Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 100: Not Quite Alone

Chapter 100: Not Quite Alone

The field felt quieter once the other two were gone—less movement, less noise. Just the soft breeze rustling the nearby brush and the steady rhythm of Billy’s breath.

Artur straightened from the ground, stretching his back with a wince. "Finally," he muttered, eyeing the last of the rows.

Billy stood a few feet away, hands on his hips, gaze following the curve of the hill where Mark and Jay had disappeared. "They work fast," he said.

Artur grunted. "They talk too much."

Billy chuckled softly. "They’ll kill each other or fall in love."

Artur gave him a side glance. "Both are possible."

A silence lingered between them—comfortable, weightless.

Then Billy turned to face him fully. "You’re not going to ask why I keep looking at them?"

Artur bent to pick up the last bundle of rope. "You’d tell me if you wanted me to know."

Billy watched him for a second. "What if I just wanted you to stay quiet with me?"

Artur looked up, meeting his eyes. "Then I’d be quiet."

Billy took a step closer. "You always this patient?"

Artur smiled, barely. "No. Just with you."

The words landed with more weight than either expected. The sun behind Billy’s shoulder caught in Artur’s eyes, turning the brown gold for a second. Billy’s fingers curled loosely at his sides, resisting the instinct to reach out.

Instead, he walked past Artur, brushing his shoulder lightly. "Come on. We should clean up."

Artur followed, their steps aligned without planning, each carrying their silence like something precious—not heavy, but fragile.

And in the hush of the near-empty field, something between them quietly shifted. No declarations. No confessions.

Just the quiet certainty of two people who knew they weren’t quite alone anymore.

They didn’t rush to leave.

Instead, they stood near the tools they’d stacked at the edge of the field, the last of the sunlight stretching their shadows over the worn soil.

A quiet breeze tugged at Billy’s shirt, and a few strands of hair fell loose across his forehead.

Artur watched him absently brush them back, the motion familiar now—like a habit carved into quiet evenings like this.

Billy sat down on a flat rock, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "You ever get tired of this?"

Artur dropped beside him, resting his elbows on his knees. "The work?"

Billy nodded.

"Yeah," Artur said. "Sometimes."

They both stared out toward the horizon. The village roofs were barely visible beyond the hill, dipped in the mellow gold of late afternoon. A bird swept low over the field, its wings cutting the silence.

"But," Artur continued, "I like how quiet it gets after."

Billy’s voice was low, like he didn’t want to disturb the moment. "It feels different here. Like time forgets to move."

Artur tilted his head toward him. "Maybe it’s not time that forgets. Maybe we’re just not chasing it anymore."

Billy smiled faintly, without looking. "That sounds like something a farmer would say."

Artur bumped his shoulder lightly. "And you sound like someone who’s almost a farmer now."

Their eyes met, and the space between them suddenly felt closer than before. Not urgent. Not demanding. Just there—warm and still.

Billy’s voice softened. "Artur..."

Artur didn’t speak. Just waited.

But Billy only exhaled and stood slowly, brushing off his pants. "Come on," he said. "Let’s go home before we fall asleep out here."

Artur rose beside him, wordless. They walked back side by side, their steps unhurried, the weight between them no longer heavy.

Just understood.

By the time they reached the path leading into the village, the sky had cooled to a soft, dusty blue.

Billy walked a step ahead, his sleeves rolled up, the back of his neck damp from the work.

Artur followed quietly, the silence between them still easy, still warm.

As they passed the familiar fences and weathered walls, faint sounds of the village evening stirred around them—laughter from a nearby porch, a door creaking shut, the distant clatter of a bucket being set down.

Their house came into view. The lights inside glowed dimly, casting soft amber rectangles across the dirt.

Artur opened the gate with one hand, letting Billy step in first. The door was already ajar, and the faint scent of something warm—possibly tea—hung in the air.

Billy kicked off his boots by the door, pausing just long enough to glance at Artur behind him.

"You go ahead," he said quietly. "I’ll wash up."

Artur nodded, but didn’t move right away. He watched Billy disappear down the hall, heard the faint sound of water running a few seconds later.

The house felt lived-in tonight. Still. Settled.

Artur stepped inside, stretching his back with a low groan, then moved toward the main room where Mr. Dand sat, half-dozing in his chair. A soft snore escaped him—Artur smirked.

"Long day?" he asked, not expecting an answer.

Billy returned, hair damp. As he passed Artur, their arms barely brushed. Enough to linger.

Just barely.

But enough.

Artur glanced over his shoulder.

Billy didn’t look back.

The table was already set when Billy walked into the kitchen. The lantern hanging above cast a soft, golden glow across the wooden table.

Plates, still warm from the stove, steamed gently—grilled vegetables, fish wrapped in banana leaves, and a bowl of simple broth.

Mr. Dand sat down with a satisfied sigh, rubbing his shoulder. "Feels like my bones will creak into firewood if I keep moving like today."

Artur smirked faintly, pulling out a chair beside him. "You say that every week."

Billy took the seat across from them, glancing once toward the door. "Mark’s not back yet?"

"No." Mr. Dand reached for the ladle. "Maybe he’s still with the city boy."

Billy blinked. "Jay?"

Artur gave a short nod, unconcerned. "They’ll manage. Mark’s not exactly the fragile type."

They ate in quiet for a few minutes, the occasional clink of cutlery the only sound between them. The air was tired, full of dust and the hush of a day well spent.

Billy took a sip of the broth, then paused, looking across at Artur. "You were quieter today."

Artur didn’t answer right away. He scooped some rice into his bowl and set the ladle down before answering, his voice calm.

"Was just watching you."

Billy tilted his head. "Why?"

Mr. Dand snorted. "Careful, boy. That’s the kind of sentence that’ll make your food go cold."

Artur didn’t smile, but something passed between him and Billy—too brief, too subtle for anyone else to catch.

Billy looked down, hiding the quiet curve of his lips behind his bowl.

Dinner slowly dwindled, the bowls half-emptied and the warmth of the meal sinking into tired muscles.

Mr. Dand leaned back in his chair with a grunt, stretching his arms as the lantern flickered gently above them.

"You two clean," he said, standing with a grunt. "I’ve got early rounds tomorrow, and these old legs need mercy."

He waved a hand lazily and disappeared into the hall.

The sound of his retreating footsteps faded, leaving Billy and Artur alone at the table.

The silence between them wasn’t heavy, but it carried something unspoken. It hung there—comfortably stretched, not needing to be filled.

Billy reached for the dishes. Artur stood at the same time.

"I’ll rinse," Artur said.

Billy didn’t argue. He carried the plates toward the counter and handed them over one by one. They worked side by side, not rushing, but moving in rhythm.

Steam rose from the sink as Artur washed, sleeves rolled up past his forearms, the tendons shifting beneath his skin. Billy stood beside him, drying each piece with slow, methodical care.

After a moment, Billy broke the quiet.

"You always do dishes like this?"

Artur glanced at him. "Like what?"

Billy shrugged faintly. "With your whole body... like you’re wrestling ghosts in the water."

That earned a faint huff of laughter from Artur.

"Maybe I am."

Billy tilted his head, studying him. "Do you miss the city?"

Artur’s hands paused under the water, then moved again, slower this time.

"Not really," he said. "It was loud. Pretentious. Empty in a way I couldn’t explain back then."

Billy leaned back against the counter, drying a bowl. "And now?"

"I don’t need to explain it anymore."

Their eyes met across the sink.

Billy’s voice dropped, softer. "You seem more yourself here."

Artur met his gaze, the silence more revealing than words. His fingers stayed in the water even after the last plate was rinsed.

Billy reached forward, brushing a damp strand of hair from Artur’s forehead—gentle, slow, like a question being asked without words.

Artur’s breath caught, just slightly. But he didn’t flinch.

The silence grew thick again, this time edged with something new. A quiet current between them, deeper than comfort. Deeper than routine.

Billy pulled back a little, his throat tight. "I’ll wipe the table."

He turned and walked to the cloth, but his pace had shifted. Slower. More careful.

Artur rinsed his hands, watching Billy’s back.

When Billy bent slightly to wipe the far edge of the table, Artur stepped behind him, quiet and close.

"Hey," Artur said.

Billy straightened, turning halfway.

Artur held out the clean dish towel, but his hand lingered in the air a second longer than needed.

Their fingers brushed.

Billy took it without speaking, but his eyes said more than his silence allowed.

A beat passed.

Then the sound of the wind nudging the windows returned, and they moved again—separately, but not really apart.

Later, the dishes done, the kitchen now quiet, Billy sat on the couch, and the warmth of the evening meal still lingered faintly in the air.

Billy sat on one end of the couch, legs folded beneath him, absently thumbing the edge of a cushion.

Artur sat nearby, elbows resting on his knees, head slightly turned toward the open window.

A hush lay over the room, not from discomfort—but from something slower, something growing.

Billy’s voice was soft when he finally spoke. "Feels like it’s always quiet after dinner."

Artur gave a nod. "It’s the village. Nothing rushes here."

Billy glanced sideways at him. "You like the quiet?"

Artur looked at him, not answering right away. His eyes lingered, searching Billy’s face like it held some piece of the calm he’d learned to live by.

"I do now," he said at last. "Especially like this."

Billy’s breath hitched—but before he could say anything else, a faint voice echoed from outside.

"—I told you I’m fine. You didn’t have to walk me all the way here."

"I didn’t. I stopped walking ten steps ago. You kept following me, stubborn as always."

Billy and Artur both looked toward the door.

Outside, Mark stood near the front gate, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded with irritation.

Jay leaned casually against the fence, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a half-finished candy stick like it was a cigarette.

"You’ve got something stuck on your hair," Jay said, reaching out. "Wait—nope. That’s just your ego."

Mark swatted his hand. "Stop touching me."

Jay chuckled low. "You say that, but you didn’t push me away back there when I bought you food."

"That wasn’t a date."

"Didn’t say it was," Jay grinned. "But you ate like it was."

Mark rolled his eyes and turned to the house.

Jay stayed leaning against the gate a second longer, watching him go.

Inside, the door creaked open.

Billy shifted slightly on the couch, and Artur sat straighter.

Mark stepped in, brushing his palm down his jacket. He paused when he saw them.

Billy glanced between Artur and the door. Jay was still there, silhouetted against the fading light—watching, not leaving.

Artur stood first. "You’re back."

Mark gave a tired nod, already toeing off his shoes.

"You should eat," Artur added. "There’s still food."

Mark shook his head. "I ate."

Billy glanced at him from the couch. "With Jay?"

Mark didn’t answer. He just made a quiet sound in his throat and started for the hallway.

Artur exchanged a glance with Billy, but neither spoke as Mark disappeared down the corridor.

The front door creaked again. The wind moved softly through the screen.

Billy leaned back into the cushion, letting out a slow breath.

Artur didn’t sit back down just yet. He stood a moment longer, thoughtful.

Then, quietly, he moved toward the window and pulled it closed.

Inside the room, the light was low—only the lamp on the far shelf glowed soft and golden.

Billy stepped in first, his shoulders visibly relaxing as he reached back to pull the door closed behind them.

Artur said nothing at first. He simply walked over and sat at the edge of the bed, unlacing his boots with slow, practiced fingers.

Billy stood by the side for a moment, then moved behind him, resting his hands gently on Artur’s shoulders.

"You’re tired," Billy murmured.

Artur tilted his head back just enough for their eyes to meet. "So are you."

Billy gave a small smile, the kind that touched his eyes. He leaned down and kissed Artur’s temple, then his cheek. Artur turned just slightly—enough that their lips brushed, soft and unhurried.

It wasn’t fire. It wasn’t hunger. It was quiet. Real. The kind of kiss that says, I’m here. I see you.

No words passed between them. Just a look. that said, "We’re okay here. Just you and me."

Peaceful. Honest. Undisturbed.

Artur pulled him closer by the waist, and Billy came willingly, settling beside him on the bed.

Billy’s head tucked beneath Artur’s chin, and one of Artur’s hands slid gently along his back.

"Comfy?" Artur asked, voice low and almost sleepy.

"Mhm," Billy hummed. "You make a good pillow."

"You drool on your pillows."

"Only on the ones I love," Billy mumbled with a teasing smile.

Artur laughed under his breath, the sound muffled against Billy’s hair. "Gross."

"You love it."

A pause. Then quietly, "Yeah. I do."

Outside, the wind whispered along the windowsill, and a distant owl called once into the night.

Inside, they stayed wrapped around each other, not needing to move, not needing to fill the silence.

Billy’s hand slid across Artur’s chest, resting flat over his heart. His thumb traced slow circles, grounding them both.

"I wish we could pause everything," Billy whispered, not lifting his head. "Just stay like this. No past. No future. Just... here."

Artur’s lips found the top of his hair. A kiss. Gentle. Steady.

"Then let’s stay," he said. "Just for tonight."

Billy nodded softly against him. "Just for tonight."

And as the night deepened, and the house settled around them like a secret, they simply held each other.

No fear. No walls. Just warmth shared in the hush of a room where love didn’t need to be loud—it only needed to be true.

Outside, the wind whispered past the window. The village slept.

Inside, they just breathed together.

Across the house, Mark lay flat on his back, one hand behind his head, the other holding his phone above his face. The screen’s glow cast shadows across his cheekbones.

He flipped absently through stories—memes, blurry sunsets, someone’s cat in a sweater. His expression was unreadable, until a name caught his eye.

Mr. Frank.

Mark tapped the profile and it opened into a list of stories and old posts. He scrolled.

A picture from last winter—Mr. Frank grinning with a hand thrown over Leo’s shoulder.

Another photo—Leo mid-laugh, head tipped back, Billy just behind him with the same wide smile, their arms barely brushing. The kind of smile you can’t fake.

Mark kept scrolling, slower now. The dates got older, the faces younger. But Leo’s expression stayed the same.

Mark exhaled quietly, the sound almost like a sigh.

Then he tapped the message icon.

The chat thread opened. It had been silent for months.

Mark hesitated. His thumb hovered over the camera icon. Then he swiped up, found the photo—the one he snapped at the kitchen counter. Billy, leaning lightly on the counter, unaware. The lighting caught his features just right.

He hit send.

No message. No caption.

Just the photo.

It delivered instantly.

Mark stared at the screen for a beat.

Then he locked the phone and set it on his chest.

Inside the house, two people lay curled together in a fragile peace.

And in Mark’s inbox, a storm had just begun.

Outside his window, the night was calm. But something had been set in motion.

And it wouldn’t stay quiet for long.