Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Life kind of sucks.

It could be worse, Lord knows, but it still sucks ass. 

Right now, you are five hours in on an eleven hour plane ride to your mom’s place in Japan; and twenty seconds ago, the baby next to you decided to wake up from their nap. 

After turning up the volume for the podcast you downloaded earlier, eyes turn to the window to resume dazed pondering. It was nice of Mom to pay (sweet talk her mate into paying) for a business class seat this time, but even money cannot help you escape the inevitable ‘baby screaming for two hours’ part of the trip. 

The noise isn’t so bad, most people in this day and age have earplugs and overpriced headphones to keep it at bay. What’s bad is that most people in this day and age can smell the sour distress pheromones the baby and mother are pumping out. 

But you are not most people, you are completely scent blind. While the sourness bothers your nose, the meaning of the pheromones never goes to the instinctual part of the brain. It’s some genetic thing that’s more likely to affect betas like you, though anyone could potentially have it; it’s kind of like how colorblindness is not uncommon in males. Honestly, though, you'd take colorblindness over this with how often misread social cues happen. Right now, however, your plane ride will be much less crappy in comparison to the other people here. 

‘Haha, suckers,’ you think to yourself, looking around at the other passengers who are either stuffing their noses with tissues or giving the mother the stink eye. 

It’s not like the mother wants this to happen either, the poor omega is probably a new mom with how frantic he’s being. A more experienced mother usually calms themselves first to release some calming scent unmixed with their own panicked ones. He’s rocking and shushing the babe, but it continues to wail. The man has deep, sunken eyes on the verge of tears. You bet he feels the pressure of everyone in the cabin staring at him, judging his parental skills. 

‘Sucks to suck,’ you internally dialogue. This is none of your business. You virtually have no stake in the wellbeing of this person and baby, you can stick to your podcast and pretend the sour scent is a fancy cheese from Whole Foods. This is an adult person who made the choice to bring a baby on a long plane ride. The people around you should know the inevitability of a baby crying on a plane and bought a scent blocking mask. You owe them nothing. Nothing. 

…

“Do you mind if I try?” You turn to ask the mother with a polite smile, taking your earbuds out. 

“I’m sorry?” He says, flustered, still rocking the baby. 

“I have experience with babies. I have a trick to calm them down,” you begin to explain, but that’s not enough for a new omega mother to part with their child. “I’m not producing any stress pheromones. You're stressing out your baby right now, which is causing you to also stress out, causing a feedback loop.”

“I’m trying!” He almost hisses in defense.

“I know you are,” you say genuinely so as to not make him think you’re personally attacking his mothering. Omegas are sensitive like that. Time to use your powers for good. “I’m… scent blind. I’m not affected by pheromones. So, if you’d allow me, I can hold onto your baby for a few minutes to calm them down or until you can catch your breath. You can take them back at any time and I will pass them back with no issue.”

The mother brings his child closer to his chest protectively at the notion of handing them over to a stranger. He stares you down with his pupils shrunken to a point, you stare back with a polite yet neutral expression, unbothered. 

A wail from the baby breaks the mother’s eye contact briefly, bringing him back to the reality of the situation: He’s tired, he’s embarrassed, he just wants this to stop. Pulling back your sleeve, you offer the mother to smell the small gland on your wrist. Just because you’re a beta with scent blindness, doesn’t mean you can’t produce scents at all. It just means it's a hell of a lot weaker, which is actually beneficial in this scenario.

Deeming you to be acceptable (probably more due to the fact that you are a 17 year old female beta than anything else), he slowly passes you the swaddled child. 

Taking them in your arms under the watchful gaze of the mother, you bring the baby closer to your chest to hear your slower heart beat and maybe some calming scent. It actually works, much to the mother’s surprise as he watches the baby’s tantrum come to a slow stop, dozing off. Relief washes over him.

When you hand back the child, the mother whispers, “Thank you. Um, how did you know that would work?”

“One of my friend’s sisters had a new baby. When I went over to their house, she passed the baby to me instead of the friend ‘cuz she was so tired. Baby stopped crying, the rest is history,” you quickly say with the rehearsed explanation you use every time this happens. Volunteering to do this yourself is rare, but the people who know you keep telling anyone with a crying baby about it and you get roped in. 

“Thank you, regardless,” He says, closing his eyes and finally sleeping himself.

You go back to staring out the plane window, pushing down the burn of yearning bubbling in your chest and instead focusing on the expansive ocean below. 

‘Stop projecting,’ you tell yourself. Omega mothers, as a whole, are fine normal people that don’t deserve your misplaced prejudice. Still, it’s hard to keep those feelings in check when your own omega mother left you beta father for an alpha. 

Sure, moving to America when she was so young and newly married was hard. Sure, going back to her home country when she was homesick for a few months is fine. Sure, reconnecting with an old classmate and wanting to see how he’s doing is normal. What’s not normal is falling for that guy, coming back to your husband with divorce papers, and moving thousands of miles away from your kid. 

You were around 2 years old when this all happened, young enough to not remember a majority but old enough for the courts to deem you fit for not being in close contact with your mother for long periods of time. Normally, skin to skin contact and other sciency reasons are crucial to the development of babies and toddlers, unfortunately when you were younger the laws in place did not give enough of a fuck. 

From then on, your dad raised you. He did a good job, all things considered. Had he been an alpha he might have been in a rage, thrown things around, punched a wall. Instead, he was just… sad (by no means was he meek, that’s a stereotype with beta males and he was always a bit of a hardass about things honestly). He didn’t bad mouth your mother so you could form your own opinion, he didn’t have her pay child support, he just always seemed sad. 

You wish he would have been with someone, you would’ve been fine with it. Someone could’ve made him happy again. At the funeral, people would tell you how proud he was of you and everyday with you was blissful only for those words to ring empty in your chest. 

He was the only family you really had. Now, you’re on this stupid ass plane to Tokyo to be with your mom’s family since she has custody. But only for one year. You just turned 17, at 18 you’ll be able to do whatever you want. 

After a few more hours of typical plane riding (sans baby crying), you arrive at Narita Airport. It’s a warm March day, much less stifling than the Julys you usually come to. Walking to the luggage carousel, it looks like you’ve got some time before the bags start coming in. You take out your phone to connect to the Wifi. The moment you’re connected, a notification pops up on your Line app. It’s your mother. 

‘Something came up. Hajime will be bringing you home.’ The message says, followed by a cute cartoon dog bowing in apology. 

So she couldn’t be bothered to pick you up herself? She’s getting a 15 year old to do it? You sigh deeply, clicking your phone off and into your pocket.

With all your life in the two suitcases by your side and backpack, you roll out to the exit. 

Chapter Text

Hajime Nakamura is the firstborn and only son of Sayuri and Masaharu Nakamura… he is also your half brother. Most would say that you do look a little alike, but that’s only after they squint so much both your features become undefinable. The last time you saw him, the kid was 13; a lanky thing with a big poof of black hair living on his head and the grace of a newborn deer. He never posts himself on social media so that's the mental portrait that fills in the blank.

With that image in mind, you scan the surrounding pick up area. A plethora of people are captured in their own little lives; the couple with the crying baby from earlier dash to an older couple to show off their new addition to the family; a group of foreign college kids with phone stick things vlog to their audience; an old woman going into a taxi on the verge of tears, exhausted; several salarymen in suits talking on the phone and amongst each other in the designated smoking area. Nope, he’s not here.

Buzz buzz. You move to the side so you don’t block other people before taking out your phone. It’s Hajime.

‘Where are you?’ He messages on Line, followed by a Cinnamoroll with a question mark from that sticker pack you gifted him on a whim a few years ago. 

Ten seconds after shooting back a quick description of the surroundings, you’re met with a light tap on the shoulder. Snapping your head around, you see a vaguely familiar face smiling down.

“Hajime?” You manage to say. 

“Why are you saying that like it’s a question?” He pouts, were he to make that face with the one last year it would’ve been cute but now it looks weird. All his baby fat was liposuctioned out by puberty, leaving behind an adult’s jawline. It seems someone finally managed to drag him to a hair stylist, or he managed to do it on his own. You have to crane your neck a lot higher than before just to make decent eye contact. 

“Because you shot up like a weed,” You say bluntly, never one for beating around the bush. “Geez, how tall are you?”

Straightening his back, becoming a tree blocking out the sun, he proudly announces, “182 centimeters!”

“You know damn well the metric system means nothing to me.”

“Oh, um, well,” He stammers, trying to think of a clever response but he never can. “We can convert later, let’s just get in the cab.”

Chivalry isn’t dead as Hajime uses his slightly developed muscle to throw your luggage in the back of the taxi. While he does that, you shoot your mom a quick text that Hajime picked you up successfully. No answer.

Climbing into the backseat next to you, Hajime informs the driver of the destination and is given a rough estimate on time. (You ignore the way the car swayed from his weight.) 

The first few minutes are silent aside from Hajime’s leg bouncing up and down like a kid hyped up on Red 40. Will you be the first one to break the silence?

You open your mouth to say something lame like the weather or summer plans, but Haji beats you to it.

“I’m really excited to go to school with you!” He blurts out childishly. Well, he is still a child despite his nearly grown proportions. “I was worried about where you’d be placed, but I’m glad you did well during exams.”

Right. High school here is worse than college in the states sometimes; you’re sure you barely scraped by and bet real money Hajime’s dad pulled some strings with his rich ass connections to get you in the prestigious school his baby boy goes to.  All to make him smile, you were given the nepo-baby treatment. 

“Yeah, it was really hard,” you say as you yawn. A 15 hour non-stop flight is a bitch to get through and you’re starting to really feel it now. “But we’re in different grades so I doubt we’ll see each other much.”

With your current exhaustion, you miss the flicker of something unsettling passing through his eyes, like if a mask slipped the tiniest bit.

“You just mean on campus, though, right?” He says with seriousness. It’s still said politely, but there’s a pressure there that the old beta taxi driver does his best to ignore and focus on the road. 

You blink slowly like a lizard. “Myeh?” You slur out. “Thas wut I meant.” The slow rumbling of the car lulls you to sleep. “Sorry, can you wake me up before we arrive?”

Haji nods in affirmation and you nod off to slumberland. His hair bristles at you choosing to lean against the door instead of on his shoulder. 

‘Am I that unreliable? She doesn’t even want to touch me?’ He thinks to himself, glaring at you stiffly.

He notices your jacket beginning to fall off your lap. You had taken it off before entering the car, it was too many layers for this warm spring day. Grabbing it, he brings it closer to his chest.

It barely smells like you; spending hours on a plane intermixed a herd of people’s lesser scent to your innocent jacket. His poor sister can hardly produce enough scent as it is. Stifling a growl, Hajime brings the jacket close to his neck, rubbing it profusely. You need to smell like pack afterall. Unfortunately, he catches a whiff of that baby you held. Thick fingers nearly rip apart the seams of the hoodie from him just thinking about you touching some random child. What made you get so close to a baby? Why that baby and not him? 

‘Calm down,’ Haji reminds himself, leaning back against his seat. ‘It’s not like she can leave anymore.’

The drive is long for Japanese and British standards. Roughly 45 minutes is all the nap time you got before arriving at Hajime's house all the way in the suburbs. A mansion would be impractical overkill, but this shit is still huge. A 5 bedroom home with a wide back yard and plenty of other miscellaneous spaces for storage and offices. This isn’t even their only property, this is just for Hajime’s schooling. For the holidays, they have vacation homes; there’s even apartments for Mr. Nakamura’s business trips or the occasional sports meet Hajime has; their main family home is in Akita where both parents are from originally. 

You thought you were lucky living above your dad’s skate shop in San Francisco, you would even burn down a few of those vacation homes to get back to it. It’s still being managed by your dad’s former business partner. He’s renting it out while you’re here, making up some money while sales are slow. It’s still going to be there when you’re back, you just need to hold out here for a year or so. 

Hajime is a fucking liar and did not wake you up before arriving. He did, however, take a photo of you with a double chin and drooling while asleep. Dick.

A butler assists in taking out luggage from the taxi’s trunk while Hajime pays the driver. You hurry out so you can help.

“Oh my god! Mr. Sato! How are you?!” You exclaim in mixed language as the older beta man removes the last suitcase. You raise your hand for a high five.

Mr. Sato, used to your American ass by now, slaps your hand with gloved enthusiasm. 

“I’m fine thank you,” He responds in English. “I’ll get these up to your room now, young miss.”

“Wait!” You stop him. Rummaging through a side pocket of a duffel bag, you pull out a sack of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and pass it to the man.

“Oh my,” He says, revering the cheap chocolate like you gifted him fine wine. “I will treasure it slowly. Now, I suggest you freshen up and rest now. The bath has already been drawn for you.”

You grab the duffle bag and readjust your backpack before waving him goodbye. Hajime stood in the back wondering if he should help with the luggage to seem reliable or to follow you inside the house. Mr. Sato makes the decision for him by raising his eyebrows towards you by the front door waiting.

The boy bolts to your side, opening the door like a gentleman. He kites behind you, grabbing your duffel bag and leads you to your now permanent room. 

It’s bigger than the living room at your old place, you never knew what to do with the space. There’s a path to your plain bed in between a few cardboard boxes you sent over a month ago. Setting the duffle on the desk, you dig around for the souvenirs you bought your brother.

“And these are for you.” You pass him an oversized, now normal-sized, Dodgers sweatshirt (despite it being a sin as someone from Giants territory). It wraps a set of smaller gifts like a few chocolates and chips he liked from last time you came, typical small tourist stuff, and a bottle of ranch dressing.

“Thank you so much!” He exclaims, giddy.

You take out a set of loungewear from the dresser. They might be a little small now, but it’ll get the job done. “I’m going to take that bath before I pass out.”

‘Good. Wash off those people’s scents,’ He thinks to himself. Out loud he says, “Okay! Are you going to sleep after or should I request a meal for you?”

“Uh, I might just sleep. I ate on the plane so I’m doing fine,” you respond, heading out. “Thanks, though.”

“Of course! Sleep well!” He smiles as you disappear around the corner. Taking out his phone, he sets up an order from a restaurant ready to go whenever you have an inkling of hunger. Hajime frowns at how gaunt you look now, then adds some carb-heavy items to the list. 

He really shouldn’t be upset and even chastises himself a bit. You’re going through a really tough time. So what if you didn’t notice how he took a nap in your bed to scent it? So what if you didn’t know he pushed to give you the business class ticket instead of the first class since he knew you’d hate it (‘You’re so humble’ ). So what if you didn’t text him every week as promised? It’s all fine. You’re just sad. He can make you feel better. 

The bath is fucking great. 

You scrubbed every bit of grime from being at an airport and plane off so much you practically shed like a snake. It’s always nice to take a bath in Japan. There’s a separate shower to clean yourself before entering the bath so you’re not just in a gross soup made of yourself. This house even has fancy add-ons like remote temperature control and bath powders that don’t fuck up your body like that knock-off Lush bath bomb. The best part is that the heat numbs your brain enough to forget your problems for a few minutes. 

Maybe you can survive this. 

Chapter Text

You don’t really know how to deal with Hajime’s dad.

He doesn’t intimidate you in the usual sense an alpha should for people. All your instincts are thoroughly fucked, so his mere presense dosn’t wobble your knees or however it’s supposed to be like in the dramas you’ve seen. What intimidates you is that he has power. Without relying on pheromones, aggression, posturing, or whatever, he has power through money, connections, and status. Everything around you is his, you’re just a guest here.

He never smiles when it's just the two of you, like at the table right now. The man sips his black imported single origin coffee from an artisanal mug, reading the newspaper like it's 1956, not meeting your gaze a single time. 

Its so fucking awkward. You chew the slowest you ever have in your life; Mr. Sato's “American” breakfast in front of you grows cold at your pace. 

Hajime and your mother left early for a doctor’s appointment, leaving the two people who have the most underdeveloped relationship in history alone and the man cannot do small talk.

Your dad tried to once, actually. Back before you were allowed to fly alone, he would fly out with you, stay at a friend’s place for a week, leave, then come back at the end of the summer to do the same. He did it for years, but you only have one memory of a time he directly interacted with Hajime’s sire.

‘So,’ the beta man starts while dropping off the Hello Kitty backpack full of your things to the ground. He looks funny next to Hajime’s father. Despite being in his thirties at this point, he never let go of his skater look. Riddled with tattoos (most professional, some stick and poke), piercings everywhere, fading colored hair, ripped band tee and Levis, he stands in front of a business man who is nearly a foot above him with gelled slick black hair and a watch worth three month’s rent. ‘Do you come here often?’

‘This is my house,’ Mr. Nakamura says with no wavering emotion. 

Your father bursts into laughter. ‘You’re so funny, man.’ Then no other words were said.

Your lips quirk a little upward at the memory, forgetting the cold yolk your fork is in.

“An appointment has been set up with the tailor for your uniform tomorrow at 11 am,” the man says, you nearly jump in surprise. He’s talking to you directly?

“Oh, are they usually tailored? I can’t just buy one in my size or something?”

“This school requires them to be tailored. You will get two sets.” Then he goes back to his newspaper. 

Quickly, you put the information on your busted ass phone’s calendar app. Poking at what’s left, you can’t seem to bring yourself to finish the meal in this atmosphere.You get up, mutter a quick “thank you for the meal” and take the plate to the sink far away. Heel, toe, heel, toe, softly in slippers you slip away without a sound. Despite actual hired help whose purpose is to clean up after you, you wash your own dish in the sink before someone can catch you.

Scuttling to your room like the roach you are, a wave of relief washes over at the sight of your bed. Oh, sweet, sweet, expensive mattress of perfect plush and firmness you let yourself revel in. You crawl on top of the covers so you don’t have to worry about contaminating where you actually sleep and end up glancing at the cluttered room. 

You really should unpack. You don’t even have that much, just a box of knicknacks and posters you couldn’t part with, two luggages of clothes, and a singular skateboard. Most things are in the attic of your old apartment, locked away. So you do the logical thing of doomscrolling on your phone until heavy eyelids fully close, jet lag coming for your throat.

Hajime hates going to the doctor. Going more frequently does not quell this aversion. If anything, sapping at his available time with you makes him hate it more than usual.

The drab, stale decor, the sharp antiseptic smell, the blinding LED lights shining down upon him. He wants to be home, away from the overwhelming sensations of anywhere that isn’t his room. Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he starts to chew at his nail in impatience.

“Manners, Hajime,” his mother gently chastises as they wait in the exam room.

He sighs and moves his hand back down, twiddling his thumbs. 

The first round is physical, a woman in a lab coat reviews his last bloodwork. 

“Calcium levels are still low, but the rest of your results seem normal. Has there been any changes in the last few months?” His doctor asks.

“He mentioned muscle pain pretty frequently,” his mother answers for him. 

“It’s fine,” he reassures, a little annoyed at being spoken over. “It’s the normal amount for post-rut. I’m fine. I just take ibuprofen.”

“Alright,” the doctor says. “But with your condition, there is a chance it could get worse. I’ll fill out a prescription for some pain relievers in the meanwhile.” Then she rattles off the instructions for taking them.

Hajime bristles at the word “condition”. It makes it sound like he’s sick or something. It’s just some stupid puberty bullshit. 

“Well, I had a few questions of my own about Primes,” his mother quickly says before the doctor leaves. She takes out her phone and lists off an assortment of borderline conspiratorial information she found online. 

Hajime relents himself to slump back into the chair. Mentally, he puts himself into one of his usual daydreams: 

He’s gotten really into fantasy anime lately. This time he is in a magic academy, soaring above the school’s castle on a broom all the way up into an open tower window. A few crows fly out in surprise. Up here is a secret meeting place where he keeps spare cushions and snacks. Wearing a magic school uniform he totally copied from a movie, he dusts off the bottom of his robe while walking to a spot to hang his broom. 

“Did you get it?” A voice comes from the rafters above. He looks up, it's you wrapped in a similar outfit but DIY-ed to hell and back for your own personal tastes. Jumping down, you cast a quick spell of slow falling so shins don’t shatter from the height. 

He smirks, reaching into an inner pocket and takes out an orb-

“Hajime?”

Shooting up straight, Hajime blinks at his surroundings. Warmer lights than the hospital, plush chairs, a eucalyptus oil diffuser; fuck, he was at his psych appointment. Going through all the same motions every other week put him on autopilot. 

“Sorry, what was it you said?” He asks the doctor, an older man roughly his father’s age.

“I asked if your sister has arrived already,” the man repeats, spinning his pen in the meanwhile. “You seemed very excited during our last session.”

At that, Hajime leaned forward, fully engaged. “Yes! She arrived yesterday,” He says quickly. “She’s pretty tired right now and might take a few days to adjust to the time difference, but we still have a few weeks to do something fun before classes start.”

The rest of the session ends up being him rapidly firing spring break plans: the zoo, an amusement park, collab cafes from media you like, a day at the beach, and so much more.

“Hajime, we are about to reach the end of our time here today,” The doctor informs. “But before you go, I do want to extend my services to your sister should she need it.”

“Um, Why?” 

The man tries to put it into the simplest terms he can. “Your sister’s father just died. She may need professional help after a big event like that.”

“But I can help just fine.”

“I know, and it is very good that you want to support her,” he adds. “However, it is still important to have multiple people support her as a group in different ways. I have no doubt that you will help, but things get complicated with grief.”

Releasing the grip he had on the leather couch, Hajime knows the man is right in some capacity. “Okay. I’ll ask.”

With the next appointment already scheduled, Hajime exits the office and meets his mother in the waiting room. She asks a million questions yet again and he just gives the usual placating answers all the way home. 

“What would you like for lunch?” Is the final question his mom asks, yet the first non-invasive one. 

“I don’t know, I’m not really interested in anything in particular,” He sighs, opening the door to the fridge. 

“What about tonkatsu? I think Mr. Sato bought us some nice pork yesterday,” She suggests, sliding up next to him to look in the fridge as well.

“Okay, sounds good,” He says with a forced smile before darting away upstairs. 

Walking past your room, he hears your phone looping on a seven second audio from a video you haven’t scrolled past yet. Tentatively, he cracks open the door to check if you were asleep.

Still in your old pajamas, you rest atop the covers with your limbs all over the place and your old, cracked phone probably overheating in your hand. 

He opens the door fully to let himself into your domain, closing it behind him slowly to not make a sound. Despite his burgeoning size, Hajime still knows how to stay sneaky. You didn’t stir at all when his face was centimeters away from yours. 

He just stays like that for a few moments. God, he wants to touch you so bad. When you were both younger, he’d stubbornly cling to your side like a koala to a tree. As he grew older, that stopped being cute and socially acceptable, much to his dismay.

Now that he thinks about it, right now is the perfect opportunity to put a tracking app on your phone. It is still unlocked, afterall. 

Gently, he grips the top edge of the case, lifting it slowly.

“Mmh?” You blink the crusts off your eyes. “Hajime? What are you doing?”

“You fell asleep with your phone on, I was just going to charge it,” He quickly fibbed.

He can feel your eyes assessing him fully, his throat tightens at the thought of being caught.

“You look like the Fourth of July,” you say in your best Jennifer Coolidge impression.

“What?” He looks down confusingly at his outfit: a pair of navy jeans, white shirt, and a red jacket.

“You make me want a hot dog real bad,” you continue. 

Hajime just stares at you. “Do.. Do you want a hot dog for lunch?”

“Have you never watched Legally Blonde?” you gasp in disbelief, sitting up on the bed. “Oh we have to watch it now. Both of them, actually.”

“I think that mom is using the TV now, but I can ask,” He offers casually. Internally he buzzes with excitement to finally spend some one on one time. He knows you’re not going to talk to Mom right after you wake up. 

“Oh, um, maybe we can just stay in here if you’re okay with it,” you propose instead. “I can get it going on my laptop and we can just stay in bed.”

“Perfect,” he says. “Let me just change out of my outdoor clothes and I will be back in a sec.”

Dashing to his dresser, he pulls open a drawer where he keeps the pjs you complimented on last year. Well, the same but a few sizes up now. The boy manages to get into the set without looking in the mirror a single time. 

When he comes back, you flip the covers to let him in. The bedframe creaks as he climbs on. Your brother ends up taking over a good portion of the mattress, forcing you to sink into his side. After the movie’s intro, he already starts to purr, a low vibration resonates in your chest. It doesn’t distract you from Reese Witherspoon, but it is noticeable. At least he is happy.