omegaverse tiny gax? did anyone order omegaverse tiny gax? 3k, varied POVs of alex, george, max, and fernando!
Alex presents in the middle of September. There's not any particular reason, they don't thinkβ he goes to sleep uncomfortably hot and only comes back to himself four days later, head pounding. He's ripped gouges into the doorframe, shredded his duvet and pillows, gnawed into the side of his bedframe. It doesn't feel like him at all, it feels like he's woken up in the room of a monster he doesn't know, and everything is too much for a while.
Too many smells, too many bright lights, so many new things he has to adjust to, each inhale sending a pang through his skull, fingers flexing and uncurling into his palms, staring at the bird on the windowsill intently as if it's going to come attack his family.
His pack books him a "young alpha management class", two full weeks of learning how to exist in an environment that isn't his own den, how to rein in his instincts enough not to scare people, introducing mock-omega scents so that he isn't caught off guard when he smells one at the store for the first time.
It helps. It doesn't make him feel any less unsettled when he resurfaces after a rutβ his alpha must have skipped the classes, because he tears up his room every timeβ but it's something, enough to make him feel as if he has a strenuous grip on this thing inside of him, gnawing and large inside of his chest, demanding security and safety.
For a while, it's enough.
Alex has been an alpha for a month and a half before he does something about Max and George.
It'd been hard enough before he presented when he talked to George, because he knows George isn't honest about how bad it isβ he seems them in flashes and glimpses at the karting tracks, grease on their hands, bags under their eyes, sponsored by the local library and the corner store by their ratty flat, the auto body shop that he knows Max lingers at, hoping for a job under the table. He's seen the slump of Max's shoulders when he thinks no one is watching, forehead pressed against the side of their trailer, helmet dangling from his fingertips. He's seen George slip wrapped sandwiches from the table into his pocket, keeping people distracted with his accent and his manners.
He'd been able to convince himself that they were okay before, but now, with this new alpha wrapped around his heart, each pump of it making his fingers twitch and his gums acheβ he can't avoid it anymore.
It's not as hard as he expected to pack his life into two bags. His most sentimental items stay with his pack, tucked into a carefully packed cardboard box, but his clothes, his blankets, anything he thinks could be usefulβ it all goes into the duffels. He packs one for his personal things and the other for his karting gear, and then he has dinner with his pack for the last time in a long time.
His dame and his sire understandβ maybe even more than he does. A hand ruffles his hair, tells him to be good, tells him to call when he needs money for groceries. A hand on his shoulder tells him to take care of his pack, to do the right thing, to be the kind of alpha the world needs more of.
Alex packs his kart up onto a small trailer and hooks it up to the back of their junker van, both things that his pack can afford to lose, both things that he might need to sell when he gets there. He knows Max and George have a trailer already, has heard Lando whisper that he saw Max stepping out of it with bedhead once, knows that it's been gutted and refitted to fit both their karts and any spare parts they can scrounge up. He'll find a way to make his kart fit too.
His pack scents him, arms wrapped around him, palms ruffling his hair, hugs to his legs from the pups. They don't understand that he might not be back for a while.
He's not sure he entirely understands it yet either.
Alex has never been inside a beta-only space before, too used to his pack home with nests in different rooms, strong alpha scents and soothing omega wrapped around every corner. Max and George's flat is tiny, with a futon in the corner, covered in a few different blankets, gifts from blood drives and prizes from local events. There's an odd stain by the window, and the room has a faint mildew that he can pick up on, but then he's hugging both of them, scenting them casually even as his chest burns for more.
Max immediately wants to take a look at his kart and trailer, and George trails quietly behind them, leaning against Alex's side as Max hops up onto the trailer. Alex wraps an arm around him, brushing his wrist against George's neck, letting his scent stick to his skin. The two of them are faint, a mix of beta scents so subtle that Alex has to struggle to pick up on them. His own scent wraps around them, an unmistakable public claim of pack.
This is what he'd needed. It's what they'd needed as well, vulnerable in a way they couldn't fix without an alpha, even if they'd never admit it. Not near as vulnerable as an omega would be, not even close, but stillβ enough that Alex had been losing sleep over it, texting George into the early hours of the morning to try and figure out how much they needed.
George leans his head against his shoulder, and the aching gnawing at the inside of Alex's ribs finally starts to settle.
Max lunges forward, wrapping his arms around Alex's waist and yanking him backwards, eyes wide as Alex growls, the sound rattling through the room. Max can feel the vibration of it through his forearms, and even his beta nose can pick up on the sharp scents in the room, raw anger that he knows should make him scared.
It doesn't. It's only Alex, the same Alex that cried because their potato for dinner the other night looked like it had a smiley face and he hadn't wanted to cut it. The same Alex that curls around him and George at night, radiating heat and pushing a protective scent, the same Alex that cups a hand across his forehead when he's rinsing out Max's hair to keep soap out of his eyes.
Alex has never been angry at them. He does, however, get angry at basically everything else.
Case in point: George darts into the room, and his Alex sense must have gone off, the sixth sense he and Max have developed that gives them the thought hey, maybe we should check on Alex out of the blue. It's rarely wrong.
Max doesn't focus on what George is saying to the other karter, British accent wrapping around his calming words, pushing his beta presence to try and calm the room as Max wrangles around in front of Alex, back pressed to his chest, pushing his own faint smell the best he can.
"It's fine, Alex, everyone is fine. Chill the fuck out."
Alex's irritated gaze softens when he looks down at Max with a huff, although he glances back up sharply a moment later to keep an eye on George. The other alpha leaves a minute later, George having worked his magic again, and Alex lets out small noise as George comes over, tucking his head into his shoulder.
George directs the question at Max, who nods.
They sneak out through some of the maintenance corridorsβ never any press here, thankfullyβ and trip over themselves getting back into the van. It smells like them, Alex's alpha scent permeating the space, Max and George's much subtler scents wrapped around it. They've got their stuff all piled in the corner, and one of their better blankets on top of two couch cushions they'd taken from a junk couch on the side of the road. It's where they sleep overnight when they can't get a room somewhere and the weather is good, and it's where Alex gently pokes and prods them until he's happy, Max and George curled together near the corner, Alex sprawled between them and everything else.
George reaches out to pat his head.
Alex hrumphs, eyes narrowed.
There was a time where the two of them said yes, because they wanted to avoid situations like this, but they've learned that it's just how Alex is. He gets between them and any threat, even things that aren't, and he stands his ground no matter what, shoulders squared, feet planted.
Max rests his head on Alex's chest, and he feels him start rumbling a moment later, pushing protective scent strong enough that it makes his head slightly fuzzy.
They can rest here for a bit in their safe space, where Alex won't let anything happen to them.
George comes back from the library with a nervous churn in his gut. Alex is still sitting vigil by the futon, and Max is in the same spot he was eight hours ago, skin waxy and pale, hair damp with sweat.
Alex looks up when George steps closer, pupils small in the way they've learned means he's more alpha than Alex, the same way he gets during rut, where he bundles Max and George into one spot and burns through half their food storage in three days making them eat. They've learned to prep for his ruts, stocking up beforehand as much as they can.
George swallows, settling gingerly on the edge of the futon, reaching out to rest the back of his hand against Max's forehead. It's hot, too hot, and Max barely stirs, only a tiny twitch of his lashes. Alex makes a pained noise, scent twisting with despair.
They can't keep going like this. George knows it, and Alex does too, and George had to do something about it.
"I emailed someone. To ask for help."
Alex's nose flares, fingers carding gently through Max's hair. His voice is scratchy when he speaks.
George bites at his lip, suddenly even more unsure than he'd been before.
"I'll tell you who if they email me back."
Alex rumbles, wrapping an arm around George and leaning over to nose at his hair, scenting him.
"It'll be okay, Georgie. I promise."
George can't bite back his panic fast enough.
"What if it's not? What if he dies?"
Alex stiffens, scent sharpening, and then he's looking intently at George, gaze so intense he wants to look away, but he can't bring himself to.
"I will not let either of you die."
It's the closest he's come to admitting something all three of them know, a fear that George and Max have talked about but never addressedβ Alex will take this whole house of cards down for them if he thinks it's necessary. He loves them, and he loves racing just as much, but he loves the two of them more than anything else, and George knows that if Max gets any worse, he'll drag him to the hospital, consequences and social services be damned.
It's why George had sent the email. To try and find something, anything to keep them from the nuclear option, the option that takes everything away. He knows Max would rather die than lose the opportunity to race, knows that the thrill of driving beats through him in sync with his heart.
He leans against Alex's chest, letting their alpha's rumble push through his own body, feeling an itch in the back of his throat.
Alex's arm around him squeezes tighter.
"I love you too, Georgie."
Fernando Alonso is not the pack omega. He has never been the pack omega, he has never wanted to be pack omega, and he'd be quite pleased to never be recognized as an omega again. Sebastian does a wonderful job, if he ignores the whole Nico thing, and while he misses Michael fiercely, Lewis has stepped up in a way he will never admit to his face.
The email from one of the karting puppies catches him entirely by surprise. He doesn't keep track of them, too small and too youthful, rotating in and out and crashing and burning too quickly for him to care. When they make it to Formula 1β or even Formula 2, if they interest himβ then he cares.
He's never heard of George William before. If he has, the pup didn't have enough impact to stick in his brain. Still, there's an email in his inbox, to his personal address, which shouldn't even be accessible.
The pup is asking for help for one of his packmates. Two betas and an alpha are all that's mentioned in the email, although it leaves his scratching his head a bit, because their pack should be handling this. A medical emergency is the kind of thing a pup goes to their pack omega about, not an omega they don't know in a division of a sport they haven't reached.
He means to delete the email. It's most likely a prankβ he hopes it's a prankβ and he'd love nothing more than to delete it and have a glass of wine and call it a night.
For some reason, he can't bring himself to do it. He spends forty-five minutes debating it, stalking across the floor of his living room, mouth twisted into a frown, before he decides to do his one charitable deed of the year. If it is a prank, oh well, he'll have wasted some time. If it's not a prank, for some horrid reason, then he's helping some puppies that he'll never see again.
He emails the pup back with details to a clinic, the same one that he'd gone to at eighteen and begged them for black market scent blockers and an implant, steroids to make him smell like an alpha, whatever it took to get him into Formula 1. They'll take care of the pups off the book as a personal favor.
When he curls up in his nest, shifting until he's comfortable, he can't help but feel more settled in his chest than usual, his omega side preening in a way he doesn't normally allow.
Fernando blinks at his phone, and then abruptly stands from his seat in the drivers meeting, ignoring how everyone turns to look at him. Jenson raises an eyebrow, head cocked to the side.
His omega is clawing at him in a way it hasn't in years, raking claws down his ribs and climbing up his lungs, and he chokes out the first thing he can think of to get out as fast as he can.
He leaves the clamor and chaos of the room behind him, barely catches the edges of Mark's gaze, concern and shock looking right at him, and as soon as he's out the door, he's rushing through the paddock.
He's not in heat. He hasn't had a heat in twenty years, and Mark knows that just as well as he does, and he's counting on the alpha to continue keeping that secret for a bit longer, mind racing. He hadn't expected the clinic to email him, he'd pushed the puppies out of his mind entirely, but nowβ
One unpresented omega in the middle of a heat crisis, one unpresented omega about to enter a stress heat, and a destabilized alpha teetering on the edge of the flash rut. All three malnourished and stressed, all three behind on their development, and all three with no pack besides each other.
A single teenage alpha and two unpresented omegas, it's a wonder he hasn't gone feral, and it's a wonder the two omegas haven't slid head first into a heat, stopped only by the fact that they simply weren't developed enough for it yet.
The middle one, the one the email had been about, has a case of pneumonia. The fever it had triggered had pushed his body into a heat crisis he wasn't ready for. The youngest is anxious enough that he's teetering on the edge of a presentation stress heat, the kind that sticks with an omega for years, the kind that can trick an omega into only having stress heats.
Neither of them had identified as omegas, both as betas, and even the alpha pup hadn't known. It had only been noticed because of the bloodwork the clinic had done on both.
The alpha pup... Fernando cringes as he reads the report. The clinic has listed their observable notes, and they're thinking maybe the pup had known, at least subconsciously, that his packmates were omegas. It's a reasonable explanation for his behavior, his refusal to leave either of them out of his sight, the constant scenting.
For betas, they're smothered in his scent. Even if they were presented as omegas, they're so saturated that the clinic thinks their natural scent might still have been hidden under his, an age old tactic historically used to sneak omegas around. The alpha pup is volatile and on edge, probably from the stress of having two omegas under his protection.
The whole email had latched into his chest and yanked, squeezing at his heart and pulling his omega so suddenly and violently to the surface that it isn't until he's sitting in his cabin on his private jet, a stewardess pressing a water into his hands, that his head begins to clear.
He stares at the glass bottle, the condensation beading and beginning to drip down to his fingers, a slow drag in an inevitable direction.
He has tried his whole life to run from being an omega, to run from pups, to run from anything society or his designation says he should be, and yet he here is, on a flight to a trio of puppies he's never met.
A water droplet fighting against gravity.
