Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 103: What We Don’t Say

Chapter 103: What We Don’t Say

The sun had softened a little, casting a golden hue across the field as Billy and Artur made their way back toward the shed.

Billy carried the folded tarp under one arm, while Artur held the coiled ropes in his hand.

Their steps were quiet, unhurried. They didn’t need to speak—something about the silence between them was comfortable now, almost protective.

As they reached the old wagon, Billy dropped the tarp with a light thud and stretched his arms overhead.

Artur gave him a side glance, lips tugging faintly. "You’re getting too used to this."

Billy tilted his head, grinning. "What, hard labor under the sun?"

Artur shrugged. "The rhythm of it. You don’t complain anymore."

Billy squatted to unfold the tarp, smoothing it over the wagon base. "Maybe I figured out it’s not so bad when someone’s doing it with you."

Artur said nothing at first, but he stepped closer to help without a word.

Their fingers brushed briefly as they pulled the corners taut. Billy didn’t pull away. Neither did Artur.

For a beat, their hands lingered—then Artur’s thumb shifted, just slightly, brushing over Billy’s knuckle before letting go.

Billy blinked once, his smile fading into something softer. "We almost done here?"

"Just need to secure the ropes," Artur murmured, not looking up.

They worked side by side, silent again but not distant. The last knot was tied without fuss. Artur gave it a firm tug to test it.

Billy watched him from the corner of his eye, then leaned back against the edge of the wagon, arms crossed.

"You’ve been quiet," he said after a moment. "Not in a bad way. Just... thinking?"

Artur dusted his hands off. "I guess. You?"

Billy gave a small shrug. "Trying not to overthink. Doesn’t work."

Artur finally met his eyes. "Whatever you’re thinking about... you don’t have to handle it alone."

The words hit with more weight than he expected. Billy’s chest tightened, and for a second, he didn’t trust himself to say anything.

So instead, he nodded. A small, quiet gesture. But it was enough.

Artur took a step back, brushing his fingers through his hair, suddenly a little awkward. "We should head back."

Billy smiled, soft and grateful. "Yeah."

They turned together, not in sync but close enough.

And as they walked, the space between them felt different—no longer just shared silence.

Back at the other edge of the farm, where the sun fell softer and memories ran deeper.

But something growing.

The breeze tugged faintly at the hem of Mark’s shirt, brushing against both of them like a nudge neither responded to.

Mark stood still for a moment, hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed somewhere past the fence line. Jay leaned beside him, arms crossed, silent but present.

Then, finally, Mark muttered, "I’m going to feed Pop’s sheep."

Jay let out a low chuckle, tilting his head slightly. "How noble."

Mark didn’t react right away. Just pushed off the fence and started walking.

Jay followed without waiting to be invited. "C’mon, don’t be cold. Let me help. I’ve got experience feeding stubborn things."

Mark glanced back, half a smirk forming. "Yeah? Must’ve learned it looking in the mirror."

Jay laughed, genuinely this time. "Touché."

They walked side by side toward the pen, the silence between them lighter now—but still edged, still unresolved.

Jay fell into step with him easily, like he’d been waiting for Mark to soften. But Mark didn’t soften. He just didn’t push him away this time.

And that, for now, was something.

The path to the sheep pen was uneven, dotted with patches of dry grass and stone, but Mark walked it like second nature.

Jay trailed a step behind, silent now, eyes fixed not on the path but on Mark’s back.

They reached the fence, and Mark leaned over, grabbing a small metal bucket.

The familiar bleating of the sheep greeted him as he stepped inside the gate.

Jay held it open for him, watching the way Mark moved—efficient, unbothered, trying hard not to notice the company he’d allowed.

"You can feed the sheeps now?" Jay asked after a beat, resting his arms on the wooden post.

Mark poured grain into the trough and shrugged. "Sometimes Billy helps. Sometimes Pop. Depends who’s around."

Jay nodded. "And now you’ve got me. Lucky you."

Mark shot him a look over his shoulder. "That’s debatable."

Jay smirked, stepping closer to the fence. "I’m growing on you. Don’t deny it."

Mark paused—just for a second too long. Then went back to the bucket, avoiding eye contact. "You’re like a rash. Hard to get rid of."

Jay tilted his head, watching him. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile this time. "And yet here you are, letting me help."

Mark didn’t answer.

A soft wind stirred between them, carrying the faint scent of hay and the sun-warmed earth.

Mark straightened, brushing his palms together. When he turned, Jay was standing closer than before.

Their eyes met—just briefly—but something held in that moment. A flicker, too fast to name, too raw to deny.

"You’ve changed," Jay said, the words quieter than the wind.

Mark blinked, caught off guard. "Maybe."

"I like this version," Jay murmured.

Mark hesitated. His fingers curled lightly around the empty bucket. "Don’t get used to it."

Jay’s lips parted, like he might say something more—but he didn’t.

Instead, he reached forward and took the bucket from Mark’s hands, their fingers brushing.

Mark didn’t pull away.

Neither of them moved for a breath too long.

Then the sound of a sheep bleating broke the moment, loud and impatient.

Mark stepped back first. "We’re not done."

Jay, still watching him, smiled softly. "Not even close."

The last of the feed scattered into the trough with a soft clatter.

Mark brushed off his hands, then leaned back against the wooden rail, watching the sheep nudge each other greedily.

Jay didn’t move. He stood beside him now, elbows resting lazily on the top of the fence, his gaze half on the animals, half on Mark.

"You were always like this," Jay said, voice low. "Quiet after the storm."

Mark didn’t respond right away. His eyes were on the smallest lamb pushing its way to the front.

Jay let the silence stretch a little, then added, "Back then, you’d walk out after every fight. Disappear for hours. Come back like nothing happened."

Mark glanced at him, expression unreadable. "You still talk too much."

Jay chuckled. "Maybe. But I never stopped wondering where you went."

Mark gave a quiet snort. "You didn’t care back then."

"I did," Jay said, softly this time. "More than I knew how to admit."

Mark turned his face away, but his posture stiffened slightly, like the words hit somewhere he wasn’t ready to feel.

Jay waited, then tried again. "I’m not here to fight you, Mark."

Mark let out a dry laugh. "You sure? You’ve been picking at me since you got here."

Jay looked at him now, fully. "That’s because I’m angry too. At myself. At how things ended. At you for not—" He stopped. "I don’t know."

Mark’s jaw shifted slightly. He kept his eyes forward. "You think talking like this fixes anything?"

"No," Jay replied, quieter now. "But maybe it’s a start."

"I kept thinking I’d moved on. Until I saw you again, and I realized I was just running from the one thing I messed up most."

The sheep had begun to wander further off, content and full. The breeze had stilled.

The only sound left was the soft creak of the old wooden fence under their weight.

Mark finally turned toward him, really looked at him for the first time all day.

His voice was low, a little rough. "You left, Jay. That part doesn’t go away."

Jay’s gaze dropped for a moment, then met his again. "I know. And I hate that I did."

Their eyes held—something flickering there, between anger and ache, between memory and something that hadn’t yet found a name.

Jay stepped a little closer. "I’m not asking you to forget. I just don’t want to be a stranger."

Mark didn’t move away. He didn’t step closer either. But he didn’t break the stare.

After a moment, his voice softened, barely above a whisper. "You’re not a stranger. That’s the problem."

Jay’s breath caught, just a little.

They stood like that—quiet, unmoving. No teasing this time. No need.

Mark’s hand lingered on the gate latch, the wood splintered and worn—the way things age when left unattended too long.

Just two people with too much unsaid between them, and no rush to leave the space they’d stumbled into.

Not yet.

Their boots pressed into the dry earth, side by side, in a quiet rhythm that somehow said more than words.

They didn’t say much as they walked.

The air between them wasn’t tense anymore—just... quieter. Softer.

As if something unspoken had settled between them, like dust after a long storm.

Mark glanced at Jay a couple of times, but Jay didn’t push or tease.

He just walked, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes watching the path ahead.

As the house came into view, Jay slowed a little.

Mark stopped at the gate and looked up at him.

Jay offered a faint smile—tired, maybe a little sincere. "Guess this is where I pretend I wasn’t about to ask if you wanted to come over."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Don’t pretend. Just ask."

Jay tilted his head, amused. "You would’ve said no."

Mark didn’t deny it. "Probably."

They stood for a moment longer.

Jay took a small step back, gaze lingering. "Alright then. I’ll see you tomorrow."

Mark nodded, quiet. "Yeah. Tomorrow."

Jay turned, heading down the road toward his place. His silhouette stretched long in the afternoon light, shrinking as he moved away.

Mark stood at the gate a few seconds longer, watching him go.

Then, without another word, he pushed the gate open and stepped inside.

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