Unwritten Fate [BL]-Chapter 185: Unwritten Notes

The days slipped by like the pages of a favorite book.

Artur had fallen into a steady rhythm—early mornings with chalk dust on his sleeves and lesson plans tucked under his arm, evenings bent over his desk, correcting assignments with one headphone in and a pen tapping against his lip.

He didn’t say much about the long days at school, but his tired eyes softened the moment he saw Billy waiting at home.

Mr. Dand, meanwhile, was hardly ever still. He spent hours out in the village square, his voice mingling with the laughter of the elders, discussing lantern placements, booth arrangements, and the final rehearsal for the festival play.

Every time he came home, his pockets were full of ribbons or scraps of paper with scribbled notes from Old Harris.

Billy’s world moved quietly between theirs.

He’d visited the bookstore space twice—measuring, imagining, pacing its corners as if trying to see it with tomorrow’s eyes. Mrs. Nora had left behind the big oak shelf in the corner and the front window was still intact, perfect for afternoon light to spill across the floor.

Then, on Wednesday morning, a delivery van from the city rumbled down the village road, stirring dust and curiosity alike.

Inside it, wrapped like a secret gift, was his piano.

Camila had sent it. Along with a handwritten note tucked between the keys:

"Told you it would always find its way back to you. Make the place your own, Billy." — C.

He ran his hand across the worn ivory, a slow glide like reacquainting with an old friend.

His fingers hovered, hesitated—then pressed a single key.

A soft note filled the empty space.

He didn’t play more. Not yet. He just closed his eyes and let that single sound settle into the wood and air.

That evening, he moved a chair into the bookstore. Just one.

Then a small rug. Then the tiny sign that read "Opening Soon."

Two days left till the festival.

The village was buzzing with quiet anticipation.

Lanterns began to appear above doorways.

Children rehearsed their lines near the fountain.

The scent of cinnamon and something sweet lingered in the air.

Billy sat on the bookstore steps that night, watching the soft glow of the sky fade behind the hills.

Across the road, he saw Artur pass by with Mr. Dand—both holding a box of decorations and laughing at something Old Harris had said.

Billy smiled, a quiet curl at the corner of his mouth he didn’t bother hiding.

The lantern light across the road swayed gently in the breeze, like it knew something he didn’t.

Tomorrow could come.

Outside, the last of the day’s laughter faded into the warm hum of evening.

By the time Billy stepped inside, the scent of grilled peppers and simmering herbs had already wrapped itself around the house like a blanket.

The clatter of cutlery was soft, the kind that came not from rush but routine—a rhythm the three of them had slowly, unknowingly built together.

Billy ladled the stew into bowls while Mr. Dand pulled the bread apart with his hands, placing thick pieces on a plate at the center of the table.

Artur set down the last glass of water before dropping into his chair with a tired sigh that melted into a smile.

For a moment, they just ate. Quiet, comfortable.

Then Mr. Dand leaned back slightly, rubbing his wrist before reaching for another slice of bread.

"So," he began, his voice gravelly but warm, "how’s the store coming along?"

Billy looked up, surprised to be asked first. He wiped his fingers on a napkin and gave a slow nod. "Good. It’s... starting to feel real. The shelves need polishing, but the piano’s in, and the light hits the front window just right around four."

Mr. Dand chuckled. "That piano—still can’t believe it made it down that road in one piece."

"It nearly didn’t," Billy said with a soft laugh. "I think the driver cursed more than he drove."

Artur smirked as he pushed his bowl aside. "You’ll play for us during the festival?"

Billy raised a brow. "You planning on charging for tickets?"

Artur leaned back in his chair with a shrug, "Depends if you hit the right notes."

Mr. Dand chuckled into his glass, clearly amused at their back-and-forth. "Well, whether it’s in tune or not, the village could use a little music again. That bookstore’s gonna be something special."

Billy looked down at his hands, his thumb tracing a faint mark of ink on his palm from earlier that afternoon. "I hope so."

"And you?" Mr. Dand turned to Artur, nudging him slightly. "How’s the school?"

Artur exhaled. "Chaotic. Someone tried to glue a test paper to the blackboard. On purpose."

Mr. Dand blinked. "Was it at least the right answers?"

"Not even close."

Billy laughed into his hand. "And you still go back?"

"Someone has to keep them from burning the place down." Artur paused, then added with a more honest tone, "It’s tiring—but... worth it, I think."

The silence that followed was easy. Not empty—just full in a different way. Shared glances. Half-smiles.

The quiet satisfaction of people who had found something to hold onto.

Mr. Dand reached for another slice of bread, his hand slowing just a little, his gaze drifting between the two boys. "Strange, isn’t it? Having things to look forward to again."

Billy met his eyes. "Feels... right."

Outside, the wind rustled faintly through the trees, and the glow of lanterns from the neighbor’s porch flickered across the windowpane.

Inside, they kept eating, talking in soft tones about festival booths, the mayor’s strict rules about firecrackers, and whether the bakery’s new pie would win again this year.

The house wasn’t loud—but it was full.

Full of small things that mattered.

The hum of the shower had long gone quiet.

Now only the sound of Artur toweling his damp hair remained, faint swipes of fabric against skin as he stood near the window, shirtless, the cool air brushing across his back.

Billy sat cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by rough sketch papers and pencil smudges.

The glow from the bedside lamp threw soft golden light over his face, making the ink stains on his fingertips and the little crease between his brows all the more visible.

"Still not sure?" Artur asked, rubbing the towel against his neck as he walked over, hair tousled, a thin white T-shirt pulled on halfway.

Billy didn’t look up right away. He tapped the end of his pencil against a margin of notes, then finally spoke.

"I want it to feel like more than just a bookstore," he murmured. "Like... a place where people breathe a little easier."

Artur dropped the towel onto the chair and leaned slightly over Billy’s shoulder, peeking at the scrawled ideas.

"Unwritten Notes. Come as you are." "Fate Folio." "Unwritten Page."

His fingers brushed Billy’s shoulder gently as he settled beside him. "I like that one," Artur said, pointing to the first. "Unwritten Notes."

Billy smiled faintly, still staring at the words. "I do too. There’s something about it. Makes me think of blank pages... not as something empty but full of possibilities. Like... people walking in with their own notes still unwritten."

Artur glanced at him, voice quiet, "Kind of like you."

Billy looked up. Their eyes met for a moment.

"Maybe," he whispered.

Artur leaned back against the headboard. "And the ’Come as you are’ part?"

"I think... people carry too much weight when they walk into a place like that. Expectations. Pressure to know who they are. I want the bookstore to tell them it’s okay not to have it all figured out."

Artur gave a small, tired chuckle. "Sounds like a place I’d hang out."

Billy leaned back against him slightly, their shoulders brushing. "Good. I’ll need a regular who steals all the best seats."

Artur mock gasped. "I would never."

"You already do. At dinner. At breakfast. In the truck—"

"Okay, okay," he said, laughing, raising his hands in surrender. "Fine. I’ll stand and pretend I enjoy it."

Billy finally smiled, relaxed. He set the pencil down, the name decided.

Unwritten Notes. Come as you are.

"I’ll paint it tomorrow," he said quietly. "Right before the last setup."

Artur nodded, his voice soft. "It’s a good name, Billy."

Billy didn’t say anything, but his smile lingered long after the light was turned off.

And somewhere just beyond the window, the village was already beginning to settle into its own hush, as if preparing for something beautiful just ahead.

The lamp clicked off, leaving the room in a soft dimness touched only by the moonlight leaking in through the window.

The village outside was still, hushed beneath a sky scattered with stars.

Somewhere in the far distance, a dog barked once and fell silent again.

Billy slid under the blanket first, careful not to crumple the papers he’d set aside. Artur joined moments later, his warmth slipping in beside him.

Neither said anything right away.

Just the sound of the bedsheet shifting, and their breaths slowly syncing.

Billy turned to his side, facing Artur in the dark. "You’re warm," he murmured, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Artur shifted closer, brushing his knuckles gently against Billy’s arm before wrapping an arm around his waist. "So are you," he said softly. "Like a radiator. A stubborn one."

Billy chuckled, quiet and low, burying the sound in Artur’s chest. "Sorry."

"Don’t be," Artur replied, resting his chin near the top of Billy’s head. "I like it."

A silence passed—comfortable, steady. Billy’s fingers found the hem of Artur’s shirt, curling there like an anchor.

"Tomorrow’s gonna be busy," Billy murmured into the dark.

"Mm-hm."

"You tired?"

"A little. But not enough to stop holding you."

Billy’s smile deepened. "Guess we’re both stubborn."

Outside, the wind rustled faintly against the windowsill.

Inside, the world was stilled—two heartbeats, one quiet bed, and a night wrapped in the kind of peace they both never thought they’d find.

Artur pressed a gentle kiss to Billy’s temple.

"Good night, Billy."

Billy closed his eyes.

"Night, Artur."

And just like that, the weight of the day slipped from their shoulders—replaced by the soft hush of breath, steady warmth, and the safety of knowing they weren’t alone anymore.