Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 80: The Risk of Love

Chapter 80: The Risk of Love

Morning broke soft and golden, slipping through the shutters in long stripes of light that stretched across the wooden floor.

The faint sizzle of bread in the pan blended with the quiet simmer of eggs, and the air carried the scent of warm oil and toasting flour.

Artur padded into the kitchen barefoot, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

His hair was still a mess, his shirt a little wrinkled, but he was alert enough to notice his father already by the stove.

"You’re up early," Artur muttered, voice still rough with sleep.

Mr. Dand gave him a glance, then turned back to flip the bread gently in the pan. "Couldn’t sleep much."

Artur crossed to the counter and reached for a knife to slice tomatoes, offering without words to help. Mr. Dand shifted aside, letting him in without protest.

They worked in companionable silence at first, the kind that comes from years of familiarity.

But this morning, something hung in the air—thicker than steam, quieter than breath.

Mr. Dand’s eyes lingered on his son a little longer than usual. Then he spoke, voice low, casual—too casual.

"You two were up late last night."

The spatula in Artur’s hand paused midair, hovering over the pan.

"I—yeah. Couldn’t sleep," he said, the words a little too quick, a little too flat. He forced a shrug, eyes on the bread browning before him.

Mr. Dand didn’t push. He set the kettle down with a soft clink.

Then, after a beat, more quietly: "I saw you, Artur."

The air shifted.

Artur turned slowly, his spine stiffening, the mask of calm beginning to crack. "Saw what, exactly?"

Mr. Dand leaned on the counter, watching him—not with judgment, but with something gentler. "I’ve been your father a long time, son. I may not say much, but I see plenty."

"He didn’t accuse. He simply said— ’I know what’s between you and Billy.’"

"Artur’s fingers curled tight around the counter’s edge, his eyes flicking down, betraying the storm behind his silence." "You knew?"

Mr. Dand nodded. "I suspected. For a while. The way you look at him.

The way he stays near you like he belongs there. The way... your face softens when you talk about him."

Artur gave a short breathless laugh, half relief, half discomfort. "So... what do you think?"

His voice tried for defiant but cracked at the edges.

Mr. Dand didn’t answer right away. He picked up a towel, wiping his hands slowly before leaning back and crossing his arms.

"I think you’re in love," he said plainly. "That much is clear."

He looked at his son with eyes that held more than understanding—they held history. "And I think... that scares me."

Artur turned toward him fully now, brows furrowing. "Why?"

Mr. Dand exhaled slowly, looking away as though the words were hard to pin down.

"Because I remember how quiet you got after your mother passed. How long it took you to let light back in. And now here you are again—opening your heart. Letting someone in."

He paused, letting the words settle. "I’m not scared because it’s Billy. I like the boy. I’m scared because... what if he doesn’t stay? What if his memory comes back and he doesn’t choose you?"

Artur’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He looked down, fingers flexing against the wood grain of the counter.

"I don’t know," he admitted quietly. "I think about that too."

Mr. Dand walked over, resting a hand on his son’s shoulder—a firm, grounding touch. "I’ve lived long enough to know that love’s not always kind. But when it is... it’s worth the risk."

His voice dipped even softer. "But if the day comes when he remembers, and chooses another life—promise me you won’t fall apart. Not like before."

His voice was steady now. "I won’t fall. Not this time. Not for anyone else, and definitely not without Billy."

Then Mr. Dand added, voice just above a whisper: "Just make sure... if you give your heart, he has a place to keep it."

Artur looked up then, his eyes wet but clear. No sobs. No dramatic breakdown. Just a boy—no, a man—quietly holding himself together in the kitchen where he grew up.

They didn’t say much after that.

The eggs were done. The toast plated. The silence returned—but it wasn’t heavy anymore.

It was comforting, like a blanket shared between two souls who understood each other better than words could explain.

The floor creaked softly in the hallway, followed by a quiet yawn and the shuffle of bare feet.

Billy appeared in the kitchen doorway, his hair tousled from sleep, the sleeves of his loose shirt slightly rolled up.

His eyes blinked against the morning light, but his lips curved into a faint, sheepish smile as he stepped inside.

"Mmm... something smells good," he murmured, voice still husky with sleep.

Artur turned slightly at the sound of his voice—just enough to glance back. Not enough to show everything. "Breakfast. We made too much," he said, his tone easy. Almost too easy.

Billy’s gaze flicked between the two of them. Mr. Dand gave him a small nod, a warm but unreadable smile beneath his beard.

"Morning, Billy."

"Morning, Mr. Dand." Billy hesitated before stepping farther in. He noticed Artur didn’t meet his eyes for a beat too long.

There was a quiet stillness between them—something unspoken, like smoke after a fire.

Billy rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly unsure. "Did I interrupt something?"

Artur glanced at his father, then shook his head.

"Just breakfast," he said, but something in his voice had shifted—softer, as if laced with something deeper beneath.

Billy stepped to the table, ran a hand across the edge of the chair, then looked up again. His voice was light, teasing.

"Are you sure? It’s quiet in here. Like... someone said something serious and now no one knows what to do with it."

Mr. Dand chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.

"You’ve got good ears," he said, already reaching to grab another plate for him. "But no—nothing to worry about. Sit. Eat."

Billy obeyed, though his eyes lingered on Artur longer than the moment required. Artur didn’t look back at first—then, slowly, he did.

Their eyes met, and in that fleeting second, something passed between them. Unspoken, fragile, and full.

Artur gave a small smile. Not the usual boyish grin, not even a smirk—just something honest.

And Billy returned it without a word, the tension between them softening like morning dew under sunlight.

They ate in an almost normal rhythm. Almost.

Mr. Dand finished first, pushing back his chair with a grunt. "Alright, we’ve still got a lot to clear by the eastern fence. The weeds are crawling in again. Can’t let ’em take over."

Artur stood without hesitation. "I’ll grab the tools."

"I’ll help too," Billy said, rising and collecting plates instinctively.

Mr. Dand nodded. "Good lad. It’s dry enough today, no excuse to laze about."

Billy chuckled softly, but his eyes followed Artur’s retreating back as he headed for the tool shed.

There was no spring to his step today—no teasing look thrown over his shoulder, no sideways grin. Just quiet purpose.

Billy stacked the last plate, then turned to Mr. Dand. "Is he okay?"

Mr. Dand paused mid-sip of his tea. His eyes flicked toward the open door, then back to Billy.

"He’s fine. Just... thinking, maybe."

Billy didn’t push, but something in his chest stirred. A low unease. Thinking about what? He didn’t ask.

A few minutes later, he found Artur kneeling beside the shed, sorting through a mess of spades and gloves.

His shirt clung slightly at the back from the morning sun, but his posture was tense, his movements a little too careful.

"Need a hand?" Billy asked, crouching beside him.

Artur didn’t glance at him. "I’ve got it."

Billy raised a brow. "Well, maybe I need something to do."

That earned him a small huff, almost a smile. "Here." Artur passed him a pair of gloves. "We’ll probably need to uproot some of the older brush. It’s thick over there."

Billy accepted the gloves, brushing his fingers against Artur’s as he did.

The touch lingered for a second too long.

Artur looked up briefly, and their eyes locked. Just a flicker—but enough for Billy to see it. That hesitation. That distance.

"You’ve been weird all morning," Billy said, quiet but clear.

Artur looked away. "No I haven’t."

"You have." Billy leaned in a little. "You’re not teasing me. You’re not smirking. And you’re avoiding my eyes like I’m contagious."

Artur’s jaw clenched. "It’s not you."

"Then what is it?"

Billy’s gaze lingered on him. "You say that every time something’s wrong."

Artur glanced up at last. His eyes met Billy’s for the first time since breakfast.

There was something unspoken there—hesitation, maybe even guilt—but it was fleeting. He looked away too quickly.

Before Artur could answer, Mr. Dand’s voice carried from across the yard. "You boys coming or planning a picnic?"

Artur grabbed the spade and stood quickly. "We should go."

Billy stood too, still watching him. "We’re not done talking."

Artur didn’t reply. He just walked toward the fence, his shadow stretched long in the sun.

Billy followed, slipping on the gloves, the warmth of the morning doing little to thaw the sudden chill between them.

Something had shifted. Not spoken. Not explained. But it was there.

Still, neither of them dared name it—yet.

The sun had climbed higher now, spilling golden light over the wild patch near the eastern fence.

Dry grasses swayed lazily in the breeze, crickets chirping somewhere out of sight.

Billy bent low, tugging stubborn roots from the cracked earth, sweat glistening at his temples.

Artur worked beside him, sleeves rolled to his elbows, digging in silence.

"Careful," Billy muttered, wincing as he tugged a thorny vine that snapped back and brushed his arm. "These things have a grudge."

Artur huffed a breath, half amused. "They’ve been growing wild since before we got here. We’re the intruders, not them."

Billy glanced sideways at him. "There’s the old Artur. Making grumpy metaphors about nature."

Artur didn’t respond. He kept digging.

Billy stood upright, brushing dirt from his knees. "You’re really not going to talk to me, huh?"

Artur paused only for a moment. "I am talking."

"No, you’re replying."

That made Artur look up—briefly. His eyes met Billy’s, then flicked away just as quickly. "What do you want me to say?"

Billy stepped closer, his voice softening. "Something. Anything. Because you’ve been acting like someone built a wall overnight."

Artur’s hands tightened on the spade. His jaw worked silently, like he was chewing words but couldn’t quite swallow them.

"You don’t have to pretend with me," Billy added. "If I’ve done something—"

"You haven’t," Artur cut in. His voice was low, almost too steady. "It’s not you."

"Then tell me what it is."

The silence that followed was heavy but not cold. Just full of everything Artur didn’t know how to say.

He straightened, dusted off his hands, and stared at the distant treeline. "I just have things on my mind. That’s all."

Billy watched him. Studied the lines around his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders, the weight in his silence.

"All right," Billy said finally, stepping back. "You don’t have to talk. But don’t shut me out either."

Artur didn’t move.

Then—just barely—he nodded.

And though nothing more was said, when Billy reached for another stubborn root, Artur stepped in to help him pull.

Their hands worked side by side, dirt smudging fingers and forearms, arms brushing occasionally, like their bodies remembered a closeness their words still couldn’t reach.

And though Artur didn’t speak the truth that morning, Billy stayed.

Right there. Beside him.

The day’s work left the scent of soil and sun lingering on their skin.

Dry grass crunched beneath their boots as they crossed the yard, settling onto the wooden porch steps outside the house.

The sky had begun to fade into a dusty orange, streaked with hints of violet. Crickets hummed nearby, and the world felt quiet enough to hear a breath shift.

Artur leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees. Billy sat beside him, elbows on the step behind, just watching him.

He didn’t say anything at first—just let the silence stretch between them like cooling tea.

But then, gently, he leaned over and let his head rest on Artur’s shoulder.

Artur’s body stilled—but only for a breath. Then he tilted his head slightly, letting it rest against Billy’s.

"Babe..." Billy said, voice low, unsure if the word would make Artur pull away.

He didn’t. He just nodded slowly, eyes still ahead.

Billy exhaled and continued. "I don’t like the way you shut me out."

Artur didn’t flinch, but his fingers curled slightly where they rested on his thigh.

"If something’s hurting you," Billy went on, "I think I deserve to know. I don’t want you carrying it all alone."

Artur said nothing at first. Just breathed. In. Out. And then...

He turned toward him, shifting so they faced each other. His eyes—steady, but vulnerable in a way Billy rarely saw—searched Billy’s face.

"I’ve always carried things alone," Artur said finally. His voice was quiet, not cold, just used to quiet. "It was just easier that way. No expectations. No one to disappoint."

Billy reached for his hand, interlacing their fingers. "You’re not alone now."

A small smile tugged at Artur’s lips. Brief. Worn. "I know."

He looked down at their hands, thumb brushing slowly across Billy’s knuckles.

"My dad talked to me this morning," he said after a pause. "He saw us. Last night."

Billy’s breath caught—but Artur didn’t pull away.

"He wasn’t angry," Artur continued. "Just... scared. For me. He’s afraid I’ll get hurt.

That when your memory comes back..." His throat tightened. "That you won’t want this. Me."

Billy sat up slightly, eyes narrowing, searching Artur’s face. "Wait—are you okay? I mean... is he mad? Did he say something that upset you?"

Artur shook his head. "No. He was calm. Honest. He just... doesn’t want me to get hurt again. And I understand him. Because the truth is... I’m scared too."

Billy stayed still. Not because he didn’t know what to say—but because he didn’t want to interrupt what was finally being said.

Artur’s voice lowered, a whisper now. "I’ve lost before. My mom. Then I nearly lost myself for a while. I just... I don’t know how to do this without fear riding beside me."

Billy lifted their joined hands, pressing a kiss to Artur’s knuckles. Then he looked into his eyes.

"I may not have my whole past," Billy said, voice steady but threaded with emotion, "but I know what I feel now. And I wouldn’t trade this—us—for anything."

He paused, brushing a thumb gently across the line of Artur’s hand. "I wake up in a place I didn’t know. I look in the mirror and barely recognize who I was. But then I look at you—and everything feels real. Solid. You’re the only thing that hasn’t changed. That feels right."

Billy’s voice softened, rich with sincerity. "If my memory comes back, and it turns out I’ve lived a thousand lives before this one—I still think I’ll remember this. I’ll remember you.

The way you look at me like I’m someone worth staying for. That matters more to me than whatever I’ve lost."

Artur didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His other hand reached up, cupped the side of Billy’s face, and for a long, silent moment, they just looked at each other—eyes speaking in ways words never could.

The crickets kept humming. The evening deepened.

And for the first time that day, the weight between them began to lift.

Billy leaned forward first—slowly, gently—until his forehead rested against Artur’s. Their breaths mingled in the warm hush of twilight, neither of them speaking, just staying there, close.

Artur’s hand slid behind Billy’s neck, holding him there—not possessive, not desperate, just needing him near.

"You’re someone worth staying for too," he murmured, barely above a breath.

Billy smiled softly. Then he shifted, resting his head against Artur’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm beneath his ear. Artur’s arms came around him, holding him close.

And in that quiet moment, with nothing but the fading sun and the hum of the earth around them, it felt like nothing else mattered.

Just them.

Just now.

Just home.