I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

The world shrank down to the frantic, uneven rhythm of two pairs of boots hitting stone. Cherion wasn’t just guiding Zarius, he was basically dragging him. His fingers were clenched so tight in the Duke’s sleeve that his knuckles had gone pale and numb. Behind them, the dining hall faded into background noise, clinking cutlery and those awkward, half-choked gasps from Yerel and Philia. Zarius had somehow, honestly, no clue how, managed to wheeze out one last painfully polite excuse. Something about needing rest. Something about his ”terribly fragile condition.”

Cherion didn’t hear the words. Not properly. All he could hear was that awful, wet cough, like it was tearing straight through his own chest.

”Just a little further,” Cherion hissed, though whether he was talking to Zarius or himself was anyone’s guess.

His vision was blurring at the edges, a dark, dizzying tunnel vision that only focused on the heavy doors of Zarius’s room. He practically kicked them open. The moment they were inside, he shoved the doors shut. He didn’t even wait to turn the lights up.

”Sit. Sit down right now,” Cherion commanded, his voice sharp and shaky at the same time.

He was trembling. It wasn’t just a tremor, his whole body was vibrating with an adrenaline spike so sharp it felt like poison. He reached out, his palms already beginning to itch with that familiar, warm hum. A faint, golden luminescence began to lick at his fingertips now ready to burst forth in a desperate, reckless flood.

”I’ll heal you. I can fix this, just hold still...”

The first sob broke out then. Ugly. Sudden. Completely out of nowhere. Tears hot as candle wax began to stream down his face, hot and stinging. He was fumbling with the buttons of Zarius’s tunic, his movements clumsy and panicked. His heart was pounding so hard. That dark stain on the handkerchief flashed in his mind again, burned in like a brand.

He’s dying. After everything we survived, he’s dying in a dining room because of a Prince’s stupid comment? Just what the fuc...

”Cherion. Stop.”

Zarius’s large hands shot out, wrapping around Cherion’s wrists with a grip that was definitely not the grip of a dying man.

”Look at me, Cherion,” Zarius said.

Cherion blinked through the tears and the blur. Zarius sat on the edge of the bed, looking... well, he looked perfectly fine. Better than fine. There was that sharp, dangerous glint in his eyes, the one he got when he’d just cornered something in the woods. He pulled one hand away to casually wipe his mouth with the back of his thumb.

Cherion stared. The ”blood” on Zarius’s lip wasn’t bright red. Now that they were away from the yellow, flickering torchlight of the hall, it looked... off. It was too purple, too thick. Like... mulberry syrup mixed with something bitter.

”You’re not bleeding,” Cherion said quietly, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

”It’s an old trick of the border scouts,” Zarius said, voice back to normal. He even had the audacity to offer a small, almost smug smile. ”A bit of medicinal tonic kept in a bladder in the cheek. It mimics the appearance of a lung hemorrhage quite convincingly, don’t you think? I needed a way to end the night without spending another second listening to their voices. It was the only way to get us out of that room without drawing a sword.”

The silence that followed should’ve been peaceful. Instead, it sounded like crows arguing aggressively in Cherion’s head.

Cherion didn’t laugh. The terror that had been a mountain just transformed. It turned into something hot, sharp, and furious. The relief hit so hard it felt like a slap across his face.

So, he slapped back.

Smack.

He swung his hand and smacked Zarius’s arm. Hard. Zero hesitation.

”You absolute idiot!” Cherion screamed, voice cracking back to life. ”I thought my heart was going to stop! I thought you were dying for real!”

The humor of the ”beet juice” or whatever the hell it was didn’t touch him. He was sobbing in earnest now, the massive adrenaline crash finally hitting his nervous system. His legs gave out. He would’ve face-planted if Zarius hadn’t moved fast and quiet, catching him before he hit the ground.

Instead, Cherion ended up dumped onto Zarius’s lap. He tried to fight it for a second, shoving at the Duke’s chest, but his strength was gone, completely melted into a shaky, emotional mess. He buried his face in Zarius’s shoulder, clutching the fabric like it was the only solid thing left in the world, crying into the same tunic he’d just been trying to rip open.

”You said I needed to act,” Zarius murmured, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Cherion’s head. Gentle. Way gentler than expected, his fingers slipping through the messy locks of Cherion’s hair. ”You told me I needed to play the part of the ’declining’ Duke to keep them off balance.”

”I meant... I meant a fake limp! Or a pale face!” Cherion wailed into his shoulder. ”I didn’t mean coughing up your internal organs in the middle of the soup! You have to brief me first, you big, stupid idiot! Seriously!”

Zarius didn’t argue. He just held him, letting the storm of Cherion’s panic blow itself out. They sat there on the edge of the bed for a long time, the only sound the crackle of the fireplace and Cherion’s hitched, dying breaths as he slowly regained his composure. Zarius’s chest was warm and steady under his cheek. Real. Alive.

Finally, Cherion pulled back just enough to look at him, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy, his lower lip still doing that annoying, trembling thing.

”Well,” Cherion sniffled, wiping his nose with his sleeve, a gesture that would have horrified Philia, which made him feel slightly better. ”I suppose it worked. Yerel looked like he’d seen a ghost. And Philia... he looked like he was already picking out what black veil to wear to your funeral.”

Zarius nodded, his expression turning cold again at the mention of the guests. ”Let them talk. Let the rumors fly back to the Capital that the Wolf of the North is coughing himself to death. It’ll make the real culprits lazy.”

”It’s a good plan,” Cherion admitted, though his voice was still brittle. He grabbed Zarius’s hand, squeezing it with a desperate, crushing strength. ”But you have to promise. No more surprises like that. If you’re going to ’die’ for the sake of a mission, you tell me five hours before it happens. My heart can’t take it. I mean it.”

”I promise.”

Cherion let out a long, shaky breath and leaned back against his collarbone. He felt drained. Completely emptied out. But in that hollow space, a thought was beginning to take root, one he’d been trying to stomp down for... a while now.

He’d always told himself this was about survival. He was an aspiring transmigrator, right? This was just a story he was living through. He was staying with the Duke because they both got something out of it. They were business partners, that was the label he’d slapped on their relationship to keep things tidy.

But you don’t feel like your soul is being ripped out through your throat just because you think something bad happened to a business partner. You don’t feel that hollow, suffocating terror at the mere thought of losing them.

His heart and brain screamed it at him at the same time, the thought blasting like a speaker in his ears, loud and invasive.

Cherion closed his eyes, listening to the steady beat of Zarius’s heart under his ear. It was a strong sound. A permanent sound. And as he sat there, covered in the lingering scent of ”fake blood” and cold air, he realized he couldn’t deny it anymore.

He didn’t just need Zarius for protection. He didn’t just want him for safety.