Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 83: Something We Built

Chapter 83: Something We Built

The sun leaned lazily westward, casting soft gold over the village rooftops and painting long shadows under the awnings of the small eatery.

The scent of warm rice, grilled herbs, and the earthy breath of summer lingered in the air. Laughter drifted from the nearby market stalls—children’s squeals, distant bargaining, the creak of a wheelbarrow.

Billy sat still in his seat, a little flushed from the meal and the company, but mostly from the heat curling at the back of his neck.

Across the table, Artur chewed slowly, his brow slightly furrowed like he was deep in thought, though his eyes occasionally flicked toward Billy with something softer than he ever said aloud.

Jay, now lounging sideways in his chair like a cat on a windowsill, let out a long, theatrical sigh.

"This place hasn’t changed one bit. Still the best soup. Still the slowest service. And still not enough people appreciating how good I look."

Artur didn’t even look up. "You sound just like last year."

"I am just like last year. Except maybe more charming," Jay replied, sipping from his glass.

Then his eyes slid toward Billy with a lazy gleam. "You know, Billy, when I first met Artur, he used to scowl at everyone. Now he only scowls when I touch you. That’s progress."

Billy smiled faintly, resting his chin on his palm. "He still scowls at you more than anyone else."

"That’s because he’s in love with me."

Artur set down his chopsticks. "Jay."

Jay raised both hands. "Alright, alright, I’ll behave. For now."

But even his teasing couldn’t break the underlying calm. It was the kind of afternoon where everything slowed down—not from weariness, but from contentment.

The world didn’t ask for anything. It simply let them be.

Billy leaned back slightly, feeling the weight of the full day in his limbs, and let his gaze travel to Artur, who had gone back to his meal.

His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, skin tanned, forearms marked faintly by old scrapes and sun.

He looked at ease, grounded, yet there was a quiet tension in his jaw, like he was holding something back.

Billy noticed these things now—how silence meant more with Artur, how stillness could speak.

Jay, who had been watching the two with his head tilted slightly, smiled."Thanks for the meal," he said softly, glancing at them

Artur finished the last of his soup and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms loosely. "We should head back soon. There’s not much left to do today, but—"

"No rush," Billy interrupted, voice gentle. "It’s nice here."

Artur paused. Something in his expression flickered—surprise, maybe, or something warmer.

Jay stood slowly, stretching with a yawn. "I’ll head off first. Got a few errands to run before the last bus leaves."

He looked between the two of them, and though his smile stayed playful, there was a flash of sincerity in his eyes. "You two... take your time."I’ll leave you to your... whatever this is." He turned to Billy and added with a wink, "Take care of him. He’s all bark and no warning.

Artur shot him a look. "You mean no bite?"

Jay laughed as he walked away. "No, I meant what I said."

They watched him go until the dust of his departure settled back into quiet.

Billy turned to Artur. "You’re really close to him?"

Artur leaned back in his chair, the sun casting soft shadows across his profile. "He’s annoying," he said simply. "But loyal. Grew up nearby. We just... always ran into each other."

Billy nodded. "He’s like a storm. Makes noise, leaves quickly, but kind of clears the air too."

Artur glanced at him then—just a flick of the eyes, a curve of the lip. "That’s a poetic way of saying he’s exhausting."

Billy watched him walk away, the sound of his steps fading into the lazy hum of the village. He looked down at the empty bowls, then at Artur.

"Do you miss the way things used to be?" he asked quietly.

Artur blinked. "What do you mean?"

Billy shrugged. "Before I showed up. Before everything changed."

For a moment, the question just hung there, carried on the breeze that stirred the hanging leaves.

Artur’s gaze settled on him. "No," he said simply. "I don’t miss it."

Billy looked up, eyes meeting his. The sun had dropped lower now, casting soft light across Artur’s face—drawing out the small curve of his lips, the calm in his eyes, the quiet certainty in his voice.

They didn’t speak for a while. They didn’t need to.

At last, Billy rose from his seat. "Walk me back?"

Artur stood as well. "Always."

And so they walked, side by side, down the gently winding path toward home, the world around them unhurried, their shadows stretching long behind them.

Billy walked with his hands tucked into his pockets, gaze drifting over the rooftops tinted orange by the late sun. Artur walked beside him, silent but not distant.

Their steps found rhythm naturally—neither too fast nor too slow, like two heartbeats falling into sync.

At one point, Billy glanced sideways. Artur’s gaze was on the path ahead, but the stiffness in his shoulders had melted into something looser. More comfortable.

"You know," Billy said softly, "for someone who barely talks, you say a lot."

Artur gave him a sidelong look, one brow lifting. "I talk."

"Barely."

"I talk when I have something to say."

Billy laughed, and the sound was light, carried by the breeze. "You’re lucky I like the quiet."

Artur’s lips curved slightly. "You fill it well."

They reached the bend near the old fig tree—its branches now heavy with green fruit. A pair of sparrows darted through its limbs, chirping loud enough to echo against the stone fences.

Billy paused there, resting a hand on the tree’s trunk. "Feels like everything is slowing down," he murmured. "Like the whole village is just... breathing easier."

"Harvest season’s near," Artur said. "Work’s mostly done. People rest."

Billy nodded, fingers brushing over the bark.

Artur watched him in silence for a moment, then said, "You worked hard this season. It shows."

Billy looked over his shoulder, surprised. "Coming from you, that’s practically a speech."

Artur stepped closer, his voice low. "It’s not just the farm."

Billy blinked, unsure what he meant—but Artur didn’t clarify.

They kept walking, and soon the rooftops gave way to the open fields that bordered their home.

The fences they’d repaired together stood strong and neat, the rows of vegetables tidy and rich in color.

Even the scarecrow Billy had helped stitch looked proud under the fading sky.

As they reached the porch, Billy let out a slow breath. "Feels like we’re standing in something we built."

Artur leaned against one of the wooden posts, arms crossed loosely. "Because we are."

Billy turned to face him. The air between them felt quiet in a different way now—closer, heavier with something that hadn’t quite been spoken.

Artur didn’t speak, he reached out, brushing his knuckles gently against Billy’s hand. A small gesture, but filled with warmth.

Billy looked down at the touch, then back up.

They stood there for a moment longer, the house behind them quiet, the fields golden, the sky slipping into a soft lavender.

Then Billy smiled, nudging Artur lightly with his elbow. "Come on. Let’s feed the chickens before they decide we’ve abandoned them."

Artur chuckled—a rare, low sound that Billy felt more than heard—and pushed off the post to follow him.

Billy carried the small tin bucket of feed in one hand, the other brushing lightly against Artur’s as they walked.

The chickens had already gathered near the fence, their restless clucking rising like chatter at a village gathering.

"They’re louder than usual," Billy muttered, adjusting his grip on the bucket.

"They probably heard you coming," Artur replied. "You talk to them too much."

Billy snorted. "At least they listen. Better than someone I know."

Artur moved beside him, steady and sure, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he leaned to unlatch the feeder bins.

His movements were quiet, practiced—yet Billy caught the way his eyes softened every time he glanced at one of the hens flapping lazily around their legs.

Billy knelt, sprinkling handfuls of feed across the ground. "You ever name them?"

Artur gave a slow blink. "No."

Billy grinned. "Not even the fat one that waddles like she owns the place?"

Artur’s mouth twitched at the corner. "Especially not her."

Billy chuckled as one of the bolder hens hopped up on the rim of the bucket and peered at him like a queen awaiting service.

"See?" he said, gesturing toward her. "That’s a Beatrice, for sure."

"Beatrice?" Artur repeated, folding his arms with mock judgment. "That’s not a chicken name."

"It is if she demands respect."

Artur shrugged, then paused. "There that one let’s call it Dot. She always pecks at your boots.

Billy laughed. "Why Dot?"

Because... she leaves marks. Like you.

There, under the filtered light of the late morning sun, Mr. Dand stood near the wooden fence with a half-filled bag of feed.

Beside him was Mr. Tomas, their neighbor, tossing grain into the troughs with practiced motions, his cap pushed low over his brow.

The two men moved in rhythm, wordless for the most part, pausing now and then to rub a sheep’s head or adjust a sagging section of fence.

Billy watched them for a second, that quiet peace in his chest expanding just a little more.

Artur followed his gaze, then stood beside him, brushing stray feed dust from his palms.

"They’ve already done half our work," Billy murmured.

"They always do," Artur said. "Tomas shows up whether we ask him to or not. He says helping the animals helps clear his head."

Billy smiled. "He’s sweet."

"Too sweet," Artur muttered. "He once let a goat walk into the kitchen because it looked ’lonely.’"

Billy burst into a laugh. "Please tell me it sat at the table."

"Worse. It got into the bread drawer."

Billy wiped at the corner of his eye. "God, I hope it was worth it."

Artur smirked faintly, gaze flicking to Billy’s face where amusement danced openly, unguarded. "He said it was. Called it a ’divine disruption.’"

Billy was still laughing, even as he crouched to scatter the last of the feed. "A divine disruption. That’s going to be my new excuse every time I mess something up."

Artur looked down at him, the angle catching the fading sun in his eyes. "You don’t mess things up."

Billy glanced up. "You sure about that?"

Artur’s jaw tensed, then loosened. He stepped forward, knelt beside Billy—close enough that their shoulders brushed. "You being here... it changed things. But not in the way you think."

Billy swallowed, his fingers tightening slightly around the bucket’s handle. "How do you mean?"

There was a pause, like Artur was pulling the right words from a well too deep to see the bottom. Then, quietly:

"Things were quiet before. Simple. But kind of hollow. I didn’t know it until you showed up."

Billy’s breath caught.

"You made things louder. Not noisy. Just... more alive." Artur tilted his head, looking at him not with intensity, but with something far more disarming—honesty. "That’s not a mess. That’s something good."

Billy didn’t look away. Couldn’t. For a moment, all the little sounds—the rustle of feathers, the creak of the fence, the distant hum of insects—blurred around the steady beat of his own heart.

He set the bucket down, slowly.

"Artur," he said, voice soft, low.

But Artur had already looked away, rising smoothly and dusting his palms. "Come on," he said, not brusque, just gentle. "Let’s check the back pen before dark."

Billy stood, the warmth of the moment still settling in his chest, lingering like the scent of sun on hay. "Alright," he murmured, brushing his hands together and falling into step beside him.

They moved through the field together, past the chicken coop, the sheds, the line of newly sprouting vegetables.

The twilight bled richer now—orange deepening into copper, lavender stealing across the sky’s edges.

The back pen sat quiet, the sheep already huddled in their corner, chewing lazily, eyes half-lidded.

Artur leaned on the gate and watched them. Billy stood close, watching him.

He didn’t speak, not yet. He didn’t have to.

The silence between them was no longer empty.

Billy shifted closer, the back of his hand brushing lightly against Artur’s.

This time, Artur didn’t pull away. His fingers curled, slow and tentative, linking with Billy’s. Not a grip—just a connection. Bare, unadorned, steady.

For a moment, they just stood like that—hand to hand, breath to breath—watching the animals settle into the hush of the evening.

Billy finally said, "Is this what home feels like?"

Artur didn’t answer right away. Then he murmured, "If it is, I think we’re standing in it."

Billy turned his head, their faces now close enough that the last threads of light painted soft gold across Artur’s cheekbone.

His heart beat loud in his ears.

"I don’t remember my past," Billy said, voice barely above a whisper, "but when I’m here with you, I don’t feel like I’ve lost anything."

Artur’s brows furrowed, and for a heartbeat, it looked like he might pull away—but instead, he stepped in, closing the small distance.

"Then stay," he said quietly. "Even if you remember everything. Stay."

Billy didn’t answer with words. He tilted his face just enough for the truth to speak between them—his lips brushing gently against Artur’s in a kiss that wasn’t hurried or dramatic. Just real.

It lingered.

When they pulled apart, Billy’s breath hitched in his throat.

Artur’s hand stayed in his, fingers tangled like roots.

"Let’s go inside," Artur said softly.

And this time, Billy nodded.

They left the field behind them as the sky deepened, the world slipping into velvet blue.

The porch lights flickered on, warm against the gathering dark. Crickets began their chorus. A breeze stirred the leaves.

Inside the house, everything was still. Familiar. Waiting.

Billy stepped through the door, Artur just behind him.

The door clicked shut.

And the night wrapped around them—quiet, steady, filled with the promise of things blooming slow, but strong.