Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When Carney Chukwuemeka arrived at Dortmund, Jobe barely paid attention.

He heard about it first in the team group chat, then through the club’s official announcement, and finally from Carney himself, standing in the dressing room while someone tried to figure out which locker was still free.

He looked exactly the way Jobe expected a newly transferred player to look: a little out of place, excessively friendly, and surrounded by people asking the same questions he had probably already answered fifteen times since landing in Germany.

When he finally managed to break away from the small crowd around him, Carney stopped near Jobe and extended a hand.

“Carney.”

Jobe shook it.

“Jobe.”

“I know.”

Jobe gave a short laugh.

“Good. Makes things easier.”

Carney laughed too.

Jobe grabbed his water bottle from the bench and stood.

“Training starts in twenty minutes. Pitch two. If you don’t know where it is, follow someone.”

“You?”

Jobe had already taken two steps towards the door when he looked back.

“I’m someone.”

And walked out.

Jobe had always known he wasn't a traditional alpha.

Like almost every important thing in his life, it started with Jude.

It was an ordinary Wednesday, one of those days that didn't feel important enough to be remembered years later. They got ready for school racing to see who would finish first. At training, they played on the same team, and on the way home, spent the entire walk arguing over who was to blame for the loss, even though both had spent the whole match on the bench. When they got home, they dumped their backpacks by the door and left their mud-caked boots in the hallway until Denise complained for the third time that someone needed to move them before she tripped. Later, Jobe did his math homework at the kitchen table while Jude, who had finished his first, made a point of reminding him of that every few minutes.

They fought five times — six, if you counted the argument about who had moved the video game controller —, had dinner with their parents and went to sleep.

So, just a normal day.

Well.

Not quite.

On that particular day, Jude seemed even more incapable of shutting up than usual.

He had turned fourteen two weeks earlier, and ever since, had been talking about his presentation as if waiting for Christmas morning.

He’d be an alpha, obviously.

A huge, terrifying, powerful alpha, according to Jude himself, who repeated it so often that Jobe had started responding by simply rolling his eyes.

Jude seemed to have constructed an entire persona for when that moment finally came. Sometimes he'd deliberately deepen his voice until it sounded ridiculous. Other times, he’d stand in front of Jobe, puff out his chest, and declare that once he presented, he would finally be respected in that house.

Jobe usually shoved him. Or reminded him that presenting as an alpha wouldn't change the fact that he'd still be only two years older and just as annoying.

Truth was, Jobe couldn't picture him much different than he already was. Jude was already tall for his age, already walked into every room like he held an exclusive right to be there, and seemed to carry an almost irritating certainty about everything he wanted to do with his life. Being an alpha just felt like the logical extension of being Jude.

Maybe that was why Jobe never thought to question it.

If Jude said he was going to be an alpha, he probably would be.

At twelve, Jobe knew enough about secondary genders to pass biology tests. As for what it actually meant to be one, he’d learned by watching. And listening, mostly. Adults had an odd way of talking about these things when they assumed kids weren't paying attention: outside school gates, across family dinners, in the bleachers waiting for training sessions to wrap up. They talked about who had presented early, who had taken forever, who’d had a particularly rough time during their first rut or heat. Every now and then, their voices dropped to slip in something that clearly wasn't meant for young ears—which was precisely why Jobe never missed a syllable.

Kids were less subtle. They were also better at turning everything into simple rules.

Alphas were strong.

Betas were boring.

And nobody wanted to be an omega.

That last one seemed to be the most important rule. Omegas were fragile, dependent, easy to intimidate, emotional — a whole collection of traits everyone repeated like they were facts.

It was curious that Jobe never once thought of his own father when hearing that talk.

Mark was an omega, but he wasn't an omega in Jobe’s mind. He was just his dad. The label didn't cross Jobe's mind whenever he looked at him, just like he didn't ponder all the other facets of Mark's identity before asking asking him for money to buy something or complaining that Jude was being insufferable.

Maybe that should have altered the way he understood those rules.

It didn't.

At twelve years old, Jobe simply hadn't thought that deeply about any of it yet. Jude, on the other hand, seemed to have done enough thinking for the both of them.

None of that crossed Jobe's mind when he lay down that night, though.

His room was slightly messy: a t-shirt tossed over the desk chair, the pair of socks he'd promised to put in the hamper and hadn't, a ball leaning against the corner of the wall. The hallway light spilled in for a few seconds when Mark opened the door to say goodnight, vanishing the moment it clicked shut again.

Jobe burrowed under the blanket thinking he didn’t want to go to school the next day. Then he thought about the video game that had come out the week before and nicking Jude’s lunch money to buy it.

Then he didn't think about anything else.

He fell asleep quickly, waking only hours later, wrenched from sleep by a sound coming from the hallway.

The room was pitch black. For a beat, Jobe couldn't fathom why he’d woken up; the house carried that specific dead-of-night quiet where even familiar noises seemed to belong somewhere else.

He lay still, trying to tell whether he'd actually heard something or if it had just been part of a dream.

Then he heard it again.

Low. Muffled.

A moan.

Jobe sat up instantly.

It was coming from Jude's room.

Sleep vanished in a flash. He kicked the duvet aside, stood up, and crossed the hallway barefoot, oblivious to the cold floorboards. When he reached his brother's door, though, it was closed.

He paused to listen.

Nothing.

Maybe he really had dreamed it.

"Jude?"

No answer.

Jobe opened the door. Just in case.

The faint light coming through the window revealed the familiar things first: the unmade bed, posters of footballers pinned to the wall, medals hanging where anyone who came in could see them, and empty wrappers scattered everywhere. On the chair, clean and dirty clothes were mixed together according to some organisational system Jude insisted existed.

Nothing out of place. Nothing Jobe hadn’t seen hundreds of times.

Until he looked at Jude.

For a few seconds, Jobe didn’t understand what he was seeing.

His brother was curled up on the floor in the middle of the room, knees pulled to his chest, one hand gripping the Spider-Man T-shirt he had got for his birthday. Jobe had complained when he saw the present because he wanted one too, and Denise had told him he could wait until his own birthday.

It was a stupid detail to remember at that moment.

Still, that was where his mind stopped before he could grasp the rest.

Jude was on the floor.

“Jude?”

Jobe ran across the room and dropped to his knees beside him. The impact against the floor hurt, but the pain disappeared next to his brother's contorted face, his eyes squeezed shut, the short breaths escaping his mouth.

"Jude. Jude, are you okay? What happened?"

Nothing.

Not knowing what else to do, Jobe touched his shoulder, then his arm.

"Jude?"

His own voice cracked, and the fear that until then had no shape started splitting into worse and worse possibilities. Jude could have fallen. He could be sick. Something could be terribly, horribly wrong while Jobe wasted time kneeling on the floor asking stupid questions.

He needed to get their parents.

Except to do that, he'd have to leave him alone.

Jobe was still trying to decide which of the two options scared him more when Jude finally opened his eyes. Probably only a few seconds had passed, but to him it felt like minutes.

Those brown eyes took a moment to find him.

"Jobe." The whisper came out so weak Jobe had to lean down to catch it. "I'm fine."

It was obviously a lie.

Jude was usually much better at lying.

He tried to smile anyway, but the movement seemed to make something worse. His face tightened and he curled in on himself further, another low sound of pain slipping out.

"You're not fine."

"I am."

"You're not!"

Jobe’s voice sounded enormous in the quiet room. He stood too quickly and had to catch his balance before continuing.

“I’m getting mum and dad.”

“No.”,

Jude grabbed his arm.

The heat of his hand made Jobe stop.

It wasn’t the familiar heat of coming back sweaty from a football match. Jude’s skin was too hot, and only then did Jobe notice the flush across his face, the hair stuck with sweat to his forehead, the tremor running through his body.

This didn't look like a stomachache. It didn't look like a regular fever either.

Jobe didn't know what it looked like.

All he knew was that it was miles beyond anything he could handle on his own.

He had to get their parents.

"Don't call them," Jude pleaded, his fingers tight around Jobe's arm. "Please."

There was something strange about the request. Jude didn’t seem only frightened by what was happening; he seemed frightened by the possibility of anyone finding out.

Jobe didn’t understand why.

But he didn’t need to.

“I’m calling them.”

“Jobe—” Jude tried to shout, though his voice refused to rise above a hoarse whisper.

Either way, Jobe was already in the hallway by then.

Denise was practically buried beneath her pillow. Mark was asleep facing away from the door.

"Dad."

No response.

"Mum."

Jobe hurried across the room and began shaking their shoulders. As always, Mark woke first; Denise could sleep through nearly anything.

He blinked a few times, still disoriented.

"Jobe...?" He rubbed his eyes. "What happened?"

"It's Jude. He—"

Mark was on his feet before Jobe could finish.

It happened so fast that Jobe stood frozen for a second, unsure of what to do. His father didn't ask another question. He just slid his sandals on, pushed past him, and headed straight down the hall.

Jobe ran after him.

That should have reassured him. The adults knew what to do; that was the whole point of calling them. But the speed of it had the opposite effect. If Mark had gotten up like that, without even waiting for Jobe to explain what was happening, then maybe there really was a reason to be scared.

When they reached the bedroom, Jude was still on the floor.

He was worse.

His eyes were open, but they couldn’t quite focus on anything. His hair, which had only been stuck to his forehead before, was now completely soaked with sweat, and his breathing came in broken bursts, as though even drawing air took effort.

The room felt different, too.

It took Jobe a moment to realize why. There was something in the air, a scent he didn't recognize, far too sweet and strange to belong in Jude’s bedroom.

He stopped in the doorway.

He had never seen his brother like this.

Jude ran faster than he did, shouted when he won, and started arguments over absolutely anything with the irritating certainty that he could win every single one.

Now he was curled up on the floor, sweating and shaking, as if he'd suddenly lost all the space he usually took up.

Jobe’s eyes stung, but Mark didn't seem scared. His father watched Jude for a few seconds, and something shifted across his face.

Jobe knew his father's face inside and out. He knew when Mark was annoyed even if he claimed he wasn't, and he could tell immediately when he was trying not to laugh at something Denise found unamusing.

This was different.

There was concern, yes, but not surprise. Mark looked at Jude like he already knew exactly what was happening.

Mark stepped forward slowly and knelt down.

"Jude."

Jude looked up.

Mark offered a hand.

For a moment, Jude only stared at it. Then his fingers closed around Mark’s so tightly his knuckles went pale. The rest of him followed: Jude leaned forward and practically collapsed against his father, hiding his face against his chest.

Mark wrapped his arms around him immediately.

From the doorway, Jobe watched his brother’s body finally begin to lose some of its tension. He wasn’t sure whether he should go in or give them a moment. He only knew he didn’t want to walk away.

So he came in.

He stepped around them and crouched on Jude's other side, close enough to touch him if needed, keeping his hands resting on his own knees as if any sudden move might shatter the fragile calm Jude seemed to have found.

Gradually, Jude’s shaking began to ease. Mark ran a hand over his back in slow, repetitive movements, murmuring something every now and then, too quietly for Jobe to make out.

After a while, Jude spoke.

"Dad?"

Mark leaned down.

"Hm?"

Jude hesitated.

When he finally asked, his voice was so quiet Jobe almost didn't hear it.

"What am I?"

Jobe frowned.

What kind of question was that?

He looked at his father, expecting him to ask what Jude meant too, but Mark didn't seem confused. He just stroked a gentle hand through his son's damp curls.

"You already know."

Something cold formed in the pit of Jobe’s stomach.

Jude closed his eyes and started to cry.

Not loudly. Maybe that would have been easier to understand. The tears simply spilled while he kept his face turned down, as if he were trying to stop even that from happening.

"Dad, I can't."

Mark tightened his arms around him.

"Jude—"

"You know I can't."

Jobe looked from one to the other.

Mark was sad. Jude, terrified. And there was something obvious happening in front of him, something the two of them seemed to understand perfectly and that Jobe kept trying to reach without managing to.

Before he could ask, hurried footsteps sounded in the hall.

Denise appeared a few seconds later, walking into the room with the irritated expression of someone who'd just been pulled out of a deep sleep. The oversized shirt she wore to bed was rumpled on one side, her eyes half-closed as she blinked a few times, as if the room itself was slow to come into focus.

"What's going on?"

Then she saw Jude.

The irritation disappeared.

Denise's mouth set, and a heavy sadness washed over her features. She didn't ask why Jude was on the floor, if he had a fever, or if he’d hurt himself.

She asked nothing at all.

She already knew, too.

That left Jobe even more lost.

Mark knew. Denise knew. Jude, apparently, knew.

Only Jobe seemed to have walked into the middle of a conversation nobody was having out loud.

Hours later, Jobe would understand that, up until that point, nothing particularly extraordinary had been happening. A teenager had started to present; his parents had noticed, and sooner or later, someone would need to explain to him what that meant.

It would have just been an ordinary story. Painful, maybe. Maybe harder for Jude than for other teenagers, but ordinary.

If Jobe hadn't growled.

The sound tore out so loudly everyone froze.

Jobe included.

The noise felt far too big for the room, too harsh, too deep to have come from him. It rattled in his throat before lingering in the air for a few breathless seconds.

For a moment, no one seemed to understand where it had come from.

Jobe least of all.

He looked around, almost expecting to find someone else behind him, someone who could explain that sound.

Denise was the first to look at him.

"Jobe?"

His throat felt different, like the growl had left something behind. A strange pressure was building in his chest, heavy behind his ribs, while his heart raced without Jobe understanding why.

Denise’s expression shifted again.

"Jobe."

This time, there was worry in it.

Mark looked up. Even Jude seemed to emerge from his own daze long enough to look at his brother.

Then Jobe growled again.

Louder.

And this time, he felt it happen.

It started in his chest, climbed his throat, and escaped before he had any chance to stop it. It wasn’t exactly like speaking, or like shouting. It was worse.Speaking required choosing words; screaming still began with the urge to scream.

This didn’t.

His body had simply done it.

Jobe brought a hand to his throat out of reflex, and the air changed.

A scent that hadn't been there seconds before began filling the room, strong enough that even Jobe noticed it, though he had no idea what it meant.

Wet wood.

Asphalt after rain.

For a wild instant, he thought someone must have cracked a window open. But there was no breeze, and the smell seemed to come from everywhere at once.

Until Jobe realised.

His clothes.

His skin.

Him.

Denise went completely still.

“Mark...”

She didn’t need to finish.

Mark had already understood.

Denise took a step toward him. The sound of her foot against the floor was small. To Jobe, it felt enormous.

In one instant, he'd been crouched beside Jude. In the next, he was standing between him and Denise.

Only afterward did his mind seem to catch up with the movement.

"Sweetheart?"

Jobe bared his teeth.

Silence swallowed the room.

His canines were exposed in a way they shouldn't have been, too big for the mouth of a child who was only twelve.

Twelve.

It was too soon.

Presentations didn't happen that way, anyway. They didn't appear complete between one breath and the next. There were signs, small changes in the body that built up over a few hours: fever, aches, confusion, mood swings, the scent shifting gradually until there was no doubt left.

There should have been time.

The body was supposed to warn you.

Jobe’s, apparently, had decided to ignore all common sense.

Denise stayed where she was.

Jobe knew that woman.

She was his mother.

The woman who made his breakfast and checked whether he'd put his jacket on before leaving the house. Who complained when he and Jude kicked the ball too close to the windows and knew exactly when he was lying about having already brushed his teeth.

Jobe knew all of that.

Something inside him, though, didn't know it.

Not in that moment.

To that primal part of him, there was only another alpha approaching.

Alpha.

Too close.

And behind him was a frightened omega.

His omega.

No.

Not his.

Jude.

His brother.

Jobe tried to latch onto that thought.

Jude.

But the distinction seemed too complicated for the part of his mind that had taken over. Brother, omega, his or not his — none of it seemed to matter.

Jude was behind him.

And that alpha couldn't get any closer.

Denise took a deep breath.

Her eyes lingered on Jude before she took another small step.

Jobe snapped before she even finished the motion. His whole frame locked up and a fresh growl tore from his throat, even louder, enough to make the alpha stumble backward. Her heel caught on something on the floor before she could steady herself, and Denise stumbled, throwing her arms out to regain her balance.

Jobe should have rushed to help her.

Instead, some ugly, sickening corner of his mind felt satisfaction.

She had backed off.

That was all that mattered.

"Denise," Mark called out softly.

She looked over at him.

"You need to step outside."

"I don't—"

Jobe caught the shift before she could finish.

Denise’s familiar scent spiked with something sharper.

Hesitation.

An hour ago, he wouldn't even have smelled it. Now, he simply knew what it was.

"He's not recognizing who you are right now," Mark explained, sounding strangely calm for someone who'd just heard his son growl at his own mother.

Denise didn't try to approach again. When she looked at Jobe, it was with caution.

That hurt.

His mother had never had to think twice about coming near him.

Even so, Jobe didn't relax.

She kept hesitating, and with every second that passed without her moving, the more alert Jobe became.

Mark looked at his wife.

"Denise, please."

This time, she nodded.

She took a step back.

Then another.

Jobe tracked every movement without blinking as she crossed through the doorway slowly, never fully turning her back on him.

Denise had barely vanished down the hall when the vice grip in Jobe's chest gave way. He drew a massive breath, deep enough to realize only then how long he’d been holding it.

Behind him, Jude moved.

All of Jobe's attention shifted direction.

His brother had pulled slightly away from their father. His gaze remained unfocused, his face still streaked with tears and sweat, but now he was staring straight at him.

There was something different in that look.

It wasn't the same fear Jobe had seen on Denise's face. It was almost empty, too exhausted to hide or organize anything. As if Jude, too, were running on far less thought than he should have been.

He tried to push himself up. His legs buckled the second they took his weight and Mark moved to support him, but Jude pulled away almost unconsciously. He took an unsteady step toward his brother.

Then another.

He seemed to be following something even he didn't understand.

Jobe didn't know yet that this was instinct too. That, in a moment of vulnerability, an omega could cling to an alpha they trusted like a lifeline.

Even when that alpha was his little brother.

Jobe knew none of that. He only knew Jude was coming toward him. And, unlike when Denise had approached, no part of his body wanted Jude to back away.

When Jude was close enough, Jobe opened his arms, and his brother fell straight into them. The impact knocked Jobe half a step back. Jude felt strangely heavy, not fully holding his own weight, burying his face into Jobe’s shoulder with both hands clutched in the fabric of his shirt.

Jobe wrapped his arms tightly around him. He parted his lips to say something. Then the scent hit him.

Stronger now.

Sweet.

New.

Jude didn't have a scent before. Not like this. He smelled of soap, of sweat, of the shampoo he always stole from Jobe despite having his own. Scents that clung to him and washed away.

This was different. This came from him.

Jude buried his face deeper into his shoulder and, almost as fast as it had come, the tension left Jobe's body.

It was like opening a window inside his own head: suddenly, he could think.

His heart was still beating too fast. His legs were shaking — Jobe hadn't even noticed when that started — and his arms were still locked around Jude, but, little by little, the world started making sense again.

When he raised his eyes, he found his father watching the two of them like he was trying to solve an impossible equation. Denise was saying something out in the hallway.

Jobe blinked.

Once.

Then again.

His head felt heavy.

"Dad?"

Mark started to approach.

Slowly.

And now that his thoughts were clear, Jobe noticed the extreme caution.

His father didn't come straight up to him. He didn't reach out. He stopped at a safe distance.

“It’s okay,” he said, in the careful tone someone might use with a frightened animal.

Jobe frowned.

It wasn't.

Nothing about that night made sense, but the worst part was his own body. Jobe still recognized every part of it, and yet it felt fundamentally different.

It felt like it belonged to someone else.

"Something's wrong."

That was all he managed to get out before a wave of heat rushed through him.

The room tilted slightly to one side.

Jobe tightened his grip on Jude out of reflex, trying to steady himself.

Then the floor dropped out from under him.

The last thing he registered was Jude trying to catch him before everything went black.

Jobe woke up in a hospital room.

The light was the first thing to bother him. Too bright, even through closed eyelids, it made his eyes hurt before he managed to open them all the way. Jobe pressed his face into the pillow and let out a low groan.

He stayed like that for a few seconds, not moving, until he heard voices.

Quiet and familiar.

His dad and Jude were talking near the bed, speaking in that hushed volume that meant they assumed he was still asleep. Jobe couldn't make out the words. Just the low hum of their voices and pauses that stretched too long between sentences.

He opened his eyes again, carefully this time.

The room was small. The blinds were drawn nearly shut, there was a chair next to the bed, a little table cluttered with items he didn't immediately recognize, and a monitor sitting far too close to his head, beeping at a steady rhythm.

Mark and Jude were squeezed into two chairs on the other side. Both looked at him almost at the same time.

"Jobe?"

Mark stood up first, fast enough to drag the chair a few inches across the floor.

"How are you feeling?"

Jobe took a moment to answer.

"Weird."

It was the only word that seemed to fit.

His body felt heavy, like he'd played two matches back to back without stopping. The muscles in his arms and legs ached deep, similar to the exhaustion after training, but different enough that he couldn't quite pin the feeling down.

His mouth was dry too. And there was something irritating about his teeth, an almost absurd urge to bite down on something just to make it stop.

Jobe ran his tongue over his canines teeth.

Too big.

He decided he didn't want to think about that yet.

He looked at Jude.

"Are you okay?"

His brother's eyebrows went up for a second. He'd apparently expected any other question — where Jobe was, why he was there, what had happened.

Then he smiled.

Small and tired.

"Yeah."

He didn't look it.

The shirt he was wearing wasn't the one from the night before, and his hair was clean, though still messy. His eyes, though, were still red and swollen.

That wasn't lack of sleep. Jude had cried more after Jobe had passed out.

Mark sat back down. From his expression, Jobe recognized instantly that something was coming that he probably wouldn't like hearing. Mark always made that face when he had to break tough news to his sons—not quite hesitating, but searching for the right arrangement of words before beginning.

"Jude presented last night."

Jobe looked at his brother.

Mark continued:

"As an omega."

Jobe kept staring at Jude.

Omega.

For a few seconds, nothing registered. Then the whole night came rushing back at once.

Jude curled up on the floor.

The burning heat of his skin.

The sweet scent that hadn't existed before.

The tears.

Dad, I can't.

Oh.

It was obvious now.

So obvious Jobe felt like an idiot for not seeing it. He knew how presentations worked. He knew about fever, pain, sensitivity, scent changes. He knew all of that.

Except knowing had never meant having to recognize it.

Until last night, a presentation was just a word Jude threw around while being obnoxious about how he was going to be an alpha. It was half-overheard gossip and textbook pages that neatly organized everything into a list of symptoms.

It wasn't Jude.

It wasn't his brother lying awake for hours while something changed inside him. It wasn't a perfectly ordinary Wednesday ending with Jude crying in his father's arms.

Now it was.

Omega.

Jobe might not know much about alphas and omegas, but he knew something about football.

And he knew omega players were rare.

Very rare.

He didn't need a single biology class to know that. He just had to watch the games. He could name an absurd number of alpha players without even thinking about it; with omegas it was different. When one showed up, people talked about it. Commentators talked about it. Newspapers talked about it. Sometimes it seemed like the gender came up before even the position they played.

His dad had been one of them.

Mark almost never talked about those days, but Jobe had gathered fragments of the story.

He knew about the jokes.

The teammates who hadn't taken Mark seriously.

The opponents who used anything they could against him.

The headlines far more interested in the fact that he was an omega than the way he played.

Jobe specifically remembered an old photograph tucked away in a box. Mark looked so much younger in it, wearing his kit, smiling at the camera with a medal around his neck. Looking at that photo was what made Jobe ask, once, why he hadn't kept playing. Mark had only answered that some things were just harder back then. At the time, Jobe had accepted the answer without asking more. Only years later would he understand the weight hidden beneath it.

In that moment, he only knew the ending.

Mark had stopped.

Things were better now. There were famous omega players, some very good. Still, they were few.

Very few.

And now Jude was one of them.

Jude, who wanted to be a football player more than he wanted almost anything else in the world. It wasn't just a rehearsed answer for when some adult asked what he wanted to be when he grew up. It was part of Jude: it was in the ball that always seemed to find his feet, in the match videos he watched more than once, in how genuinely annoyed he got when someone suggested it might be smart to think of a backup plan.

Jobe looked at his brother again, but Jude looked away.

It was almost nothing, just a small movement in the other direction, but it was enough to make Jobe want to fix something. He didn't know how, he just wanted to make Jude look at him normally again. He opened his mouth, but the door opened before he could say anything.

A doctor walked in holding a clipboard. She greeted Mark in a low voice before sitting in the chair beside the bed.

Jobe noticed her scent before he even got a good look at her. It was faint, but impossible to ignore now that he had noticed.

Cotton candy.

Jobe hated it immediately. Not because it was bad, necessarily. It was just too sweet, and it invaded his nose in a strange way, lingering even when he tried breathing through his mouth.

Jobe sniffed discreetly. Or tried to. The problem was that, now that he had started, he could also smell Mark. His father's scent was familiar, but it had never seemed so distinct. Jobe knew it was there, of course. He just couldn’t remember ever being able to notice it so easily.

And then Jude.

That one was even easier. The same scent from the middle of the night. Jobe furrowed his brow for an instant before remembering.

Ah. Of course. Omega.

That explained Jude. It didn't explain Mark. Much less the doctor.

Jobe looked at her again. Now that he was paying attention, he could notice the blocker too, an artificial layer trying to muffle the scent underneath. It was supposed to be working.

It was meant to work.

So why could he smell it so well?

The doctor seemed to notice his confused expression, but only smiled.

"Jobe. How are you feeling?"

He considered the question.

There was no reason to lie.

"Like shit."

Mark shook his head, but for a moment seemed more amused than worried. That was good. For a few seconds, Jobe saw his usual father, not the tense man from the middle of the night or the one who had probably spent hours sitting in a hospital chair.

"Jobe. Watch your mouth."

"For God's sake, I'm in a hospital. I have the right to feel like shit."

"Still, there are more polite ways to speak."

Jobe rolled his eyes and immediately regretted it when his head ached a little more.

"Fine. I feel awful."

"Better."

The doctor held back a smile.

Jobe decided that at least someone in that room was on his side.

"Any pain?"

"My body's heavy. My head's kind of weird."

He hesitated.

He didn't want to talk about his teeth.

It felt stupid.

But the sensation was getting worse.

"And I want to bite something."

Mark shot a quick glance at the doctor. Quick, but not quick enough for Jobe to miss it.

She just nodded, like it wasn't particularly surprising.

Strangely, that helped. If the doctor didn't find it absurd, maybe he didn't need to either.

Jobe adjusted himself in bed. The sheet bunched around his legs and only then did he notice the plastic wristband on his wrist, with his name and an amount of information he had no patience to read.

"What happened to me?"

The doctor pulled her chair closer. The cotton candy scent grew stronger with proximity. The sound of the chair legs against the floor also seemed too loud.

"You presented, too."

Jobe froze.

The monitor kept beeping.

Someone walked by in the hallway, talking.

Nothing in the room changed, and yet, for a moment, it felt like everything had stopped.

"What?"

"You're an alpha."

Alpha.

Jobe repeated the word in his head.

It felt like information about another person.

Until a few hours before, that belonged to a distant future. He had older classmates who hadn't presented yet. Some people didn't find out until sixteen, seventeen, even eighteen.

Jobe was twelve.

Twelve meant school, practice, homework, and trying to beat Jude at whatever Jude claimed he was better at.

It didn't mean this.

This shouldn't have happened to him yet.

"But I'm twelve."

"I know," the doctor answered calmly. "What you had was an early presentation. And from what we've been able to tell, it was likely induced by your brother's presentation."

Jobe turned to Jude. His brother was already looking at him, with the same face he made when he broke something and was still deciding whether to tell their parents.

The guilt was so obvious that, for a moment, everything else lost importance.

"It wasn't your fault."

Jude didn't answer.

Of course not.

"It wasn't, Jude."

"I know."

Jobe wanted to push. Maybe even start a fight, because arguing with Jude was infinitely easier than seeing him like this.

But there were too many questions crowding his own head, so he turned back to the doctor.

"Does this happen?"

"It can. It's rare, but it happens."

Rare.

Jobe didn't like that word.

Up until then, everything had felt strange because it happened too soon. Rare made it something else. It meant it wasn't just early; something had happened to him that almost never happened to anyone.

Suddenly, the urge to bite something felt a little less funny.

"And now what?"

The question came out more nervous than he'd wanted.

"That's exactly what we need to talk to you and your parents about."

As if on cue, Denise appeared at the door and walked in slowly. Jobe recognized the footsteps before he even looked. Then came the scent, and his body reacted fast enough to make him sit up straighter in bed.

His mother was still wearing the clothes from the middle of the night. There were marks of exhaustion under her eyes, but it was her expression that made Jobe stop.

Denise looked apprehensive, which on its own was strange. His mother didn't usually enter rooms with care. She just walked in, said what needed to be said, and expected the rest of the world to follow along. Now she seemed to think before every step.

Jobe didn't growl. Not that time. Even so, something inside him went on alert before his head had time to remember who was entering the room.

Alpha.

The information came first.

Then:

Mum.

Jobe tightened his fingers against the sheet.

Denise stayed near the door. She looked scared, but not exactly of him. It was worry. For him.

The doctor waited for her to come a little closer before continuing.

"First: they're both fine."

Denise let out her breath quietly.

Mark nodded, still rubbing Jude's back in small, repeated motions. Jobe hadn't noticed he'd been doing that since he woke up. Just like in the middle of the night.

"Presentations usually last a few hours," the doctor continued. "In Jobe's case, because it was early and quite abrupt, his body reacted with greater intensity. That's why he lost consciousness."

Jobe made a face.

Lost consciousness sounded a lot more serious than passed out.

"So I slept through my own presentation?"

"Basically."

"Brilliant."

Jude let out a weak laugh. Jobe looked at him immediately. It was the first time since he'd woken up that Jude seemed a little more like himself. Just for that, Jobe decided the stupid question had been worth asking.

"Early presentations can bring some temporary effects while the body's still adjusting," the doctor went on.

Mark’s hand stilled on Jude’s back.

Denise frowned.

"What effects?"

"Mostly instinctive ones."

This time, the doctor looked straight at Jobe,, though she kept talking to the adults.

He didn't love that.

"Alpha instincts can run stronger than normal for a while. Territoriality, the need to protect people close to you, irritability, defensive responses..."

Every word landed on a memory.

Jobe looked at his mother and the scene came back whole, unpleasantly clear: her getting closer, his body stepping into her path before he even thought about it, the bared teeth, the growl. And, worse than all of it, that flash of satisfaction when Denise backed off.

His face burned.

He looked away before she could notice.

"This tends to fade as he gets older and closer to the age when the presentation would have happened naturally."

"Tends to?" Denise asked.

The doctor nodded.

"In most cases, yes."

Jobe didn't like tends to either.

He liked in most cases even less.

From the look his parents exchanged, neither did they.

"And in the meantime?"

"There are options. In some cases, we recommend suppressants to help control hormonal and instinctual spikes."

Denise tensed immediately.

"Suppressants? For a child?"

He looked at the doctor, then at Mark, and finally at Jude.

His brother shrugged.

Suppressants.

Jobe knew vaguely what they were. Or thought he knew. He had heard adults mention them, older boys talk about them, jokes circling around school, but all of that still belonged to that same distant part of the world where presentations, ruts, and all the other things he had assumed he'd only have to worry about in the future existed.

From Denise's expression, they weren't exactly vitamins.

"I'm not saying you need to start right now," the doctor explained. "It's an option. Not every child with an early presentation needs medication. For now, you can observe how he reacts over the next few days."

"And if it gets worse?" Mark asked.

"Come back immediately."

The doctor spoke directly to Jobe this time.

Better.

If they were talking about him, he'd rather at least take part in the conversation.

"You also need to tell your parents if you notice you're feeling very angry, if you feel like you can't control a reaction, or if you start feeling threatened without knowing why."

Jobe nodded. He didn't really trust his own voice at that moment. It was too much information. The day before, he only had to worry about school, football, and Jude stealing his things. Now he was an alpha. He had instincts, might need to take suppressants, wanted to bite things, and, apparently, his brain could look at his own mother and decide she was a threat.

Jobe looked at Denise again. She was a little closer to the bed now, though there was still a gap between them that would never have existed before.

His throat tightened.

"Mom?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

The two words made everything worse.

Jobe eyes stung.

She still called him that.

After the growl. After the teeth. After he'd put himself between her and his own brother like he needed to protect Jude from their own mother.

"Sorry."

Denise frowned.

"For what?"

"I almost—"

Jobe didn't finish. He didn't need to. The memory was still too clear.

For a few moments, in the middle of the night, he hadn't recognized Denise as his mother. But that wasn't even the worst part. He hadn't just failed to recognize her: he had wanted her to back away, made her back away, and felt satisfied when he succeeded.

That was the worst part.

"I'm really, really sorry."

Denise crossed the distance between them.

Jobe's reaction came immediately.

Alert.

His shoulders went rigid and his fingers gripped the sheet. The closer the alpha came, the stronger her scent became.

No.

She was his mum.

Jobe took a deep breath and stayed where he was. Denise noticed—of course she noticed—and stopped before reaching him.

That made Jobe's chest ache in a new way. His mother was asking permission, without saying a word, to hug her own son. Jobe could have backed away, but he didn't.

Denise leaned down and wrapped her arms around him. Jobe closed his eyes.

For a few seconds, the strange voice in the back of his mind kept warning him to pay attention. Jude was behind them. The most frightening part was that the voice didn't disappear just because Jobe knew it was wrong. Jobe simply chose not to obey.

He buried his face in his mother's shoulder, feeling the cool fabric of her t-shirt against his forehead while, slowly, that scent that had made his body go on alert began turning back into what it had always been.

"It's okay, my love," she whispered.

Her hand ran through his hair in the same gesture she had made for as long as Jobe could remember.

"We'll figure this out."

Jobe nodded against her shoulder. If Denise said they'd figure it out, at that moment Jobe needed to believe her.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Jude sitting on the other side of the bed, still with that guilty look that seemed so wrong on his face. Jobe hated that.

So he held out his hand. Jude hesitated before taking it, and his fingers were colder than in the middle of the night. Jobe squeezed his hand a little tighter.

Mark put an arm around his eldest son's shoulders and, for a few seconds, nobody spoke. Everything felt familiar and completely new at the same time. Denise's hand remained in his hair.

Jobe didn't know what would happen when they walked out of there, but at that moment, he knew he wouldn't have to find out alone. And that was enough.

The ride home was probably the most awkward car trip of his life.

Jobe had never realized how many noises a car made when nobody spoke. The engine. The tires rolling on the road. The turn signal Mark sometimes forgot on for a few seconds after turning a corner. Denise's fingers tapping against her phone screen. Everything seemed too loud in that silence.

Jude had his head rested against the window, looking out at the street without really paying attention to it. Buildings, trees, and people passed across the reflection on the glass before his face, but his eyes stayed fixed on some point Jobe couldn't see.

Even from the other side of the seat, Jobe could smell his scent, less sweet now, almost muffled by something that tightened his chest.

Sadness.

Distress.

He still didn't know how he could tell one from the other. He just knew.

Maybe that was one of the strangest parts of all this. The day before, if Jude had been like that, Jobe would have had to watch his face, ask what had happened, and probably annoy him until he got an answer. Now his body gave things away about people without asking permission.

Jobe still hadn't decided whether he liked that.

Mark drove in silence. All the calm he had shown until now seemed to have been left behind, replaced by a tension that filled the entire car. He was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white.

Jobe watched his hands for a few seconds. He wanted to ask if everything was okay, but didn't. It was a stupid question. Obviously it wasn't.

Denise didn't stop typing on her phone either. The light from the screen lit up her face as she wrote, deleted, and started over, letting out a sigh every now and then.

Jobe wanted to ask what she was doing, but his head kept aching and the urge to bite something seemed to grow with every minute.

He ran his tongue over his canines teeth again.

Still strange.

Still his.

He decided to stay quiet.

The silence followed the four of them all the way home.

When the door closed behind them, Jobe waited to feel something. He didn't know exactly what. Maybe that everything would go back to normal.

The house was still exactly as they had left it. Jude's jacket was still tossed in the same spot. Their backpacks were still near the door. One of Jobe's boots was lying on its side in the hallway, right where Denise had complained the night before.

Nothing had changed.

Except them.

For a few seconds, nobody seemed to know what to do.

They took off their shoes. Jobe left his in the usual spot. Jude did the same and, after getting a look from Mark, took two steps back to nudge them closer to the wall.

Then the four of them stood in the living room. Just stood there. Denise still held her phone, Mark set his keys on the cabinet near the door, and Jude shoved his hands into his pockets.

Jobe looked from one to the other. It seemed like everyone had forgotten what normal people did when they got home.

It was unbearable. He lasted a few seconds before giving up.

"Since I was hospitalized, I think I deserve pizza."

All three looked at him. Jobe waited and, for a second, thought he had said something wrong. Then Jude started laughing. It wasn't a pretty laugh. It came out half-choked, as if his body had also forgotten how to do it. But it was Jude laughing. Mark tried to hold it in and couldn't. Denise covered her mouth with her hand, but soon she was laughing too. And suddenly, Jobe was laughing along without really knowing why.

It wasn't even funny, but it didn't matter.

It was better than the silence.

"I want pepperoni," Jude said.

"I had an early presentation. I want ham."

Jude made an indignant face. A real one. Exaggerated, annoying, completely familiar.

"But I'm an omega. I get to pick the pizza."

"But I slept through my presentation. I think I get to pick."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"It does."

"It doesn't."

"It does."

"I'm older."

"And I ended up in the hospital."

"Because you're dramatic."

"Because I'm an alpha."

Jude stopped.

Jobe did too.

The word hung between them.

Alpha.

Jobe had said it without thinking.

For the first time since the doctor had used that word in the hospital, it had come out of his mouth like it was simply something he was.

Like being twelve.

Like playing football.

Like being Jude’s brother.

Jude's smile faded for a fraction of a second.

Jobe's stomach tightened.

The two of them stared at each other.

Then Jude started laughing again.

"You're such an idiot."

The tension vanished so fast Jobe could almost pretend it hadn't been there.

"You started it."

"I didn't say anything!"

"You said you were an omega."

"Because I am!"

Jobe threw his arms out.

"So what? And that gives you the right to choose the pizza flavor?"

Mark let out a sigh.

"Good Lord."

Denise shook her head.

"Five minutes. Five minutes home and you're already at each other's throats."

"He started it," both said at the same time.

Their parents looked at each other.

Just a look.

That tired look Jobe had seen thousands of times after some stupid argument between the boys.

Your sons, Denise would sometimes say.

Our sons, Mark would always correct.

And, for the first time since the night before, Jobe felt like he could breathe properly.

In the end, they ordered both pizzas. Neither of them won the argument. Or both won, depending on who told the story.

Then they watched a bad movie because Jobe and Jude spent so much time arguing about which one to pick that Mark lost patience, took the remote, and put on the first thing that came up on TV.

Jude complained through the first fifteen minutes. First about the acting. Then about the script. Then announced that he already knew exactly who the villain was and that anyone with more than three brain cells would know too. At some point, he forgot he was complaining and started actually watching.

Jobe barely paid attention. The room was dimmer, lit mainly by the TV. The pizza boxes remained open on the table, crumpled napkins scattered between them, and Mark had already warned twice that someone was going to spill soda on the couch.

Jobe was lying against his dad. Jude took up half the couch with his head resting in his lap. Denise sat on the other side, trying to hug both of them whenever she found space.

It was cramped and warm. On any other day, Jobe probably would have complained. That night, he didn't want anyone to move.

He ate the ham pizza. Jude ate the pepperoni.

It was in the middle of the movie that he noticed something else. Denise was leaning against him, her arm resting behind his shoulders, her leg touching his.

Jobe went still for a moment and waited.

Nothing.

His mother's scent didn't bother him anymore.

He waited a little longer, checking for that impulse from the middle of the night. The sense of alert. The need to pull away.

Alpha. Too close.

Nothing.

Or almost nothing.

There was still something different in how he perceived her presence, an awareness that hadn't existed before. But there was no fear, no urgency, none of that desperate need to put distance between Denise and Jude.

It was just his mom.

Jobe slowly let out the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding.

The bedtime routine was almost normal.

Almost.

Every step managed to produce at least one argument: who would use the bathroom first, who had taken whose towel. At some point, Denise appeared in the hallway and asked why on earth they were still arguing after everything that had happened.

Neither of them knew how to answer. Maybe precisely because of everything that had happened.

Their parents told them to stop fighting so many times that, in the end, Jobe started finding it comforting. Jude still bumped his shoulder when he wanted to go through a door first. Jobe still hid his toothbrush just to annoy him. Mark still threatened to send both of them to separate bedrooms as if they didn't already have separate bedrooms.

For a few minutes, Jobe almost managed to forget the night before. Until Jude walked into his own bedroom.

Jobe kept walking. Or tried to. He stopped in front of the door.

His room was across the hallway, a few steps away. From that spot, he could see the door cracked open. The bed was still unmade, the blanket shoved aside from when he’d gotten up hours earlier.

He just needed to keep walking. It was where he always slept.

Jobe tried to make his feet move. They wouldn't obey.

He wasn't scared. He didn't think anything was going to happen if he walked into his own room. He simply didn't want to go. An uncomfortable, quiet certainty kept him in front of that door: he didn't want a wall between him and Jude.

Jobe hated that immediately. Not because he didn't want to be near his brother, but because he hated the feeling that his own body kept making decisions before he did.

Again.

Jude was already lying down when he noticed Jobe was still standing at the door. He looked at him, then down the hallway, and Jobe waited for the inevitable joke. Scared of the dark? Want me to hold your hand, too? Anything annoying enough to give him an excuse to tell Jude to shut up and go sleep in his own room out of pure pride.

But Jude didn't say any of that. It only took him a few seconds to understand.

"Come here."

Jobe stayed still. Jude pulled back the duvet.

"Let's sleep together."

Jobe didn't need to hear it twice. He walked into the room and closed the door behind him.

Jude's bed was too small for both of them now. It hadn't been when they were younger, but both had grown too fast over the last few years and Jobe had to shove him to make room.

Jude shoved back. Jobe almost smiled.

They settled in as they had done so many times before, usually because they had stayed up late playing video games or watching TV. Sometimes because one of them had had a nightmare when they were younger, though neither ever mentioned those times.

This time, the reason was simpler. Neither wanted to be alone.

Jobe pulled the duvet up to his chin and Jude rolled onto his side. For a few minutes, they said nothing. The room was dark, and Jobe heard his brother's breathing mixed with the familiar sounds of the house settling in for the night: a faucet turning in the bathroom, their parents' footsteps in the hallway, a door closing.

Then he caught Jude's scent.

Hot chocolate. Marshmallows.

It was stronger now that they were so close. Jobe thought of the giant mugs Denise made whenever someone was sick or sad, always adding too many marshmallows because Jude complained if he could still see the chocolate underneath them.

Home.

That was it. Jude smelled like home.

The word came so easily that it hurt, because Jobe knew Jude wasn't feeling at home inside his own body.

He turned his face into the pillow. In the dark, he could barely make out the outline of his brother.

"Jude?"

"Hm?"

Jobe stayed quiet for a few seconds. He had thought of something better to say during the movie, but now he couldn't remember.

"I'm sorry."

Jude turned his face toward him. The little light coming through the window was enough for Jobe to see that his eyes were welling up, but he didn't answer.

His own eyes started to sting. Jobe wanted to do something. Anything. Problems had always worked a certain way in his head. If Jude lost something, they'd look for it. If he got hurt, they'd call their parents. If someone messed with him, Jobe could mess back.

Problems had solutions.

This didn't.

His brother's expression changed. Jobe didn't know what Jude had picked up on in his scent, only that it made him move closer and pull him into a hug.

"Don't worry about me."

Jobe stayed quiet. It was a stupid thing to ask. Of course he was going to worry.

Jude took a deep breath.

"I'm still going to be one of the greatest football players this world has ever seen."

He smiled. A small smile, still sad, but a smile.

Jobe looked at him and tried to picture him as an adult. Professional uniform. A massive stadium. The name Bellingham on the back of a shirt.

Maybe Jude didn't even truly believe his own words that night.

Jobe believed them.

Not because he wanted to make him feel better. Nor just because he was his brother. He believed it because Jude had decided, many years before, that he would be a football player, and in Jobe Bellingham's twelve years of experience, when Jude decided something, it was the rest of the world that had to figure out how to deal with it.

If anyone was capable, it was him.

"I know."

Not I think so.

Not I hope so.

"I know."

Jude closed his eyes. Jobe did too.

They stayed hugging, pressed against each other in the small bed, while hot chocolate and marshmallows mixed with the coolness of the rain around them.

Home.