Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 93: The Name I Don’t Remember

Chapter 93: The Name I Don’t Remember

The morning light barely slipped through the curtains when Billy blinked awake. He hadn’t slept much—too many thoughts pressing against the edges of sleep, too many questions unanswered.

But the warmth beside him, steady and quiet, gave him something solid to hold onto.

Artur was still asleep, his breath slow and even, one arm loosely draped across the blanket.

Billy lay still for a moment, watching the rise and fall of Artur’s chest.

He reached out slowly, brushed back a few stray strands of hair, then pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

"Sleep a little longer," he whispered.

Then he slid quietly from the bed, pulling on his shirt and stepping barefoot into the hallway.

The house was still and cool. But faint clinks and the scent of raw onion hinted someone else had already started the day.

Billy stepped into the main room.

Mr. Dand was at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled, halfway through slicing a white onion, squinting a bit as the sting caught up with him.

"You’re up early," Mr. Dand said, not looking away from the cutting board.

"Couldn’t sleep," Billy murmured, already stepping closer.

Mr. Dand paused as Billy reached gently for the knife.

"I’ll finish," Billy said, voice quiet but certain.

Mr. Dand studied him for a breath, then handed over the knife without a word, wiping his hands on a towel as he stepped aside.

Billy slid the onion closer, started slicing with smooth, practiced movements.

The kitchen settled into a calm rhythm—the quiet scrape of the blade, the soft hiss of the pan warming behind them.

Mr. Dand leaned on the counter, watching for a moment before speaking.

"You always take over when something’s bothering you."

Billy didn’t stop cutting. "It keeps my hands busy."

Mr. Dand gave a small hum. "And your mind?"

Billy glanced up briefly. "Still working on that part."

He turned back to the task, shoulders low, breathing steady—but there was a tension in his jaw, something held in place too carefully.

Mr. Dand didn’t press. Instead, he moved to the stove, dropped a knob of butter into the pan, let it melt with a soft sizzle.

"I’ll crack the eggs," he said simply.

And together, in quiet understanding, they made breakfast—two men bound not by blood or memory, but by something quieter and harder to name.

Billy had just slid the chopped onions into the pan when footsteps echoed softly down the hallway.

Mark appeared at the doorway, hair tousled, shirt a bit wrinkled from sleep. His eyes landed on Billy standing at the stove, stirring with ease.

Without thinking, he stepped in quickly. "Let me help you, Mr. Leo."

Billy blinked, taken aback. "You don’t have to. I got this."

"No, really. Let me do something," Mark said, reaching for the eggs on the counter. His voice carried a strange mix of awe and urgency.

Billy stilled his hand on the spoon. "Why do you keep calling me that?"

Mark hesitated, then gave a small smile. "You really don’t remember, huh?"

Billy looked at him carefully, trying to place something in Mark’s face, his voice—but there was nothing. Just a flicker of something distant.

"You know," Mark started again, cracking an egg into a bowl, "in that industry, you were the most respected person I’d ever seen.

Everyone admired you. Not because you were rich, or a hard worker—but because you treated people like they mattered. Even the interns. Even the crew."

Billy turned slightly, spoon pausing over the pan. "Industry?"

"Yeah," Mark nodded. "You’re a star. An actor. And not just some rising face. "You were the real deal," Mark said, then looked away.

"I still remember wondering if I’d ever reach where you were... if I’d even come close."

Billy exhaled softly, looking down at the bubbling onions.

Mark’s voice grew quieter, more nostalgic. "When you disappeared, it hit hard. The fans... they didn’t believe it.

Some thought you quit. Others thought—well—worse. People still talk about you.

Some even visit studios hoping to hear something. But no one ever found out what happened."

Billy turned off the heat, pushing the pan slightly to the side.

"That person you’re talking about... I don’t feel like him."

Mark looked at him—really looked. "But you are. You’re still him. Just... maybe a different version."

"I still remember this day—you stopped everything on set because the camera assistant twisted his ankle.

You sat with him until the medic came. Nobody else would’ve done that—not a star."

Billy stirred the onions quietly, the soft sizzle the only sound between them.

Mark stood beside him, his hands resting lightly on the counter, watching him—not just like someone watching breakfast being made, but like someone watching a memory try to breathe again.

Then Billy spoke, low, like he was asking the question for himself as much as for Mark. "Do you know why I left?"

Mark paused mid-reach toward the bowl of eggs, his fingers curling slightly. "No," he said slowly. "Nobody does. Not really after the incident."

Billy’s gaze lingered on the pan, as if the heat might burn clarity into the fog of his mind.

His voice came rough this time, edged with something he couldn’t name.

"I didn’t leave." He let the words fall, deliberate. "Something happened... something I can’t remember. But I didn’t just walk away."

Mark turned toward him fully now, brows knitting together. "Then what...?"

Billy shook his head faintly, the spoon in his hand motionless. "All I know is I woke up not knowing who I was. I didn’t run, Mark. I got lost."

Mark stared at him, his throat working around something unsaid. His voice, when it came, was softer. "All this time... people thought you gave up. That you just disappeared."

Billy glanced sideways at him. "Would I be standing here if I did?"

Mark’s smile curved but didn’t lift the weight from his eyes. "No. You wouldn’t."

Just then, Mr. Dand reappeared, wiping his hands on a towel. "The eggs are ready," he said, a little too brightly, sensing the tension but not intruding.

Mark stepped back, letting out a slow breath. "You don’t have to remember everything at once. But... I’m glad I found you."

Billy turned the flame off and finally looked up at him. This time, his gaze held something steady. "Me too."

Billy wiped his hands on a towel, turning slightly toward the hallway. "I’ll go call Artur."

Before he could take a step, the door creaked and Artur stepped in, rubbing the back of his neck, his hair tousled from sleep.

"You beat me to it," he mumbled, eyes flicking to Billy, then to Mark with a brief nod. "Morning."

"Perfect timing," Billy said, motioning to the table. "Breakfast’s ready."

Artur’s brow lifted as he stepped further in. "You cooked again?"

"Just helped," Billy said, setting the pan down. "Mr. Dand did the eggs."

Mark, already sliding into a chair, grinned. "Smells like a proper hotel buffet."

"That your way of saying thank you?" Artur asked, settling across from him.

"I’m city polite," Mark replied, lifting his glass. "That counts."

Billy’s laugh was soft—more breath than sound, moving to pour tea into the cups. "Eat while it’s hot."

Artur reached for a slice of bread, eyes warm as they followed Billy for a second longer than they needed to. "You sleep alright?"

Billy hesitated for the briefest moment, then nodded once. "Better now."

No one said more than that.

Just the soft clink of cutlery, the hum of morning settling between them, and the kind of quiet that didn’t need filling.

As the last plates clinked empty, Mr. Dand pushed his chair back and stood with a soft grunt.

"I’m heading out," he said, grabbing his worn cap from the wall hook. "Plenty to do before the sun gets mean."

"We’ll finish up the work," Artur replied, already gathering the dishes.

Mark leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to Billy. "You can do the village work now?"

Billy nodded, reaching for the tea pot. "Yeah. I’m used to it now."

Mark let out a quiet chuckle. "This village’s got a talent for changing people. I think that’s why he—" he tilted his chin toward Artur, "—never came back to the city."

Billy blinked, glancing at Artur. "You used to stay in the city?"

"Yeah," Artur said simply, carrying two plates to the basin.

Mark smiled faintly. "We studied together. University life... it had its chaos. I still miss some of it."

Artur didn’t turn around, just rinsed the dishes. "That was a long time ago."

"You left after your mom died," Mark said softly. "And never returned."

Artur’s hand slowed over the plate. A droplet of water clung to his knuckle, unnoticed.

The plate trembled slightly in his grip before he caught it. He didn’t turn. Just said—

"There wasn’t anything left to return to."

Billy looked between them, sensing something heavier beneath the words, but neither man reached for it.

Mark shifted the mood with a sigh. "Well, this breakfast almost makes me forgive the countryside for its early mornings."

Billy smiled, half-distracted, his thoughts still circling Artur’s quiet answer.

But no one pushed further.

The air stayed light—not because the weight had gone, but because they chose not to carry it just yet.

As Artur wiped his hands on a towel, Billy grabbed the baskets by the door, readying for another day in the fields.

Mark stood, brushing invisible crumbs off his shirt. "Mind if I come with you?"

Artur turned halfway, giving him a look. "You just got back yesterday. Rest."

"I will be bored alone," Mark replied, arms folding like a stubborn child.

Billy gave a small smirk as he opened the door. "You sure you can keep up?"

Mark scoffed lightly, tugging on his shoes like he belonged here all along. "I survived the city. I think I can survive a field."

Artur shook his head, tossing Billy the hat from the hook. "Fine. But if you pass out from the heat, I’m leaving you under the tree."

"I’ll take that as rural hospitality."

Billy stepped out first, squinting into the light. The sun was already climbing, but it was the weight of old memories—not heat—that made him sweat. "Let’s go, before the sun decides to punish us."

As they stepped into the sunlit field, Billy glanced over his shoulder—toward the house, toward the past, toward something still half-lost.

Whatever this day brought, he’d carry both names inside him: the one forgotten, and the one still waking.