Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!-Chapter 255: ’I’m not Lucius, though’

Florian tore his gaze away, suddenly feeling the weight of Lancelot’s stare pressing down on him like an unseen force. His fingers curled slightly against the edge of the desk, nails faintly pressing into the wood as he swallowed.

’Ah. He’s being so touchy again.’

Lancelot took another step forward, close enough that Florian could feel the warmth radiating from him, a heat that threatened to close the small space between them. His presence was suffocating—familiar, but suffocating nonetheless.

But then—

He stopped.

And then... he stepped back.

Florian blinked, startled by the abrupt shift. His head snapped up, eyes locking onto Lancelot’s face. The smirk—the ever-present, infuriating smirk—was gone. The teasing glint in his green eyes had dulled, replaced by something... hesitant. Uncertain.

It was as if someone had flipped a switch, and the man standing before him was an entirely different person.

For the first time since stepping into the room, Lancelot looked unsure of himself. His usual confidence—the cocky bravado he wore like armor—had cracked. He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze flickering away, avoiding direct eye contact in a way that was so unlike him.

"I came here," Lancelot started, his voice quieter than before, "to ask you about what you saw in the village."

Florian frowned. "...What?"

"For further clarification," Lancelot continued, still not looking at him. "For investigation purposes. Every detail counts."

’That’s... surprisingly professional.’

Florian studied him, still thrown off by the sudden change in demeanor. He crossed his arms, trying to ground himself. "I already told Lucius everything."

At that, Lancelot finally lifted his gaze. And the look he gave him—

It wasn’t annoyance. It wasn’t impatience.

It was something deeper. Sharper.

Pointed. And bitter.

"I’m not Lucius, though," Lancelot muttered.

The weight in his tone. The way his words hung in the air, heavy with something unspoken.

Florian’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t know why, but it unsettled him more than anything else Lancelot had done today. More than the teasing, more than the flirtation.

’Lancelot is acting weird.’

Lancelot wordlessly strode past him, his heavy boots barely making a sound against the polished floor. He moved toward one of the couches in the corner of the room and sank into the seat with an unreadable expression. His usual air of confidence—of smug amusement—was absent.

Florian remained by the desk, arms still crossed as he narrowed his eyes.

’What is his deal?’

Was this some new ploy? Another trick to catch him off guard?

Lancelot was never like this. Even in the novel, he always had something to say—some sly remark, some flirtatious quip meant to ruffle Florian’s composure. But now, he just sat there, unmoving, his posture oddly rigid, as if weighed down by something Florian couldn’t see.

Florian hesitated. The silence felt heavier than it should have. Then, exhaling through his nose, he made his way over to the opposite couch. He lowered himself onto the cushions, keeping a careful distance between them as he studied Lancelot across the space that separated them.

Lancelot wasn’t looking at him.

In fact, he seemed to be deliberately avoiding his gaze, his eyes fixed on some vague point off to the side. His jaw was set, his fingers lightly tapping against his knee in a slow, controlled rhythm.

Again, that was new.

And for some reason, it was starting to bother Florian more than it should.

’What the hell is wrong with him? He’s never this quiet.’

Shaking the thought away, he finally broke the silence. "Fine. I’ll tell you everything I told Lucius."

Lancelot gave a small nod, the movement so slight Florian might’ve missed it if he wasn’t watching closely. His expression didn’t shift, his face remaining as impassive as ever. "Go on."

So Florian did.

He recounted the events—the twisted sights that had awaited him in the village, the suffocating sense of dread that still clung to his thoughts like a lingering shadow. He spoke of the unnatural stillness that had settled over the ruins, the eerie quiet broken only by the distant, phantom-like echoes of what once was.

But this time, the sick feeling in his stomach didn’t twist quite as hard.

Maybe because he had already spoken of it once.

Or maybe because he was too distracted by the sheer strangeness of Lancelot’s behavior to let the memories consume him.

Each time Florian paused, expecting some kind of reaction, Lancelot merely muttered a quiet, "Mhm." Or "Alright." Or "Go on."

No smirking. No scoffing. No interruptions laced with his usual brand of flirtation.

Once Florian was done speaking, he let out a slow, measured breath and leaned back against the couch. His fingers tapped idly against the armrest, the tension in his shoulders easing now that the recounting was over. The words had left him feeling drained, but at least they were out.

He glanced at Lancelot, who sat across from him, staring down at the notes he had taken. His expression remained unreadable, his eyes scanning the scribbled words with an intensity that felt almost out of place. The silence between them stretched, long enough that it became almost suffocating.

Florian shifted. Then, finally, he cleared his throat. "Is that all?"

Lancelot hummed in acknowledgment, his gaze flicking over the last few lines before he gave a small nod. "Yeah." He shut the notebook with a quiet thud. "I’ll be looking into more rogue activities, checking if there are any patterns. If other villages... ended up like the Village of Forgotten Waters."

Florian’s stomach twisted.

The mere thought of more settlements suffering the same fate—more people forced into desperation, into horrors as grim as cannibalism—was enough to make his skin crawl. frёeωebɳovel.com

’Gods, I hope not.’

Still, he gave a curt nod. "I see."

Another silence settled between them.

Thick. Heavy. Awkward.

The only sounds in the room were the faint flapping of butterfly wings and the soft, steady breathing of Azure, still curled up on top of Florian’s head, snoring peacefully. The tiny creature shifted in his sleep, but Florian barely noticed. His attention kept drifting back to Lancelot.

Lancelot wasn’t leaving.

But he wasn’t speaking, either.

He was just... sitting there, gaze flicking around the room, fingers tapping absently against his knee. His jaw tightened ever so slightly, and—most telling of all—he avoided making eye contact.

’Okay, now this is weird.’

Florian hadn’t known Lancelot for long, but this—this awkward silence, this hesitant fidgeting—was completely unlike him. Lancelot was the type to fill empty spaces with teasing remarks, arrogant smirks, and infuriatingly smooth comebacks.

Not this.

Not silence. Not avoidance. Not fidgeting like a schoolboy who didn’t know what to say next.

And as much as Florian didn’t want to care... the sheer strangeness of it was getting under his skin.

The silence stretched a little longer.

Long enough that Florian—against his better judgment—felt like he had to ask.

But just as he parted his lips—

Lancelot abruptly stood up, clearing his throat. "I’m gonna go now."

Florian blinked.

’Wait, that’s it? He’s just gonna leave after all that weirdness?’

Something about it felt off.

Before he even thought about it, his body moved on its own.

His hand shot out, fingers curling around Lancelot’s wrist before he could step away.

"Wait."

The word left him before he even fully processed what he was doing.

And the moment it did—

Lancelot froze.