Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 96: Home Without a Past

Chapter 96: Home Without a Past

Mark stood abruptly, brushing the dust off his jeans. "I’m heading back."

Artur looked up. "Already?"

Mark didn’t meet his eyes. "Yeah. Long walk ahead, and I’ve had enough fresh air for the day."

He turned, paused briefly—eyes flicking toward Billy again. Something unreadable passed across his face.

"See you around," he said, voice low but brittle—like he was already grieving something he hadn’t lost yet. Then he turned and left, not daring to look back.

Jay stretched, cracking his neck. "Guess I’m out too. I’ve got better things to do than babysit farmers."

Billy raised a brow. "You sure? Thought you’d at least try to outtalk Mark before sundown."

Jay smirked. "He’s not worth the energy."

Without another word, he followed Mark’s path, hands tucked in his pockets.

Silence settled again, this time gentler. The tension had lifted with their departure.

Billy exhaled, turning back to Artur. "They’re a lot."

Artur chuckled under his breath. "Always were."

Billy looked at him for a moment, then moved a little closer, voice softer now. "But you’re not like them."

Artur turned to him, brows lifted. "No?"

"No," Billy said, reaching out again. He brushed his fingers along Artur’s temple, tucking a small strand back like before. "You stay. You see people. You don’t run."

Artur’s throat moved as he swallowed. "Sometimes I think I did run. From everything after my mom..."

"You came back," Billy said. "That matters."

Artur let out a breath. His voice was lower, more open. "You matter."

They sat in the quiet, just the two of them now. The weight of the day melted into stillness, into something tender and unfinished between them.

Billy’s hand lingered against Artur’s cheek, neither of them pulling away.

Artur’s gaze held Billy’s, quiet but unflinching. His voice, when it came, was almost a whisper, meant only for the space between them.

"I don’t know how long you’ll stay."

Billy didn’t look away. "I don’t either."

Artur’s jaw clenched slightly, but his eyes softened. "But I want you to."

Billy’s lips parted—no words yet, just the sound of breath catching in his throat. He blinked, once. "Even if I remember everything? Even if I don’t?"

Artur nodded slowly. "Both. All of it."

A beat passed, heavy with the weight of that promise.

Billy leaned in, breath mingling with Artur’s in the still air. "Then maybe I don’t want to remember... if it means forgetting this." His voice trembled, not from fear—but from how much he meant it.

Artur’s breath hitched, the faintest tremor in his fingers as they curled into the earth beside him. "You don’t have to choose. I’ll hold onto it for you."

Billy smiled, something raw and full in his chest. "You already do."

For a while, they sat like that—no more words, just the sound of the breeze threading through the trees and the closeness of something real.

Billy turned to him, voice soft and steady. "Artur?"

"Yeah?"

"When I made that wish by the lake... I think it already came true."

Artur’s lips curved, not into a smile—but something deeper. "Then maybe I’ll make one next."

Billy tilted his head. "What would you wish for?"

Artur looked at him, eyes steady and certain. "That you never leave."

Billy’s hand tightened slightly in his. "Then maybe you just made my wish come true too."

Artur smirks he reached out, took Billy’s hand, and didn’t let go.

Jay slowed his steps, his voice lighter now, but not mocking. "I thought you were resting. Why are you still standing out here like some statue?"

Mark didn’t turn, just kept staring ahead past the gate. "It’s none of your business."

Jay clicked his tongue. "Chill, man. I’m not here to fight."

Mark finally glanced over his shoulder, expression unreadable at first—but something had shifted.

His brow was less furrowed, eyes clouded with something that wasn’t irritation.

Jay noticed.

His smirk faded. "Hey... what’s with the face?"

Mark scoffed and looked away again. "I didn’t expect it. That’s all."

Jay folded his arms. "Didn’t expect what?"

A beat of silence stretched between them. Then Mark muttered, "That he’d... fall for someone this deep. Quiet, rural, rough around the edges."

Jay leaned against the gatepost, watching him carefully. "So you were hoping it’d be you?"

Mark’s jaw tensed. "Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve known him longer. I just—" he paused, frustrated. "I thought maybe time meant something."

Jay gave a short laugh. Not cruel—more tired than anything. "You think time earns you love?"

Mark looked at him, sharp. "You don’t get it."

Jay shrugged. "Maybe not. But I’ve seen the way Billy looks at Artur. You can’t fake that."

Mark didn’t reply. His shoulders sagged just a little.

Jay added, quieter now, "Losing hurts. Doesn’t mean you lost because you were wrong. Just means someone else... fit differently."

Mark’s voice cracked, barely above a whisper. "I didn’t even get a chance."

Jay looked at him for a long moment, then pushed off the post. "None of us really do. Love doesn’t wait for a green light. It just moves."

Mark didn’t stop him when Jay walked past, back toward the path. But he didn’t follow either.

He stood there, in front of the gate, staring into the quiet dark—like maybe, just maybe, the past could hear him.

Inside the house, the wooden door creaked softly behind Mark as he stepped in.

He didn’t turn on the lights. The dim hush of the room matched the weight in his chest.

He walked past the quiet sitting area, past Mr. Dand’s dozing form on the armchair, and into the small guest room. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Mark sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, elbows on knees, hands clasped tight.

Then, slowly, he leaned back, his body sinking into the mattress as he let out a long breath through his nose.

The ceiling above held no answers.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at the blank screen for a while—until it dimmed, and then he tapped it awake again.

No new messages. No missed calls. Just that one photo he’d shown earlier...

Billy, smiling for the camera, dressed in sharp black under studio lights—so different from the man cutting vegetables barefoot in the kitchen this morning.

Mark’s thumb hovered over the screen, then slowly scrolled through more old photos.

Candid shots, event nights, backstage selfies. Billy—no, Leo—laughing, frowning, acting, living.

Mark blinked hard, his vision blurring. He turned the phone face-down against his chest, like shielding himself from the ghost it held.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t move. He just lay there, breathing through something heavier than he could name.

Until sleep came—not soft, not restful, but enough to dull the ache for now.

The sky had begun to soften into hues of orange and lavender, casting long shadows across the ground as Billy stepped into the quiet of the kitchen.

He rolled up his sleeves, glanced around, then pulled out a few vegetables from the basket near the wall.

Artur entered moments later, stretching his arms lazily. "You’re starting already?"

Billy didn’t look up. "I thought I’d beat you to it for once."

Artur chuckled, brushing his palm over Billy’s back lightly as he passed. "Then I guess I’ll do the chopping."

Artur smirked, rolling his sleeves further up. "You wouldn’t survive a day without me."

"Oh really?" Billy laughed softly. "Then help me chop these before I burn the stew."

They moved easily around each other, without needing to speak much.

The small sounds of preparation—the clink of a knife, the soft boiling of water, the scrape of wood—wove a gentle rhythm between them.

At one point, Billy looked over at Artur with a soft smirk. "You cut that wrong."

Artur arched a brow. "No, I cut it with flair."

Billy snorted, nudging his shoulder playfully. "It’s for stew, not decoration."

Artur leaned closer, their arms brushing. "I still think your way is boring."

Billy paused, turning slightly to meet Artur’s eyes. The warm light from the stove flickered in them, reflecting something quiet and calm.

He didn’t say anything. Just held the gaze.

Artur’s voice dropped, slower. "Today was... something."

"Yeah." Billy looked down at the chopped greens in front of him. "Mark’s presence is... a little heavy."

"I noticed." Artur leaned back against the counter, watching him. "But you... you handled it well."

Billy set the knife down and wiped his hands on the towel. "It’s strange. Pieces of who I was keep showing up, but I still feel like I’m someone else entirely."

"You are," Artur said gently. "You’re who you choose to be now. Not who the world expects you to be."

Billy looked at him again, a slow, steady warmth settling in his chest—like the quiet realization of belonging.

Then he stepped closer. "Is it bad that... I don’t want to remember everything, if it means forgetting this?"

Artur’s breath caught in his chest. He didn’t answer right away. He reached up instead, brushing a thumb across Billy’s cheek, his voice hushed. "Then don’t."

Billy’s voice dropped, softer, more real. "Sometimes I wonder... what kind of life I had before. But then I think... if it was better than this, why don’t I remember it?"

Artur didn’t answer. He just looked at Billy—like he wanted to reach for him but didn’t want to rush the moment.

Instead, he offered, "Maybe you were meant to find this one instead."

Billy gave him a look—half smile, half something deeper. "Then I hope I don’t remember too soon."

They stood like that for a moment, with only the low simmer of stew between them.

Then Billy gave a small smile and turned back to stir the pot. "If you burn this, I’ll blame your ’flair.’"

Artur grinned. "Worth it."

The pot bubbled gently behind them.