I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 42: The Unintended Headrest

"It has to work, Cherion. For both our sakes, I suspect."

Zarius’s voice seemed to vibrate through the floors of his bedchamber. He wasn’t looking at Cherion. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the far wall. There was a desperation to his tone.

Cherion, meanwhile, was busy trying to remember how to breathe. "It will," he managed, though it sounded more like a prayer than a promise. "I’ve spent enough time in that library. The math checks out. Mostly."

They were currently occupying a sprawling, velvet couch that felt far too soft for the gravity of the situation. Cherion had insisted on a respectable distance, so they sat at opposite ends, leaning inward just enough so their hands could meet in the vast, empty middle. It was an absurdly long stretch. Cherion felt like a child reaching for a forbidden sweet on a high shelf, his arm extended until his shoulder joint gave a faint, rhythmic pop.

The goal was simple, to test the direct, skin-to-skin contact to transfer the healing energy.

Absolutely no sex, Cherion screamed internally. He knew exactly what the "readers" of this world, if this really was the plot of that trashy ABO novel he’d skimmed in his past life, would be rooting for. They’d be howling for the smut. They’d be waiting for the Duke to lose his composure and for Cherion to surrender to the ’biological destiny’ of the trope.

But haha, no, Cherion thought with a spiteful little grin. Not today. Not on my watch. He was a fast-food worker from the twenty-first century, damn it. He’d survived three-hour lunch rushes with a broken shake machine, so a little healing magic transfer? Pfft. Surely that wouldn’t turn into a full-on steamy novel... probably.

He closed his eyes and tried to tap into that familiar, cool hum of his magic. Usually, when he healed a soldier or any kind of staff, it was easy. You find the tear in the flesh, you pour the ’bleach’ in, and the wound knits shut. Simple. But Zarius was different. There were no visible gashes, no shattered bones. The Duke’s body was a fortress under siege by an invisible, oily smoke.

The silence in the room became heavy. The only sound was the occasional pop of sap in the fireplace and the rhythmic, heavy thud of Zarius’s heart, a sound Cherion could practically feel through their joined palms.

"Is this... truly alright?" Zarius asked suddenly.

Cherion cracked one eye open. The Duke was looking at him now, his brow furrowed in a way that made him look less like a ’Monster’ and more like a man who was genuinely terrified of breaking something fragile.

"You look strained," Zarius continued, his thumb twitching slightly against Cherion’s knuckles. "Will this harm you?"

Cherion squinted, his nose wrinkling. "Don’t get ahead of yourself, Your Grace. It doesn’t hurt. Not at all." He felt a strange pang of empathy, something he tried to squash immediately. "You’re not ’consuming’ me. It’s a transfer. Think of it like a blood donation, only less needles and more magic. I heal dozens of people a day, you know?"

Zarius didn’t look entirely convinced, but he nodded, his jaw set in a hard line. He reached out with his free hand, snagging the book he brought back earlier from the library. He seemed to settle in pretty well.

For Zarius, it probably felt like sunlight breaking through after a long winter. For Cherion? It felt like standing at a checkout line for hours with a malfunctioning register.

Minutes stretched. The heat from the fireplace was beginning to work its magic, and the steady drain of mana, no matter how ’well-like’ it was, started to pull at the corners of Cherion’s consciousness. He hadn’t slept properly in days. The damp wood, the late-night research, the constant... It was all catching up.

He yawned, his jaw stretching painfully. Stay awake, he told himself. Be professional. Don’t be the guy who falls asleep on the Duke.

His eyelids felt like lead shutters. One moment he was staring at the intricate carvings on the ceiling, and the next, the world was tilting at a forty-five-degree angle. His head bobbed. He jerked it back up. No. Bad healer.

Then, as expected, his neck decided it had had enough. His head slowly tipped toward his shoulder like a tired bobblehead surrendering to gravity.

Zarius felt the shift instantly. He saw the way Cherion’s breathing had slowed, the way his hand had gone limp on his own, though the golden thread of mana was still stubbornly pulsing between them. As Cherion’s head began to loll toward the empty space of the couch, Zarius moved with a silent grace that the sun usually robbed him of.

Just as Cherion’s head was about to drop into an uncomfortable slump, he slid across the velvet cushions, closing the space between them in a heartbeat.

Thump.

Cherion’s head landed squarely on Zarius’s shoulder.

He stared down at the top of Cherion’s head. The boy’s hair smelled faintly of old parchment and that strange, citrusy soap he insisted on using.

Cherion let out a soft, muffled grunt in his sleep. Instead of waking up, he leaned further into the warmth, his face nuzzling instinctively into the crook of Zarius’s neck. He mumbled something, it sounded suspiciously like "extra onions on that", and sighed, his body finally relaxing.

He slowly, carefully, brought his book back up, holding it with one hand while the other remained locked in Cherion’s grasp.

He tried to read. He really did. He stared at the same paragraph about the curse. But every time Cherion shifted, or let out a tiny, soft snore, Zarius found his eyes drifting away from the page.

Concentrate, he scolded himself. You have a duchy to run. You have enemies at the gate. You have a curse to break.

But as Cherion’s warm breath puffed against his skin, Zarius realized with a sinking, panicked sort of clarity, that he had no idea what he was supposed to be doing.

He couldn’t concentrate. Not like this.