AB Chapter 9: When a Man Has Pecs Wednesday, 9:00 AM – Chicago
Wednesday, 9:00 AM – Chicago
Chicago after snow—and after the snow melts—can’t simply be described with the bland word cold.
Especially since Chicago is famously called the Windy City.
Strong winds and blizzards roar through the sky, devouring everything in white. They howl like beasts circling overhead, slamming against skyscraper windows with a fierce crack crack, grinding down as if trying to shave buildings in half.
The wind, mixed with ice pellets, pushes people forward with such force it pierces through down coats and wool sweaters, clawing at your flesh, threatening to snap your bones with its chill.
First-timers to Chicago would gape out the window thinking it looked like a movie set.
Then, the moment they stepped outside, they’d scream from the bottom of their lungs:
“This is magic! It’s got to be magic!”
Driving in this weather? Impossible.
Anyone who needed to work could only rely on the subway or public buses.
If your car was parked outside the garage, congratulations—get your shovel ready. You’re digging it out. (Assuming you don’t freeze to death trying.)
Outside a small apartment.
City workers drove rumbling snowplows, struggling to clear the streets. A few pedestrians dressed like polar bears huddled together, shuffling slowly forward.
If you’re behind on heating bills or didn’t pay them at all, winter in Chicago turns your home into a freezing, soul-crushing meat locker.
Luckily, the apartment Michel rented included heating.
Due to a blizzard warning, Mr. Bumblebee and the flower-boy youth both had to cancel their plans and stay home.
This was their third day of living together.
After getting over the initial awkwardness, Michel had successfully adjusted to having another person at home—and was doing quite well.
Wearing his yellow SpongeBob pajama set and powder-blue bunny slippers, he squatted in front of the wardrobe, rummaging through it.
Because what he was looking for wasn’t easy to find, he had to crawl halfway into the closet, his butt sticking out, pajama top riding up. A stretch of pale lower back and prominent vertebrae were fully exposed.
Sitting on the bed, Simon stared straight at that spot, slightly dizzy from the view.
“Baby…”
“Don’t rush me! Almost there—damn it, I swear I left it here.”
“Watch your flower! You’ll cry if it gets hurt again.”
Simon sounded worried and got up to help. Last time Michel combed his hair, he forgot about the flower growing on his head and yanked it by accident. One tug and—
Scream.
Michel dropped to the floor pale-faced and drenched in cold sweat. Simon nearly had a heart attack and immediately called the bee doctor, who came in a panic and charged a fortune for a few boxes of ointment.
Michel didn’t say much, but inside, he was dying a little.
After all, on Earth, the conversion rate between Starcoins and U.S. dollars was 1:8. Those unremarkable ointments cost two months’ worth of his salary!
Since then, Michel had seriously considered shaving his head and capping it with a glass bowl.
Still digging around, Michel mumbled, “Can we not bring that up again? I didn’t want to cry. That was a physiological reflex! God knows why it hurt more than getting kicked in the nuts!”
Simon chuckled softly, walked over, knelt behind him, and gently tugged Michel’s pajama top back down, covering the exposed skin.
“Ah!”
Michel flinched at the warm hand against his cool back. Just as he opened his mouth, he spotted what he was looking for.
“Found it!”
He popped out of the wardrobe and slapped a shirt onto Simon’s chest with triumph.
“Try this! I bought it back in high school for my graduation photo. The store messed up the size and wouldn’t let me return it… It’s XXL, so it should fit you!”
Simon held the shirt uncertainly. “I don’t need clothes. I have my carapace.”
Michel: “But your carapace is your skin. If you don’t wear clothes, aren’t you basically streaking?”
Simon: “…”
Mr. Bumblebee was speechless.
Yes, over the last three days, Michel had learned that the golden metallic armor Simon wore wasn’t clothing—it was part of his body.
That sleek, futuristic suit with brown stripes that looked like superhero gear? It was Simon’s insect armor.
Simon explained he was a winged, carnivorous warrior-class drone from Planet Pepejia.
There were worker bees without wings or armor, communication bees, commander bees, and warrior drones—Simon was the latter.
His carapace could shift between human flesh and battle armor depending on the situation.
Like something out of a sci-fi fantasy movie.
His skin could transform in seconds into gleaming yellow armor, layered from chest to toe, dazzling and sharp-edged, totally badass.
And completely invulnerable.
Simon even demonstrated: he grabbed Michel’s German chef’s knife and slashed himself with force. Sparks flew. No mark was left. The screech of metal-on-metal filled the kitchen.
Michel had been stunned.
“That’s so cool! If your head could transform too, you’d look like Venom from those old Earth movies!” Though Simon’s armor was yellow instead of black, Michel couldn’t help touching it in awe, muttering “so cool” over and over again.
It felt smooth and solid, like polished steel.
Simon let him touch freely and mumbled, “I haven’t evolved completely yet. Only with enough nectar—by being with a plant-type like you—can I reach my full form. Then my head will transform too.”
“I see… Wait, what’s with the red tint near your neck?!” Michel poked it, wide-eyed. “Whoa, it’s changing color! Is that some kind of defense response?!”
“No.”
Simon looked down at him quietly.
“It means I’m blushing.”
Michel: “…”
Simon: “B-Baby, could you maybe stop touching…”
Michel: “…”
The black-haired youth pulled back his hand like it was bitten. The little flower on his head folded up in shyness, like a tiny imp hiding its face while giggling.
Simon didn’t speak—he just stared at the flower.
The air turned awkward and a little… steamy.
A faint citrusy, boozy scent seemed to rise from the back of Michel’s tongue, blushing his cheeks.
After a long silence, a sudden thought broke through Michel’s daze.
“Since your armor is part of your body, that means…” He licked his dry lips and looked up.
“Sir, are you… completely naked in front of me right now?”
Simon froze.
Michel’s gaze dropped, murmuring,
“You’re not even wearing pants… it’s so flat.”
Simon: “…” No! That’s not it!
Baby, let me explain! Some parts of us drones can retract into the armor!
Simon’s tough, handsome face cracked. He reached out to explain, but Michel cut him off.
Michel put on a stern face:
“Then the past two nights when you slept beside me… you were also naked?”
He raised a hand and glared, covering his face.
“I didn’t expect you to be this kind of bee…”
Simon: I’m not—I didn’t!
I’m a decent bee!
“I—No, baby, please listen, I really didn’t mean anything weird. I just—on my planet we’re used to—this is how—”
“Pffft!”
“…”
“Hahaha—oh come on, don’t look so serious. I was teasing you.”
Michel finally let out a laugh.
He dropped his hand, clearly trying to hold back laughter. He knew Simon wouldn’t have any pervy thoughts—he was just playing with him.
Seeing Simon relax, Michel added,
“But from now on, you have to wear clothes. At least look human. Otherwise, living here’s going to be inconvenient.”
“Okay.”
Simon nodded obediently.
Which led to this morning’s scene.
Simon retracted his armor, revealing a body not unlike a hyper-jacked male model (or a fitness coach times two), and pulled on a pair of pajama pants.
These were loose, discount-bin blue-and-white striped pajama pants that were huge on Michel.
But on Simon, they became tragic.
The elastic waistband strained over his ripped lower abs and sharply cut V-lines, barely holding on.
His muscular legs—easily reaching Michel’s waist—filled the pant legs to bursting, turning them into capri pants.
Every time Simon moved, his muscles flexed just a bit, and the seams looked ready to rip open with a loud pop, threatening to self-destruct at any second.
Simon was too tall. Too strong.
Michel, who stood at 180 cm with shoes on, barely reached Simon’s chest.
To get the shirt on, the two of them stood up, facing each other, and teamed up to tug the shirt onto Mr. Bumblebee.
Michel stood on tiptoe. Right in front of his nose were Simon’s high, bulging pectorals. Just a moment ago, when Simon had turned around to handle the sleeves, lifting his arms, the tense, lean scapular muscles and his twin dimples of Venus exuded a wave of masculine pheromones that tickled even Michel's male instincts.
This was the body of a warrior—every muscle earned through life-or-death battles.
It was fierce, beautiful, powerful.
Michel swallowed:
…I don’t even dare think too hard. If Simon turns out to be a domestic abuser, will I survive the first day of cohabitation?
Simon turned around, wearing the ill-fitting white shirt, and looked at Michel with warm, tender brown eyes.
Michel instinctively smiled, gazing into Simon’s eyes, mentally adding:
Thank goodness...
He’s not.
This big guy is so gentle with me.
“You just need to suck it in a bit more—almost there! Just a little more and it’ll button!”
The oversized shirt was stretched tight across Simon’s skin. Michel, sweating, gripped both sides and tried to pull them together in the middle.
The shirt just barely matched up, but unfortunately, buttons aren’t sewn right on the edge. To get it to close, Simon tucked his chest in and tried to compress himself into a ball.
Michel was drenched in sweat, nearly snapping the transparent button in half.
“Maybe we shouldn’t force it—it’s too tight,” Simon hesitated, trying to talk him out of it.
“It’s fine!” Michel gritted his teeth. “New shirts are always like this the first time. Just wear it and it’ll loosen up. Trust me—I swear I’ll get it buttoned!”
“Really?”
“Yes!”
Simon lowered his head, frozen in place, lips moving slightly as if to say more, but not wanting to upset his flower. He just stared quietly at the little red blossom, letting Michel do his thing.
Finally!
The transparent button slipped through the hole.
Both of them let out a breath of relief.
Michel patted the shirt stretched perfectly across Simon’s chest, wiped his forehead, and grinned up at him. “See? I told you it would fit.”
“Mm.” Simon nodded with that smile he always wore no matter what his baby did, and seeing his approval, Michel felt even more satisfied.
He was just about to say something else when suddenly—
The second button, right at face level, strained to its limit.
With a snap, the thread gave out, and it launched into the air!
“Whoosh—”
Smack!
The button hit Michel right on the nose, then flew off and rolled several times across the floor.
That one button seemed to trigger a chain reaction. The rest of the buttons instantly popped off.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
They hit Michel squarely, one after another.
Michel, face stung and stunned: "…"
Simon, bare-chested again: "…"
Silence. Dead silence.
The fallen buttons lay scattered on the floor, hand in hand, silently mocking the absurdity of it all.
Simon: “B-Baby…”
Michel, looking mournfully up:
“Why… is your chest so big?”
Simon: “…”
Michel: “To feed babies? Huh? Speak up!”
Simon: “…………”
Mr. Bumblebee trembled in place.
Mr. Bumblebee had no words.
Mr. Bumblebee, full of shame, hugged his chest tightly and lowered the little tuft on his head.
[Author’s Note] – [Mini Theater]
Michel: “Your body is amazing. Your chest is huge.”
Simon (with a serious tough-guy face): “Mm.”
(Then shyly hugs himself)
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