Oasis

It can't be possible that rain can fall,
Only when it's over our heads
The sun is shining everyday, but it's far away
Over the world it's said

The hollows of Youngjae’s veins sting. It bites up into his skin, seeking to sear through the covering—almost as if to purge venom. Click clacks thump nauseatingly against his eardrums but thankfully, not as horrendously as the first time it happened.

Backspace, backspace, backspace. The fax machine jams on the other side of the room and the good-for-nothing intern curses under his breath, yet another one of those Alphas born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He was handed his opportunity—his parents’ puppet strings carelessly conspicuous.

A good deal of his colleagues are of the same heritage, in any case. They come from a culture—so the squeamish media nicely puts—that knows only of shimmering pools and sunshine by pristine porches. Their hierarchy is infested with these sort of corrupt individuals, and it is not surprising in the least bit. After all, their society thrives on a divide that puts a useless class on the very top and dictates the remaining to be proletariats.

Life is all about luck. You roll the dice and some people walk away with the grand prize while others slink away empty-handed. Youngjae pauses in his typing, staring blankly at the numbers keyed into the wrong cell. He rubs at his eyes and swallows down the thick lining against his throat, lashes fluttering to a close. As he takes in a breath, the touch of three days ago washes in like fading tides.

Youngjae presses his legs together and supresses a shudder, clenching his hands tight. The world must think he is an absolute joke. God must be up there, laughing raucously at the biggest hypocrite in the world. Youngjae foolishly believed in will like a mad man and for the past few years, he genuinely thought it was all he needed. He wrenched himself up to seize a position in such a high-ranking corporation with his bare hands and idiotically thought he was capable of triumphing despite the circumstances he was born in. So what if he was born as an Omega without a father and starved for most of his childhood years? He dug deep and found a way out for himself. What he never knew was that he was already standing in his own grave as he shovelled so desperately out of his plight.

His birth will always follow him, no matter how hard he tries. Youngjae uncurls his fingers and gazes absentmindedly at the screen. Another barrage of vibrations stir in his pocket and he pulls out his phone, watching the text messages from Minki flood in still.

He switches off his phone.

Youngjae heads to the bathroom to scrub his hands. The itch is subsiding and less strangling from the first time they had ed, but it still stings heinously on the inside. Pathetic, Youngjae mouths the words as he dissects his reflection in the mirror. His lower half is still sore and he scrubs harder to rid the visions clouding his eyes.

It’s Minki’s fault. If that idiot hadn’t thought to call Jung Daehyun over, Youngjae wouldn’t have been forced to reach out and pull Daehyun towards him.

It’s Daehyun’s fault. He took advantage of him in his moment of weakness. He knew just how susceptible Youngjae would be in his heat and he… he seized the opportunity to take him.

It’s God’s fault for making him this way. Youngjae never chose to be in this sickening body that clutched on to Daehyun and found pleasure in those disgusting touches.

Yes, it’s all their fault. That’s why Minki’s apologising to him and begging him to answer his text messages. But Minki doesn’t understand what he did wrong. All he does is spout that he did it for Youngjae’s sake. If he truly loved him, if he knew what Youngjae wanted, he wouldn’t have invited Jung Daehyun in and let his friend fall prey to that Alpha.

Youngjae stops. His hands are shuddering and there’s an agonising upsurge in his throat. It is of a scalding worse than vomit, one that claws up his throat into the back of his skull and demands payment from his eyes. Daehyun’s touch does not affect him as much as their first time—significantly less, in fact—but it is the implications that burn deep.

Youngjae enjoyed it. There was a moment while the distance remained between him and Daehyun that day. A moment, where Youngjae thought about just how handsome Daehyun was with his thick lips and his almond eyes. He knew he shouldn’t have reached out but he did because he could not combat that inherent desire.

Pathetic. Youngjae wipes at the wetness lacing his lashes and breathes slowly, reminding himself there’s no use to crying. He can wail for the whole world to hear but it’ll be the equivalent of selling himself to a circus. There is no dignity in penny tosses.

He shuts his eyes and coordinates his breathing. One, two. One, two. One, two.

Youngjae, you can’t keep fighting against what your body needs. There’s nothing wrong with . Not all Alphas are bad people.

Minki’s pleading voice resonates through his head and Youngjae glimpses down at his empty hands. There are angry streaks of red scrawled down his flesh, glaring up at him menacingly. This hatred—no one understands what it is like to know your mother was abandoned by some filthy Alpha. No one knows what it is like to watch your mother get spit at for what an Alpha did to him, and for there to be a different class of awards so these precious Alphas get a pat on the back for nothing.

Sure, they may be a few somewhat good Alphas out there. Youngjae is generalising an entire group of billions but does it matter? Each one of them was born with a silver spoon in their mouths. They all were given the unfair upper hand and so they deserve to be vilified. Youngjae cannot be blamed for seeing each and every one of them in a bad light, or for believing they are inherently bad people.

Even the words come off petty on Youngjae’s tongue. Youngjae adjusts his cufflinks and ignores Junmyeon’s cordial greeting as the other saunters up to the sinks. He meanders out the bathroom.

Minki’s right. Youngjae simply hates them for what they are. And that won’t change any time soon.

Isn’t it tiring to keep on hating like this?

The mind can’t stop what the heart wants.

Youngjae rubs the remnants of soap into his arms and tries to rid the non-existent scent permeated into his flesh. He notes the time and heads back to his cubicle. Clipping out an envelope, he catches sight of a lanky lurking timidly in the hallway.

Swiftly pacing up to the Beta, Youngjae melts into a small smile when Junhong turns and notices him approaching. The taller man breaks out into a sheepish grin, bruises from before fully faded now.

“A-Ah, Youngjae!” Junhong chirps, fidgeting around as always. “I- Sorry, are you going for lunch now?”

“Mm. I have something for you,” Youngjae immediately replies, pulling out the envelope from behind his back. Junhong blinks and curiously pries it open, slipping out a wad of cash.

He thumbs through it in utter shock, a small frown scrawling onto his countenance as he reaches the last bill. His stare flickers from the crumpled olive notes to Youngjae’s hazel eyes.

“It’s the full refund.” Youngjae offers a smile. “Their business has been shut down too.”

“Oh.” Junhong bats his lashes and after a long moment, he manages to churn out a rather listless smile. Youngjae gazes up at him in bewilderment as Junhong nods, folding the envelope back.

“Alphas really are amazing, huh?” he surmises with a toothy grin, words slow and evidently far from elated. He pockets the cash and continues softly, “Thank you, Youngjae.”

“It’s no problem.” Youngjae lets his dissecting stare linger for a while more on the Beta as he attempts to decipher the almost dispirited mien chiselled into Junhong’s face. Should he not be over the moon that he finally wrenched back his money from those bastard conmen?

Or… is Junhong upset that Youngjae took matters into his own hands? Youngjae seized the receipt from Junhong without asking for permission and abruptly dealt with the situation while leaving not a single memo. Of course Junhong would be unhappy—Youngjae had no right to interfere.

Junhong has his pride. Just like he does.

They submerge into a seven feet silence, Youngjae folding his lips and keeping mum as they enter the cafeteria. Junhong places down his bottle and discreetly fingers out a few notes from the envelope, reluctance crisp in his timid gestures. When they get in line, Junhong distractedly handles his order, several Alphas snickering to themselves.

They settle down with their trays quickly. Youngjae’s fingers curl as the queer quietness persists amid the clashing rigour of background voices and haughty laughter.

Clearing his throat, Youngjae starts quietly, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

After a fleeting pause, Junhong seems to eventually digest Youngjae’s words. He snaps his head up and hastily assures, “You shouldn’t be sorry. You returned my money. Thank you.”

“I should be sorry for burdening you even outside of work,” Junhong’s voice shrivels into a contradictory grin, shame pinned into his bared teeth. He rubs the back of his neck and deliberates lengthily, before his eyes eventually flicker with a spark.

“Um, I… I want to make it up to you,” Junhong stammers, noticeably swallowing as he averts his gaze. He musters up another embarrassed simper and coughs, “Can I treat you to dinner some time?”

It is instinct for Youngjae to decline, both out of courtesy and the stringent fact that Youngjae steers clear of taking relationships beyond the work sphere. Compounded with his loathing for privileged Alphas, there was never a reason for Youngjae to forge any sort of bonds with his colleagues. Junhong was an exception for he was an underdog in a company that crunched his stature and made sure he slouched as if he had no place to be above the rest. He took pity on a boy that’d been there for four years and was still treated like dirt.

Youngjae presses his lips together and decidedly churns out a smile. It’ll only take an hour or so. He has long become accustomed to the fibre scrunching up his complexion and the dried crimson suffocating his skin. “Okay.”

“Wait, r-really?” Junhong blurts in astonishment. “You- you want to go out for dinner with me?”

“Yeah. But you better prepare your wallet,” Youngjae jokes softly. If it’ll help even out the imbalance between them, he is willing to spare a few hours on a weekend outside the comforts of his home. He himself has never been fond of extorting someone else’s charity—a favour done for him must be returned, else he would feel unsettled. It was primarily the reason why he still wires a portion of his monthly pay cheque to Yoochun, so as to repay the debt his mother incurred, despite Yoochun stating there was no need to.

For a moment, he wonders what Yoochun thinks of the sum he has been periodically returning since years ago. He probably assumes Youngjae is wedded to some faceless, wealthy Alpha, living in a bed of roses with nothing more to worry about.

How wry. Youngjae sobers out of his trance to frame Junhong’s glistening, soft smile, incandescence drawn over the brown of his irises. The afternoon drizzles away into the clack of button keys and murmurs all around, office atmosphere dwindling as evening blotches over the horizon.

It’s eight o’clock by the time he knocks off, dreadful blue light from the screen rotting off his skin. He muses momentarily as he watches his colleague slog away, dreary grey stabbed into their eye circles. There really is nothing glorious about being an Alpha. They live a humdrum, monotonous life of nine to five and yet they still parade around as if they’re some superior beings. Maybe it’s a form of comfort for these losers trapped in the office that somehow, this repetitive cycle comes with an elevation of status that makes them better than everyone else. At least.

Throwing on his coat, Youngjae stops by the restroom. He uses the cubicle and washes his hands, letting out a sigh. Pacing out of the office, he slips his phone out of his pocket and waits for it to switch on. Daehyun will be waiting at the car park for him in fifteen minutes.

He scrolls through the multitude of messages from Minki. The elevator ride down to