Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!
Chapter 317: ’Under The Table.’

Chapter 317: ’Under The Table.’

The scent hit first.

Rich, savory, and decadent—an orchestra of aromas wafted through the hall as the twin gilded doors swung open with ceremonial grandeur.

It was as if the very air transformed. The murmurs of conversation paused, replaced by the collective intake of breath as servants and chefs began to file in from both sides. Each moved in practiced elegance, balancing silver trays with artful precision. The platters gleamed under the chandelier light, their contents arranged like edible masterpieces.

The atmosphere shifted from anticipation to awe.

Steam curled upward from bowls of spiced venison stew, seasoned with rare herbs grown only in the biting altitudes of the Obsidian Summit. Azure Glen’s signature herb-dusted trout shimmered beneath a veil of citrus glaze and delicate violet petals, artfully arranged like a blooming flower.

To the left, Emberhold’s section overflowed with rich crimson wine sauces and warm pastries filled with truffle mushrooms and slow-roasted root vegetables. The plates seemed to glow, painting the long dining tables with every color of indulgence.

Even the harem members—trained in poise and etiquette—blurted out soft gasps and murmured words of appreciation to the nearby staff, utterly enraptured.

Nividea let out a delighted squeal, clapping as a miniature fondue tower—yes, a tower—was delicately placed in front of her with an assortment of vibrant fruits and sweetbread.

Rodrick was already halfway through buttering a slice of golden cornbread, clearly in bliss.

Elara cracked a faint smile as her kingdom’s traditional spiced fruit cider was poured with reverence into a cut-crystal goblet, its surface fogged with cold.

’Okay, wow,’ Florian thought, eyes darting over the plates being set before him. ’Heinz really pulled out all the stops for this.’

Roasted lamb soaked in rosemary glaze. A medley of mushrooms with golden flakes. Freshly baked bread still warm from the oven. It smelled like memories and promises.

He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now.

Heinz stood slowly, his presence commanding the room with the ease of someone who didn’t have to raise his voice to be heard. Instead of a wine goblet, he lifted a delicate porcelain teacup—flawless white, rimmed in gold.

The hall hushed in an instant.

"A brief toast," he said, his voice calm—serene, even. But there was steel beneath the silk.

’This is his third toast or speech today,’ Florian noted dryly, hiding a twitch of amusement.

"To all the dukes and their esteemed heirs," Heinz continued, gaze sweeping across the hall. "Thank you for gracing the palace with your presence. May this meal—crafted with your people, your histories, and your cultures in mind—serve not only as sustenance, but as a symbol."

He paused, letting the silence settle before finishing:

"A symbol of unity. A hope that, despite our differences, we might sit at one table not as adversaries, but as allies."

His crimson eyes roved the table, stopping just long enough on each face to mean something. Finally, they softened—just a fraction—and he added, "Please... enjoy."

A wave of claps followed. Some polite. Others heartfelt. Glasses were raised, wine glinting under chandelier light. Someone murmured, "To peace," and others echoed it softly.

But then, like a crack in fine porcelain—

"Hmph," Duke Alaric muttered, loud enough to slice through the reverence. "For someone who claims he’s nothing like the previous king, your speech is remarkably similar to King Henry’s."

The atmosphere shifted. A single sentence and it was as though winter had fallen over the hall.

Florian froze mid-bite, his fork hovering just inches from his mouth. His spine stiffened, and his eyes narrowed.

Alexandrius chuckled darkly beside Alaric, swirling his wine lazily. "Ah yes, I agree. In fact, the more I look, the more you do resemble him."

’What the fuck?’

A few nobles gasped audibly. The clink of utensils became awkward, metallic echoes. Tension crackled like static in the air.

’Are you kidding me right now?’ Florian thought, glaring at the two dukes. ’They just had to bring up the one thing Heinz can’t stand.’

He turned to look at Heinz—and his heart sank.

The king’s smile had vanished. His grip on the teacup was so tight, Florian swore he heard the faintest crack. And his eyes... those glowing red eyes were no longer dim with amusement. They shimmered now, alive with fury, an almost feral heat beginning to rise behind them.

’No. No no no—don’t lose it. Not here. Not now.’

Florian’s mind scrambled for options. A witty remark? A strategic deflection? But something told him this time, words wouldn’t be enough.

’Goddamn it. These two are getting on my fucking nerves.’

His body moved before he fully processed the decision. Beneath the table, he reached over and gently took Heinz’s hand.

A small, wordless gesture—subtle enough to go unnoticed by the crowd.

But Heinz noticed.

His breath hitched, shoulders twitching almost imperceptibly. His head turned toward Florian slowly, eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and something softer—something wounded and raw.

The unnatural glow dimmed. Rage faltered. Confusion took its place.

Florian squeezed his fingers just a little tighter.

’Calm down,’ he thought, his expression soft but firm. ’Not for them. For you.’

The silence lingered for a beat longer.

Then Heinz inhaled deeply through his nose, closed his eyes briefly, and sat back down—wordlessly.

He didn’t let go of Florian’s hand.

Florian turned to the crowd and beamed, his voice bright and theatrical.

"Let us eat!" he declared, raising his goblet with such exaggerated cheer that the table startled back into motion.

The tension snapped. Conversations resumed—stilted at first, then gradually flowing again. Nobles clinked glasses, dove into their meals, and turned their attention back to the feast. Laughter returned, though quieter, more careful.

Alaric and Alexandrius exchanged a look of disbelief.

They’d been expecting an outburst.

A scene.

A scandal.

Instead, they got a toast and a smile.

Florian met their eyes and gave them a dazzling, diplomatic grin, teeth white and eyes full of warning.

’Not this time, bastards.’

He began to withdraw his hand—only to freeze when Heinz held on.

Florian blinked.

"Your Majesty?" he whispered, confused.

Heinz leaned in, his voice low and almost seductive in its danger. "I’m still pissed."

Florian flushed. His heart stuttered, ears warming. ’Okay—but why are you holding my hand about it?! That’s not how this works?! I just tried getting your attention!’

Heinz didn’t budge. His grip wasn’t aggressive—just firm. Steady. Anchoring.

’So now he’s composed?’ Florian thought, sneaking a glance at the king’s face. ’Ah. I suddenly regret grabbing his hand.’

But he didn’t try pulling away again.

His gaze swept back toward Alaric and Alexandrius. They were still watching.

Hungry.

Waiting.

They wanted Heinz to crack.

To fall.

To give them the perfect excuse to drag his name through the mud.

Florian knew it.

And maybe Heinz did, too.

So he let the king hold his hand. Not out of affection—but defiance.

’Fine. I’ll be your anchor. For now.’

Florian decided to eat.

The tension had passed—at least for now. With the dukes too busy stuffing their faces with rare delicacies and showboating their refined palettes, the dining hall had settled into something resembling peace.

No more barbed comments. No more insults thinly veiled as jokes. Just the clinking of silverware, the gentle hum of conversation, and the occasional moan of appreciation for the food.

And Florian prayed.

He prayed.

Not to the Gods, not really. He didn’t trust them enough to do something useful. But maybe—just maybe—if the universe was feeling merciful today, it would keep things quiet for a little longer.

He ignored the warm weight of Heinz’s hand still curled around his beneath the table.

’Don’t think about it. It doesn’t mean anything. Just eat.’

But now that the chaos had dimmed, and his fight-or-flight instincts weren’t screaming in his ear, Florian had become painfully aware of one thing.

He was still holding hands with the King.

Holding. Hands.

As in, palms touching. Fingers resting lightly against one another. Casual. Comfortable. Unshaken.

It hit him like a slap to the face.

’Why am I okay with this?!’

He shoved a piece of veal into his mouth, chewing aggressively, hoping the flavor would distract him from the spiraling embarrassment. It didn’t.

His mind kept circling back to last night. The moment that had cost him hours of sleep. When Heinz, in that infuriatingly nonchalant way, had reached out and touched his hair like it was normal. Like it wasn’t absolutely insane behavior from someone who used to look at him like a mildly interesting fungus.

Heinz was changing.

No—that wasn’t the right word. Heinz was getting comfortable.

Comfortable enough to touch. To hold hands. To smile more. To stare.

And Florian didn’t know what that meant.

Well. Probably nothing.

Probably.

But his body—the traitorous bastard—was betraying him at every turn. A too-fast heartbeat. Warmth crawling up his ears. A vague but unmistakable flutter in his chest that had no business being there.

’Ugh. Stupid Florian’s body and this BL novel. It’s corrupting my head... Of course Heinz isn’t like Lucius or Lancelot. Heinz will never find me—or Florian—attractive. He’s just doing this to calm himself. Or amuse himself. Or maybe he’s just a tactile freak who holds hands with people when he’s mad. Like a psychopath.’

He peeked to his left, risking a glance.

Heinz was eating with one hand now, entirely composed, as if he hadn’t been on the verge of detonating just a few minutes ago.

That faint smile had returned to his lips—the calculated kind that made people relax while simultaneously reminding them who had the power in the room.

Florian squinted at him.

He almost wished the tension hadn’t gone away so quickly. At least when people were arguing, he didn’t have time to process the King’s goddamn hand over his. This... weird peace left him too exposed.

Unfortunately, the Gods—bastards that they were—granted his silent prayer.

It was quiet.

It was nice.

And Florian hated it.

Then came the voice.

"By the way, Your Majesty," Alaric said, swirling his wine like it held secrets, "you never responded to our request for the traditional drinking on the last day of the summit."

The words sliced through the peace like a dull dagger.

Oh.

That.

Florian stiffened, lips frozen around his spoonful of stew.

’He still hasn’t answered?’

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