Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 87: This Quiet Kind of Love

Chapter 87: This Quiet Kind of Love

The old shed behind Mr. Dand’s house leaned like an aging man, ribs showing where the slats had warped.

Sunlight leaked through its bones. By late afternoon, they were already ankle-deep in dust.

The crates Artur mentioned sat untouched, their corners softened from years of use. The sun hung lower now, casting long lines through the wooden slats.

Artur kicked open the shed door and leaned inside. "We’ll need these sorted before tomorrow."

Jay squinted at the stack. "Sorted how? They look like... crates."

"Check for cracks," Artur said simply. "Loose planks, missing bottoms. You’d be surprised how many we’ve patched over the years."

Jay walked in, picked one up, turned it over once, then frowned. "This one smells like old onions."

Billy knelt by the pile, hands brushing along the grain. "That’s probably the one Mr. Dand used last fall."

Jay sat on an overturned bucket with exaggerated care. "So this is what staying in the village gets me."

Artur didn’t respond, too focused checking the nails on the edge of a lid.

Billy glanced up. "You could still leave. No one’s chaining you here."

Jay didn’t smile. For a moment, his thumb traced the rim of the bucket like he was grounding himself. "I know. That’s the weird part. I don’t want to."

Artur looked over then, only briefly.

Jay shrugged. "It’s not just about helping or impressing the old men. I don’t know—maybe I got tired of running around with no reason."

Billy passed him a crate with a crooked base. "Here. Fix this one. Since you’re having an identity crisis."

Jay snorted. "Bossy."

"Efficient," Billy corrected.

Artur, wiping sawdust off his palm, finally spoke. "You sure about this?"

Jay glanced between them. "I’m not made for early mornings and dirt under my nails, if that’s what you’re asking."

"Then what are you made for?" Billy asked quietly.

Jay didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the broken crate in his hands, then out through the open door where the light spilled in like honey across the grass.

"I don’t know yet," he said.

Artur leaned back against the frame. "Well, you’ve got time."

Jay nodded once. "Yeah. Maybe for the first time, I do."

Silence settled over them—not uncomfortable, just full. Billy picked up another crate. Jay stayed seated, quieter now. Artur, in his usual way, said nothing more, but stayed close.

And for a moment, that was enough.

Jay tried to hammer the crooked board back into place, missing the nail entirely. It clanged against the crate, jarring through the wood.

Billy looked over. "You trying to fix it or kill it?"

"I didn’t realize carpentry required aim."

Artur didn’t look up. "Everything requires aim."

Jay gave him a flat look, then tried again, this time gentler. The nail bent sideways.

Billy reached over, took the hammer from his hand. "Here. Like this." He gripped the handle near the base, tapped the nail into place with short, even strikes. "Don’t force it. Let the tool do the work."

Jay watched, then muttered, "You sound like you’ve been doing this your whole life."

Billy’s smile was thin. "Feels like it lately."

Jay leaned back, arms draped across his knees. "You’re not who I expected, you know."

Billy didn’t respond.

Artur stood, lifted a crate, tested the joints. "Neither is he who he expected."

Jay looked at him, curious. "That mean something?"

Artur just shrugged. "Fix the next one."

Jay groaned but grabbed another crate. "Slave drivers, both of you."

Billy chuckled under his breath, but didn’t stop working. His hands moved confidently now, sorting through old nails and wood slats, pausing only to check what Artur handed him.

The rhythm settled. The kind that comes with repetitive work—small sounds, wood against wood, hammer tapping, breath and pause.

Jay was quieter this time as he tried again. The crate still didn’t sit right, but he didn’t toss it aside. Instead, he turned it over, studying the base like it might reveal some secret.

"You’ll get it," Artur said softly.

Jay glanced up. "What makes you think I care?"

"You wouldn’t be this frustrated if you didn’t."

Jay stared at him a beat, then smirked. "You’re more talkative today."

Artur shrugged. "You’re more tolerable."

Billy stifled a laugh behind his hand.

Jay grinned, then finally managed to sink a nail straight. He raised the crate like a trophy. "Gentlemen, I am now a man of the field."

Artur reached for the next. "Then carry that one back inside."

Jay groaned. "I knew that was coming."

Billy stood too, lifting two crates with ease. "Come on. Let’s see if you survive the walk without spraining something."

Jay followed behind them, muttering curses under his breath—none of them serious.

And just before they reached the shed door again, he said quietly, "This isn’t terrible, you know."

Billy didn’t turn, but his voice was soft. "It’s better when you stop thinking about what it’s not."

Jay didn’t reply.

But he carried the crate without another word.

Jay set the third crate down with a theatrical grunt. Then he paused, sweat slicking his hairline.

"This is how people die..." He gestured to the sun overhead. "Quietly. In the middle of nowhere. From effort."

Billy tossed a sack over his shoulder without slowing. "You’ve done three. That’s nothing."

"Three too many," Jay snapped. "I’m not built for this. My hands are for aesthetics, not agriculture."

Artur didn’t even look back. "Then stop using them and talk the crates inside."

Jay scowled. "You’ve been waiting to say that all morning, haven’t you?"

Artur smirked, just barely.

They loaded the last of the tools into the shed. The sun was higher now, heat crawling through their shirts. The air held that dry weight—summer creeping close.

Jay leaned against the wall dramatically. "I demand a reward. Preferably chilled. Possibly alcoholic."

Billy swiped sweat from his brow. "You’ll get water. With dignity if you sit down quietly."

"I knew it. Village life is a conspiracy."

Billy nudged the shed door shut, gave Jay a look. "You in or not?"

Jay straightened with a groan. "If I die, I want it on record: Artur is to blame."

Artur led the way back toward the house without answering.

---

Inside, the kitchen was cool in that worn, familiar way. Billy grabbed the jug from the counter, poured into mismatched cups.

Jay took his and downed half before sitting. "God, that’s better."

Artur sipped his slowly, sitting across from him. "See? Still alive."

"Barely."

Billy leaned on the table, eyes flicking between the two of them. "You lasted longer than I thought."

Jay raised his glass. "Don’t compliment me. It’ll go to my head."

Artur snorted. "Too late."

They sat there in a kind of easy silence—sweat drying, bodies unwinding.

Then Jay said, quieter, "It’s not so bad. Being here, I mean."

Billy looked at him. "You sound surprised."

"I kind of am."

Artur met his gaze, steady. "Then stay."

Jay blinked. "I already said I would."

"Mean it."

Jay didn’t answer right away. He just stared into his cup, something unreadable behind the smile.

"I’m still figuring that part out," he said finally.

Billy nodded. "That’s fine. We’re all figuring things out."

Jay looked at them both, then leaned back with a small grin. "You two are getting weirdly wise out here."

Artur stood, taking his empty cup to the sink. "We don’t have a choice."

Jay watched him go, eyes thoughtful.

Then, to Billy, he whispered, "He’s changed."

Billy didn’t answer, but the small smile he gave said enough.

Jay stayed seated a little longer, watching the two move around the kitchen. Artur rinsed their cups, sleeves rolled up, silent as ever. Billy leaned on the counter beside him, not saying much, just there.

Something about the way they moved—wordless, aligned—made Jay exhale through a smile.

"You know," he said, voice softer now, "you two really are something."

Billy glanced over. "Something like what?"

Jay shrugged, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. "A team. A real one. People talk about love like it’s all flowers and fate, but this—" he gestured vaguely between them, "—this is something else. You work. You show up. Together."

Artur didn’t turn around, but he stilled, water still running.

Billy raised a brow. "That’s new. Compliments from you."

Jay gave a crooked smile. "Don’t get used to it."

He stood, stretching lazily, but his tone stayed sincere. "Just saying... I’ve seen people who claimed to be in love. Didn’t last a week under pressure. But you two? You dig dirt together. You argue without walking away. You make it look... real."

Artur finally turned, drying his hands with the towel. "It’s not about looking."

Jay nodded. "I know. That’s why it matters."

Billy watched him, eyes narrowing slightly. "What’s this about, Jay?"

"Nothing." He waved a hand. "Just thinking out loud. That’s allowed, right?"

Artur leaned back against the counter. "Since when do you think out loud without an audience?"

Jay smirked. "Since I decided to grow. Emotionally."

Billy snorted. "You’ll sprain something."

Jay chuckled. Then, quieter, "Anyway. I’ll give you lovebirds some space. Going to walk a bit. Maybe find a tree to lie under and pretend I’m working."

He grabbed his shirt from the back of the chair.

Before stepping out, he looked back one more time. "You’re good for each other. Don’t let that go."

And with that, he was gone—door clicking shut behind him, leaving the kitchen quieter than before.

Billy glanced at Artur, whose eyes lingered on the door for a beat too long.

Then Artur muttered, "He’s dramatic."

Billy smiled. "He’s not wrong though."

Artur nodded slightly, eyes still on the door. "No. He’s not."

Outside, the breeze stirred the curtain once before falling still again.

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