Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!-Chapter 283: ’The Horror’

Florian could only stare.

There were six mannequins arranged in a perfect line, like silent sentinels guarding a sacred hall—three to the left, three to the right. The symmetry was deliberate, theatrical, as if Drizelous had choreographed their unveiling with all the gravity of a royal ceremony.

The first three bore powerful, commanding silhouettes—bold cuts, broad shoulders, dramatic layering. They practically radiated authority even while motionless. Heinz’s, clearly. The tailoring was unmistakable—refined, severe, and unapologetically regal.

The other three, however... one in particular made Florian’s breath catch in his throat.

His.

Almost before he realized it, Florian stepped closer, his feet moving on their own. His fingers hovered inches from the cape pinned elegantly across the mannequin’s shoulder, close enough to feel the air shift. The detail drew him in like gravity. Every thread, every line, every fold—it wasn’t just clothing. It was intention.

’Damn. It really is not just clothing,’ he thought, lips parting slightly as his eyes followed the embroidery spiraling across the fabric. ’It’s a performance. A declaration. A warning.’

Each set had been designed in Obsidian colors—deep black, rich crimson, and molten gold. Not flat, dull shades, but hues layered like lacquer, catching light in a way that shimmered like dusk dancing on water. The gold threading was precise and masterful, stitched into blooming patterns that flared like fire-touched wings. Something between a phoenix and a storm.

The cloth itself was a contradiction—flowing like liquid, yet holding its shape like forged steel. There was a high collar edged in black lace, corset elements that cinched the waist just enough to suggest elegance without fragility, and golden filigree that traced along the shoulders like vines dipped in sunlight. The trousers were sharp, elegantly tailored, tucked into knee-high boots that gleamed like obsidian blades.

Jeweled accents winked from hidden places in the seams—small, subtle, like secrets whispered into the fabric.

’It’s... beautiful,’ Florian thought, breath hitching. ’And terrifyingly well-matched to Heinz’s. Like they were designed as a pair. No—not just a pair. As if they were meant to stand side by side.’

He turned his gaze toward Heinz’s mannequin, half-expecting it to be less impressive now by comparison.

It wasn’t.

If Florian’s ensemble was a waltz in moonlight, Heinz’s was the drumbeat of war. A long, double-breasted coat of black velvet swept nearly to the floor, stiff with structure and power. Crimson silk lined the inside, hidden until the fabric shifted—then it flared like blood beneath shadow. Gold embroidery shaped regal, flame-like motifs across the chest and shoulders, bold and unflinching. A dark red cape hung from one shoulder, secured with a black gem clasp that gleamed like a star on the battlefield.

Beneath the coat was a formal tunic and vest—high-collared, fitted, pristine. Gloves were included too. Not decorative. Meant for command.

Florian glanced at Heinz, who observed the display with unreadable calm.

’He doesn’t look impressed. Or surprised. Right... most of his wardrobe probably is Drizelous’s work,’ he thought, watching as the king tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning the seams like he was analyzing troop formations instead of fashion. ’How can someone wear that and look like it’s just... another Tuesday?’

"Now, now, my lovely muses," Drizelous cooed, his delight practically vibrating through the room. He bounced on the balls of his feet as he approached. "The fun truly begins. You must try them on. Together! You must see how the vision sings—how the pieces breathe when they are beside their intended counterpart!"

Florian’s brow twitched. "All of them... come in sets?"

"But of course!" Drizelous gasped, as though he were scandalized by the question. "Do you think I, Drizelous, would dare design for one and not the other? A single piece means nothing without harmony! Fashion is war—and you must go into battle as one!"

’Matching sets. With Heinz,’ Florian thought, face flushing faintly. ’I’m not the queen. I’m not even part of the royal family... This feels so—strange. But then again... everything about this world feels strange.’

Drizelous spun dramatically, grabbing the first pair of outfits and wheeling the mannequins forward like a stagehand presenting the final act. With a grand sweep of his arm, he gestured toward a pair of ornate wooden changing rooms that had somehow materialized at the edge of the atelier.

Florian squinted. ’Wait... those weren’t there before.’

Drizelous clapped in delight when he caught the look. "Ah! Sharp eye! Custom made just for today! Collapsible! Elegant! Designed to unfold from the wall like a blooming rose!"

’He’s terrifyingly committed to the job.’

Heinz had already begun moving toward one of the changing booths without a word, pushing his mannequin like it weighed nothing. His silence was somehow louder than Drizelous’s fanfare.

’He hasn’t said a single thing since the reveal,’ Florian noted, watching Heinz disappear behind the curtain. ’Is he just used to all this? Or... is he thinking about something else?’

With a quiet sigh, Florian wheeled his own mannequin toward the second booth.

Pulling the curtain shut behind him felt oddly like sealing himself inside a sanctuary. For once, there were no attendants. No Cashew. No Lucius fussing over buttons or cuffs. No hands adjusting things he didn’t understand. Just him, alone, with an outfit that seemed more a spell than a garment.

He undressed slowly, carefully. There was something sacred about the moment—he didn’t want to ruin it by rushing.

The tunic was a smoky, velvety black with fine red lace at the cuffs and collar, cinched at the waist by a corset-style belt that hugged gently but firmly. It was detailed with a soft golden trim, subtle yet striking. Beneath that, the inner shirt was sheer, delicate mesh threaded with crimson lines in faint geometric shapes—arcane and modern all at once.

The trousers hugged his legs without being tight, flaring slightly at the ankles, cleanly disappearing into high black boots. Then came the coat—long, elegant, lined with crimson satin, trailing behind him like spilled ink and fire.

It molded to his figure like it knew him. Soft where it needed to be. Strong where it mattered. Feminine in curve, masculine in bearing. A contradiction made beautiful.

He stepped in front of the mirror and froze.

’...Florian’s face.’

He stared at the reflection as if trying to find the edges of a dream. Pale skin. Lashes too long. Hair like starlight soaked in moonwater. And those eyes—brilliant green, too sharp, too alive.

He barely recognized himself.

’It’s still hard to believe this is my reality now. I really...hope everything works out and I can come back to my world.’

"Hah." He reached up and touched his cheek, almost in disbelief. "I didn’t know it was possible to make this face look prettier," he mumbled aloud, voice soft with awe.

He had avoided mirrors since his transmigration. They unsettled him. But every now and then, he’d catch a glimpse and be forced to remember—

This wasn’t his body.

And yet... the person in the mirror felt like him now.

’Obsidian colors weirdly match me,’ he thought, fingertips brushing over the crimson satin at his collar. ’Maybe too well.’

He swallowed.

Somewhere, past the curtain, he could hear Drizelous humming with delight.

And beyond that, Heinz—silent, waiting.

Florian inhaled, slow and deep, and stepped out of the changing room, his boots making the faintest sound against the polished atelier floor.

And then he stopped.

Heinz was already there—standing beneath the soft glow of golden overhead light, his frame tall and commanding in the new ensemble. Without his usual black armor, stripped of all that heavy steel and leather, he looked... different. Not softer, exactly. Still every bit the king. But—refined. Magnificent. Alive.

’Woah.’

The velvet coat curved over his shoulders like it had been poured there, the crimson silk beneath catching the light with every subtle shift of movement. The golden embroidery was almost violent in how regal it looked—sharp, assertive, unapologetic. He looked like a monarch carved from war and fire.

Florian forgot how to breathe.

’Holy shit.’

He’d seen Heinz in full battle armor, in training leathers, in formal robes. But this... this was different. There was no sword strapped to his hip, and yet he looked more dangerous than ever.

’I’ve always known he was a looker but damn...’

Heinz turned to face him.

Their eyes met.

And then Florian realized—Heinz was staring back. Not blankly. Not passively. His gaze was moving, slow and deliberate, dragging down Florian’s figure, then up again, pausing briefly at his waist, his collar, his face.

’He’s—He’s looking at me.’

It made Florian suddenly, violently aware of everything—the way the coat hugged his sides, the way the lace brushed his throat, how the corset belt shaped his posture. His palms felt clammy. His cheeks were getting hot.

’He’s been doing this a lot lately. In the novel, he’s not supposed to look at Florian as much as he does now! Is it because I’m not Florian? Still...it’s a bit...’

Without meaning to, the words blurted from his mouth:

"Do I have something on my face, Your Majesty?"

Heinz blinked.

And then—

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Just slightly. Barely there.

"You were staring first."

Florian’s brain short-circuited.

’W-What?’

His face flushed red in an instant, hands coming up in an automatic gesture of denial. "I—I wasn’t staring, Your Majesty," he stammered, eyes darting away so fast it almost gave him whiplash. "I was just—looking. Casually. Like a—normal level of looking, Your Majesty."

Heinz raised a brow, clearly amused. He opened his mouth like he was about to say something more—

But Drizelous’s voice exploded through the room before he could.

"AS I THOUGHT!" he shrieked with joy, his arms flung dramatically in the air as he nearly toppled a stool in his excitement. "You both look absolutely MAGNIFICENT! Heavenly! Divine! Like stars colliding on the battlefield of couture!"

Florian nearly jumped at the sudden burst of praise. Drizelous spun between them like a delighted storm, clutching at the fabric of Heinz’s sleeve, then Florian’s collar, then clapping wildly like he was watching two gods descend onto his stage.

"You match like a prophecy fulfilled," he gasped. "The harmony! The energy! The sheer symmetry!"

’The horror.’