The bare truths that folks agree on boil down to: omegas and alphas undergo physiological changes, most—but not all—related to personality, sex, and sexual interactions. Some of the changes can be changed, lessened, or mimicked with modern medicine or technology; others can’t. Some people embrace their designation, some believe nature got it wrong, some feel neutral.
Of course, a distinct handful fight tooth-and-nail, and Max was a poster child for that group. He loved a lot about being an omega—he loved noticing and analyzing people’s perfumes and adored being able to purr—but the things he hated, hedespisedwith the kind of cold rage that burns for centuries.
Even with all the modern pharmaceutical assistance available, omegas still endure the stereotype of being walking, talking sex machines.
Since Max rarely went out for fun—too busy dreaming up his next innovation—and I kept to a small circle of connections, he and I had the reputation of spending our private time fucking like bunnies. Which we mostly didn’t, except for the rare occasions when he couldn’t avoid it—in other words during the sexual heats which all omegas have every six to nine months. When in heat, barring super-strength birth control, female omegas generally became pregnant and male omegas tended to trigger ovulation in their female partners, regardless of usual cycles.
The public generally knows we had a close relationship. It’s also generally rumored, never denied, that Max practiced what he preached with respect to the use of suppressants and carefully-timed sexual heats.
A much smaller group, almost all alphas, know what happened—or didn’t—during his heats, because while omegascansurvive heats without alphas, things tend to go better if they don’t have to. Much as Max hated it, he preferred to get through his sexual hazes as quickly and efficiently as possible, which meant involving at least one person other than me—we tried going it alone once, never again—preferably an alpha or two.
Then there’s me. Beloved in life, chief mourner in death, finally faced with the task of figuring out what life might offer me after the roller coaster that was Max.
I shift in my seat, trying to ease the itch along my buttocks. Up at the front of the room, the last speaker’s eyes fasten on me.
Corin, Max’s cousin and one of the few relatives he actually liked, rocks a black suit. Every pressed seam remains crisp despite the late hour of the afternoon, even while draping the gentle bulge of his dad-bod belly. His salt-and-pepper hair stays perfectly-arranged without product, and his beige skin contains coral undertones highlighting his sharp-lined features that project calm grief—except when his gaze strays to me. Then, it’s heavy with a lingering glint of warning, or maybe anger, alongside sympathy.
He's yelled at me several times over the past month, over Max’s care and why he’d spent so much time the past year skipping doctor’s appointments. Each time standing closer than before, until at the last, Corin loomed over me with his half-a-head greater height. His usual scent, a mix of cedar and cider scent, grew so strong and bitter, so sour, that even I caught it. It made me cough until, finally, he had to stop yelling to get me a drink of water.
Then, he stroked my back, holding the glass for me as he apologized.
To be fair, my temper broke, and I screamed back at him as many times over that same horrid month. He kept botheringme with questions about the future and what needed to be done to get everything in order before Max’s death when all I could manage was keep from falling to pieces.
The number of scenes we made attests to how awful it was. We never yelled in front of Max—only at the far end of the house, where he couldn’t hear or see, where we could break down safely in front of someone we knew would understand.
All for Max’s sake.
Everything revolved around Max.
Corin and I created the consulting firm that let Max do his work with minimal guardrails. We’re business partners, though that means we wind up arguing over everything as I fuss about sustainability and environmental impact while Corin worries about the bottom line.
How did Max reward us? By going out and spending our first big bonus check on a pack-style six-bedroom townhouse for us all to live in—me, him, Corin, his then-wife, and their three now-grown children. Max didn’t so much as give us advance warning or even an opportunity to look over the place before he closed on it. Though it proved he’d heard my occasional wistful memories of growing up in a pack house, it wasn’t what any of us expected.
Just gave Corin and me more to argue about—but not with Max. Max had a way of wiggling out of arguments or breaking them up by making us laugh.
Max won the house battle. We still live in it to this day. It’s where I’ll retreat after the memorial service and all the nods and pressing of hands is over. Thankfully, we did the big family thing and had everyone who came from a distance out to dinner last night.
I need tonight away from all the mourners.
Longing sweeps over me to rip off the lace lingerie and throw it away. To lock myself in the bathroom and run the shower until all the grief and anguish hanging in the air washes away.
Speaker after speaker rises to share memories of Max. Their voices blend into a beatific vision of saintliness.
Don’t get me wrong: he did a lot of good. Dedicated his life to making as affordable and accessible as possible any and all innovations that help omegas, and, to a lesser extent, alphas, control their hormones and biochemistry: suppressants, heat timers, rut blockers, scent neutralizers, all manner of sex aids, and more. Max tangled his fingers into improving the manufacture and distribution of all these resources, to the betterment of society.
All while being funny, albeit his wit sometimes cut to the quick. Always up front about sharing his opinion, although he never rubbed it in one’s face when he was right—though he did pout when proven wrong.
He had a cute pout, too, though he hated being told that.
Of all the speakers, Corin does the best by Max. He starts the service and ends it, after giving up on dragging me up there to share the spotlight.
Something else we argued about.
Still, he’s the one memorializing therealMax, the only one who truly acknowledges Max’s complexity. People loved or hated Max, and those of us who loved him put up with so much because what we got was worth it.
It was.
It is.
