Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 97: Found

Chapter 97: Found

Artur knocked once, then pushed the door open. "Dinner’s ready," he said, his voice even.

Mark lay sprawled on the bed, phone clutched loosely in his hand. His eyes were open, unfocused, like he’d been staring at the screen without really seeing it.

"Come on," Artur added, softer this time.

Mark blinked once before sitting up slowly. "Yeah... I’ll be there."Not even a flicker of expression moved across his face."

Artur didn’t wait for more. He turned and walked out.

At the table, Billy had already laid out the dishes. Stew. Bread. Something lightly fried that Mr. Dand had insisted on making despite his complaints about "youths never doing it right."

Mr. Dand settled into his chair, grumbling something about how long it took to gather everyone just to eat.

Billy gave him a light smile and poured water into the glasses.

Artur took his seat just as Mark stepped in, his expression unreadable. He sat across from Billy, beside Mr. Dand, without saying a word.

Nobody spoke at first. Only the clinking of spoons and the soft scrape of bowls filled the space.

Then Mr. Dand cleared his throat. "So... tomorrow, we’re moving the logs from the east shed. I’ll need two of you with me."

"I’ll come," Artur said quickly, reaching for the bread.

Billy nodded. "Me too."

Mark didn’t look up. He stirred his stew, then took a bite, chewing slow.

"You should rest another day," Artur added, glancing at Mark. "Your back’s probably not fully recovered from the ride."

"I’m fine," Mark muttered, setting down his spoon with a dull clink. "Not made of glass."

"Didn’t say you were," Artur replied evenly.

Mr. Dand looked between the two of them but said nothing. He simply reached for more stew.

Billy broke a piece of bread and held it out to Artur silently. Artur took it with a small nod, their hands brushing.

Across the table, Mark’s eyes flicked to the gesture. He picked up his glass and drank.

"So," Mr. Dand began, trying again, "how’s that Jay fellow? He disappeared before lunch."

"Billy exhaled, low and brief, like setting something heavy down. "He showed up later. Helped a bit."

"A bit," Artur echoed, then looked at Mark. "You two seemed to get along great."

"Mark let out a breath that was halfway between a laugh and a curse. "Like oil and fire. That guy speaks in sarcasm like it’s a second language."

Mr. Dand chuckled. "Sounds like you, years ago."

That earned the smallest curve of Mark’s lips. Barely.

Billy watched him, quietly curious, then glanced down at his bowl. "He’s not so bad. Just... loud."

"Loud is generous," Mark muttered.

The room fell into a comfortable, if tense, rhythm again. Bites taken. Bread passed. Water refilled.

Nothing extravagant—just a quiet meal, where silence said just as much as the words.

Finally, Mr. Dand stood and stretched. "Well. I’m off to bed. Don’t leave a mess."

He shuffled off, muttering something about how kitchens weren’t supposed to become battlefields.

Billy stood next. "I’ll wash up."

"I’ll help," Artur said, following him toward the kitchen.

Mark leaned back, the wooden chair creaking beneath him as if echoing his silence.

His fingers hovered above his bowl, but he didn’t touch it—like tasting anything would make everything more real. Across the room, their laughter danced like a language he’d forgotten.

Billy rolled up his sleeves without a word and turned on the tap. The clatter of plates began as he stacked them into the basin. Artur joined him, standing close, reaching to rinse and dry without asking.

Their shoulders brushed now and then—not by accident. Neither pulled away.

The clink of dishes masked the tension that built between glances, hands grazing just a moment too long at the sink.

"You didn’t eat much," Artur said after a moment.

Billy shrugged, eyes fixed on the plate he was scrubbing. "Wasn’t hungry."

"Because of what happened today?"

Billy hesitated, then nodded slightly. "It’s strange... seeing someone from before."

Artur dried the dish in his hands, then placed it aside. "He said you were... respected. That you mattered to a lot of people."

Billy didn’t look up. "Maybe. But I don’t even remember being that person."

Artur didn’t press. Instead, he took the next plate from Billy’s hands, their fingers brushing for a second longer than necessary.

"You matter now," Artur said, voice low.

Billy paused, then glanced at him. "Do I?"

Artur didn’t flinch. "To me, yeah."

There was silence again—but not the cold kind. This one hovered between them like something waiting to be spoken aloud but not quite ready yet.

Billy turned back to the dishes, a faint smile touching the corner of his mouth. "You dry. I’ll wash."

Behind them, the faint scrape of a chair leg reminded them they weren’t entirely alone.

At the table, Mark sat motionless, head bowed, phone in hand—still.

Billy leaned against the counter after rinsing the last plate, his sleeves still rolled, fingers damp, and eyes unfocused—lost in thought.

The overhead light caught in his lashes as he blinked slowly, letting out a long, quiet breath.

Artur stood at the sink, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, rubbing his palms together under the water.

He didn’t speak, but his eyes flicked sideways every few seconds, catching the way Billy’s brows pinched slightly, as though still processing the events of the day.

From the table, Mark sat quietly. His spoon rested untouched in the bowl before him, but his gaze wasn’t on the food.

It was on Billy.

Something about the stillness in Billy’s posture, the subtle sadness that hadn’t left his features all evening—Mark couldn’t look away.

And then, without thinking, he slid his phone halfway beneath the table, screen turned outward.

A second passed.

Click.

The shutter sound was barely audible—but to Mark, it was deafening. Like a secret cracking open.

His chest tightened as he lowered the phone, heart pounding with something he didn’t want to name.

That face on the screen... it wasn’t just familiar—it was undeniable.

He quickly lowered the phone, eyes darting to make sure neither Billy nor Artur noticed.

Then he opened the image.

He zoomed in—Billy’s profile sharp and unmistakable, even with the softened edge of exhaustion on his face.

The same eyes. The same curve of his jaw. There was no doubt now.

Mark stared at the screen.

"Still think you’re someone else?" he murmured under his breath, thumb hovering above the image.

He didn’t save it. Not yet. Just stared.

Billy hadn’t moved.

Artur reached for the towel beside him, drying his hands with lazy swipes as he turned to face Billy.

"You alright?" he asked, brow raised, voice casual but eyes sharp—always reading too much.

Billy leaned back in his chair with a mock sigh. "Yeah... just thinking."

Artur smirked. "Dangerous."

Billy shot him a look. "Rude."

Artur leaned on the counter, elbow propped, grinning. "Alright, philosopher. What’s on that mysterious mind of yours?"

Billy looked up at him, the corners of his lips curling. "You."

Artur blinked once, caught off guard. "That so?"

Billy shrugged, tone innocent. "Well, someone’s gotta think about you. Can’t let your ego shrink."

Artur laughed, shaking his head as he tossed the towel over his shoulder. "My ego’s fine, thanks."

Billy tilted his head. "Says the guy who talks to sheep like they’re his disciples."

"I have better conversations with them than with you," Artur shot back, but his smile softened the jab.

Billy grinned, his foot nudging Artur’s. "Admit it—you love when I think about you."

Artur rolled his eyes, but didn’t deny it. "Just don’t overdo it. Might give you a headache."

Billy leaned forward slightly, voice teasing. "Worth it."

Artur rolled his eyes, stepping closer. "If you’re thinking about me, at least warn me so I can look cooler."

Billy smirked. "Too late. I already caught you being adorable."

Mark shifted slightly in his chair, his grip tightening around his phone.

Inside the dimly lit room, Mark sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.

The faint glow from the screen flickered across his face as he stared at the photo he’d just taken—Billy by the counter, sleeves rolled, lost in thought. Still. Still him.

He swiped left. The old photo came up—Leo in a suit, smiling beside a co-star, sharp jawline, same eyes, same tilt of the head. The resemblance was undeniable.

Mark’s thumb hovered over the message thread already opened with Mr. Frank.

A simple text sat above the keyboard:

"I found him."

He stared at it for a long time. His thumb trembled slightly, but he didn’t press send.

Instead, he backspaced.

Paused.

Typed again:

"Are you still searching?"

Deleted that too.

He let the phone fall to his lap and leaned forward, elbows to knees, fingers tangled in his hair. "Damn it..." he whispered under his breath.

From the kitchen, he could faintly hear Billy’s laughter—soft, real, like someone finally breathing freely after holding it in too long. Mark lifted his gaze toward the door.

"...They looks happy."

The words were barely audible, like he was reminding himself. Or arguing with himself.

He picked up the phone again, stared at it for a beat...

Then clicked the screen off.

The room went dark. Quiet. But in Mark’s chest, the tension only grew.

Back in the kitchen, the last dish clinked into the drying rack.

Their eyes stayed locked for a moment longer—unspoken things hanging in the air—but neither moved.

The night was calm. But somewhere beyond that calm, change stirred.

Billy looked up, eyes soft but tired.

Artur reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from Billy’s face.

"No need to say anything," Artur said quietly. "We’ll take it slow."

Billy nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Artur glanced toward the bedroom. "Come on, let’s rest."

Billy followed without a word.

Inside the room, Billy stood by the bed, fingers playing with the edge of the blanket. He didn’t sit, didn’t lie down. Just stood.

Artur stepped in quietly, not asking anything. He took off his jacket, placed it on the chair, then turned back to him.

Billy looked up at last.

Artur didn’t speak. He simply stood there, open—not demanding, not asking.

Just... there. His arms parted, an invitation without pressure.

Billy stepped into them like someone remembering where home was.

And when his forehead found Artur’s chest, something inside him unlocked—quietly, completely.

And for the first time that evening, he exhaled.

Artur didn’t speak. He simply held him there, steady and real.

The night deepened outside.

But inside that room, for now—there was only stillness, and the silent promise that whatever came next, they’d face it together.