I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 93: A Moment Too Close

"Flio! Keep the hearth warm! Don’t let the plants die!" Cherion’s voice, thin and panicked, barely carried over the thunder of hundreds of marching men. Half-dangling out the carriage window, arm stretched so far he might actually take flight if the wind caught his cloak, he squinted at the fortress steps, spotting Flio looking unusually somber.

He was halfway out the window like a dramatic cartoon character when a hand yanked him back like a toddler refusing bedtime.

"My Lord, unless you intend to be the first casualty of this subjugation via a tragic fall from a moving carriage, I suggest you sit back," Reiner grunted. With a heave that spoke of years dealing with stubborn nobility, the butler hauled Cherion back into the velvet-lined interior.

Cherion hit the seat with a soft oomph, his hair a chaotic mess of static and frost. "I was just saying goodbye, Reiner. It’s polite. Manners cost nothing, even in a blizzard."

"And a fractured skull costs quite a bit in medical supplies, which we are currently sitting on," Reiner countered, gesturing vaguely to the crates wedged into every available corner of the carriage.

It wasn’t exactly the travel Cherion had envisioned. Usually, a Duke’s carriage was for lounging; this one had been converted into a mobile apothecary. He was currently sharing his legroom with a box of dried willow bark and something that smelled suspiciously like fermented cabbage, Reiner’s "vitality tonic."

"I could heal myself before I even hit the mud."

Reiner didn’t even look up from his checklist. "Indeed, My Lord. And when you’ve spent your last drop of mana stitching together fifty puncture wounds from ice-shades, and the fifty-first soldier trips over a tent peg, what do you propose I use? Your good intentions?"

Cherion opened his mouth to retort, then slowly closed it.

Cherion leaned his head back against the cushion, the vibration of the road humming through his skull. He felt... strange. It had been nearly thirty-six hours since the balcony, since he’d pressed that lumpy, sapphire charm into Zarius’s hand. Even with his eyes shut, Cherion could swear he could still feel Zarius hovering nearby, like a very intimidating personal aura he couldn’t shake,

Gods, it was awkward. Or was it?

He squinted out the window like a nosy neighbor spying on their own street. There, riding just a few paces away, was Zarius. The Duke looked like a statue carved from obsidian and spite. He didn’t even flinch, the icy pellets bounced off him like they were scared of getting on his bad side.

Every few minutes, Zarius’s eyes swept over the carriage like a security camera.

He was watching. He was always watching.

Back in his world, or in the vague memories of the stories he’d read, this was always the "big moment." The legendary Duke leading his men into the maw of death, looking like a god of war.

The funny thing was, in the original "novel" version of this world, this specific march hadn’t even been a big part of the plot. It was nothing more than a background event.

But seeing it in person? Fur coats flapping in the wind, horses making dramatic snorts, Zarius looking like the absolute boss of everything... Cherion had to admit it, it was ridiculously cool.

Cherion felt a prickle of heat crawl up his neck. He quickly turned away from the window and began obsessively straightening a stack of bandages. Just focus on the work, he told himself. You are an essential part of this team. You are a healer. You are not a blushing teenager.

The hours dragged. The North was huge, so huge it made his neck hurt just from looking around. All that jagged silence was broken only by the army’s boots thudding like a metronome set to "doom." By the time the horn finally blew for lunch, Cherion felt like his body had been glued into one stiff, unhappy block of limbs.

The carriage door swung open, and the temperature inside plummeted instantly. Zarius stood there, silhouetted against the pale sun. He didn’t say anything at first, he just held out a hand to help Cherion down.

"How is the journey?" Zarius asked. "The ruts are deep in this sector. I suspect the carriage is... restless."

"Ah, it’s fine! Perfectly comfortable!" Cherion chirped, stepping out onto the packed snow. He gave a bright, slightly too-loud laugh that made a nearby horse twitch its ears. "I’m basically having a nap in there. You shouldn’t worry at all. I could go another ten hours, easily. Piece of cake."

Zarius narrowed his eyes, tracking the way Cherion’s knees wobbled just a fraction as he hit the ground. "You are a terrible liar, Cherion."

They moved to a small, makeshift sheltered area where some of the officers were huddled around a low fire. A soldier handed them bowls of something thick and brown. It was supposed to be stew, but it looked more like the mud they’d been driving through.

Cherion sat on a stone, his heart doing a frantic little tap-dance in his ribs. Zarius was sitting right next to him. Not across. Next to him. Their thighs were dangerously close, and even through all the layers of wool and leather, Zarius’s presence hit Cherion like a ton of bricks.

The North stretched for miles in every direction. Mountains, forests, empty crates, dozens of officers... and the Duke picked the seat directly beside him.

Cherion’s brain decided that the best way to handle this sudden, suffocating intimacy was to eat as quickly as possible. If he was eating, he didn’t have to talk. If he didn’t have to talk, he wouldn’t say something stupid about how nice Zarius’s eyes looked in the daylight.

He shoveled a massive spoonful of the stew into his mouth.

It was a mistake. A big one.

The stew turned out to be lava disguised as dinner, packed with some Northern root that chewed like rope. Cherion tried to swallow, but his throat immediately filed a complaint, and suddenly breathing became a luxury he no longer had.

He started coughing. Not a gentle cough either, this was the dramatic, wheezing, face-turning-purple kind that made it very clear something had gone terribly wrong.

"Cherion?" Zarius’s voice was sharp with alarm.

Cherion couldn’t answer. He was too busy dying of a potato-related injury. He waved his hands frantically, tears pricking his eyes as he doubled over.

Suddenly, a massive, heavy palm slammed into his back.

Thwack.

It was a controlled strike, but coming from a man who regularly wrestled mountain bears, it felt like being hit by a falling tree. The force of it sent the offending chunk of root flying out of Cherion’s throat and onto the snow.

Thwack.

Zarius hit him again, just to be safe, looking like a man absolutely determined to punch the oxygen back into him.

"I’m... I’m okay! Stop! You’re going to break my ribs!" Cherion gasped, his voice raspy and his chest heaving. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, gasping for air.

Zarius didn’t pull away. He kept one hand firmly on Cherion’s shoulder, the other hovering near his back, his brow furrowed in genuine concern. "You were eating like a starving wolf," Zarius scolded, though his tone had softened into something almost tender. "Slow down. The monsters aren’t going to steal your bowl."

"I was just... I was hungry," Cherion lied, his face burning a shade of red that rivaled a sunset. He couldn’t look at Zarius. He could practically feel every knight staring at him, and honestly, the embarrassment might have been worse than the choking.

"Drink this," Zarius commanded, handing him a flask of water.

Cherion took it, his fingers brushing Zarius’s. He took a long, slow sip, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. "Thank you," he whispered, finally looking up.

Zarius continued watching him in silence, his hand remaining on Cherion’s shoulder a little longer than strictly necessary. "Don’t scare people like that," the Duke said, so quietly that only Cherion could hear it. "I’ve envisioned every monster and blizzard that could pose a threat to your life. Not once did a piece of root vegetable enter my tactical simulations. It’s an embarrassing oversight."

Cherion gave a weak, shaky chuckle.

As the horn sounded for the march to resume, Cherion climbed back into the carriage, his throat aching and his dignity somewhere back in the snow. But as Reiner closed the door, Cherion caught a glimpse of Zarius mounting his horse.

The Duke wasn’t checking his perimeter. He was looking down at his sword hilt, his thumb grazing the messy, uneven knots of the blue sapphire charm. It looked ridiculous against his black-iron plate, a lumpy bit of string that had no business being on a battlefield. Yet, the way Zarius touched it, with a care that didn’t match his reputation at all, made Cherion’s chest tighten.