Chapter Text
Mark is pregnant.
It had happened five months ago, he'd been in heat, curled up on the sidewalk, and then there'd been an alpha— Honestly, the details are bothersome and not really worth remembering.
What is worth remembering is that now he's pregnant, and if he doesn't eat, his baby will probably die. (Because malnutrition during pregnancy increases the risk of gestational anemia, hypertension, miscarriage, pre-term delivery, and fetal death; Mark has looked it up, of course he has.)
The problem is that knowing it's bad to be malnourished doesn't actually make it easier to not be malnourished, at least not when you're a omega with no family, no alpha, no job, and no home.
Which is, regrettably, Mark's current situation.
***
It's been his situation since he'd presented as an omega three days after his twentieth birthday.
"Your situation is quite, ah— unique," the Harvard dean of admissions had informed him, peering across the desk with interest. "As I'm sure you know, most alphas and omegas present between the ages of 12 and 15, with 99.6% presenting before age 18. Which makes you quite the medical anomaly."
"Am I going to be expelled?" Mark had asked, not giving a fuck about being a medical anomaly.
"Mm. Well, you see—" The dean had cleared his throat and looked away uncomfortably. "Despite the rarity of such a late presentation, there is, er, precedent, and unfortunately— Yes, I'm afraid."
"No wait, please," Mark had said, shocked at how small his voice had sounded. "Please, I don't have anywhere to go; my parents aren't speaking to me because they're, like, insanely prejudiced, and I don't have any money; I'm here on a full scholarship; just please let me stay; there's only two years till I graduate; I swear I won't be a distraction, and I'll take suppressants—"
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Zuckerberg," had been the dean's response, though he hadn't sounded sorry at all, "but there can be no exceptions. Harvard is an institute of higher learning for alphas and betas only, you understand, and has been for 368 years, and so..."
And so Harvard, age-old bastion of omega discrimination that it is, had kicked him out.
***
Back when he thought he was a beta, Mark hadn't given a fuck about omega rights. Not that he'd hated omegas or something, he just... hadn't really cared. Hadn't known, to be honest, how deep anti-omega sentiment went.
Hadn't known that even at colleges where omegas are allowed to attend, which are third- and fourth-tier schools in the first place, scholarships are always reserved for alphas and betas.
Or that employers for all but the most menial of jobs will reject you outright upon learning you're an omega, and that such discrimination is perfectly legal, at least in Massachusetts.
Or that there isn't a single omega-friendly homeless shelter in or around Boston, not even if you're on suppressants, which Mark hadn't had money for anyway.
So when Harvard had forced him to vacate his dorm room three days after his expulsion, Mark had landed on the streets.
***
That had been May, and now it's November, which means he's been homeless for half a year— half a fucking year of hunger and cold and perpetual exhaustion, of picking pockets and begging on corners and getting fucked here and there for a few measly bucks.
At night he sleeps wherever he can: at bus stops and on campus and in the doorways of shops, behind stores and down alleys and by grates in the sidewalk for warmth.
In the morning he goes to a McDonald's or a Starbucks or something to use their bathroom, to shave and brush his teeth and stare at his reflection in the mirror, at his hollow cheeks and tired eyes and filthy fucking hair. And then he leaves, and it all starts over again: the endless, daily quest for food and money and warmth.
He used to tell himself it would get easier, probably, someday.
Except it hasn't.
If anything, it's probably getting worse.
Firstly because it's autumn now, which means that temperatures are dropping, and Mark has no idea what he's going to do when it gets below freezing, when it starts to snow and all he has to sleep in is a hoodie and a ratty old blanket.
And secondly because hardly anyone wants to fuck him anymore, not now that the pregnancy scent is starting to be noticeable, starting to overpower the omega pheromones that used to attract alphas. And betas might not be able to smell that he's pregnant, but they can still see his baby bump, which is, apparently, a major fucking turnoff. So prostitution is largely off the table now, which leaves him three options if he wants to eat: He can beg, he can steal, or he can dig through the garbage for food.
Most days he does all three.
Most days he still goes hungry.
***
One afternoon in late November, Mark gets lucky, and meets a burly, middle-aged beta who says he'll pay twenty dollars for a blowjob.
So Mark is on his knees in an alley, sucking the beta's cock, when he feels his baby kick for the first time.
He pauses at the sensation, presses a hand to his stomach.
"Keep going," snaps the beta, grabbing Mark's head and thrusting deeper into his mouth.
And Mark needs the money, so he keeps going, until the beta comes down his throat and lets go of his hair.
Mark chokes, swallows, watches as the beta zips up his pants and takes out his wallet.
He hands Mark a ten-dollar bill.
"We said twenty," Mark tells him.
The beta shrugs. "You were lazy. You put in half the work, you get paid half as much."
"Fuck you," Mark spits. "Fuck you, that was a good fucking blowjob and you know it. You owe me twenty."
The beta smiles coldly. "You're getting ten dollars or nothing," he says, holding out the bill between two fingers. "Do you want this or not?"
Mark glares at him for a moment, then snatches away the money.
"That's what I thought," says the beta, giving Mark a small, unnecessary shove before turning on his heel and sauntering out of the alley.
"You fucking piece of shit," Mark calls after him, but he knows there's nothing he can do— he'd be no match for the guy in a fight, and it's not like he can go to the police.
He slumps against the alley wall, the taste of come still in his mouth, and crumples the ten-dollar bill in his hand.
Then his baby kicks again.
And Mark begins to cry.