Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!-Chapter 285: ’I’m Rooting For You.’

Delilah didn’t step further into the atelier.

She stood at the threshold instead, framed by the soft spill of golden light that poured in behind her like the last sliver of a dying sun. The glow outlined her figure like a portrait left untouched by time. Her once ink-black hair, now a dignified silver, was twisted into an impeccable updo—each strand locked in place with the kind of discipline that came from decades of control.

Her uniform was flawless, dark and crisp, the high collar buttoned to perfection. A symbol of her station. A warning not to underestimate her.

But even from across the room, Drizelous noticed the slight tremble in her hands—delicate fingers clasped too tightly in front of her to steady the shake. An elegant attempt to conceal unease.

Her eyes, though?

They betrayed everything.

’That look again...’

The one she always wore when pretending everything was fine. When the world was caving in around her but she refused to be buried with it. Drizelous had seen it too many times—during his father’s funeral, when Heinz was sent away for training, when she was forced to bow before nobles she detested.

He knew it too well.

"Drizelous," she said softly, her voice light but strained. "Today was the day, wasn’t it? The day you asked to meet with His Majesty and the prince."

’Of course, she’s here to ask about him.’

Drizelous didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. The sigh that left his lips said enough. Not heavy with irritation—more... inevitable, like the slow exhale of someone who already knew this moment was coming.

He guided his quill to a final graceful stop and placed it down with reverence, as if laying down a sacred relic. Then, he reached up and removed his sketching glasses, folding them delicately and setting them aside. His smile remained, but it had softened—less theatrical, more weary.

"Let me guess, Mother. You want to know what went on. How they interacted. How they seemed," he said, his voice smooth as polished velvet, equal parts silk and steel.

Delilah blinked. For just a moment, something flickered across her features—surprise, maybe. A crack in the armor.

Then her brow knit together, lips pressing into a firm line. "I don’t like your tone, young man. That’s no way to speak to your mother."

Drizelous laughed—not mockingly, but with that kind of tired fondness one reserves for someone who will never change.

"I would never dare disrespect you, dear Mother," he said, his tone almost theatrical in its elegance. He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming. "But I know you too well already. What I don’t know... is why you don’t just observe their interactions yourself?"

He tapped a gloved finger to his temple, voice laced with mischief.

"I’ve heard Prince Florian’s been frequenting His Majesty’s office lately. Frequently, in fact."

It wasn’t meant to be accusatory. It was genuine curiosity. Delilah, after all, was one of the few people in the palace allowed to enter Heinz’s office freely—alongside Lucius and Lancelot. She’d always been his closest confidante. His shadow. His second mother.

Which is why her reaction startled him.

Her lips thinned. Her shoulders tightened.

’I hit a nerve.’

She didn’t respond immediately. And Drizelous, though he rarely left his atelier, was far from disconnected. The palace was a hive, and gossip was its honey. Whispers passed through cracks faster than light—maids with sharp tongues, guards with loose lips.

Florian, once the ghost of the harem—rarely seen, barely acknowledged—had become a centerpiece.

No longer ignored. No longer cold-shouldered.

Heinz was speaking to him. Walking with him. Defending him.

And the day the king had requested Florian be fitted in Drizelous’s atelier?

The palace had erupted.

Delilah slowly released her hands, arms folding tightly across her chest. It was the first visible crack in her composure—a rare breach in a fortress long thought impenetrable. Her voice was quieter now, heavy with something she hated admitting.

"His Majesty forbade me from entering his office," she said, eyes averted. "Or being anywhere near him when he speaks with the prince."

Drizelous’s smile faltered.

Just for a second.

Then, as the absurdity of it all bloomed in his mind, he let out a sharp bark of laughter.

"Oh my dear Mother," he said, amusement spilling from every word. "Now that’s new. What on earth did you do to deserve such a dramatic decree? The king practically treats you like his second mother."

Delilah didn’t scold him.

She didn’t smile either.

No, instead, she did exactly what she always did when Drizelous was testing the boundaries of his insolence.

She marched forward, and without a moment’s hesitation, reached down and pulled his ear upward.

Drizelous winced, screeching like a child. "Ow, ow, Mother— stop! That hurts!"

She said nothing, merely stared him down with the look of a woman who had raised kings and broken noblemen with a single glare. She held firm until he squirmed.

’Ah. This isn’t fair.’ Drizelous sulked internally, hands raised in surrender. "Alright, fine! You win! I’ll tell you!"

’I just want to go back to designing...’ he thought bitterly, rubbing his abused ear with a pout.

"You do realize I’m no longer a child?" he asked, voice dripping with melodrama. Delilah simply gestured for him to keep talking, a silent order no one in their right mind would defy.

Drizelous rolled his eyes with flair. "Fine. The king and Prince Florian didn’t stay long. They wore the sets I prepared, and left soon after—they had a meeting scheduled with Lucius and Lancelot."

Delilah’s gaze sharpened.

"That’s it? Nothing notable?"

"Nothing nota—" Drizelous stopped.

His eyes flicked upward.

Something tugged at the edge of his memory. A detail. Small. Subtle. But not forgettable.

There was something notable.

Something his mother was going to hate.

And he smiled.

Oh, he smiled.

"There was something interesting," Drizelous murmured at last, his voice low and deliberate—his smile blooming slowly, curling at the edges like smoke from a candle just snuffed out.

Delilah’s eyes narrowed. "What?"

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back into the velvet curve of his chair, fingers steepling in front of him with a practiced sort of elegance, the kind he reserved for moments like these—when he was about to say something that would leave ripples in still water.

"Heinz was... teasing him."

Delilah blinked, caught off guard. "Teasing?"

Drizelous’s smile widened, laced with amusement. "Yes. His Majesty. Teasing Prince Florian. Not the cruel sort—not the kind he used to do when he was younger and still playing at being king. No, this was different. Soft. Playful. Like he enjoyed it."

He tilted his head, eyes momentarily distant, caught in the replay of the scene.

"You remember, don’t you?" he said softly. "How Heinz used to be? Cold as frostbitten steel. Couldn’t even manage a joke without it sounding like a threat."

He chuckled under his breath, but it wasn’t mocking. It was baffled. Wondering.

"But today... today he smiled. Not out of obligation. Not for politics. A real smile. And Florian—he didn’t flinch. Didn’t cower. He responded. Laughed, even. As if they were... equals. Like he belonged there."

He paused, letting the words hang in the air like perfume, letting them sting.

That was when Delilah’s expression darkened.

"Stop," she said, voice sharp enough to cut glass.

Drizelous blinked at the sudden snap, then raised his brows—clearly delighted. "Oh? Touched another nerve, have I?"

Delilah’s hands clenched into trembling fists at her sides. "He must have done something. That boy. That prince. Heinz doesn’t behave that way. Not unless he’s been... manipulated. Coerced. Gods, that Florian is from that foreign kingdom—the one steeped in secrets and sorcery. Who knows what he’s done to make Heinz act so unnaturally."

’There it is,’ Drizelous thought, his smile faltering.

He let out a breath, slow and disappointed. The mirth drained from his face, replaced with something quieter—tired, maybe even sad.

"Isn’t it good though?" he asked softly. "That Heinz is finally... something more than a crown and a title? More than a frigid figure in the throne room? Don’t you remember how lonely he was growing up? How he never laughed, never played like the rest of us?"

He reached for his glasses again, this time setting them down with a firmer click. Like punctuation.

"Today, he looked like a man, Mother. Not a statue. Not a machine. He looked... happy." His eyes met hers, unflinching. "Why are you so against that? Against him? Is it because Florian is a man? Is that all this is about?"

Delilah’s jaw tightened, her lips a thin line drawn with invisible fury. "You don’t know what you’re saying. I know Heinz better than anyone. I’ve been by his side since—"

"You barely know me, Mother."

Drizelous’s voice cracked like thunder—quiet, but full of weight.

He didn’t shout, but the force behind the words still made Delilah flinch.

"Stop pretending like you know the hearts of others when you’ve spent so long ignoring your own son’s."

Her mouth parted in stunned silence. Fury sparked behind her eyes, but before she could speak, Drizelous held up a hand.

"I’m not in the mood for one of your crusades," he said, tone shifting into something colder. "If you’re so upset by what you saw, then talk to Heinz yourself. I don’t know what you’re expecting from me—I just design coats, Mother. I’m not your spy."

Delilah’s lips trembled—not in rage this time, but something that almost looked like panic.

"He just announced he’s going to begin searching for a queen," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "And now—now he’s suddenly spending time with Florian? Instead of the princesses?"

Drizelous sighed, adjusting the ruffled sleeve of his blouse with meticulous calm. He didn’t even look at her.

"Florian may be a male, yes. But he’s still part of the harem," he said flatly. "Has His Majesty ever said the position was reserved only for women? Or did you just assume that, too?"

Silence.

Drizelous reached for his quill, eyes already back on the parchment before him, as though the conversation had ended for him long ago.

"Now, if you’ll excuse me," he said, quiet but final, "I have actual work to do."

Delilah didn’t speak. Didn’t move. But something in her face had cracked—something long-held and deeply buried.

Her eyes widened, just a little.

Then, like a retreating tide, she took a step back. Then another.

"I have to do something about this," she muttered, more to herself than anyone.

And just like that, she turned and swept out of the atelier, heels clicking sharply on the marble floor, the sound like a retreating drumbeat until it faded into nothing.

Drizelous stared at the doorway, now empty and quiet. For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he scoffed, softly.

"Typical," he muttered. "More worried about Heinz than the child she actually raised..."

His fingers curled tightly around his quill—tighter than necessary. Tight enough that it might snap if he weren’t careful.

’I know why,’ he thought. ’I’ve always known why. But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.’

He blinked down at the parchment, only now noticing the way his hand had smudged the design—ink bleeding into the lines, softening the edges of a coat meant for a king.

His thoughts drifted again.

To Florian.

To his quiet strength. The way he stood his ground. The way he didn’t wither under the weight of royalty, or Delilah’s scrutiny, or anyone else’s expectations.

To the way Heinz had smiled—genuinely smiled—because of him.

’Oh, dear prince,’ Drizelous thought, a faint, crooked smile tugging at his lips. ’Whether you’ve bewitched him or not... I truly hope you win. I’m rooting for you.’