Author's note (3 Aug): Minimal changes during the rewrite.

What does a bloke say to that?

hahaha good ill hold you to that

well im headed off to bed now

Because Hector Westbrook does not mean anything else by it. He enjoys Empire and Neon City Chronicles—he is clearly a man of culture. It would make sense for him to be a patron of the arts or something, supporting Blaise’s tattoos … wouldn’t it?

No matter, because when they pick up the conversation in the morning, he does not mention commissioning a tattoo, and they talk—well, about everything, really. It would now take Blaise hours to scroll to the very first text.

Do you like Thai food?

Holy shit, Toxic Remedy just released a new single.

LOL check out this video! The cat is adorable. I hope you’re not a dog person.

Think about it, isn’t cereal with milk just … soup?

Blaise snickers. let me guess—cornflakes and milk for breakfast?

Bran flakes. High in fibre: it’s good for digestion and your heart. My dietician insisted.

yikes no one wants to think about you constipated in the loo, mate

Yeah? I bet there’s a market for that in the sort of films you thought I was making at first.

shut up you prat

Hector finds it hilarious that Blaise thought he was a porn actor at first.

Blaise groans when his alarm goes off again: he has already snoozed it once. Face buried in his pillow, he fumbles for his phone. Squints at the screen and frowns. What is up with his Twitter? He taps on the notifications—and gawps. What? The notifications fly across the screen as he scrolls, and scrolls, and scrolls, and comes to—

He shrieks so loudly, Cas comes crashing through the door, shirt half-tucked, eyes frantic. His brother throws a dirty shirt from the floor at his head when he realises Blaise is screaming at him about Twitter notifications—over ten thousand—SIBYL RETWEETED MY ART.

‘I have to get to work, you prat. Are you sure you don’t want to join Talon and I for dinner at that French place? You like fancy.’

‘Nah,’ Blaise flaps his hand at him in a shooing motion. ‘I’m feeling like a night in. Have fun on your date!’

Cas rolls his eyes and disappears; the front door slams behind him. Sitting up in bed, Blaise takes a screenshot and sends it to the only person who cares.

And sure enough, Hector replies to Blaise’s incoherent message in a second: What the fuck it’s everywhere on Twitter, mate! SIBYL! Blaise grins at the use of caps, still reeling with disbelief that his latest fanart has pretty much gone viral, that elusive and fleeting Internet glory. Within the fandom, but still, Sibyl retweeted his art.

He is scrolling through his feed, when a headline pops up: Hector Westbrook is in love! He taps on the article smirking; something to share with Hector perhaps, something to tease him about. The Gigantomakhia star was spotted all chummy with French model Brigitte Martin at the recent London Philharmonic Charity Gala—onlookers said they could not keep their hands off each other. Look at these photos—the man is in love! But we all know the famous playboy’s penchant for making sweet little omegas like Brigitte cry, so we must expect to see another pretty thing on his arm next month.

In the first photo, Hector leans over to whisper into the model’s ear. She is caught in mid-giggle, her eyes bright—a dark-skinned beauty iridescent in a slinky silver dress, all straps and silk. They are posing together in the second photo, Hector’s arm resting comfortably around her wisp-thin waist, and she is gazing up at him, head slightly tilted, the length of her neck open to him.

They belong on the cover of a courting manual: how to find the right alpha for you! Yes, that’s right, you could be just like this perfectly mated couple. Read on!

Hector was texting Blaise the night of the gala, whinging about being hungry and stealing his neighbour’s main course just to fill up his stomach. I’m jealous—pizza for dinner? Wish I was there. He failed to mention his stunning omega date, who is apparently the face of Chanel at the moment, on the list of Vogue’s Models to watch.

A car honks outside, and Blaise is abruptly pulled out of the gossip magazine rabbit hole. Fuck. Scrubbing his face, he drops his phone and groans. He needs to get up, wash his face and go to work. It is none of his business whom Hector Westbrook dates—and he does not care, really.

He does not date, not after Oliver.

He does not want to think about it, pretends he is not thinking about it, but his traitorous body reveals his emotional state still, because in the quiet period before closing time, Talon asks abruptly: ‘You stink. What is it?’

Blaise looks up from the tattoo commission he has been scowling over for the past hour—why do omegas fresh out of a break-up always ask for goddamned roses? His friend is standing in front of him, arms crossed over his chest.

‘Do not try to deny there is something bothering you,’ he adds. ‘You snapped at a client today. He might have been indecisive, but it is his body, and he does still have one more round of changes to go.’

Blaise bristles, but seeing Talon’s hard, unyielding glare, deflates. He puts his iPad aside, rubbing a hand across his face. His chest still twinges from the memory of raising his voice at Josh, a young omega who came to him for his first tattoo. He apologised on the spot and promised to redo the artwork until Josh is satisfied, but how could he have been such an arsehole?

‘Is it Thalia? I know she has been busier lately—’

‘What? No,’ Blaise says, startled. ‘Bloody hell, are we truly as co-dependent as you lot think we are? We could survive independently for a few weeks, you know. There was those two months she spent in Canada for The Isle of Blood.’

‘What is it then?’

‘I …’ He casts around for an appropriate answer, his desperate search landing upon the laptop: a new email pops up at the bottom of the screen. ‘Mother sent an email last night.’

‘Ah.’

‘To Cas and me—the usual bollocks about how we must find a suitable mate, and how she has friends with eligible children.’ Blaise rolls his eyes. ‘With a dash of emotional blackmail and blatant manipulation. It’s the usual tiresome tripe.’

It is true enough that he is irritated by his mother’s email, but her relentless nagging has since ceased to become any major source for distress when they moved to London. Her love is so much easier to bear from a distance.

Talon’s face has darkened further. ‘And … and Cas—is he all right? Perhaps I should cancel dinner if he isn’t feeling very well today—’

‘No!’ Blaise exclaims, alarmed that his fib should cost Talon his date. ‘We’re used to her emails, it’s not really a bother, but I—she refuses to listen, yeah? Even though we’re living in the 21^st century, and it’s not fucking necessary for an omega to find an alpha mate to survive.’

‘Ah,’ Talon says again, his frown now shaded with sympathy.

What people demand of alphas and omegas would frustrate him too, as an alpha in love with a beta, who refuses to be convinced the alpha could choose him. Talon had to text Blaise separately to tell him he hoped to have dinner with Cas alone, knowing that Cas would ask Blaise and Thalia along. As Thalia would say, Cas needs the blinders punched off his bloody stupid mug.

‘Are you … Are you going to tell him tonight?’ Blaise asks carefully; is Iris going to win the bet?

Talon blinks and checks the clock. ‘Fuck, I’d better go. Have a good rest tonight, eh? No more snapping at the customers.’

‘Not tonight then?’ Blaise calls after him as he hurries to grab his car keys. ‘And yes, I can tell you are avoiding the bloody question, you berk!’

Talon merely rolls his eyes, and tosses over his shoulder as he ducks out the back: ‘Thanks for locking up! See you tomorrow.’

Shaking his head, Blaise picks up his iPad again, but the rose tattoo still looks shite, and his creative juices has been wrung dry. He saves his current draft with a sigh, and begins to clean up the shop for the day.

The bell above the door tinkles, and he is turning around, opening his mouth to say sorry, mate, we’re closed, when he tastes cinnamon and caramelised apples, warm on his tongue. He gawps, wide-eyed, at Hector Westbrook standing by the doorway.

‘Hullo, Blaise,’ Hector says, smiling.