AB Chapter 14: Blame It on the Species
Benny licked his lips, looked at Michel, scratched his cheek, and muttered, “Still, you shouldn't be sleeping on top of him. What’s the difference between that and being a couple?”
“There is a difference,” Michel frowned. “Our relationship is pure, don’t get weird ideas!”
Benny was silent for a while, then suddenly asked, “Then if both he and I touched your thigh at the same time, whose touch would you tolerate more?”
Michel: “...Why are you touching my thigh? Looking for a fight? Besides, Simon wouldn’t touch—touch my thigh.”
Benny stared at his reddening ears with a blank expression. “Then which would you prefer—resting on my chest or his?”
Michel paused.
He and Benny had grown up together, roughhousing and hugging all the time. Physical contact was never something he gave much thought.
Because Benny was his best bro. That kind of stuff was normal.
Plus, Benny was just an ordinary big guy.
He had fair Caucasian skin, a few freckles on his face, not particularly bright blue eyes, no abs—just a soft belly. No real chest muscles either.
Lying on him made your head bump against bone, unlike Mr. Bumblebee.
Mr. Bumblebee’s chest was firm, but muscle feels different from bone. When it’s not tensed, it’s both solid and springy—perfect for resting your head.
Michel knew that if he answered “Simon,” Benny would definitely say something. Just as he was hesitating whether to say “Benny” instead, Benny cut him off.
“Look at yourself.”
He pulled out his phone and turned on the selfie camera—nature’s truth serum. The screen faced Michel.
“Look at the way your face lights up when you think of him.”
Michel: “…”
On the screen, the young man’s complexion wasn’t as pale as Benny’s, but it was smooth and nearly poreless. With a blush spreading across it, his face looked like it had been dusted with pink sugar—soft, delicate, and radiating youthful shyness.
Benny: “Pure? Ha!”
Michel: “…”
Benny: “At first, when I read the info saying that plant-types and carnivore-types from planet Pepega are a natural match with mutual attraction, I thought it was exaggerated. But now…”
He shrugged at his childhood friend and warned, “You’d better pay attention to your love life, bro.”
Michel sipped some red tea.
He set down the cup.
His long, slender fingers trembled.
Distracted by all the thoughts in his head, Michel said goodbye to Benny, took his shopping bags, and left the mall to return to his small apartment.
It was a run-down one-bedroom unit. The exterior wall was covered in faded graffiti—terrifying skulls and all kinds of curse words.
In the damp, cold weather, the black spray paint looked even darker. Mixed with the smell of mold, it gave off a pungent stench.
Michel noticed a sunken spot in the snow near the streetlamp outside his building. Maybe someone puked there after drinking. Or worse, maybe someone had peed there.
Lowering his head, he carefully stepped on the icy snowmelt and slowly made his way upstairs.
The flower on his head—drooping under the weight of his hood—made his head throb painfully. His brain felt like a boiling pot of porridge, and he was coughing from a dry throat.
Before he met Simon or had his flower bloom, Michel used to think this kind of sickness was just a regular illness. Or maybe, as his therapist said, he had some kind of delusional disorder or cognitive impairment.
But now he knew.
It was his flower acting up.
Enduring the headache, Michel picked up the pace.
Soon he was standing in front of his door, staring at the dark-painted security door. For the first time, he didn’t reach for his keys.
He didn’t know what possessed him. He didn’t ring the bell either. He just raised his hand and knocked.
“I’m home!” he called out to the door, his breath steaming in the cold air.
A few seconds later, he heard footsteps from inside—thumping steadily, getting closer.
Click.
The door opened.
Michel looked up and locked eyes with Simon, who bent slightly to fit through the doorway.
“I’m home.”
“Mm.”
Simon took the shopping bags from his hands effortlessly with one arm, then used the other to hold Michel’s hand as he turned to go inside.
The temperature and atmosphere shifted—from cold to warm.
Perfectly soothing.
“Hurry inside, it’s freezing. Does your head hurt again? Go change and take a bath, I’ve already filled the tub. I’ll come wash your hair later and feed your flower some nutrient fluid. You’ll feel better soon.”
“Mm.”
Michel smiled, his eyes and lips curving gently as he looked down at his hand held in Simon’s much larger one—and at the apron Simon wore, totally clashing with his image.
“What do you want for dinner? I ordered groceries online. They should arrive just in time.”
The tall man pushed Michel onto the couch, tucked a blanket over his knees, set the shopping bags aside, and fetched a pair of pastel bunny slippers.
He knelt, took Michel’s cold feet, and gently slipped them into the slippers.
“Cold?”
Simon suddenly looked up and asked.
Michel quickly looked away. “Mm,” he replied, then muttered, “And a bit of a headache.”
As soon as he said it, he regretted it. It sounded like he was whining.
What am I, a damsel?
He’s not my dad.
And we’re not even in a relationship—technically we’re only linked by name… Ugh, damn Benny! Making me overthink everything! I’m not some kid having his first crush!
Frustrated, Michel stiffened.
Mr. Bumblebee just smiled.
He stood up, took Michel’s hand again, and lifted his blanket-covered arm to rest against his warm belly.
That mountain-like body bent down slightly, his spine curving.
His lips moved close to the small flower blooming from Michel’s head.
“This’ll make it stop hurting soon.”
And then—under Michel’s wide-eyed stare—Mr. Bumblebee opened his mouth…
And kissed the flower.
The fully sealed environment was warm, safe, and the exact temperature the flower liked…
Before embarrassment could even register, another feeling overwhelmed Michel’s brain!
In that moment, he felt like a plant.
In the perfect environment, he lost all strength, immersed in pleasure. Lazily, he stretched his “leaves,” curled up quietly, and wanted nothing more than to fall asleep…
Why does it feel like this?
Why is the flower on my head so sensitive?
Is Simon’s saliva… toxic?
“…Simon.”
Michel’s voice grew hoarse, his eyes turning hazy.
A deep fatigue began to seep into his brain, spreading from the flower atop his head. Grasped in Simon’s warm hand, his fingers curled, the pads pressing tightly into his skin.
Mr. Bumblebee couldn’t reply.
He let go of Michel’s hand, instead cupping his cheeks. His thumb brushed the corners of Michel’s eyes—gently, reassuring.
Michel stopped talking and let his awareness sink. No more resistance.
As the dark-haired youth began to crave more, his lips almost parting to make a sound—
The strange ritual ended.
Yes, just like that.
Abruptly started, and abruptly stopped.
Mr. Bumblebee straightened up, still smiling—bright and innocent. “How’s that, baby? Feels better, right? Our drone bees have body temperatures that are ideal for plant-types. When a plant-type cries or gets sick, a drone kisses the bud and it calms them right down—just like grabbing a cat by the scruff. Works for shots, medicine, anything!”
“…”
“Hmm? Baby? What’s wrong—does it still hurt?”
“…”
“Let me warm you up some more then—”
“…”
“Ah—”
“SHUT UP, GET AWAY FROM ME!”
Michel collapsed weakly into the sofa, face as red as a baboon’s butt. He glared furiously at the charmingly clueless man in front of him, used all his strength, and yanked the blanket over himself.
Damn species.
Damn flower that turns me into a puddle the moment it gets touched.
Dear God…
This isn’t about being gay or falling in love.
This is about the species.
I’m completely defenseless!
And the worst part is… it really did feel good…
Ugh—
FUCK!!
Author’s Note – Mini Theater
🌸 Little Flower, in the heat of the moment, just about to speak…
🐝 Mr. Bumblebee stands up righteously.
And says: “Don’t overthink it, baby. This is a standard headache treatment.”
🌸 Little Flower: GRASS!
🐝 Mr. Bumblebee: …
🌸 Little Flower, smiling: Don’t overthink it. I am a plant—grass!
🐝 Mr. Bumblebee: …
Good morning, everyone~ 🐤
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