I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

"Honestly, Your Highness, they were practically trembling. They kept saying how worried they were about me venturing into that... that desolate frozen wasteland. They’re just so relieved I made it back in one piece. They..."

Philia’s voice, normally all smooth and melodic like it couldn’t possibly stress anyone out, slowly trailed off into the thick, quiet air of the dining hall. After that, the only sound in the room was the painfully slow skritch-skritch of a knife scraping against a plate.

Yerel wasn’t eating. He kept picking at the fish, breaking it down until it looked more like scraps than something you’d actually want to eat. His eyes, usually sharp enough to pierce through the thickest political smoke, were vacant. Flat. It was as if the Crown Prince of the Auzelian Empire had left his body behind and gone wandering elsewhere.

"Your Highness?"

The Prince didn’t blink.

"Your Highness?!" Philia tried again, leaning in a little until the candlelight caught the worried crease between his brows.

"Yes?" The word came out short and dry. Yerel finally looked up, but it felt forced, like he’d just remembered he was supposed to be paying attention.

"Your Highness... did you hear what I was saying?" Philia asked, a little softer this time.

"Of course," Yerel replied, already looking back down at his plate, nudging the fish apart like it had personally offended him. "You said the gathering went well. They were worried. Relieved to see you back."

His tone was even, almost automatic.

"Sounds like you made quite the impression."

He didn’t look up again, just kept picking at the fish, slow and distracted, like his mind was still somewhere else entirely.

"You haven’t touched your wine. Or your fish, for that matter." Philia tilted his head. "Are you quite alright? Perhaps we should call for the royal physician? I know the seasonal change can leave you feeling off."

"No. No need for that." Yerel set the knife down. The clatter bounced off the high ceiling, loud and sharp. "I am perfectly fine, Philia. Just a little tired. The administrative backlog doesn’t magically vanish just because I wish it so."

Philia chewed his lower lip, a gesture that was half-sincere concern and half-calculated charm. He wasn’t entirely convinced. He couldn’t help but worry when Yerel became this... silent.

To fill the void, Philia’s mind drifted back to the afternoon. He had just returned from the seasonal Omega gathering, a lavish, perfumed affair held in the Duchess of Vane’s solarium. It was supposed to be a triumph. He was the survivor, the one who had braved the "Barbaric North" and returned to tell the tale.

Naturally, the conversation had circled back to his excursion like a moth to a flame. He didn’t have to be obvious about it. Just a soft sigh here, a little shiver when he mentioned the cold halls of Valtrane, and going quiet whenever Cherion came up.

Oh, he didn’t have to say much to make the others whisper. He’d merely hinted at how much the boy had... changed. Like something about the North had changed him, made him harsher, harder to deal with... maybe not entirely steady anymore. Without uttering a single direct insult, Philia had ensured that Cherion was now viewed as a fallen socialite, a tragic victim of Northern savagery, or worse, a willing participant in it.

The other Omegas were visibly worked up, barely able to hide it. They were practically salivating at the thought of the upcoming party. They couldn’t wait to see Cherion crawl back to the sun-drenched Capital, expecting him to be a withered, broken version of the man who had left.

Yet, as Philia recounted bits and pieces of this successful character assassination to Yerel, the Prince had offered nothing but that hollow gaze. He didn’t seem to care about anything. His mind was elsewhere.

Probably really just about a work, Philia reasoned, smoothing the silk of his sleeves. The anniversary of the North’s ’troubles’ has passed, and the border reports must be a nightmare. It’s only natural.

The dinner ended with a dismal lack of fanfare. They made their way toward Yerel’s private chambers. The palace felt colder than usual tonight... or maybe it was just the lingering chill from Philia’s stories.

"You really must try to put the state affairs aside for tonight," Philia murmured as they crossed the threshold into the Prince’s inner sanctum. "You’re working yourself into a state of exhaustion. Even a future King needs sleep, Your Highness."

Yerel didn’t go to his desk. He didn’t reach for the stacks of parchment waiting for his signature. Instead, he turned and caught Philia by the elbow. His grip was sudden. It wasn’t rough, but it was firm, possessing a strange, desperate tension that Philia couldn’t quite place.

Yerel searched Philia’s face, his eyes roaming over his features as if looking for a hidden message in a familiar text.

"Philia," Yerel rasped. His voice was lower now, stripped of its princely authority. "Tell me something. Honestly."

Philia blinked, his heart giving a quick, startled jump. "Anything, Your Highness. What is it?"

"Do you love me?"

The question was so unexpected that Philia actually let out a short, startled laugh. It was a bright, musical sound that bounced off the heavy drapes. "What a ridiculous thing to ask! Your Highness, honestly, what kind of question is that? After everything? After I waited for your return, after I braved that gods-forsaken North just to see the progress of your interests? Of course I love you."

He reached up, cupping Yerel’s cheek with a hand that was soft, manicured, and perfectly warm. "You are my sun. How could I not?"

Yerel’s expression didn’t soften into the usual indulgent smile. Instead, he leaned into the touch, closing his eyes for a heartbeat. The corner of his mouth twitched, just barely noticeable.

"Yes," Yerel whispered. "Of course."

"Is something wrong? Truly?" Philia pressed, his curiosity finally outweighing his tact. "Is it the North? Did the Duke send some sort of insolent reply to the anniversary summons? Did that boy, Cherion, do something to offend the Crown?"

Yerel opened his eyes. The hollowness was still there, but it was now masked by a practiced, regal shimmer.

"Nothing," Yerel said, his voice going steady and controlled, like nothing had happened. "Nothing at all, Philia. Just a moment of... senseless doubt. I apologize for worrying you."

He pulled Philia into a hug then. It was a tight embrace, one that felt less like an act of affection and more like a man clinging to a buoy in a rising tide. He buried his face in the crook of Philia’s neck, inhaling the expensive, floral scent of lilies, a scent that was curated, controlled, and utterly predictable.

Yerel held him there, in the silence of the chamber. Philia didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around Yerel properly this time, one hand coming up to rest against his back. He gave him a slow, gentle pat, once, twice, careful, steady, like soothing something fragile he didn’t fully understand.

"It’s alright," he murmured softly, his voice slipping back into that easy, calming tone he wore so well. "You’re just tired. Anyone would be." His fingers lingered, rubbing lightly between Yerel’s shoulders. Philia didn’t question it, didn’t push. He simply held him there, offering warmth, letting the silence settle into something softer instead of sharp.

"Nothing is wrong," Yerel repeated into the quiet room, though whether he was telling Philia or himself remained unclear.