by Aiden Bates
Tristan had noticed, Myrick realized when he looked up from the paperwork he was being shown. Tristan had stopped talking and was regarding him with a cross between concern and something darker that he couldn't place. Something that frightened Myrick and made him feel vulnerable in ways he never wanted to feel, especially not in the presence of an Alpha. Myrick cleared his throat and pushed his chair back to make space between them, and that seemed to be enough to break whatever it was that had suddenly held him in its grasp, because the air seemed a little less thick, a little more breathable. He hadn't experienced something like that in a long time, though what caused it eluded him.
“Are you all right, sir?” Tristan said, face crinkled in worry. He made a move to step around the desk, likely to see if there was something he could do to help his boss, but Myrick was suddenly in desperate need of space and distance and solitude, and so he stood sharply, suddenly enough to knock his chair back. Tristan raised a brow, surprised but making no move to get closer; he was an Alpha, sure, but this was his boss.
“I-I'm, ah,” Myrick swallowed around his tongue, around the lump in his throat. “I'm feeling a little fevered, sorry.” He sucked in a breath and tried to move past Tristan, but nearly yelped in surprise when he stumbled, and Tristan caught him effortlessly against his chest. Suddenly the overwhelming heat that was encompassing him was scorching, nearly making his skin feel like it was being burned wherever the two of their bodies had met.
Tristan, for his part, didn’t force him to stay, even helped him straighten up, but as he continued to stare, his eyes grew dark, the bright irises nearly being eclipsed by his dilated pupils. His breathing was far from labored, a far cry from how difficult breathing was for Myrick, but the Omega noticed the way his breath was coming in heavier, in a muted pant, almost like he was trying to breathe deeper than normal.
“Myrick,” Tristan said, his voice strangely even deeper than it usually was. Myrick was suddenly zeroed in on his voice, on what Tristan was saying, like it was the only thing that existed in the world. He’d heard about something like this—an ‘Alpha voice’ that compelled Omegas to listen to their every word when they used it. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s bothering you. Tell me what’s wrong.”
His mouth opened of its own accord, answering for him without thought or input on his part. “I don’t know.” He rasped, taking a step back, dizzyingly aware that he was too close to the Alpha. “I don’t feel well, excuse me.” Tristan looked like he was going to say more, probably ask if he could do something to help, but Myrick needed to leave—now. He knew Tristan well enough to know that he wouldn’t force anything on him, but that didn’t mean he wanted to have to sort through this in front of him.
He gave the Alpha a wide enough berth as he side-stepped him so that he wasn’t within touching distance of him, deliberately lengthening his stride as he briskly walked out of the office so that he might reach the elevator that much faster. His feet felt unsure, and by the time he was calling the elevator, he was nearly stumbling, his grace having nearly been spent. He couldn't place why he was feeling so disoriented and why it had only started when Tristan had gotten close to him. He knew of only a few possible explanations, though he didn't want to consider them right now; right now he needed to be away, he needed to be home and safe and alone to figure himself out.
He was grateful that Tristan hadn't followed him—or maybe he had tried but the elevator doors had closed before he got to him. Either way, he was glad that when the elevator doors closed, they closed him in the elevator alone. Solitude was nice, though the elevator felt cramped, confining, and it took everything in him not to pace like a caged animal. When the elevator was brought down to the parking garage he gasped at the rush of fresh air and rallied himself into stepping out into the more open space, grateful for the crisp outdoor air filling his lungs and clearing his head, if only marginally. By the time he made it to his car, he was feeling considerably more like himself, though he continued his course home; so what if he had a half-day today? He worked on a salary, he could stay late tomorrow, he reasoned as he turned the key in his ignition and began his journey home. Besides, he didn’t exactly have a boss to answer to, so who was going to admonish him for it? Being the CEO of a company had to have some sort of benefit in times of difficulty, after all.
The traffic in the streets was blessedly sparse, and the usual hour-long commute from work to home was nearly halved. A distant part of him marveled at how leaving work a few hours early made such a difference, but it was a quiet, half-subconscious thought compared to the racing thoughts that were swarming in his head around what happened at work as he parked in his garage and stepped inside his home. Even with the fogginess and heat gone from his mind it still felt as though he was watching what he was doing as an outside party, as though he wasn't the one making decisions for himself, and letting his body just do what it needed to do.
He toed off his shoes and made his way into his kitchen, hands shaky as he filled his electric kettle with water to put on for tea. It didn't matter that he wasn't sure what was affecting him; tea always helped calm him down, at least enough for him to look at the bigger picture. As the kettle gurgled and wheezed, heating his water, he racked his brain for anything, any slight difference in his routine that might have triggered this...this feeling in him that he wasn't sure what to do with. Leaning against the counter, he ran his hands over his face, deciding that he needed to be comfortable—far more comfortable than he was in this suit—to think a little more clearly. He wasn't sure what made him decide that, but his feet were already carrying him to his bedroom before he had the chance to consider why he felt the way that he did.
As he rummaged in his dresser for something comfortable, suddenly his suit felt too rough, too scratchy on his skin, and it needed to be off of him—now—and even as his eyes settled on a pair of soft pajama pants, his hands were already working on his buttons and zippers, practically tearing the articles of the suit off of his body and letting them lie wherever they fell and thought nothing more of them. He pulled the pajama pants out of the drawer and slipped them on, sighing at the cool fabric sliding against his skin. He felt better, marginally, but why was he feeling this way at all?
An alarm sounded from his phone, and it was suddenly too loud, the noise too grating on his nerves. He scrambled to turn it off when he read what was on the alarm's alert screen, and suddenly everything horrifyingly clicked into place.
'Renew your suppressant!'
The words were there, on the screen too bright for his eyes to want to look at, but he couldn't tear them away. Even as he turned the alarm off and silence descended upon the house once more, save for the faint gurgling of his kettle off in the kitchen, he didn't move. His suppressants were wearing off? He supposed that made sense—he thought maybe he'd miscalculated a day, that would make sense. Relief at realizing what was going on coursed through him—all he needed to do was take another of his suppressants, wait for them to kick in, and feel right as rain by tomorrow. That's all this was. He padded over to his medicine cabinet in his en suite bathroom, happy to know that this was all it would take for him to feel normal again. He opened the cabinet, eager to just take what he needed and rest, a shaky hand grabbing at the box that held the sleeve of his suppressant pills. Pulling the sleeve out, his relief was palpable as he turned the packet over—
And saw that all of the sleeve packets were completely empty.
6
Empty Box, Empty Nest
Strange, how just staring at the empty sleeve that once housed his pills could conjure such an image of anxiety. He had replaced them, hadn't he? He was sure he'd gotten the prescription refilled a couple weeks ago, when he'd seen it on his calendar. But then...that was the week he and Isabelle finalized her resignation and selected Tristan as her replacement. With alarming clarity, the moment where he had shut off an alarm in his office right before Tristan’s interview slammed into his head like a truck—he had been so distra
cted, he had forgotten to go back and see what that alarm was for. With fingers that seemed to not want to work all of a sudden, he pulled up his calendar, and sure enough on the date of the interview, there was an alarm that he had turned off that read, ‘refill your suppressants’ staring back at him mockingly.
“This can be fixed,” he said aloud to himself, voice scratchy and too harsh for his liking with the state he was in. He had to remind himself that he was still in control—that he was fine. Surely this sort of thing has happened with Omegas before, where the pharmacy could get him his suppressants quickly? He briefly entertained going out himself for it, but he knew better—he was likely already exuding pheromones that Alphas would be drawn to—or at least, he didn’t want to take the risk of it being so—which made venturing away from the house out of the question. It would need to be delivered.
Blessedly, he had the phone number for his pharmacist, so he dialed and waited, trying to remind himself to breathe normally—that everything was going to be fine. After a few automated prompt responses (because everything was at least half automated now, of course it was,) he heard the phone ring that signaled he’d finally been transferred.
“Johnson Pharmacy.” The other voice—a deep male voice—his brain noted (was it weird that he noted that? He hoped not) greeted him from the other end.
“Ah, yes,” he cursed mentally when his voice came out a hoarse stammer. “My name is Myrick Thomas, and I had a prescription filled that I forgot to pick up. I was hoping it could be delivered to my home? It’s, ah,” he felt himself beginning to feel restless and strangely warm. He’d only allowed himself to experience the full effects of a heat once, when he hadn’t been on any insurance and couldn’t afford the suppressants, and the recollection was hazy and overall unpleasant. “It’s incredibly important.”
“Ah, yes, Mister Thomas,” the pharmacist said conversationally, and Myrick could hear him rummaging around. “We have your medications still—sadly, we don’t do deliveries, but if you’d like to come in, we’re open until—”
“I can’t leave the house,” Myrick winced at the way his tone went up in pitch, his panic evidently hellbent on heightening everything today. “I, ah, I haven’t really started yet, I don’t think, not fully,” he spoke very fast, the words trying to rush out and tripping one after another because he started to panic in earnest. “But I think I’m experiencing a heat, and I don’t want it to happen, so what do I do?” He felt stupid for asking a question he already knew the answer to, but he asked it anyway in the vain hope that the pharmacist would know an option for him otherwise hidden, one he had no knowledge of. Something, anything that would make this bearable, that would make him feel all right in his own skin.
“Well, apart from simply riding out your heat, there isn’t much I can do for you.” To his credit, the pharmacist sounded sympathetic. “I can give you some advice on how to work through it—if you’re only experiencing early symptoms, you can still make yourself comfortable enough for the heat itself. Would you like that?”
Myrick sifted through his memories but couldn’t recall a single thing about how to make heat bearable—the last time he was in heat, the only time that he was in heat—he was left to writhe on his friend’s couch, desperately pawing at himself in the bathroom every three minutes, his throat feeling like it was on fire and his skin feeling like everything hurt to touch it. He could look up what to do, so he at least would know how to cope with what he was about to face. Though he would prefer not to have to, if it couldn’t be helped.
“No, no that’s all right.” He let out a shaky breath and scrubbed at the back of his neck. “I think I can make it. Thank you, though. I’ll be around to pick up my prescription...later.” When he could safely leave the house without fear of being assaulted, he added in his head.
“Of course, Mister Thomas,” the pharmacist still sounded soothing—or maybe that was just the tone of his voice, rumbling and deep? “If you need anything else, feel free to call.” He sounded like he’d gotten this sort of call before, and had fallen into the role of a comforting and discreet adviser. Myrick ended the call frustrated, unsure of how bad he had it as of that point; all he knew was that it was going to get worse.
With what wits he still had available to him, he sent a message to Tristan and his secretary explaining that he wasn’t going to make it in to the office for the next couple of days due to a sudden illness; it may not have been a sickness that he was going through, but it was certainly something that required…containment. He didn’t wait for responses from either party before beginning to settle in for what he knew would be a long and exhausting process. While he hadn’t been able to settle in and make himself feel comfortable and safe the first time he went into heat, he later learned of ways to experience it with minimal discomfort, and he had the means with which to do so now, thankfully.
Was this why he always felt so reluctant to deal with his heat, or anyone getting close to him? Because his first heat was such a bad experience that had made him feel nothing but dizzying, nausea-inducing anxiety? Admittedly, while he couldn’t deny the possibility, he also didn’t want to dwell on it at the moment. He had more preparations to complete, and he was working on borrowed time as it was.
He began to set up his bed, fluffing his pillows and pulling every soft, warm throw blanket he had in the house and creating something of a nest on his bed, something that he remembered helped on a psychological level in making an Omega feel safe. The electric kettle had turned itself off when it hit the boiling temperature, and had been keeping warm, thankfully, so when he came to the kitchen he grabbed a mug, a box of his favorite tea bags, and took the kettle to the bedroom, setting it on the night stand beside the bed. It wouldn’t do to simply have hot tea to drink, though—he’d been warned by other Omega friends that cool water and some easy to grab snacks would help, too. He rummaged in the cupboards, finding some cheesy crackers, a few different fruits and some sliced meat in his fridge, and after a moment of debate, grabbed a packet of those sweet rolls he usually tried to save for a special occasion. He vaguely wondered if this was going to count as one, though he wasn’t sure he’d feel like he was enjoying himself.
Not unless he had a mate—
He cut off that particular thought before it could be fully finished; he didn’t need thoughts like that, especially not now that he was beginning to go into heat. It was a frustrating contradiction, the knowledge that he would like to have a mate to make things bearable, to help keep him warm and feel safe but never feeling safe enough to let anyone in long enough for it to be a possibility. That he acknowledged it was not enough. He knew that now was certainly not the time to wax psychological.
Thankfully, it didn’t take long for him to get himself situated amongst his blankets, with his pitcher of cool water, his mug, his kettle, and all of the things that he might need. At the very least, he didn’t have to worry about hunting his ‘toy’ down; he always kept it in the drawer of his bedside table, well cleaned and ready for use. It was something he had purchased a while ago, when he had finally scrounged up enough money to buy something decent and custom. It was a strange thing to hold sentimental value over, though he’d had it so long that it was an odd comfort to hold it in his hand, its weight familiar.
He had no use for it yet, thankfully, though now it was a question of when things would really start to take effect. The thought that perhaps this would be either better or worse for his hormone supplements crossed his mind; possibly worse because he hadn’t gone into heat in so long that it could be more painful or last longer, but also possibly better because of the lingering suppressants that were still in his system softening what he was going to feel while in his heat. The doctor that had prescribed him his suppressants had spoken on the matter, he remembered faintly, though the specifics eluded him now, years later.
As he settled into his bed, surrounded by warmth and softness, he felt a strange sense of ease settle over him. He was still uncomfortable with w
hat he was feeling, and he was beginning to sweat faintly, but he at least felt like he was in a place where he could ride this out in relative safety, an unusual feeling for him. The soft, fuzzy throw blankets that he’d spent far too much on suddenly felt heavenly on his skin, and he stroked the one he was seated on idly with one hand as he tried to focus his breathing.
It had grown so warm in the room, so stifling, that for an absent-minded moment he considered opening his window to let the crisp fall air in—it was so cool out there and surely it would feel so good on his skin—but that would mean letting his scent out, an open invitation for any Alpha that could pick up on the scent, heady and thick as it no doubt was, to barge in and defile his nest, his one safe place in the world. Defile him in the process. He could deal with a bit of extra warmth in exchange for his safety, he decided as he settled back into his nest on his bed more fully.
As he began to ponder grabbing a small hand towel to clean up when things got a little overbearing, his phone began to ring. It sounded loud to him, too loud, and he scrambled to grab it, needing it to be quiet. He checked the caller ID, and his heart stopped when he saw the name on the screen:
Tristan.
His hands were shaking, though they seemed to work against his anxiety, his finger swiping to accept the call, and his treacherous hand pressing the phone to his ear.