’m just tired.”
Another cramp shoots through his body so violently that Max loses his balance for a second. A small, humiliating sound escapes his throat before he can swallow it back down.
His father continues to stare at him as if watching an accident unfold in slow motion.
“No,” Max repeats louder this time, desperate. “No, I’m beta, I can be beta, I—”
The smell changes again.
Stronger.
Warmer.
His father closes his eyes for a second.
Like someone accepting a sentence.
“Shit.”
Max hates that word immediately.
Because it doesn’t sound concerned.
It sounds disappointed.
And that hurts more than anything burning inside him.
Another wave of heat washes over his body and he feels his legs give out completely this time, falling to his knees on the narrow floor of the trailer. His vision blurs instantly.
Everything hurts.
Everything.
He wants to rip his own skin off.
He wants to run away.
He wants to hide.
He wants—
Home.
Mom.
The thought comes so fast and so strong that tears well up in his eyes before he even realizes it.
This is worse.
Much worse.
Because Max never cries.
But now his whole body seems to be begging for something he can’t explain. Warmth. Safety. A familiar scent. Someone holding him until this horrible feeling passes.
Omegas cry during presentations.
The saying pierces his mind like a knife.
Max immediately wipes his face violently, breathing unevenly.
His father remains standing.
Motionless.
As if he doesn’t know what to do.
And maybe he really doesn’t.
Because he’s trained a future alpha champion his whole life.
Not this.
Never this.
The heat is too intense, the pain is so great, all he can do is cry and call for Mom and beg for the pain to stop, that he doesn’t want to feel this, stop please—
⸻
When Max wakes up, he finds himself at his mother’s house, in her nest.
He doesn’t remember how he got there.
Dad wasn’t there, and Max knows why: Max was an omega.
He had become the very thing he’d been fearing and praying not to be. When he realized he wouldn’t be an alpha, he began to accept the fact that he would be a beta—it wasn’t as good as being an alpha, but that wouldn’t stop him from achieving his ambitions. Now, as an omega, he won’t even be able to leave the house; at best, he might get an office job, but he doesn’t want that. He wants to run; he wants to feel the speed. He knows he’s good,he’s good—
Max cries.
Vicky hears him crying.
Vicky goes to him, hugs him, and promises that everything will be okay. They’re a family, and he can count on her for anything—and he can count on Mom.
Max doesn’t feel like everything will be okay. The world has everything, but not enough for him, because Omegas are seen as low on the hierarchy. Max and Vicky know this firsthand from their mother, but they’ll ignore it for now.
When Mom comes back, she gives him that warm hug he’d been begging for for days and didn’t know he needed so much. She makes him tomato soup; the cramps have stopped, and he feels warmer and safer. For another four days, he can pretend the world doesn’t matter.
And four days later, Dad arrives and takes him to talk in the trailer.
He thinks Mom had a fight with Dad, but he doesn’t know the details; still, he’s sure it was about him. For Mom and Dad to tolerate being in the same space, even though Mom had filed a restraining order (because of Dad), it’s because it’s about the kids.
The trailer is in deafening silence; neither of them says a word. The smell of strawberries has faded from the trailer, and the scent coming from Max isn’t as strong anymore.
No one says anything until Dad speaks up.
“Do you still want to race?”
Max does, of course he does, it’s his dream, but Max doesn’t understand: Omegas aren’t allowed to participate in sports. The last Omega who did so did it illegally; together with the physical trainer, they falsified his designation to Alpha using suppressors.
The Omega broke several records, but no one paid attention to that when a miscalculation caused the competitor’s heat to fall within the same time window as the championship he was competing in.
In the end, the trainer was arrested because he encouraged an omega to participate in dangerous activities that jeopardized his well-being, and the omega had his sports license revoked and his sponsorship contracts canceled. Max doesn’t even know what happened to the omega, but he hopes that at least the athlete managed to save enough money to live in a quiet place where no one would remember him.
(The world didn’t like that the omega was the best in the category and could have been even better if he hadn’t had to worry so much about getting caught, but nobody cares).
But it doesn’t hurt to tell his father that he wants to do.
And when his father hears this, he just stays silent for a while.
But when he speaks again, they are the words Max most wants to hear (and which he also fears. A part of him acknowledges this).
“So you’re going to run and you’re going to be a champion. And your denomination won’t stop that.”