Unwritten Fate [BL]-Chapter 47: When the Morning is You

The sun had climbed high, pouring a soft midday glow through the bedroom window, casting lazy stripes across the rumpled sheets and the two figures still nestled beneath them.

Billy lay with his face tucked into the crook of Artur's neck, one arm lazily draped across his waist. Artur's hand rested on Billy's back, fingers tracing slow, idle lines along his spine.

The room was still, the kind of stillness that made time feel optional. Their bodies fit like puzzle pieces beneath the tangle of sheets—quiet, content, and just a little too warm.

It was peaceful.

Until Billy's stomach gave a loud, unmistakable growl.

Artur's chest shook with laughter. "Well, that was dramatic," he murmured, smiling against Billy's hair.

Billy groaned without lifting his head. "That wasn't me. It was my heartbreak talking."

Artur blinked. "Heartbreak?"

Billy shifted just enough to look up at him with a faux pout. "Yeah. Since your childhood favorite dish showed up and I didn't even get a bite, I've been surviving on water and emotions."

Artur gave him a guilty look. "You didn't eat anything?"

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Billy's pout deepened, clearly milking it. "Nope. Just water. Lots of water. Emotional damage tastes bitter."

Artur chuckled. "You could've said something."

Billy raised a brow. "Oh, and ruin your reunion breakfast with her mother's cooking? The drama would've been too much for my delicate soul."

Artur rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. "Alright, you little martyr. What do you want to eat?"

Billy pushed himself up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Hmm, good question. How about... something made with love?"

Artur narrowed his eyes. "That sounds like a trap."

"It is," Billy admitted. "Let's go cook something together."

Artur hesitated. "I don't know how to cook."

Billy smirked, already sliding off the bed and stretching with a satisfied sigh. "Exactly. This is me sacrificing my well-being for romance."

Artur sat up slowly, the blanket falling to his lap. "What if I accidentally poison you?"

"Then I'll die dramatically," Billy said over his shoulder, pulling on a loose shirt, "but at least I'll die knowing you tried."

Artur sighed, fond and doomed. "You're impossible."

Billy looked back with a teasing grin. "And you're mine."

And just like that, the morning—or what was left of it—pulled them from the sheets and toward the kitchen, where hunger, teasing, and a few kitchen disasters were waiting to unfold.

The kitchen greeted them with quiet, sun-soaked stillness. A warm breeze slipped through the open window, fluttering the curtains like lazy dancers, while the scent of wood and herbs lingered faintly in the air.

Billy rolled up his sleeves with dramatic flair, stepping toward the counter like a soldier preparing for battle. "Alright, apprentice," he announced. "Today, we make lunch—or die trying."

Artur looked around the kitchen with cautious suspicion, like the pots and pans might rise up against him. "Just tell me what to do."

Billy pointed to a basket of fresh vegetables. "Start by washing those."

Artur grabbed a carrot. "Do I... peel it first?"

Billy paused. "Wash first. Peel later. Please don't reverse the sacred order."

Artur gave him a look, clearly amused. "Right. Sacred order. Got it."

As Artur clumsily scrubbed the vegetables under the faucet, splashing water over the counter and part of his shirt, Billy chuckled and moved to prep the rice. "You're making a mess already."

Artur gave him a look. "You told me to wash them. I'm washing."

"Not drown them," Billy muttered. "We're not baptizing the carrots Artur.

Save the ceremony for Sunday."

Artur snorted a laugh, flicking a drop of water toward him. "You're worse than Mr. Dand in the workshop."

Billy dodged the drop with a smirk. "Mr. Dand doesn't look this good while bossing you around."

Artur gave a soft chuckle, his gaze catching on Billy's flushed cheeks, the gentle curl of his smile as he worked. "No, he doesn't."

They moved through the kitchen together in imperfect rhythm—Billy stirring the rice while Artur chopped vegetables with the cautious precision of a man diffusing a bomb.

"Don't cut your fingers," Billy warned.

"I won't."

Billy glanced at the board and winced. "Okay, maybe don't cut mine either."

"Rude," Artur muttered, eyes narrowed in concentration. "These knives are sharp."

Billy leaned in close, resting his chin on Artur's shoulder. "Then go easy, Edward Scissorhands."

Artur smiled, a bit shyly, but didn't pull away. "You're very loud for someone who didn't eat since morning."

"I run on sarcasm and affection," Billy said sweetly. "Now let's try not to burn anything."

By the time the pot steamed and the vegetables sizzled in the pan, the kitchen was filled with warmth—not just from the heat, but from the laughter, the stolen glances, the brushing of hands when they reached for the same spoon.

When they finally sat down at the little table, the food looked... edible.

Billy took a bite, paused, then gave Artur a slow, exaggerated nod. "Not bad."

Artur leaned on his palm. "Not poisoned?"

"Only mildly."

"Then I've done my job."

Billy grinned, a bit of rice stuck to the corner of his lip. "Still not as good as your childhood favorites, though."

Artur rolled his eyes but smiled. "You're never letting that go, are you?"

Billy chewed thoughtfully, then said, "Not until you make me your favorite."

Artur tilted his head. "You mean the food?"

Billy looked him straight in the eye, voice soft, almost fragile. "No. I meant me."

For a beat, Artur said nothing, as if the words needed a moment to settle between them. Then he smiled, slow and sure. "You already are."

They lingered a bit longer at the table, the last bits of rice scraped from their plates, fingers occasionally brushing when reaching for the same cup. Sunlight slanted through the window, painting lazy golden lines across the wooden floor.

Billy leaned back, hands cradling his warm tea. "we should check on Mr. Dand," he murmured, his voice gentler now. "He might need help with something."

Artur glanced at the door, then back at Billy. "Yeah... let's go."

Billy stood, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape. Artur followed, trailing after him as they moved through the house, their steps quiet, easy. Outside, the sun hung higher now—almost midday. Birds stirred in the trees, and the village around them buzzed faintly with life: the distant sound of tools clinking, laughter from children chasing each other past the well.

As they made their way to the back fields, Billy's pace picked up a little. Not rushed, just purposeful. He wanted to be useful. After the tangled mess of emotions yesterday, the grounding scent of soil and the familiar rhythm of helping Mr. Dand felt like something he could hold onto.

They turned the corner near the shed—and sure enough, Mr. Dand was there, sleeves rolled up, crouched near a row of planks, examining a broken tool handle.

He looked up when he heard them. "Ah, I was wondering when you two lovebirds would crawl out of your nest."

Billy flushed, but grinned. "We weren't nesting."

Artur shrugged beside him. "It was more like... delayed breakfast."

"Hmm," Mr. Dand said, amused, eyes narrowing. "Well, there's no shortage of things to do around here. That rake's handle snapped again, and the gate near the goats keeps jamming."

"I'll take the rake," Billy said immediately, walking toward it.

"I'll check the gate," Artur added, already heading the other way.

Mr. Dand just shook his head with a smile. "Good. Work it off. Whatever had you both brooding yesterday, the goats aren't interested."

Billy knelt down, fingers curling around the wooden shaft of the broken tool, but for once, his chest didn't feel so heavy.

He and Artur were okay.

And for now—that was enough.

Billy wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a dusty streak on his flushed skin. The heat clung to him, heavy and buzzing like a hive in the still afternoon air. The sun was higher now, casting sharp angles of light across the yard, and the rake in his hands clattered gently as he tested the freshly fixed handle.

He glanced over his shoulder—Artur was by the goat pen, crouched low, poking at the wooden gate latch with a small knife, his brows knit in that stubborn way he had when something refused to work the way he wanted.

"You're going to scare the goats with that face," Billy called out, lips curling in a smirk.

Artur didn't look up. "I'd rather scare them than have them escape again."

Billy chuckled and got up, walking over with the rake still in hand. "You've been poking that thing for ten minutes."

"I'm trying not to break it worse," Artur said, giving the latch another jiggle. "This metal's older than my father's patience."

"Let me see." Billy crouched beside him, their shoulders brushing lightly. He leaned in, inspecting the latch. "You just need to lift it from this angle—see?" He tilted the metal piece slightly and the latch gave a satisfying click as it dropped into place.

Artur blinked. "...Show off."

Billy grinned. "You're just mad I got it on the first try."

Artur stood and brushed his hands on his pants, watching Billy for a beat. "Maybe I was distracted."

"Yeah?" Billy straightened, feigning innocence. "By what?"

"You," Artur said simply, eyes flicking down and back up. "Covered in dirt, all flushed. Looks like trouble."

Billy blinked, then tried to hide his smile by walking away. "Flattery won't fix your gate."

"Didn't say I wanted to fix the gate anymore."

A goat bleated from behind the fence, startling them both into laughter.

They worked together through the next hour—stacking wood, clearing dry leaves, checking the fence line. It wasn't glamorous, but the rhythm of it felt good. Honest. Billy moved beside Artur like it was second nature now, passing him tools before he even asked, catching the ladder when it wobbled beneath him, and tossing a cloth at him when sawdust stuck to his lashes.

And through it all, there were glances. Small, charged silences. A look here. A touch there. Something unspoken that didn't need words—not yet.

Finally, as they both slumped under the shade of the old tree near the fence, Billy let out a breath and leaned his head back against the trunk. "Remind me again why we didn't just stay in bed?"

Artur, lying beside him in the grass, eyes half-lidded from the sun, murmured, "Because you said Mr. Dand might need help."

Billy turned to him. "Next time, ignore me."

"No chance," Artur replied, smiling.

Billy's gaze softened. And just for a moment, under the wide sky and the whisper of wind through the trees, it felt like everything was right again.

Billy wiped his forehead with the hem of his shirt, his skin flushed and dappled with sawdust. Artur stretched his arms over his head, the quiet satisfaction of a job well done making him smile.

They were still catching their breath when Mr. Dand approached from the path, his straw hat tilted back and his hands behind his back. He paused near the gate, eyes scanning the finished work.

"Well, well..." he muttered, stepping closer, eyes narrowing—not in criticism, but in scrutiny. He ran his hand along the stacked timber, gave a nod at the aligned tools, then turned to face them.

"You boys did good. No—better than good. Even old Tomas couldn't've done it neater," he said, a rare spark of genuine praise flickering in his tone.

Billy blinked. Praise from Mr. Dand was rarer than clear skies during monsoon.

"You're not pulling my leg, are you?" he asked, trying to hide a grin.

Mr. Dand only grunted, then slipped a small folded paper from his pocket. "Since you've finished earlier than expected... I need a favor."

Artur straightened up. "What is it?"

"There's a parcel waiting at the trading post, just past the fields. Should've been picked up yesterday, but I didn't have time. Thought I'd ask Tomas, but he's caught up."

"We can go," Billy offered quickly, exchanging a glance with Artur.

Mr. Dand nodded. "It's nothing too heavy, just tools and a bit of grain. But the man there—Old Harris—he talks too much. Don't let him stall you."

Billy grinned. "We'll be polite and run."

"Good," Mr. Dand said, already turning back toward the house. "And Artur—take the wheelbarrow. Grain sacks aren't feathers."

They watched him go, the quiet settling again. Then Billy looked at Artur with a mischievous gleam. "So, errands with you now, huh? We're basically married."

Artur rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Then hurry, wife. Let's not keep Old Harris waiting."

Billy laughed, bumping his shoulder as they set off together—side by side down the dirt path, toward the fields bathed in amber light.