Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight! novel Chapter 161

Chapter 161: ’The Begging Prince’

’What the fuck is happening.’

Lancelot dragged a hand through his hair, his jaw tight, his gaze locked onto Florian—shaking, breathing heavily, curled in on himself like a wounded animal.

It was unsettling.

The way he trembled. The way his breath hitched unevenly, his pupils wide and glassy, as if he were drowning in something only he could feel.

’It’s as if he’s...’

Lancelot swallowed, forcing the thought away. ’No. Don’t even go there.’

He turned to Lucius, who stood unusually still, his expression taut—tense in a way Lancelot had never seen before.

"He said a stranger got in," Lancelot muttered, keeping his voice low. "You’re in charge of greeting the guests. Did anyone who wasn’t on the list appear?"

Lucius barely hesitated before shaking his head. "No. No one unusual."

"So could it be he was mistaken?"

Another shake of the head.

"His Majesty made sure Prince Florian memorized every guest and servant. If he says someone wasn’t familiar, then it must be true." Lucius’ eyes flickered toward Florian, dark and calculating. "And judging by his state... it is true."

Lancelot exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. "Fuck. What do we do now? Do we tell the king?"

Lucius hesitated.

"I... I will tell him," he said carefully. "But right now, I don’t think His Majesty would want this information spreading and causing panic."

Lancelot clenched his jaw. "What about the other guests? If that servant gave His Highness some weird drink, there could be others."

Lucius shook his head. "No. If there were, we’d already see signs. Poison or potions work almost immediately. We passed by plenty of guests—no one else is acting like this."

Lancelot cursed again. "Then shouldn’t we at least bring him to the healer? Or the royal physician?"

The moment the words left his mouth, Florian flinched.

Then—

"N-No! No... don’t... please—I don’t want anyone to touch me."

His voice cracked. He was begging. Again.

Something about it made Lancelot’s stomach twist.

’What the fuck is with this? Not even getting kidnapped fazed him.’

His gaze sharpened.

"Why, Your Highness?" His voice was steady, but pressing. "Is being touched worse for you than staying on the ground like this? What if you die?"

Florian only shuddered harder, his breaths ragged, uneven.

Lancelot let out a sharp breath through his nose, already making up his mind.

’Should I just carry him by force?’

"You’re considering just carrying him, aren’t you?"

Lucius’ voice was barely above a whisper.

Lancelot groaned. "Yes, and before you say anything—"

"No, no. For once, I agree with you."

Lancelot blinked. "...Great."

"I’ll go speak to His Majesty," Lucius continued, his tone careful, measured. "You carry His Highness to the infirmary."

Lancelot exhaled through his nose. His patience was already wearing thin.

"Be quick." Lucius’ voice was urgent now, his usual composure cracking at the edges. "And, Lancelot?"

"What?"

Lucius turned to him fully, his golden eyes sharp—too sharp.

"After you bring him there, honor his wish."

Lancelot raised a brow. "Meaning?"

"Do not touch him any more than necessary."

Something in Lucius’ voice sent an uneasy shiver down Lancelot’s spine.

His brows furrowed. "Why?"

"Just do as I say."

Lancelot’s first instinct was to argue—he hated taking orders—but he bit it back. Florian was the priority. Not whatever cryptic bullshit Lucius was pulling.

So he exhaled sharply, crossing his arms. "Fine."

Still—’It’s obvious he has some idea of what’s going on, and he’s not telling me.’

Lancelot glanced back at Florian, still trembling on the ground, muttering to himself, his fingers digging into his own skin.

’This is going to be a nightmare.’

Lucius straightened. "I’m getting His Majesty," he said. "You be quick."

Then, without another word, he disappeared back into the ballroom.

Lancelot rolled his shoulders, exhaling sharply. He loosened the top buttons of his outfit, pushing up his sleeves.

He had no idea what he was dealing with, but he could figure it out later. Right now, Florian needed to get the hell off this floor.

"Here goes nothing."

He took a careful step forward—but the moment Florian heard his footsteps, he flinched and scrambled back, his movements weak, desperate.

Lancelot cursed under his breath.

’This is going to be tougher than I thought.’

✧༺ ⏱︎ ༻✧

"Hah..."

In the end, this is what I went with.

"No, no! Put me down, Lancelot! Put me down!"

Florian’s voice was breaking, cracked with desperation, yet his fists—weak, trembling—pounded against Lancelot’s back as if he had any real strength left to fight. His body twisted, writhing in his grip, a mess of heat and breathless pleas. But Lancelot held firm.

He had to.

"P-Please... Please, Lancelot... please let me down!"

Florian was begging.

Not just asking, not just resisting—begging.

His body craved something. Something he did not want. Something he refused to acknowledge.

Too warm.

Lancelot could smell him.

The faintest trace of perfume, of sweat, of something else, something unfamiliar but unmistakable—arousal.

That expression.

No. No, don’t fucking think about it.

He knew it.