Chapter Text
“No,” Thomas shifted in his seat as he cut off the interviewer. “I’m beta, actually.” The interviewer’s eyes widened, his face flushed even as Thomas smiled, unaffected. He wasn’t the first interviewer who only knew that one member of Måneskin was omega and guessed it was Thomas. The interviewer might have apologized, but Damiano and Victoria, sitting in the front, talked over him, pointing to Ethan as the band’s sole omega. The interviewer redirected the question about being the only omega in the band, and Ethan answered in a calm, concise, very Ethan-like way. Thomas always thought Ethan was the ideal omega, with his dark eyes, gentle face, and quiet demeanor. But sitting next to Thomas, all people seemed to register was that he was tall and muscular. And Vic, who sat alert, anticipating a follow up about being the only girl, was more likely to be mistaken for an alpha. No one guessed Damiano incorrectly, every inch of him was alpha. Thomas was tall with light-colored eyes, but he knew compared to the others, it was easy to ignore that in favor of his features that were more omega.
The interviewer still seemed a little flustered, and Thomas hated how it was as if mistaking him as omega, as someone like Ethan, was some grievous insult. It happened more now that they were doing international appearances, in Italy the topic of their theseis, which of them was alpha, beta, or omega, was pretty played out. But on the international stage, he knew it was something people were curious about, so it was more common for people to call him an omega.
Thomas couldn’t blame anybody for it, he made the same mistake himself when he was fourteen. He even convinced his parents, both beta, that they had a child who had a different phenotype, despite the statistical improbability. Had to go to a doctor and everything. He had some tests done only to find out he was, in fact, beta. He had just started high school at a desegregated school and was exposed to almost a third of his peers being a different phenotype; he was going through puberty; and he was possibly gay: these all were blamed for Thomas’s confusion. His doctor called him “omega-lite” and laughed when Thomas told him that wasn’t “politically correct.”
During times like this, Thomas thought it was convenient that he didn’t know English very well, since when he spaced out as he did just now, everyone assumed he just didn’t follow along. Damiano looked back up at him, grinning at whatever joke Vic had just made, like he was checking on him. Thomas smiled back, and Damiano turned back around, his scent rolling off of him. It reminded Thomas of why he had thought he was an omega when he was younger.
The doctor he saw as a teenager referred him to a specialist, and a few weeks after learning he was just a regular beta man, he learned that he actually wasn’t. The specialist found he had a rare disorder that resulted in him being able to smell pheromones. The specialist assured him that, other than being more sensitive to certain smells than other beta people, he would still live a normal life. But it never felt like a normal life, and he was never sure he wanted it to.
“—most schools here in Germany have been desegregated for a few decades, but that’s not true for Italy. Your high school was very uncommon, yes?” The interviewer was still on the theisis line of questioning. “Can you tell us more about how you four met, and how you got along at the beginning?”
“Yeah, it was only desegregated for a few years before we started,” Vic took the lead on this one, though Damiano did hold up two fingers for the two years before he started high school. “But for us, it was never a problem that we had different theseis. We just got along really well, and we worked really well together as a band.”
The rest of the conversation turned back to their music and recent success. Comfortable territory.
———
Thomas continued to play the guitar as if uninterrupted when Damiano snaked an arm around his neck, and Thomas leaned his shoulders back against him. He closed his eyes and let his mouth fall open. It made for a pretty picture, which was important in a live recording like this one, with a limited audience in the room. But Thomas also couldn’t resist tasting Damiano’s exudation filling the air, letting it coat his tongue. It wasn’t the same as through his nose, taste was a duller sense for it, but it was a different sensation altogether. A dirtier one. One his tongue, he couldn’t read the pheromones, he could only taste how Damiano stained the air with sweat and nidor.
Damiano pulled away, then he went off-script. He swept aside Thomas’s hair, wet with sweat, and grazed his teeth over his bared neck before pulling away completely, slipping into the next verse as if he didn’t need to breathe. Fortunately the camera would be glued to Damiano, and no one would catch that Thomas was left a total mess, so long as his dutiful hands continued to play.
It was on brand for Måneskin, the playful, flirty touching, especially around the taboo of mistyping- betas with non-betas, or an alpha not with an omega, particularly a beta. And with Thomas and Damiano both being men, it was irresistibly scandalous. Still, Damiano never mimed at claiming him before. Maybe the singer saw it as another way to get a reaction, to normalize the image of an alpha and a beta by aggressively portraying it. That’s what they did.
But claiming didn’t work on betas, as much as Thomas secretly wished the glands in his neck were close enough to the surface of his skin to be damaged by the bite, that his pheromones were strong enough to make Damiano really want to do that, that wasn’t possible. Many omega felt it was an archaic and oppressive practice that only half-worked anyway, so even thinking about it felt wrong. Even playing at the act of claiming felt wrong.
If Damiano did claim him, as if the playbite meant anything in real life, it would just be a show, a performance, just taking a beta man because he wanted him. And Thomas wanted that. He wanted it so bad it made him feel sick. He felt bile rise in his throat but his mouth was filled only with the taste Damiano left him.
—————————-
Thank God there was only one more song after that - and they were done. Thomas wasn’t sure he could have handled too many more. He barely said more than the word “bathroom” to people as he made his way down the hall backstage to the men’s bathroom. The other three were chatting excitedly to the staff about the performance, but all Thomas was thinking about was getting away from everyone and their smells. In the bathroom, he wouldn’t have to deal with any smells, alpha or omega, and he could pull himself together.
He locked himself in one of the stalls and leaned against the door. He breathed deep . I t was so clean and sterile, safe, and cold. He breathed again. He remembered that a few weeks after he learned about his disorder, he lied about band practice in order to attend an LGBTQ support group. He was still so confused and he hoped there’d be answers. All he learned was that going was a mistake, and he excused himself to go to the bathroom, and hid in a stall for an hour until his mom came to pick him up. At the time, he felt so sick he thought he’d actually throw up. But what he remembers the most vividly was just feeling so sick of feeling guilty and wrong all the time. It’s been a long time since he’d felt like that.
Damiano and his damn mouth.
There was no need to hide for an hour this time, at least. He splashed some water on his face, letting the faucet run. He’d heard that putting your face in water would have a calming effect as a result of some instinct. He wasn’t so sure if he trusted his instinct, but there was no way to plug the sink anyway. Also, he wanted to preserve whatever was left of his makeup. He’d settle for just listening to the water run. He heard someone walk in, and smelled Damiano before he saw him in the reflection.
“Wrong bathroom,” Thomas told him, pumping soap in his hand and running both under the water, just to have something to do with them.
“Not in Germany it isn’t.” Damiano delivered the reminder with that smirk of his. Thomas had completely forgotten, here the men’s bathroom wasn’t just for beta men, but alpha men, too. So much for a refuge from his smell. He couldn’t be too upset about it, though. It was Damiano.
“You smell good,” Damiano leaned against the counter. Thomas gave him a side eye and scoffed at the attempt at flirting. For that to be believable, Thomas would have to be wearing a fragrance, or just straight up not beta.
“Is that why you wanted to bite me so bad?”
“Among other reasons,” Damiano handed him a paper towel when Thomas turned the faucet off, but Thomas couldn’t look at him when he took it, he was embarrassed by how his fingers shook.
“So, you gonna piss or what?” Thomas realized he just set Damiano up for a joke, to invite Thomas to help, but Damiano’s expression seemed too soft for that.
“Is that why you came in here?”
Thomas didn’t need pheromones to be easily read, he didn’t even need to answer.
“I didn’t think it would bother you,” Damiano said. And he had every reason to think it wouldn’t bother him, considering everything else they did on stage. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Thomas shook his head. I liked it. He hoped that he didn’t have to say this for Damiano to understand, either. I have the problem, it’s not you. Never you. “Just took me by surprise, is all,” He threw the paper towel away, and looked at Damiano. “What are you thinking about?” He raised his eyebrows. Damiano wasn’t nearly as readable if he couldn’t pick it up in his pheromones. What was he thinking, now— or when he decided to bite him, for that matter?
“X Factor,” The smell Damiano shrugged off his shoulders told Damiano more than enough. He was thinking about the first time Thomas helped alleviate his rut.
“It’s been what— like a year since we last did anything?” Thomas could never do what an omega could, and take his knot, but he used to help alleviate the discomfort temporarily, in any way he could. But it had been a while since Damiano wanted his help.
“Just under, I think. Still, too long.” The smell emanating from him was overwhelmingly needy. It was unfair. “Thomas— “ Thomas flinched at the way he said his name.
“You’re the one who wanted to stop.” He hated how his voice came out bitter and small, how he couldn’t make himself any louder. He wished he just stayed in the bathroom stall for an hour. Damiano looked surprised, and he opened his mouth but Thomas cut him off again.
“Just piss or whatever it is you came in here for—” Thomas moved to walk around him, but Damiano grabbed him and pulled him close to his body like a hand in poker. Their mouths met hard and fast. Damiano tasted like salt and ash. The want drifted off his neck in what smelled like plumes. Thomas’s hands went to his neck, twisting his fingers into his hair, letting it sink into his skin. Damiano pulled back, and gasped like Thomas was his air supply.
“This is why we should be kept in different bathrooms.” Damiano barely gave Thomas time to smile before taking his mouth again. He was even less shy with his teeth now, and he pressed Thomas into the counter, the edge biting into his back.Thomas again wished he could be in the bathroom stall for an hour, but with Damiano. Damiano pulled away again, making a soft grunting sound that made Thomas want to plant himself back in place, but the look on Damiano’s face, the doubt and hesitation, then it crept into his pheromones. The atmosphere around them changed. The smell was similar to the last time, when Damiano decided he had enough. Thomas took his hand from his hair, not wanting that smell to stain in his fingers.
“They’re waiting on us,” Damiano’s voice was low and hoarse. Thomas sighed, and nodded. Damiano was still holding him tightly, so Thomas had to give him a look before Damiano noticed this and sheepishly let him go. He didn’t look him in the eye before he left. Thomas splashed more water in his face, make up be damned. He dried himself off, and waited a minute before following.