Work Text:
The scent of rain on London pavement clung to Will as he unlocked the door of his home office – a converted spare bedroom littered with papers both important and not, empty coffee bottles bearing the Rodds Iced Coffee logo and the ever-present hum of his laptop with about a million video ideas. Maybe a billion at this rate.
Outside, the dense city pulsed, but inside, a quiet melancholy echoed. It had been a good day: filming with Ieuan and the crew, a productive Rodds meeting with James over video call, laughter about some ridiculous comment section war. Yet, the familiar ache settled in his chest as he recalled the end of the call.
James’s voice, warm and resonant as ever: “Wish I could smell the rain on you, Will. Bet it mixes with that… you know. That you smell.” He’d laughed it off, his usual charming self, but Will had seen it - the fleeting, almost imperceptible tightening around James's eyes though his glasses, the echo of a loss James had carried since childhood.
Anosmia.
James Marriott, Alpha, musician, co-owner of a burgeoning coffee empire, YouTube personality, fearless commentator on the absurd…simply and utterly unable to smell the scent that defined anyone, be that of his own Omega partner or anyone else. He couldn't smell anything - not the sharp bite of coffee beans, the tang of sea salt carried from Brighton Pier, not the comforting, complex cedar-and-citrus sweetness that was uniquely Will’s Omega signature. Nothing.
To a normal person, Alpha, Beta or Omega, it was a death sentence, a marker of being alone forever without any way to bond or have feelings for anyone and anything around them. James compensated with an almost supernatural sensitivity to sound. He could dissect a complex piece of music into bits and pieces that even a seasoned musician would struggle to hear (despite James being such a person), turning an entire song or sheet of lyrics on its head. To him, his ears were his world, but it was a world - as James would quote - that was missing something and he couldn’t fix it.
Will was aiming to fix it today.
The papers on his desk, mostly paperwork for Rodds and his other philanthropic boards, filled his storage and brushed him as he sat back down at his desk, but there was other fodder in front of him just as important - plan in motion, a swirling, passionate cluster of notes with instruments next to them and blank music sheets that Will’s pen twitched over before he had to put it back down in frustration.
It had started 2 weeks ago, a desperate, secret project born from love. If he can't smell me, let him hear me, Will had thought. Translate his scent, his feelings, his being into music for only James to hear and understand. Create a stronger bond somehow with its power.
He’d asked a friend to give him some pointers on just how to go about it, as he didn't know shite about music unless he was listening to it and now, here he was, with a bunch of notes (literally and figuratively), recommended instruments and only some idea of where to go next.
He imagined James, back in his Brighton flat overlooking the grey churn of the English Channel, likely dissecting camera footage from one of his very rare videos these days or arguing with suppliers for Rodds or worse, his tour manager, over the phone. Tall, lanky frame hunched slightly, messy dark hair falling into eyes that missed nothing, hand tapping out a beat on his side…
Closing his eyes, Will distanced himself from any thought of James as he inhaled deeply, conjuring the layers of his own nature and drowning out the latter as he tried to concentrate. He didn’t just want the biological Omega scent that made him stink like an entire orchard in the sun, but everything that made him Will.
The sharp Newcastle wit? That was the staccato precision of a violin, sudden and bright.
His relentless energy, the drive that powered Rodds and his channel? The driving pulse of timpani, insistent and grounding.
The warmth he felt deep in his core when James pulled him close? The rich, enveloping embrace of a cello section.
The occasional flashes of self-doubt, the vulnerability he showed only to James? A solitary, melancholic oboe phrase.
He started playing around with the music program he’d paid for and downloaded on a whim. The cedar notes of his scent soon became the main theme - deep cellos intertwined with warm violas, a foundation of strength and security. A flicker of mischief - the memory of James recoiling dramatically from a tin of baked beans during a shared gifting vlog at Will’s filming office - translated into a playful, syncopated flute melody dancing over the top.
He then layered in the brightness of citrus – not lemons, but clementines, wishing he could somehow translate the harmony notes of a cantaloupe in there – using high, clear chimes and sparkling glockenspiel.
The soft, sweet undertone unique to Omegas? He rendered it as a gentle, harmonic hum from a quiet synth pad, a shimmering veil over the orchestral texture.
It was long, painstaking and at times, frustrating, translating feeling, scent, identity into abstract sound required vulnerability Will wasn't used to as well as skill that even with technological assistance made him question every little step he put towards it.
He heard James’s bloody voice in his head constantly as he spent hours obsessing over the low bass notes that would represent his deep-rooted protectiveness. Should they rumble like distant thunder or resonate like a deep cello drone?
He thought of James’s past struggles – the sharp tang of whiskey James would never knowingly taste again due to his sobriety, the hidden fragility beneath the Alpha confidence. That became a dissonant, searching chord on the brass, resolving slowly into something warmer that wove it’s way through gently.
Weeks bled into months. Print outs on note paper filled his desk, cascading onto the floor. Empty Rodds coffee bottles piled up despite him trying to make a major effort of cleaning the office when needed. He of course, avoided composing at all when James visited London for his usual weekly filming session or just when he was around, guarding the secret fiercely.
The fear wasn’t that James wouldn’t like it - James would possibly love anything Will put in front of him - it was that James might not understand it and the work had all been for nothing.
If Will had to say anything, it was that the recording session was a blur. He’d hired a small ensemble that he knew locally from a friend of a friend – strings, woodwinds, a few key brass and percussion – and played them the sample he had, explaining it was a gift that he wanted to make for a musician friend.
Thankfully, they understood and after a couple of tweaks to both Will’s notes and their instruments, they were ready to go, Will waiting nervously on the sidelines as the recording booth swelled with sound.
When the final, resonant chord faded, held by the double basses before vanishing into silence, Will didn’t know how he felt yet - but clutching the master in his hands, he knew that it was now or never and thanked the people who had been there profusely before making arrangements to go to Brighton.
Hopefully James wouldn’t stand him up.
A week later. Brighton. Sea mist clung to the windows of James’s one spare bedroom turned cluttered music studio - his guitars, both tour and personal - leaning against walls, mixing consoles blinking, notebooks filled with lyrics scribbled in his messy hand, Will swore that it was James’s happy place. It also was exactly where he headed after giving Otto a heaping helping of affection (bloody cat was a menace) and placing his shoes and coat away, shoulders dropping a little as James turned to him with a grin when he walked in, starting to rise.
“Alright, Willie? Made the pilgrimage south without getting lost or killed? Shocker.” His voice was warm, familiar. Will almost melted. Almost.
Instead, he held out the CD case that had been sitting on his desk and then in his backpack like an explosive IUD, a nervous smile on his face. “Got you something. Been working on it for a while.”
James raised an eyebrow, bemused. “You? Working on music? Since when do you suddenly regard yourself as the next Mozart, lad? Did you get a sponsorship or something that made you do this? Or make this for you?”
“Just… listen? Please?” Will’s voice was barely above a whisper, all his nervous energy condensed into those three words, especially the last. “You’ll need headphones, good ones. I’d rather not play this on your speaker system if you can help it.”
“Oh…sure, yeah.” The familiar, playful scepticism lingered in James’s eyes as he took the CD, but he saw something else in Will’s expression that made him pause as he slid the disc into his player and chucked a pair of headphones over to Will (who never put them on) before getting his own, pressing play without another word. He leaned back against his console, eyes already closing as the first sounds reached him, his musician’s brain instantly engaging, analyzing.
The quiet opening - low strings, a tentative shimmer - filled his ears. Then, the cellos began. It wasn't just a melody; it was a feeling. Will watched tentatively as James moved slightly, unknowing if anything was happen as meanwhile, James had warmth surrounding him, profound and anchoring, like sinking into a sunlit armchair. It felt like…safety. Like the feeling he should get from something comforting and close.
Then, the flute entered - playful, quick, darting around the cellos. A smile touched James’s lips.
That’s Will’s laugh, how light it sometimes feels.
The chimes sparked – bright, clean and uplifting, like something sour and sweet at the same time while the driving percussion underneath them pulsed, steady and relentless, mirroring Will’s determination as well as his focus, a feeling James knew all too well that usually mingled with pride on his side of things
The deep bass notes resonated in James’s chest - protective, solid, immovable. Just like him when I was… His mind flitted to darker times, glasses clinking, the phantom burn he still ruthlessly avoided. Then came the searching, dissonant brass chord - a pang of remembered isolation. Before it could truly hurt, it smoothed, the sound settling back into the deep warmth, bolstered by steady drums. Rescued. Held.
The harmonic synth pad shimmered, a soft, sweet brilliance woven through it all - something tender, inherently nurturing, uniquely Omega. The music built, themes intertwining - the wit with the warmth, the energy with the protectiveness, the vulnerability caught and supported.
It was a complex, elegant, deeply moving musical piece that James had never heard the likes of before. It felt… achingly familiar, like a memory he knew in his bones but had never truly experienced until it suddenly had come rushing back to him in waves of nostalgia.
A sudden, specific woodwind phrase - light, slightly hesitant - made James flinch a little, feeling like something in the music had fallen, before a trembling solo violin sang - instantly bolstered by a rich swell of cellos and a grounding drumbeat. Me leaning on Will.
That was when the tears came, taking his breath away as it all finally added up. This wasn’t just music. This was…Will. Every note, every texture, every shift in mood was a facet of the man he loved, translated into the language his ears could understand, the comforting closeness he craved since he was young, but could never scent and he wanted to drown in it instantly.
The final chord resonated, deep and profound, holding the silence of the studio for a long, suspended moment before fading into quiet.
James didn’t move for a long while, seemingly too stunned to do so, before he finally turns to face Will, who was stills standing at the door, watching him carefully.
Standing from his chair, he removed the headphones, taking one step, then another, closing the distance. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just searched Will’s face. “You…” James’s voice was thick, choked. He swallowed hard. “You…you got someone to compose yourself. As music.”
Will nodded, a flicker of relief chasing the fear in his eyes. “Yeah. Tried to, anyway. Wanted to show you what you couldn’t perceive. Was it that bad?”
James didn’t say anything, but he reached out, his large Alpha’s hands surprisingly gentle as they framed Will’s face. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against Will’s, a gesture of profound connection that transcended scent.
“It’s… incredible,” James breathed, his voice raw with emotion as he pulled Will closer, burying his face in the crook of Will’s neck where the scent should bloom strongest for him. . “Will… I heard you. My Omega, I heard you.”
Will simply held him tightly, the pounding of James’s heart against his chest louder than any orchestra as James just kept whispering “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.” before James pulled away slightly to capture his lips in a breathless, fluttering kiss.
To Will, it tasted like love, just as much as it tasted like music.