Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 79: Hard to Stay Mad

Chapter 79: Hard to Stay Mad

The scent of spices floated through the house like a soft blanket, warm and nostalgic.

The sun had begun its descent, stretching golden rays across the wooden floor, casting slow-moving shadows that danced quietly on the walls.

Billy plated the food with care, his bandaged finger moving just slightly slower than the rest.

He stole a glance at Artur—who still hadn’t said much since sitting down, but his body had softened. Less rigid now. Less angry.

He set the two plates down on the table, the steam rising gently from the rice and sautéed vegetables. A simple meal, but made with quiet attention.

Artur eyed the food with reluctant approval.

"Didn’t poison mine out of revenge, did you?" he asked dryly.

Billy chuckled, sliding into the seat opposite him. "No. But if you eat too fast, I’m not responsible for what happens."

Artur cracked a small smile, the last traces of his grudge slowly fading into the warmth of the room. He picked up his spoon and took a bite—then paused.

Billy watched him carefully, brows raised. "Too salty?"

Artur shook his head slowly. "No. It’s good."

"Good ’good’ or just ’I’m hungry so I’ll eat anything’ good?"

Artur looked up, eyes locking onto Billy’s. "It’s the kind of good that makes it hard to stay mad."

Billy’s heart thumped a little too loudly in his chest.

He looked down at his plate, hiding the smile that crept across his lips. "Then I guess I’ll cook every time we fight."

"Let’s not make it a habit," Artur muttered, mouth full.

They ate in companionable silence for a while, the kind that stretched comfortably between people who didn’t need to speak just to fill the air.

Billy’s bandaged finger throbbed a little, but he didn’t care. Not when Artur was there, eating the food he made, slowly melting back into the kind of softness only Billy ever got to see.

Halfway through the meal, Artur glanced up again.

"You really spaced out earlier," he said.

Billy’s spoon slowed. "I told you. I was just—"

"Don’t lie."

Billy looked at him. The way Artur said it wasn’t demanding. It was... knowing.

"I don’t know what it was," Billy finally admitted. "It’s like a shadow in the corner of my eye—I turn, and it’s gone. But it leaves this... feeling, like I missed something important."

Artur didn’t interrupt.

Billy’s voice lowered. "It’s been happening more often. Little things. Not full memories, just... pieces."

Artur leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, eyes soft now. "Does it scare you?"

Billy shook his head. "Not really. Just... makes me feel like I’m living someone else’s life sometimes."

A beat passed.

Artur reached over the table and, with a quiet gesture, touched the back of Billy’s hand—careful, gentle.

"You’re not alone in it," he said. "Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. Together."

Billy nodded slowly, swallowing more than just food.

They finished the meal with fewer words, letting the food do what it always did—fill the silences, soothe the tempers, stitch the day back together.

When they finally pushed their plates aside, Artur exhaled and leaned back in his chair. "Still mad?" Billy asked lightly.

Artur smirked. "Ask me again after dessert."

Billy grinned. "There’s no dessert."

Artur stood, brushing his hand against Billy’s shoulder as he passed. "Then you owe me one."

Billy’s laughter followed him out of the kitchen, light and warm like the last rays of sun curling through the window.

Billy dried his hands on a cloth and turned around just as Artur dropped onto the couch with a low sigh, stretching his legs.

He looked at Billy, and this time, there was no trace of annoyance left in his eyes—just that familiar softness, reserved only for him.

"Come here," Artur said, patting the space beside him.

Billy crossed the room slowly, his lips quirking. "Didn’t even try to stay mad, huh?"

Artur shrugged, tugging gently at Billy’s wrist as soon as he was close enough. "Was never really mad. Just pretending to teach you a lesson."

"Oh? And what lesson would that be?"

Artur leaned in, forehead nearly touching his. "That when I’m upset, feeding me is the fastest way out."

Billy laughed, the sound low and bright. He let himself sink down beside Artur, their arms brushing, knees touching. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Artur reached out, sliding his fingers around Billy’s hand—slow, deliberate, warm. He didn’t let go.

Billy glanced down at their hands, then up at Artur again. "You’re holding it like you’re afraid I’ll vanish."

Artur didn’t blink. "Some part of me always is."

The honesty in his voice landed with quiet weight between them, but it didn’t feel heavy. It felt real.

Billy shifted a little closer. "I’m not going anywhere, you know."

Artur exhaled through his nose, a small nod following. His thumb brushed softly across the back of Billy’s hand. "I know. Still... Let me hold on a little longer."

Billy turned fully toward him, folding his legs up, their knees now tucked against each other. "As long as you want."

They sat like that, gazing—no rush in their eyes, no words needed to fill the space.

Just long, slow looks and the quiet intimacy of shared breath. Outside, the cicadas had begun their song, and the village seemed to hum with sleepy life, but in that room, time felt suspended.

Artur’s voice came soft, almost hesitant. "I still remember the first time you smiled at me. You didn’t even know who you were... but that smile... it was like I did."

Billy tilted his head, his voice low. "And what did you see?"

Artur met his gaze, unwavering. "Someone I wanted to protect. Someone I wanted... more of."

The quiet tightened between them again—only now it wasn’t empty.

It was thick with feeling, with want, with all the words they hadn’t yet spoken but somehow already understood.

Billy’s fingers curled into Artur’s. "You’re not going to lose me," he said again, quieter this time, like a promise tucked into the hush of twilight.

Artur nodded, leaning his head gently against Billy’s shoulder. "Good," he whispered. "Because I’m not letting go."

And there they stayed—hand in hand, heart to heart, while the last light of day melted into the embrace of evening.

"The front door creaked, jarring the stillness like a stone dropped into calm water."

Billy startled slightly, instinctively pulling his hand away just as Mr. Dand stepped inside.

He shifted in his seat, casually pretending to stretch as Artur turned his head lazily toward the door.

"Back already?" Artur called out.

Mr. Dand grunted as he kicked off his boots by the entrance. "Barely escaped," he muttered, trudging toward the table and lowering himself onto the wooden chair with the weight of a man who had been through a small war.

Billy coughed into his hand to hide a smile.

"Old Harris," Mr. Dand continued with a dramatic sigh, "cornered me like a fox in a coop.

The man can trap you in a story about his dog’s sleeping habits and somehow turn it into a lecture on the price of fishing hooks in ninety-four."

Artur stood with a soft chuckle and moved toward the kitchen. "Told you not to stop by. You never learn."

"I had to, didn’t I? Important errands and all," Mr. Dand grumbled, swiping a hand across his brow.

"You should’ve seen the way he leaned on that counter like he was telling the tale of the century."

Billy got up too, walking toward the edge of the kitchen as Artur poured a glass of water and brought it over.

Mr. Dand took it gratefully, drinking half of it in one long gulp.

"And then," he added, setting the glass down with a thud, "he forgot what he was saying halfway through and started over—twice!"

Billy leaned against the doorframe, trying to stifle a laugh. "He does have a gift."

Mr. Dand pointed at him. "You’ve seen it. You know I’m not exaggerating."

Artur sat down again beside Billy with a little groan. "That man could talk a hole into a stone."

Mr. Dand waved a dismissive hand, the grump already leaving his voice. "Anyway, I’m back. And alive. That’s what counts."

Billy smiled softly as Artur’s knee brushed his again beneath the table.

The sun outside was dipping lower, spilling orange light through the open window, and despite the interruption, there was a quiet ease in the room now—shared, lived-in, real.

"Even without Artur’s hand in his, the imprint lingered—like heat left behind on a pillow."

And somehow, that was enough.

Artur had returned to Billy’s side on the couch, more subtle now, but the closeness between them hadn’t faded—it lingered in the glances, in the space between their knees, in the way Artur’s foot tapped quietly against Billy’s.

Billy let his head rest slightly to the side, the curve of his shoulder brushing Artur’s arm. There was a gentle peace in the air—until Mr. Dand’s gaze shifted sharply.

"What’s that?" he asked, nodding toward Billy’s hand.

Billy blinked, followed the line of sight—then instinctively tucked his hand to his chest.

"Nothing. Just a scratch."

Mr. Dand wasn’t convinced. "A scratch wrapped up like that? What happened?"

Artur turned his head too, eyes narrowing slightly. He hadn’t brought it up again after the kitchen incident, letting it go when Billy shrugged it off, but now that it was out in the open, he was watching closely again.

Billy hesitated, thumb brushing lightly over the edge of the bandage. "I wasn’t paying attention while slicing the tomatoes earlier. It’s not bad."

Mr. Dand gave a grunt, half-concerned, half-scolding. "You’ve got to respect the blade, boy. Kitchen knives don’t play games."

Artur didn’t say anything, but his hand slid over gently, fingers brushing Billy’s knee in a quiet check-in.

Billy didn’t look at him, but the touch anchored him. He gave the smallest nod.

"I’ll be more careful," he murmured.

Mr. Dand’s stern look softened. "Well, at least it’s not deep. Next time, call me if you’re not sure. You don’t have to play hero over a salad."

Billy chuckled under his breath. "Wasn’t exactly heroic."

"Didn’t look like it," Mr. Dand muttered, already reaching for another glass of water.

Artur’s voice came low beside Billy’s ear. "Next time just let me do it."

Billy tilted his head with a small, crooked smile. "Then how would I impress you?"

Artur rolled his eyes, but a faint grin tugged at his lips. "You already do."

Their knees touched again, and neither of them moved.

The night had settled in quietly, the house now filled with the gentle hum of the evening.

Mr. Dand sat at the table, his meal nearly finished, the clinking of utensils as he moved slowly between bites.

The soft light from the overhead lamp illuminated his weary face, and he looked over at Artur and Billy with a slight nod.

"You two should go and rest," he said, his voice steady but soft, like a gentle order. "Tomorrow’s another day."

Artur exchanged a look with Billy, their brief moment of tension in the living room still hanging in the air, but neither of them said anything.

They both stood in unison, a quiet understanding between them.

The house seemed a little emptier now, quieter—without the laughter and the soft banter, but it was a peaceful silence.

Each of them made their way to their separate rooms, the routine of the evening bringing a sense of normalcy that felt almost too perfect.

But once inside, the stillness hit them differently than usual.

Billy lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. His body was tired, but sleep didn’t come, not like it usually did.

He tossed once, then twice, and the clock beside him ticked louder than he expected.

It felt different tonight.

The night had grown quiet and long, the kind of silence that hummed gently in the walls, the clock ticking slow and distant.

Billy lay still in bed, one hand resting on his chest, the other curled over the edge of the blanket.

The ceiling stared back at him. Blank. Motionless.

His eyes were open, but not fully awake, caught in a space between restlessness and ache.

He exhaled slowly, as if trying to push the emptiness out of the room.

Across the hall, Artur rolled onto his side again, his pillow no longer warm.

He stared at the faint outline of the door where the hallway light bled in beneath.

His jaw tensed, then loosened with a sigh. It was ridiculous how used to someone you could get—how used to the weight of someone beside you, even if it hadn’t been for long.

He sat up quietly, swung his legs over the bed, and rubbed at the back of his neck. As he reached for the door, it clicked softly open.

And there, across from him, Billy was already standing at his own doorframe.

They both paused, caught in the quiet like two magnets drawing close. Artur smiled faintly, rubbing his eyes.

"You couldn’t sleep either?" he asked.

Billy chuckled, arms folded lightly, as though embarrassed to be caught out of bed. "I guess I’m addicted to having you around," he said. "Couldn’t sleep either."

Artur rubbed the back of his neck, his smile deepening. "Are you sleeping?" he asked, almost sheepishly.

"No," Billy replied with a shake of his head, warm amusement in his voice. "Just so-so. Let’s sit down a bit."

They walked together, silent in step, padding barefoot into the main room.

The old couch welcomed them like it always did, the cushions sinking gently beneath their weight.

Artur wrapped an arm around Billy’s shoulder without a word, fingers resting gently at the curve of his arm.

Billy leaned into him without hesitation, his head resting against Artur’s shoulder.

The peace between them came slowly—like a soft breath finally let out.

"I keep thinking," Billy said after a moment, "maybe if we had a proper fight one day, like a big one, I’ll just move to the next village and pretend to be someone else again."

Artur snorted, laughing lightly. "I’d find you. Hunt you down. Even if you changed your name to something stupid like—Derrick or something."

Billy laughed into his shoulder. "Derrick? Really? I look like a Derrick to you?"

Artur looked down at him, eyes soft. "No. You look like mine."

Billy stilled just a beat, smile softening, his chest rising slowly under the weight of the moment. "That’s the cheesiest thing you’ve ever said."

"You bring it out of me," Artur muttered, grinning despite himself.

"You know," Billy began, voice muffled slightly against Artur’s shirt, "you make the worst bed partner."

Artur raised a brow. "Excuse me?"

"You hog the blanket," Billy said with a grin, "and you twitch in your sleep.

I woke up last night and thought I was sharing the bed with a fish."

Artur laughed—a real, chest-deep laugh, the kind that warmed the room.

"That’s rich coming from someone who sleep-mumbles. I caught you arguing with a lamp two nights ago."

Billy laughed too, snorting before covering his mouth. "That’s not true."

"It is. You said, ’Stop glowing so smugly.’" Artur chuckled again, shaking his head. "What does that even mean?"

They both laughed quietly, shoulders shaking. The kind of laugh that only came from ease.

From safety. Artur turned a little, his gaze settling softly on Billy’s profile, and the smile lingered there, as if it never had anywhere else to go.

But down the hallway, another door cracked open.

Mr. Dand had stirred from sleep, the dryness in his throat tugging him toward the kitchen.

He stepped out, adjusting the collar of his shirt as he squinted into the dim light.

And then—he saw them.

There they were—Billy nestled into Artur’s side, their silhouettes a gentle curve of closeness on the couch.

Artur was laughing softly, eyes only on Billy. There was no distance, no hesitation in their touch. Only warmth, only the kind of comfort that couldn’t be faked.

Mr. Dand stopped in the doorway, caught in a stillness. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came.

The pieces he’d suspected—small glances, quiet gestures, the way they looked for each other in a room—clicked silently into place.

He didn’t step forward. He didn’t reach for the water.

He simply stood there, watching the truth unfold—not with surprise, but with the slow, quiet weight of understanding.

A truth he had known deep down, maybe for a while now, but hadn’t seen this clearly until now.

He saw the way Artur held Billy like something precious, the way Billy leaned into him like he belonged there.

Billy’s fingers brushed lightly against Artur’s sleeve, a slow, tentative gesture that lingered longer than friendship would allow.

Artur didn’t flinch—he leaned in, almost instinctively, closing the space between them.

Their foreheads touched briefly, a quiet, reverent kind of affection, as if the world might break if they made a sound.

Artur laughed again, oblivious. Billy tilted his head back with a playful smile. And in that soft, golden moment, they looked happy.

And somehow, it didn’t ache—it simply settled. Heavy, but not unwelcome.

Without a sound, he turned away, forgetting the water entirely. His footsteps were softer now, careful not to disturb them.

He didn’t sleep much after that. Not because of worry, but because sometimes love—quiet, unspoken love—lingers in the silence, even after the doors have closed.