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Scaramouche was no stranger to being watched. Back in Tatarasuna, when he was still called the Kabukimono, he had often been subjected to the amused, though mostly perplexed stares by the people who found his behavior to be quite eccentric. He had yet to learn how to fit in among humanity, and this gap in his knowledge made it apparent that he was far from human. Still, that didn’t stop the people of Tatarasuna from welcoming him with open arms.
They saw him as one of them. No matter how strange he acted. That, however, had been a long time ago. These days, he no longer walked through the beaten paths of Tatarasuna. Instead, he resided deep within the frozen landscape of Snezhnaya.
He wasn’t the Kabukimono anymore.
Rather, he had been granted a new title. He was now known as Scaramouche, or the Balladeer, the Sixth of the Fatui Harbingers.
His rank alone was enough to draw eyes wherever he went. His status touted him as someone important, that he was someone powerful, and thus the very ground he walked on should be treated with respect. But, even before he climbed to such a position, he had already gained the notice of many. He supposed that it made some sense. After all, he was one of the few individuals who Pierro, the Director of the Fatui, personally brought to Snezhnaya.
Nobody knew why. He didn’t seem all that special at first glance. Though, no one dared to question Pierro.
Everyone just assumed that perhaps, he was someone brimming with potential. There were many within the Fatui who came across as ordinary on the surface. Only for them to later be revealed as competent in their respective fields.
Aside from that, there were those who just admired his appearance. He wasn’t oblivious to any of this.
Scaramouche knew that he was beautiful.
Very much so. His face was fair; with his skin as pale as snow, his eyes a glimmering indigo, and his lips tempting many to steal a kiss from its softness. It was only natural that he became the center of attention with features as lovely as his. As such, the gazes and the murmurs that followed him never caught him off-guard.
It sometimes grated on his nerves, of course. Constantly being gawked at wore him thin, and as much as he delighted in being admired in public, he preferred to be left alone. Even so, he knew that he could never entirely escape the stares.
Whatever. He had gotten used to them after all this time.
However, one day, something strange happened.
Scaramouche had been walking through the halls. The people whom he passed by all stiffened. They averted their eyes, posturing themselves so that they seemed smaller than they actually were. To him, that wasn’t an unusual occurrence. Despite his visual appeal, he was also known for his ill temper, so even if many found him alluring, they also feared him just as much.
What happened next was unexpected though.
They scrunched their noses, turning their faces away from him. Some even covered their noses either with a handkerchief or with their own hands. This has never happened before. It made him raise a brow, narrowing his eyes at this act of disrespect.
“What?” Scaramouche snarked, “Do I smell as if I bathed in garbage?”
A brave servant shook their head, “N- Not at all, Lord Harbinger. It’s just your… perfume. The scent of it is overwhelming.”
Perfume?
Scaramouche had never worn perfume. He was about to berate the servant for lying to him, but before he could do so, he realized that everyone else had nodded, agreeing with them. Either all these people were gutsy enough to try to make a fool of him, which was unlikely due to his rotten reputation, or they were somehow telling the truth, which he also found hard to believe.
What perfume were they talking about? He couldn’t even smell its scent.
It couldn’t be that his nose was broken. When he left Dottore’s laboratory earlier that day, he managed to sense the whiff of antiseptic that clung to his sleeves.
That couldn’t be it though.
Its clinical odor was too faint for it to be the scent that presumedly followed after him. Could it be that they had fallen ill? Were there even ailments that affected the nose, making them smell what didn’t exist? He shook his head.
If that was the case, then why was he the only one emitting such a scent?
None of this made any sense. He walked to his room, locking the door once he was inside. He then took in a deep breath, inhaling near his wrist, where he could hopefully smell whatever fragrance was lingering on his body.
He repeated this a few more times.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Only for him to still smell nothing. No matter how hard he tried to chase that supposed smell that made everyone who neared him wrinkle their noses, he only detected the clinical bite of the coolant that Dottore often used, as well as the cold air of Snezhnaya itself. There was nothing overwhelming that would make grown people be forced to cover half their faces as though he was producing a rancid odor.
Scaramouche scowled. He didn’t know what to make of the wrinkled noses that followed him wherever he went that day.
“This is ridiculous,” He muttered.
It just didn’t make any sense. He was left frustrated and confused, uncertain if there was even a problem in the first place. When he later attended a required Harbinger meeting, the other Harbingers didn’t react to his alleged perfume. Some looked at him curiously, but none of them had any intense reactions.
Could all those people have been messing with him? He gritted his teeth, irritated at the possibility. He would certainly make them pay for such a stunt.
Dottore stood beside him for the entire meeting. He was beaming with pride. It was as though he was showing off a successful creation of his. Scaramouche just ignored him, choosing to instead focus on what Pierro was talking about.
“Come visit the laboratory later,” Dottore told him after the meeting concluded.
Scaramouche crossed his arms, “I was there just this morning. Don’t tell me you have another experiment in mind.”
“Nothing of the sort,” Dottore chuckled, “I simply enjoy your company. Is that so wrong?”
“...Fine. I’ll drop by.”
Dottore hummed in approval. He left after that, probably to return to whatever trial he had been conducting before the meeting started. Scaramouche was about to leave too, but before he could step outside the meeting room, he was stopped by Pierro’s rough voice.
“Scaramouche,” Pierro said.
“Yes?” Scaramouche turned around. He wondered what this was about.
“We need to talk.”
Scaramouche looked around the room. He realized that all the other Harbingers were gone by now. He was all alone with Pierro, who appeared to have waited until everyone else departed before he called for his attention.
Had he done something wrong? He hadn’t even yelled at any of his subordinates that day. He was too focused on identifying the scent that was said to have been following him wherever he went. He still didn’t know what scent it was that made everyone so uncomfortable.
“What about?” Scaramouche rested his hand against his hip.
He watched as Pierro’s visible eye hardened. That wasn’t good. He racked his mind, trying to recall if he had recently committed an act egregious enough to warrant Pierro’s attention. There were the usual complaints. How he was too harsh with his subordinates, going so far as to hit them if he deemed his cruel words insufficient.
But, Pierro had never reprimanded him for doing so in the past. It also wasn’t as though he was the only Harbinger who handled the people under him harshly.
“I understand that due to your nature as a puppet, you have different biological functions to the rest of us. You lack certain traits, right?” Pierro began. Scaramouche was uncertain where this was going. Why was Pierro bringing up his unique anatomy?
“Tch. So?”
Pierro stepped forward, “Not necessarily. It’s just… am I correct to assume that your nose is unable to pick up natural pheromones?”
“Yes,” Scaramouche grunted, “And what of it?”
It wasn’t a secret within the Fatui that he wasn’t exactly human. He had been created rather than born, made a puppet who greatly resembled the humanity who he surrounded himself with. He possessed the same features as them, wore the same clothes that draped over their bodies, spoke in the same intonation as they did, and overall, experienced the world as any normal human would have. Yet, no matter how much he passed as one, he was anything but.
He didn’t hunger. He didn’t thirst. He had no need for sleep, and he had a lifespan that could last more than a hundred of their lifetimes. There was also the matter of pheromones. Humans were so complicated.
Each of them had a secondary gender.
Alphas. Betas. Omegas. He came to learn of them during his time in Tatarasuna. He knew that they were distinct, with their biology different from one another, and their social roles typically limited to which secondary gender they presented as.
Scaramouche knew that most of the Fatui’s soldiers were Alphas and Betas. Similar to how the more administrative duties were given to Omegas.
There were certain generalizations.
None of which he cared about because, as a puppet, he lacked a secondary gender. He wasn’t affected by the woes caused by them. He had no ruts or heats that made Alphas and Omegas have to take a short leave from their work. He couldn’t be marked or mated, for he lacked any scent glands of his own, and he had no genitalia.
As he already stated, he also couldn’t smell any of the natural pheromones produced by said scent glands of normal humans. Their redolence forever remaining a mystery to him.
It had been a blessing to be untouched by the chaos that resulted from secondary genders. He faced none of the judgment that came with them. Nobody could demean him for what he wasn’t—neither the overbearing Alpha, the enduring Beta, nor even the emotional Omega.
Scaramouche simply was.
Pierro knew of this. The other Harbingers were also aware that he was different. It was why he was left unbothered when it came to such matters.
Tartaglia had a rut recently? So what?
Arlecchino smelled like the pups from the House of the Hearth? Okay, and? How was that any of his business?
Among the Harbingers, Sandrone was the only other person who could understand him. Though they had different creators, and different anatomies as a result, she, too, was a puppet. Similar to him, she also lacked a secondary gender, meaning that she possessed the same benefits that he had. However, they hardly got along with each other, as such, this commonality meant nothing to them.
Pierro looked him up and down.
He then scrunched his nose, similar to how the people he passed by earlier did. That led to a pit forming in Scaramouche’s stomach. Were those people not lying, after all? Did he really have an overwhelming scent trailing after him?
“Do tell Dottore to stop flaunting his scent. I know that he’s quite eager these days, but even for him, this is too much.” Pierro walked out of the room after that.
He left Scaramouche standing there, entirely confused by what just happened. Did Pierro really stop him just to talk about Dottore? Why didn’t he just talk to Dottore before he returned to his laboratory? If his scent was that much of an issue, then why bring Scaramouche, someone who couldn’t even smell his scent, into this? It was difficult to comprehend Pierro’s thought process at times.
Seriously.
Was it because Pierro was an Alpha? Did he not want to have that conversation with Dottore because he was an Omega? It made Scaramouche frown.
Alphas and their delicate sensibilities.
Of the three, they were definitely the most annoying.
Fine. Dottore invited him to his laboratory anyways. He would do as Pierro wanted, even if he was baffled by their earlier exchange. For a moment, he wondered to himself what Dottore’s scent was like. Perhaps, it was a sweet fragrance, like he heard most Omegas had. Then again, Dottore had always been odd.
It wouldn’t be a surprise if his scent was atypical of an Omega. Not that it mattered.
Scaramouche could never savor it anyways.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
Dottore was pleased when Scaramouche entered his laboratory. He gestured for him to come closer, holding onto his wrist once they were but a step apart.
Scaramouche had grown used to Dottore’s inclination for tactile sensations. He often grabbed his hand, choosing to intertwine their fingers together, as he then buried his face into his shoulder. It felt weird for Scaramouche, but he excused it as Dottore acting like an Omega.
As far as he knew, Omegas were fond of touch. They thrived when it came to physical intimacy, often seeking it out from those they trusted.
He figured he should be honored.
Dottore must trust him a lot. He could barely keep his hands off of him.
“Pierro wants me to remind you to stop flaunting your scent,” Scaramouche said after they both sat down, “He believes that you’re being too much.”
Dottore tilted his head, “Oh? Is that so?”
Scaramouche rolled his eyes, “M-hmm. Honestly, I don’t know why he went through me to tell you that. I can’t even smell your scent. If he would rather not tell you himself, then he could’ve asked anyone else.”
Something flickered across Dottore’s expression. It was a familiar sight.
It almost looked like amusement. Scaramouche was reminded of the sheer bliss that took over Dottore’s face whenever an experiment of his was going exactly as planned. He didn’t know what to think of it. He watched as Dottore took off his beak-shaped mask, revealing his blood-red eyes.
“Perhaps, he believed that you were the most fitting messenger.” Dottore’s voice was light as he raised Scaramouche’s hand and nuzzled it against his cheek.
“Why would he think that?”
Dottore laughed. It was as though, to him, the answer was obvious, “Are you not the person who I see the most? You’re in my laboratory more times than you’re in your own room. It’s only natural that whatever message Pierro doesn’t want to tell me personally, he’d deliver through you.”
Scaramouche found that, annoyingly, Dottore’s words made sense. They always did. Dottore’s brain never made any illogical assumptions. Still, there had been something about the way that he explained his reasoning, seeming so pleased with himself, which resulted in Scaramouche feeling suspicious. The corners of his lips couldn’t help but curl downwards, frowning deeply.
“He looked unsettled about it,” Scaramouche added.
“How rude,” Dottore huffed, “Hadn’t his mother ever told him that commenting on, or reacting to an Omega’s scent is very disrespectful. Why, I should file a complaint for that. Let’s see how unsettled he is then.”
“Will he even entertain such a complaint?”
“He certainly should. Omega rights, and all that.”
Dottore waved his hand, dismissive, as though Pierro’s opinion mattered little to him. He proceeded to shift his position, adjusting himself so that Scaramouche now leaned against his chest. His free hand then wrapped around his waist, holding him in a loose embrace.
Scaramouche simply let him. It wasn’t as if he minded the incessant affection. A part of him secretly craved it, not that he would ever admit this.
“Every now and then I wonder, had you been created with a secondary gender, what would it be?” Dottore mused.
Scaramouche used to ponder that too, questioning what curse he would have received had his creator made him more human. He shrugged, “My creator is an Alpha, so likely that.”
“An Alpha, huh? I can see it, but in my opinion, you’d make for a lovely Omega.” Dottore went on to guide Scaramouche onto his lap.
“How so?”
Scaramouche was curious.
“Well, for one, your physique. While not all Omegas look the same, they tend to look delicate. Muscular Omegas, too, have this air to them,” Dottore explained. Was that meant to be an insult? Was Dottore saying that because he was shorter than him?
“I’m not small.” Scaramouche glared. There was no real heat behind his eyes however.
He wasn’t truly offended.
“Aren’t you? But, look at how easily you can fit in my arms.” Dottore’s grin widened as he then cupped Scaramouche’s cheeks. He brought his face closer to his own, “Hush, dear. Don’t sulk. I mean it as a compliment, really.”
Scaramouche scoffed, “Hmph, and what else? That can’t be the only reason why you think I’d be an Omega.”
“Of course not. You also have quite the temper. Contrary to popular belief, Omegas are actually very fierce. We bite when we’re provoked, no matter how dangerous the opponent. It’s in our nature to be protective, and you, my dear, are the most intense person I know,” Dottore said with a far off look in his eyes, as if he was remembering a distant memory.
It made Scaramouche’s chest tighten.
How strange.
The more that Dottore spoke, the more that he praised his ‘Omegan’ qualities. He highlighted them, repeatedly telling him that he could have been an amazing Omega had his creator made him one.
Scaramouche liked that he had no secondary gender.
It was more convenient for him. Secondary genders were messy and at times, disgusting. But, as Dottore stared at him with those eyes, he suddenly became curious as to what it would have been like had he been an Omega.
“You’d be my Omega. My pretty, perfect Omega,” Dottore murmured.
Scaramouche’s breath hitched.
“Ah, but who cares? You’re no Omega, yet you’re still just as pretty and perfect.” Dottore’s lips then pressed a short kiss against Scaramouche’s cheek.
Heat flooded his skin. His face burned red, leaving him flustered as he averted his gaze. He wasn’t blind. It had been obvious that Dottore was infatuated with him. He knew since the very beginning. Dottore just sought him out so often, more so than even the most affectionate Omegas ever would had their intentions been platonic.
He used to believe that Dottore would get over it in due time. Why wouldn’t he?
Dottore was a beautiful Omega, after all.
He could have anyone that he wanted, be it Alpha, Beta, or a fellow Omega. It made little sense for him to still choose someone like Scaramouche.
Scaramouche could never satisfy Dottore. He lacked the proper anatomy to satiate his heats, and the materials used to create him made it so that he could never be marked. He couldn’t even scent Dottore because that was another biological component that he didn’t have.
“Are you sure about this?” Scaramouche asked when Dottore’s mouth was but a short distance away from his own.
“I’ve already staked my claim on you a long time ago.”
Their lips connected soon after.
It was then that it dawned on Scaramouche that the overwhelming perfume that clung to him was, in fact, Dottore’s scent. For the entire day, he was parading around that he belonged to Dottore—alarming even Pierro with how much he had been scented. He must have been swimming in his fragrance, drowning everyone else around him with a claim that he didn’t even know he had.
“You’re mine,” Dottore uttered after they separated.
Scaramouche didn’t refute him. Rather, he asked, “What does your scent smell like?”
Dottore’s eyes crinkled.
“Like cactus flowers.”
How fitting. Scaramouche then wrapped his arms around Dottore’s neck. He leaned in for another kiss, thinking to himself how much he wanted for his own nose to be able to take in Dottore’s scent.