I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

Zarius snapped back to the present with a sharp gasp, the taste of copper lingering on his tongue. For a heartbeat, his eyes were still filled with the image of the Capital’s training grounds, gold-drenched, humming with the laughter of a boy who no longer existed. It was a hell of a thing, waking up. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, frantic and bruising, trying to shake the memory of a dead friendship out of his head.

He lay there, flat on his back, eyes boring into the dark, peaked canvas of the tent. He was irritated. No, he was beyond that, he was irrationally, teeth-grindingly livid. Why now? Why did his subconscious decide to drag up Yerel’s face in the middle of a godforsaken place?

Searching for someone to blame was a natural reflex. He grasped for a reason for this sudden, uninvited vulnerability. It was probably Marielle’s fault. His sister had a tongue like a razor and a memory like an elephant, she’d spent the entire evening talking about the Crown Prince, putting the very thoughts Zarius had spent fifteen years trying to forget back into his head. Or, and this felt more likely in his grumpy, sleep-deprived logic, it was Cherion’s fault.

The healer had mentioned dreaming about him recently. He’d half-convinced himself that the Omega’s dreams were somehow contagious, leaking into the stagnant tent air like spilled ink and staining Zarius’s own thoughts. It was a ridiculous notion, the kind of superstitious nonsense the pragmatic Duke of the North would usually scoff at, but in the freezing dark, it felt like a solid enough theory.

And then there was the image of his father. Lario Zaltrane, a man who had worn his responsibility like a suit of lead armor until he’d finally unbuckled it and crushed Zarius with the weight of it. The duty, the coldness, the absolute silence of the North. It was all so... heavy.

Except this wasn’t in his head. Something was literally on him.

Zarius realized he felt pinned. There was a stifling, solid presence pressed against his left side and neck, a heavy, radiating warmth that made his pulse thud in his ears. He looked down, his chin brushing against something soft.

Cherion was tucked firmly into the crook of his neck. The healer’s head was resting on his collarbone like it had every right to be there, breathing warm, steady puffs against his skin. It was rhythmic. It was almost relaxing, if not for the tension tightening in Zarius’s gut like a warning bell.

As the last of his sleep faded, the cold hit him all at once. They weren’t using the sabotaged Hearth Stones anymore, thank God for small mercies and the foresight to pack alternatives, but the ”regular” magic stones they’d swapped in were pathetic by comparison. They were better than nothing, he supposed, though they’d dimmed to a weak, sickly amber light.

Cherion was shivering. It wasn’t a violent movement, but a series of small, persistent tremors that Zarius could feel through the layers of his own tunic. Their hands were still locked together, the necessity of the healing energy transfer that kept Zarius’s curse from clawing its way to the surface. It was supposed to be just Cherion doing his job. A contract. An exchange of energy for stability. But with Cherion practically crushing the breath out of him and his nose pressed into Zarius’s neck, the whole ”just doing his job” idea felt like a joke.

Zarius raised his free hand, dragging it over his forehead. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t want to push the man away, God, no, but he didn’t want them to stay like this either. Not because he hated it. That was the problem. He didn’t hate it at all.

He sighed, the sound lost in the furs. His hand, the one currently intertwined with Cherion’s, was starting to feel a bit cramped. Because of the way Cherion was hugging him, the healer’s body was essentially pressed down on their joined hands, pinning them against the mattress. It was a tangle of limbs and heat that defied every rule Zarius had ever set for himself.

”Why are you... staring at the roof?”

The voice was low and rough. Zarius remained completely still.

Suddenly, Cherion’s voice came again, clearer this time. ”Are you cold? Did the cold wake you up?”

”Well,” Zarius replied. ”You’re making it very difficult to breathe, little Omega.”

Cherion stirred. His breathing hitched against Zarius’s collarbone. In that hazy, half-awake state, the Omega didn’t pull away; instead, he nuzzles deeper into the furnace-like heat of the Duke’s neck, seeking the only source of warmth in the freezing tent.

Zarius had to be more blunt. He cleared his throat, the sound echoing in the silence. ”Cherion. My neck is not a pillow.”

The realization hit the healer like a bucket of cold water.

Cherion snapped awake. A strangled, high-pitched sound escaped his throat as he scrambled backward, fumbling with the furs and nearly tumbling off the bedroll in his frantic haste to create a ”respectable” gap between them. In the dim, amber glow of the stones, Zarius could see the faint flush creeping up Cherion’s neck, standing out against the cold, pale room.

”I...I apologize,” Cherion stammered, his voice high and frantic. He refused to look at him, his hands clutching the edges of the blankets as if they were a shield. ”I didn’t mean to end up that close. Call it instinct. Or just me being really, really cold.”

Zarius didn’t let him off the hook. He watched the silhouette of the flustered healer, feeling a strange, dark amusement bloom in his chest.

”Is that so?” Zarius rumbled. ”I’m glad I can help warm you.”

Cherion, still mortified but shivering visibly now that he’d lost the Duke’s body heat, refused to meet his eyes. ”You... you should have pushed me,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the furs. ”If you were bothered, or if I was making you uncomfortable, you should have just shoved me off.”

Zarius shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. ”And who says I was bothered?”

Cherion paused. He blinked, his lashes brushing his cheeks. ”Huh?”

Zarius didn’t answer right away. He just looked at him. In the weak, amber light, Cherion looked... vulnerable. His face was shy and confused, his nose and cheeks tipped with a faint red that was either a remnant of sleep, the bite of the cold, or pure embarrassment.

Zarius found he didn’t mind the view. In fact, it wasn’t bad at all. He didn’t mind looking at it.

The silence dragged on, heavy in the air. Zarius reached out and tipped Cherion’s chin up. ”I wasn’t uncomfortable,” Zarius said.

He got closer. The distance closed, and the air felt tight, filled with everything neither of them said. He could see the pulse jumping in Cherion’s throat, his blue eyes searching Zarius’s for a joke that wasn’t there.

”You can push me away,” Zarius whispered, his breath warm against Cherion’s lips., ”if you hate it.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He leaned in and pressed his lips against Cherion’s.