Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 128: The Slow Return

Chapter 128: The Slow Return

The room was dim, lit only by the gentle spill of a hallway lamp through the open door.

The city murmured in the distance — cars, distant laughter, the occasional bark of a dog — but up here, everything felt muffled, as though wrapped in cloth.

Billy sat on the edge of the bed.

He hadn’t changed out of his clothes yet. His socks curled slightly under the weight of his bare feet on the cool floor.

The bed was neatly made, pillows fluffed — not by him. Everything here was already perfect.

But it didn’t feel like his.

Not yet.

The window was cracked open just enough for the breeze to lift the curtain edge. He leaned toward it, resting his elbow on the sill.

Down below, city lights blinked like stars.

Farther than the sky he’d grown used to.

Brighter, but not as kind.

He didn’t know how long he sat there.

At some point, he reached for the small box Camila had left on the nightstand — old photos, letters, things from before. He didn’t open it. Just held it on his lap, his thumb resting on the lid.

His gaze drifted.

Back in the village, it would be quiet by now.

The kitchen light turned off.

Mr. Dand probably asleep by the window chair.

Mark reading in the other room.

And Artur...

Billy swallowed hard.

His mind drifted to that final moment — the sound of the door not opening behind him.

The way Artur didn’t say goodbye.

The way he cried without looking back.

And the way he had left anyway.

"I didn’t want to leave you," he whispered, the words escaping before he meant them to.

His chest tightened. Not with regret, not with anger — just longing that pressed down like memory.

The kind of missing that aches beneath your ribs—like you’re missing a part of yourself.

Billy pressed a hand to his heart.

"Please wait for me..."

His voice cracked — so soft, it was almost silent.

He looked up at the moon, then closed the window slowly, as though tucking the night in gently.

Then he lay down on the untouched bed, his back to the door, facing the wall.

Eyes open.

Heart wide.

Meanwhile, in Solmere.....

The lamp had long been turned off.

But Artur hadn’t moved.

He lay curled on his side, eyes wide open, fixed on nothing in particular.

The shadows on the wall shifted gently with the wind outside, but inside... everything was still.

Too still.

The bed creaked faintly beneath him as he shifted.

His hand reached across the sheets — to the other side of the bed. The side that used to hold warmth. Movement. Breath.

Billy’s warmth.

Artur’s fingers grazed the cold pillow.

He hesitated, then pulled it in.

Held it to his chest.

Not tight. Just enough. Just to feel something.

The blanket twisted beneath him. The room suddenly felt unfamiliar — too big, too hollow. Not because the furniture had changed.

But because Billy was gone.

The one who curled up against his back, arms sneaking around his waist in the middle of the night.

The one who mumbled half-asleep nonsense into his neck.

The one who always made the room feel... right.

Now, the silence pressed harder. It filled the gaps Billy used to occupy.

Artur buried his face into the pillow.

It didn’t smell like him anymore. Just soap and emptiness.

His throat tightened.

"You said you’d come back..." he whispered.

No answer.

Just the sound of leaves brushing the window pane.

He didn’t cry. Not anymore. The tears had burned themselves out hours ago.

Now, there was only ache.

And silence.

And the ghost of someone who hadn’t even died.

Artur closed his eyes. Not to sleep.

Just to escape.

And with the pillow clutched close, he finally drifted into a restless quiet.

Not peace.

But something close and so the night end.

The sky was still pale when the birds began to sing.

Outside the window, the fields shimmered faintly beneath the early light. Dew clung to the grass, and the trees swayed slowly as if stretching after sleep.

Inside, Artur stirred.

He hadn’t truly slept — just drifted in and out of heavy silence. His body ached, not from pain, but from the kind of tired that sinks deeper than muscle.

The pillow was still clutched to his chest.

His hand slowly loosened its grip.

He blinked at the ceiling, expression blank. It took a moment before he even remembered to breathe deeply.

The bed was empty. And it would be again.

He got up.

Pulled on a clean shirt.

And walked out of the room like it was just any other morning.

Didn’t want anyone to try and fill the space Billy left behind.

Mr. Dand was already at the table, sipping tea. A basket of fresh bread sat between him and Mark, who looked up when Artur entered.

"You’re up early," Mark said softly.

Artur nodded. He poured water from the kettle.

Said nothing.

Mr. Dand watched him for a moment, then turned his gaze back to the steam curling from his cup.

No one brought up Billy.

Not directly.

Mark tried, gently.

"Artur... you want to go into town later? Just to get some air?"

Artur picked up his mug. Took a sip.

"I have work to finish."

"Right," Mark murmured. "Of course."

Mr. Dand didn’t interrupt. He only said,

"Let him have his time."

Artur set the cup down harder than necessary.

"I’m fine."

But he wasn’t.

And everyone knew.

Still, no one pushed.

The kitchen fell quiet again — the kind of silence that wraps around grief like a shawl. Protective. Tender. Heavy.

Artur stood near the sink, staring out the window with his mug in hand. The steam had faded. His tea had gone cold. But he hadn’t moved.

Mark sat across from Mr. Dand, fingers idly tracing the rim of his cup.

He glanced up at Artur again. Thought about saying something — then did.

"Let’s go together."

Artur turned slightly, brows knitting.

"Where?"

"Wherever you were planning to go," Mark said softly. "You said you’ve got work. I’ll come along."

Artur hesitated.

"You don’t have to."

"I know," Mark replied, simple and steady. "I want to."

Mr. Dand didn’t interrupt. He took another sip of tea, but his eyes flicked between them with quiet approval.

Artur looked down at his mug, then slowly set it in the sink.

"Alright," he said after a moment. His voice was low, flat — but not cold.

Mark rose from his chair.

"I’ll get my boots."

As he left the room, Artur lingered a second longer, hand resting on the edge of the sink. His gaze slipped back to the window.

The morning was crisp, the sky still soft and pale. Mist clung low to the ground, curling around their boots as Artur and Mark walked the worn path that led down toward the open fields.

Neither spoke.

Birdsong echoed lightly from the trees. The crunch of gravel underfoot was the only sound between them.

Artur’s shoulders were tense, but his expression had softened a little since the kitchen. Not healed — not close. But walking beside someone helped more than he’d admit.

Mark walked slower than usual.

And when they reached the bend in the path — the one that opened to the long stretch of wild grass and fence-lined edges — Artur suddenly stopped.

His eyes shifted ahead.

Mark followed his gaze.

Jay was coming down the same path from the opposite direction, head slightly lowered, hands in his jacket pockets.

His hair was still tousled from sleep, and there was a quiet uncertainty in the way his eyes lifted and caught sight of them.

Mark froze.

His breath caught in his throat before he could stop it.

Artur noticed.

He didn’t say much — just turned his head slightly.

"Go talk to him," he said, voice even. "I’ll wait in the field."

Mark turned to him, surprised.

"Artur, I—"

"It’s fine," Artur said. Not with a smile, not with sadness — just understanding. "You don’t owe me anything."

Mark swallowed.

Jay kept walking, slow, steady. He hadn’t looked away since spotting them. But his pace didn’t quicken.

He was waiting too, in his own way — waiting to see if Mark would choose to stay or walk away again.

Mark looked down at the dirt path, then up again.

"I don’t know what to say to him," Mark admitted.

"Then don’t start with words," Artur said. "Start with being there."

He placed a hand on Mark’s shoulder, gave a single nod, then turned — walking down toward the tall grass without looking back.

Mark stood frozen for a moment longer.

Jay was almost in front of him now — just a few feet between them.

They stopped.

Silence.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Jay broke it first — his voice low, rough.

"Didn’t think you’d still be here."

Mark looked at him.

"I wasn’t planning to be."

Jay’s lips parted slightly, unsure if that was supposed to hurt or not.

Mark glanced down, then back up.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

Jay shrugged, eyes flicking toward the field where Artur had disappeared. His voice was thinner now.

"Didn’t think you’d ask."

Mark stepped forward.

Just a little.

"I didn’t know how."

The wind stirred the tall grass beside them.

Jay’s eyes shimmered — not from tears, but from something rawer, something too soft to name.

"You said you were leaving," he said quietly. "And I get it. But I meant what I said that night."

Mark’s throat tightened.

He remembered.

The way Jay had stood at his door, hands trembling as he confessed.

And the way he had pulled back — not because he didn’t care, but because he was afraid.

Mark looked at him now.

Really looked.

"I meant it too," he said. "That I feel it."

Jay blinked.

"Then why didn’t you—?"

"Because I didn’t want to hurt you," Mark said. "Because I was scared it would matter more than I was ready for."

A pause.

Then:

"It still matters."

Jay’s breath hitched.

He didn’t speak.

But he didn’t turn away either.

They just stood there, between the fading mist and rising sun — a moment suspended between regret and something new.

Not finished.

Not yet started.

Just... waiting.

Jay stood still, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

Mark’s eyes held his, but there was a flicker of hesitation, like he was still deciding if this moment should be real or not.

The morning air was quiet around them — the kind of stillness that only exists right before something important is said.

Jay shifted slightly.

"I kept thinking about that day," he said, voice rough. "About what you didn’t say."

Mark’s gaze dropped to the space between them.

"I wanted to," he admitted. "But I didn’t know how to without making a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep."

Jay let out a dry breath — not quite a laugh.

"I didn’t want a promise. I just wanted the truth."

Mark finally looked up.

"The truth is..." he started, then paused. "When you said you liked me, something in me felt... relieved. Like I wasn’t the only one."

Jay blinked.

"You felt it too?"

Mark nodded slowly.

"I did. I do."

The words landed between them, soft as morning dew.

Jay took a step closer, just enough to shorten the distance.

"Then why didn’t you stay?"

Mark’s jaw tightened. He took a slow breath, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth before speaking.

"Because I’ve never stayed. I didn’t know how. But I know leaving hurt more."

"it did" Jay said, quietly.

Mark’s eyes shimmered.

"I know."

Jay looked at him for a long moment.

Then, gently:

"Did you mean what you said just now? That it still matters?"

Mark nodded again.

"It’s been mattering for a while."

Jay breathed in slowly, chest rising.

"So... what now?"

Mark stepped forward, just a little. The space between them barely existed now — only the ache of missed time and what still could be.

"I don’t have an answer yet," Mark whispered. "But I don’t want to walk away again."

Jay searched his eyes.

Then, softly:

"Then stay just now ."

Mark swallowed hard.

"I will. If you’ll still have me around."

Jay looked down, then up again.

"I don’t need you perfect, Mark. I just... don’t want you pretending not to care."

Mark smiled faintly, a flicker of something breaking through.

"I’m done pretending."

The wind moved gently through the tall grass, brushing their legs, carrying their quiet into the open field where morning was beginning again.

Jay didn’t step away.

Neither did Mark.

They didn’t need promises — just this moment, and the courage to stay.

And for now, that was enough.

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