Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight! novel Chapter 550

"Hendrix!"

Florian's voice cracked through the empty corridors, the sound echoing back at him like a plea that no one wanted to answer.

His chest heaved, breath ragged from running, his throat raw from shouting.

The palace halls were deserted. Every servant was preoccupied with the ball—pouring wine, carrying trays, tending to the nobles and their endless demands.

The distant music and laughter bled faintly through the stone walls, a cruel reminder of the celebration still alive while he fell apart.

But Florian hadn't seen Hendrix since the beginning of the night. Not near the ballroom. Not beside Monica.

Not among the crowd.

Which could only mean one thing.

He had to be nearby.

Watching.

Waiting.

Because where else would Hendrix be?

He always lurked, always appeared at the most inconvenient, precise moments.

"Hendrix!" Florian called again, louder, his voice breaking on the name.

Silence.

The shadows did not stir.

The air remained still.

No smug smile appeared from the corner of the hall.

Hendrix didn't come.

Florian clenched his trembling hands at his sides, his nails biting into his palms. 'Where the hell is he now, when I actually need him?'

But then the thought came sharp, cruel—what did he even need him for?

His emotions were spiraling, high and reckless. He knew it. This wasn't reason, it was desperation.

What would he even tell Hendrix if he did appear?

That he wasn't the real Florian? That he needed his help to fix a life that didn't belong to him?

The absurdity of it made a bitter, shaky laugh catch in his throat. He pressed a hand against the wall, his vision blurring as tears smeared his ruined makeup down his cheeks.

His hair clung to his damp skin, mussed from running and clutching at it in frustration.

And in that moment, with his smeared face, his disheveled clothes, his broken cries filling the empty hall—he realized.

He must've looked exactly like him.

Like the original Florian.

The one who had once cried through these same halls. The one who had once begged, once been ignored, once shattered under the weight of love turned cruel.

The resemblance was too bitter, too cruel, and it made Florian's chest tighten until he could barely breathe.

'I really hate this.'

The thought clawed through Florian's mind as fresh tears spilled down his cheeks, hot trails against his already raw skin.

His feet moved aimlessly, carrying him deeper into the halls, but he had no idea where he was going.

Each step was shaky, his body trembling with exhaustion and heartbreak.

"Hendrix…" His voice cracked as he whispered the name, almost like a plea. "Where are you?"

But the moment he spoke it, the wrong face appeared in his mind.

Heinz.

Heinz's face, impossibly vivid—the rare softness of his expression despite the terrifying aura he always carried.

The gentleness of his voice when he had spoken Florian's name. And the confession… the words Florian had tried so desperately to shove into the deepest corners of his heart.

No.

'Don't think about it! Stop thinking about it! This isn't your body.' He bit his lip hard enough to taste iron, shaking his head. 'You have to get home. Kaz needs you. And Heinz… Heinz is selfish.'

But it was already too late.

His chest ached. That unbearable pain spread like fire under his ribs, suffocating him. His heart was pounding so violently it felt like it might break apart.

It hurt.

God, it hurt so much.

He staggered, his legs threatening to give out again, but he forced himself forward. One step. Then another.

And another.

Until suddenly… he stopped.

The air was different here. Cooler. Gentler.

It carried the faint sweetness of blooming flowers.

He blinked through his tears and turned his head.

The garden entrance.

He was standing right at it, the tall gates leading into a wash of moonlight and shadow.

And there—

In the middle of the garden, framed by the pale glow of the moon and the shimmer of flowers, stood a lone figure. Silent. Still. Looking up at the sky as though the world below meant nothing.

'Is that…?'

Florian's breath caught.

Hendrix didn't answer right away.

Silence stretched, filled only by the rustle of the garden leaves and the faint buzz of distant music from the ballroom.

His eyes followed Florian's up to the night sky, his profile sharp in the pale light.

Finally, he spoke. "If I tell you…" His tone was slow, deliberate, almost careful. "…will you answer one question of mine?"

Florian's brows furrowed, and he turned his head slightly to glance at him. "That depends."

Hendrix's lips quirked faintly. "Depends on what?"

"If your question has the same weight as mine," Florian replied, his tone plain, but his grip on his sleeves betrayed his unease.

That earned a quiet chuckle from Hendrix, low and amused. "How clever. How did you know I'd ask something deep?"

Florian looked away from him, back at the moon. "…Lucky guess."

Hendrix's laughter grew fuller, though it still held a softness beneath it. He let out a slow, steady breath, as though releasing something he had been holding in. "Alright then." His voice lowered. "I was staring at the moon because it reminded me of the night we met."

Florian's chest tightened.

"That's the only reason I came here as well," Hendrix added, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. "If you wanted to know."

Oh.

Of course.

The memory—or rather, the vision—flashed in Florian's mind.

The first night. The bitter cold air biting his skin. His body trembling, tears running hot down his face. It was exactly like this.

Hendrix laughed softly, shaking his head. "You were crying like this as well, but not-so drunk."

"Sounds depressing," Florian murmured, his voice softer than he intended.

His eyes stayed fixed on the glowing moon above, its silver light spilling across the garden like a quiet blessing. It was…mesmerizing.

And oddly calming, considering how wrecked he felt inside.

"Oh, you have no idea," Hendrix replied, a low chuckle breaking the still air.

The sound made Florian's fingers twitch at his side. That laugh—so unbothered, so casual—itched at him in a way he couldn't quite explain.

"Why…" His words caught in his throat, but he forced them out. "Why do you keep laughing? You seem too happy for someone who keeps talking about depressing things."

Hendrix turned his head just slightly, his smile still lingering. There was something unreadable in his expression—like he knew more than he let on, like he was indulging Florian's every word.

"If I answered that," Hendrix said smoothly, a playful edge to his tone, "will you finally answer my one deep question?" His eyes glinted in the moonlight, mischievous, sharp.

Florian's lips parted as if to protest, to dismiss the idea—but he stopped.

Fair. He had agreed to this strange little exchange, hadn't he?

He wanted to roll his eyes, to laugh it off, but instead he found himself pressing his lips together and nodding. "Fine," he said quietly, more to himself than to Hendrix. "Just to be fair."