Chapter Text
Connor could tell from the doctor’s expression that the news was bad.
“Do you have someone with you right now? You came to the appointment alone?”
“Yes,” he said, “no alpha.” Because he knew what underlying question was usually being asked.
“I won’t beat around the bush, then. The tests came back positive for scent deficiency syndrome. Quite advanced stages, as a matter of fact.“
Connor swallowed. He’d guessed that the symptoms lined up, but in the months leading up to this appointment—when he’d kept procrastinating on making the drive to Cedars-Sinai, blaming his overwhelming work schedule—he’d dismissed it as an option, considering his lifestyle. “That makes no sense. I’m not touch-starved, or anything like that. I’m an actor, for one…”
“Yes, we get a lot of those. Let me guess: you’ve been role-playing another designation while taking double doses of suppressants for months on end?” The doctor was a silver-haired Asian man who spoke with the off-hand authority of a department head. He levelled Connor with a dry, unimpressed look through his spectacles. “That makes things worse, not better. Of course many young people like you try this—usually they don’t notice side effects until much later. The severity of your case is abnormal, unless…”
He trailed off, an awkward look passing over this face. In the ensuing silence Connor’s phone buzzed loudly in the pocket of his jeans. Like a Pavlovian response it triggered a tiny, barely-there skip of Connor’s heart: a darkly comic suggestion on how to punctuate the sentence. Connor discovered with creeping horror that he knew exactly how the doctor’s thought was going to end.
“… you’re suffering from bond abandonment.”
“No,” Connor said. He tried to laugh it off, but he knew his eyes were too wide, the twist in his stomach too painful, for it to come off as genuine. “That’s not… I don’t have an alpha.”
The doctor gave him a meaningful look. “I’m not here to pass judgement on your personal life, Mr. Storrie, but merely making a statement of probability based on medical evidence. The more facts we have, the more effectively we can treat this. You’re struggling with lost time, disorientation, nausea and loss of appetite, yes?” He didn’t even bother glancing up from the clipboard as he checked off each point with a tap of his thumb. “I cannot emphasize how important it is to listen to your body right now. I’m aware the general population is severely undereducated when it comes to issues of omega health, but untreated SDS can lead to lowered immunity, chronic pain, permanent infertility, and yes, in certain cases, loss of life.”
Connor knew his eyebrows were raised to high heaven. “So you’re telling me I need to scent an alpha so badly that—“
“—your body is undergoing fight-or-flight levels of stress, and your mind is trying to survive by shutting down at unpredictable times. You may think you’re going about as usual with some minor inconvenience, Mr. Storrie, but I assure you these test results already indicate a rapid decline. Omegas are able to endure incredible discomfort in their lives, I know. But SDS is easily treatable.”
“This is wild,” muttered Connor. “Considering that I’m surrounded by alphas all the time.”
The doctor’s lips twitched. “This should be easy for you, then. I’m prescribing a minimum of two weeks of intense scent therapy—that means daily—followed by around three months of weekly scenting, depending on how your levels respond. Full recovery might take longer. Do you have a partner in mind? If not, Nadia will book you with a service alpha on your way out. No suppressants, of course, and no scent masking for an hour before and after each session. Not for you, and not for the alpha.”
“I’m going on a press tour soon—”
“Then I highly recommend your team be made aware of your situation. At least for this first week, your service alpha must accompany you at all times.”
“… Right. Thank you, doctor.”
The receptionist, Nadia, handed Connor a brochure when he declined her offer to book a scent therapy session. The cover, printed on thin glossy magazine paper, showed an overlit close-up shot of two men embracing. The alpha was wearing a dark tank top, his thick neck and shoulders partially covered only by the omega’s bent head. Their facial features were cropped out so that the couple remained anonymous, a comforting fantasy to appeal to touch-starved omegas. The alpha’s arms bulged attractively as they tightly held the omega against him. Fighting a sudden wave of light-headedness, Connor formed a roll with the brochure and stuffed it into his coat pocket, making sure to check his phone on his way out. As expected, it was Hudson. Ready to storm NYC in four days?
Idk, Connor wrote back. Would it be weird if I brought someone with me?
??? came the reply.
Not feeling so hot. Doctor says I need to stay off suppressants for a while.
OK, but who are you bringing??
Idk yet. An alpha. Have really bad SDS apparently.
WHAT, sent Hudson.
It was the only warning Connor got before the phone started vibrating in his hand. He took the call, sidestepping on instinct through to the fire escape just as the elevator he’d called began to slide open to a dozen confused faces.
“Let me get to my car first,” was the first thing he said. “All of Cedars-Sinai does not need to hear about how scent sick I am.”
“An alpha?” said Hudson at the same time. “What am I, chopped liver?”
“You know what I mean. I need to start scent therapy right away. I can’t keep feeling like shit and losing time when press starts.”
“Losing time? I thought that sort of SDS was for old people.” Old maids, he was too kind to say. That was the assumption: that the afflicted were bitter, unattractive omegas, who after decades of singlehood were finally killed off by their biological loneliness. Connor had always hated the implication that singlehood wasn’t a valid life choice for an omega. Heavens knew that it was a statistically better experience than tying oneself to an alpha forever.
“Yeah, well,” he huffed. “Apparently I’m a rare case.”
“Okaaay,” said Hudson, clearly making a valiant effort to roll with it. “Are you in your car yet? Can we FaceTime?”
“One sec,” said Connor. He raced down the last few flights of stairs until he was underground and looked for signs to the correct parking area, sweat beading at his temples. It was unusual to lose his breath over such a short sprint. Then he had to stop while the hallway blinked before his eyes. “Ugh, shit.”
“You okay? Connor?”
“I’m a bit… fuck.”
He groped at the air until he found a wall—any wall—and used it to support the full weight of his body. His vision was fading in and out like a faulty screen. He could feel his grip around the phone slacken, the way his blood pressure was dropping and his arms were heavy, too heavy to hold up. He stumbled, the floor suddenly much closer to his face than it was a moment ago. “Huddy—call…”
Lost time.
When he came to, Nick was leaning over him, tapping gently at his cheek. Connor squinted up at the LED spots overhead, illuminating the ugly popcorn ceiling in the godforsaken parking area of Cedars-Sinai, and made a face.
“Jesus, Connor,” said Nick. “What the hell is going on?”
“What the hell…?” echoed Connor, trying to chase the fog out of his brain. “Seriously, he called you and not Tayler?”
“He called all of us. I think he was freaking out,” Nick said. “I said I’d take care of it, since I’m your manager and should be on top of this stuff.” He raised an eyebrow, but Connor could tell he was trying not to look worried. “Please tell me you saw a doctor and it’s nothing serious and you passed out because you forgot to eat, or something.”
“Give me a sec,” said Connor. “Fuck, this is embarrassing.”
He slowly sat up and closed his eyes, focusing on staying upright without puking. His body felt like it was made of jelly. He realized he could smell Nick’s alpha on him, the mingled scent of their shared home carried on his clothes. Nick had probably rushed to the car without changing when he’d gotten Hudson’s call. It was a sweet scent, warm and happy, of two people living together. It made Connor even more nauseous. He tried, and failed, to contain it.
Suddenly his body knew what to do. He lurched to his feet, bent his pounding head over the trash bin a few feet away, and vomited.
***
Connor stepped out after dark to hit a nightclub.
The morning’s events hadn’t exactly left him in the mood to hook up, but it was the simplest way to entice an alpha into scenting an omega they’d never met before. Like a responsible omega he wore a collar to protect his throat, but it was sheer and flimsy enough to come off as slightly slutty. He unbuttoned his shirt and applied enough make-up to be mistaken in dim lighting for some other blond boy. Texted the club owner and parked next to the service entrance, where a valet on her smoking break ushered him in.
Though he rarely frequented hotspots these days, ever since making it big he had unofficial VIP standing at most locales in WeHo. The music might be boring, but he liked this one for its private rooms and fancy bathrooms. They made hookups feel a little less sleazy and depressing.
On his way home afterwards, Connor almost felt like himself again. The alpha’s scent had set deep in his nose, sour and musky and typically masculine in a way that seemed to have placated his omega for the time being. He was tipsy, sweaty and tired, and wanted badly to shower, but the point of scent therapy was to bask in pheromones for as long as possible. Connor sighed; he’d worked since childhood on feeling compassion and acceptance towards his omega, but truthfully he disliked having to rearrange his priorities around this.
The TV was murmuring inside Connor’s apartment when he stumbled through the door. Had it been on when he’d left for the club? He fumbled one-handed for the light switch, absently looking for his phone, which was still set to Do Not Disturb. A few slow-witted seconds passed before he realized he wasn’t alone.
Hudson was lying on the sofa. His long body splayed over the full length of it, knees casually bent so he’d fit comfortably from arm to arm. The crown of his head was buried in Connor’s favourite throw pillow. A black and white movie from the Criterion channel flickered over his sleeping face. With the element of surprise on its side, Connor’s omega seized in anguished joy: he stood there staring for a solid minute, trying to regulate his spiking heart rate. Off suppressants, he felt humiliatingly out of control of his body. He could smell his scent already beginning to fill the room, warm and ecstatic.
He was still standing by the door when Hudson slowly blinked awake and noticed him. A smile sweetened his face as he burrowed deeper into the pillow and stretched out one foot. “Connie? You’re back?”
“Yeah,” said Connor. “When did you fly in?”
Hudson dipped his head sheepishly as he sat up. “I booked a flight after you passed out earlier. Nick said you were okay, but I wanted to see you.”
“We could have FaceTimed.”
Hudson shook his head. “You didn’t answer my texts. C’mere.” He patted the seat next to him, as if he wasn’t sitting on Connor’s sofa, in Connor’s living room. “I want to cuddle.”
Connor only hesitated for a moment. He was halfway across the room before he remembered that curing this affliction probably required staying away from Hudson. His omega ignored his warning and closed the distance. As he turned to face him, Hudson wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?”
Connor’s heart sank. “I have to stop using scent blockers when I’m not shooting.”
“Yeah, no, I get it. I read up on SDS on the plane.” The sleepy expression had left Hudson’s face, and suddenly he was staring at Connor’s outfit, from his fitted jeans to his rumpled shirt and smudged makeup. Connor shifted uncomfortably, lifting a hand to smoothen his collar. Its flimsiness suddenly felt embarrassing against his neck, where his scent gland was having a field day at being in Hudson’s presence.
When he lifted his gaze Hudson was frowning at him. He sounded almost angry. “You went clubbing? After Nick found you passed out in a parking lot, where you scared the hell out of us and puked your guts out for no reason?”
“Yes?” said Connor. “I needed to find an alpha, obviously.”
“Obviously,” said Hudson, sounding like he meant everything but. “You couldn’t hire a service alpha?”
“No, that stuff scares me.” Connor pursed his lips, annoyed at this line of inquiry. He glanced at the coffee table, where he’d left the brochure from the hospital, still trapped in its little half-roll. On the back cover, the touch-starved omega was frowning, alpha nowhere in sight. That omega, Connor thought, is so desperate that he’d agree to anything.
Connor’s own omega felt puny and ashamed under Hudson’s tense stare. He reached out tentatively and slid a finger down Hudson’s arm, hoping he’d get the message and draw him in for that cuddle. He sighed, “I’d rather try to find someone on my own, so it feels more real.”
“Real,” echoed Hudson, shifting away from Connor’s touch. The space between them on the sofa yawned wider. “So you met someone?”
Connor realized that his throat had grown too tight to speak. It was always like this: rejection of any kind from Hudson, no matter how small or unconscious, felt like Connor had been struck a blow so hard, he couldn’t think straight. Because Hudson was so generous with his love, and especially kind to him, their friendship easily survived these moments. Still, when they did happen, Connor’s omega spiralled a little.
“It’s been less than 24 hours,” Connor managed. “No, I did not meet someone.”
It was Hudson’s turn to look embarrassed. “Right.” He fell silent, seemingly at an unusual loss for words.
“Huddy?” Connor said softly. “Can we have that cuddle? I think I really need it.”
Hudson’s brows were drawn, the rise and fall of his chest visible as he swallowed instead of answering. He stared down to the side, as if Connor’s threadbare rug contained all the answers to the universe’s problems.
“You smell like alpha,” Hudson muttered finally. “Like someone else.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Connor. Of course that was it: alphas hated new scents in their safe spaces on instinct, viewing them as potential threats. Connor stood up and quickly repaired to his ensuite bathroom. It wasn’t ideal for his scent therapy, but he’d just have to start over tomorrow.
The ensuing shower was hot and satisfying, though his omega filled him with mid-level anxiety that it wouldn’t be enough to assuage Hudson, that the stranger’s smell would somehow linger past the multiple rounds of soap and shampoo.
Afterwards, with some hesitation, he opted to re-apply his usual scent blocker, just in case. He didn’t want to risk Hudson recoiling from him; sensitive as his omega was already feeling, his fractured morale couldn’t bear it. He threw on a pair of sweats and ambled back into the living room.
Hudson was sitting exactly where he’d left him fifteen minutes ago, staring blankly at the TV. The credits were rolling.
“Any good?” Connor asked.
Hudson jumped. “Jesus!” he said. “I didn’t—smell you.” His mouth opened and closed a few times in confusion. “You put on a blocker?”
Connor shrugged. “I didn’t want my scent to bother you. I’m not exactly great host material right now; it’s the least I can do.”
“Bother me?” Hudson leaned back against the couch, looking more confused than ever. “Why would it bother me?”
Instead of answering, Connor moved forward and straddled Hudson’s lap, knees digging comfortably into the leather seat. He closed his arms around Hudson’s shoulders and sighed. “Whatever,” he said. “Cuddle now.”
He felt Hudson press his face into his collarbone, nuzzling at him like he was seeking out a scent. He lifted his head and touched his closed mouth against the side of Connor’s neck, where Connor hadn’t bothered putting his collar back on. It was pointless with the blocker on, since there was no scent to tempt anyone. Hudson’s chest heaved, a hot breath that travelled down Connor's nape, and Connor couldn't tell if he was pleased or disgruntled. His hands gently rubbed over Connor’s waist.
“Right,” Hudson said. “Whatever.”