Unwritten Fate [BL] Chapter 177: The Shape of a Dream

Back at ho, the afternoon had settled into a hush.

Billy stood by the couch, sleeves rolled up, a notepad in one hand and a pencil tucked behind his ear.

The table in front of him was cluttered—magazines, a few books he’d borrowed from the school library, and a printout of an old town map with little red markings.

He had drawn a rough sketch of a small bookstore, with a corner space labeled "Piano Room." It looked nothing like a blueprint—more like a dream given a shape.

He stared at it, chewing his bottom lip. "Books in front," he muttered under his breath, "small reading area near the window... maybe secondhand section too... and a small upright piano near the back."

He paused, tapping the pencil against the page.

"What kind of bookstore do you want?" he whispered aloud, as if asking himself might summon the answer. "Quiet? Cozy? Big enough to get lost in... or small enough to feel like ho?"

The front door clicked softly.

Billy didn’t look up right away.

"Back already?" he asked.

Footsteps approached, slower than usual. Mr. Dand appeared near the kitchen archway, wiping his hands on a small cloth.

"Yeah," the old man said, his voice low and calm. "Garden didn’t need as much work as I thought. Thought I’d co see what all the papers were about."

Billy smiled, nudging the notebook slightly in his direction. "Planning. Just... ideas, really."

Mr. Dand walked over and sat down slowly in the armchair.

His eyes scanned the papers but didn’t ask anything right away.

Instead, he leaned back and looked at Billy.

"You thinking bookstore first? Or piano?"

Billy folded his arms, thoughtful. "Both, I think. I don’t want to choose. I want a space that can hold both parts of , you know?"

Mr. Dand nodded, quiet for a second. "That’s fair."

There was sothing unspoken in the air—one of those soft pauses that invited honesty.

"Thing is," Billy continued, sitting down across from him, "I don’t really know where to start. I an, I know how it feels in my head. But the real steps? Business permits, rent, suppliers... it’s all fog."

Mr. Dand leaned forward a little. "Every dream starts foggy, kid. You clear it one step at a ti. First, you figure out what you want to offer. Then, you figure out who needs it. Then you look for the door between the two."

Billy looked at him, then smiled faintly. "You ever thought of being a life coach?"

Mr. Dand chuckled. "Too old for that. I’ve just seen a lot of people freeze up before they even take one step. You’re already doing more than most."

Billy glanced down at his drawings again. "It’s scary," he admitted quietly. "Wanting sothing this much."

Mr. Dand leaned back, exhaling as if the truth had been sitting with him for years. "It should be. That’s how you know it matters."

They sat like that for a while—two n, one young and uncertain, the other older and steady.

Between them, dreams and fears lived on paper and in silence.

Then Mr. Dand leaned back again. "Whatever you build... bookstore, piano room, both... make sure it’s sowhere you want to co back to."

Billy nodded slowly.

"I will."

After Mr. Dand went to check on the laundry, Billy remained at the table. He tapped his pencil against his temple, then scribbled sothing beside the sketch: "Used books shelf—Give a story a second life."

Just as he was about to write more, his phone buzzed.

Camila. Incoming video call.

He hesitated for a second—hair a bit of a ss, sleeves wrinkled—but then smiled and answered.

The screen lit up with her face, frad by warm lighting and a clutter of books behind her.

"Well, well, look who’s up and working instead of napping like a cat in the sun," she teased.

Billy laughed, leaning back. "Hey, you call this working? It’s just scribbling my fantasy on paper."

Camila narrowed her eyes. "That fantasy’s starting to look dangerously organized. Let see."

He angled the cara slightly to show the ssy sketch. "Ta-da. Welco to the empire of dreams. Don’t trip over the unrealistic expectations."

She grinned, adjusting her glasses. "Honestly, it’s better than I expected. I see the bones of sothing here. A bookstore-slash-piano room? That’s very you."

Billy shrugged, soft smile playing at his lips. "It’s sothing I’d want to walk into. You think it’s too much?"

"No, I think it’s brave. Most people play it safe. You’re letting your heart lead. Just be smart about the details."

"Which is why I need you, obviously. My brain’s not exactly built for logistics."

Camila leaned forward like she was ready to pitch a business plan. "Okay, then first—think of your audience. Who’s walking into this bookstore? Tourists? Locals? Retired folks looking for poetry? College students in search of coffee and healing?"

Billy chuckled. "All of the above, maybe. People who want to slow down, feel sothing real."

She nodded. "Then let that guide everything. Your na, your shelves, even how you decorate. Atmosphere is half the sale in a place like that."

Billy leaned forward. "You’re really good at this, you know. I should pay you."

Camila raised a brow. "You can start by naming a drink after on your future café nu. Sothing bold and a little intimidating."

"The Camila Roast. Dangerous if consud too fast."

They both laughed.

Then Camila’s tone softened. "Jokes aside... I’m proud of you. I can see you moving again, dreaming again. It’s good. You’re not stuck anymore, Leon."

He held her gaze for a second.

The lightness in his eyes dimd just a little, touched by sothing heavier. "Still scared. But yeah... I’m not stuck. Not with people like you."

She smiled, eyes warm. "That’s what sister are for. And when you open those doors? I’ll be there—first custor, demanding free bookmarks and playing your piano off-key."

Billy grinned. "I’ll hold you to it."

"You better. Now go finish sketching before I make you design the whole place in 3D."

He saluted her lazily. "Yes, boss."

The call ended, leaving a quiet kind of joy in the room.

Billy looked at his sketch again, then picked up his pencil and wrote along the top of the page:

"Sothing that feels like ho."

The call had ended minutes ago, but Billy still sat there, pencil resting loosely between his fingers, eyes tracing the lines he’d drawn.

The quiet of the house wrapped around him.

Outside, cicadas buzzed faintly under the late afternoon sun.

He turned the page and began sketching the front door—wooden, wide, and a little worn down, the kind that creaked when it opened but made you feel welco. Underneath it, he scribbled:

"Let strangers walk in and leave as regulars."

He blinked at the words. A small, unspoken ache stirred in his chest.

Not just for the store—but for sothing bigger. Belonging.

A space that wasn’t borrowed or temporary. Sothing of his own.

A sound from outside—the crunch of boots on gravel.

Billy glanced toward the window just as the front door creaked open.

It made the exact sound he imagined for his sketch.

Artur stepped in, his shirt slightly rumpled, bag slung over one shoulder, the edges of his hair damp with sweat.

His eyes scanned the room—and landed on Billy.

"Hey," he said, voice low but warm. "Sorry I’m late. Got held up at the office."

Billy smiled softly, setting his pencil down. "You’re not late. I didn’t even know what ti it was."

Artur walked over, setting his bag on the floor by the couch. His gaze dropped to the papers spread across the table.

He arched a brow. "What’s all this? New language or your secret diary?"

Billy chuckled. "Plans. For the bookstore. And maybe a piano tucked in a corner."

Artur’s expression shifted, eyebrows lifting with genuine curiosity. "That’s happening?"

Billy nodded. "Trying to make it happen. Camila called. Gave a bit of a push." He glanced back at the page. "It feels... possible today."

Artur didn’t answer right away. He reached out and picked up one of the pages—turned it sideways, then upright again, studying the scribbles.

"I like this," he said quietly. "Feels like you."

Billy looked up at him. "That’s the goal."

A pause. Then Artur glanced at him, voice softer now. "Need help?"

Billy smiled. "Yeah. Eventually. I an... you already taught how to stack crates properly. I think you’re qualified to help shelve books."

Artur snorted, setting the paper down. "We’ll make it happen. One book and one note at a ti."

They stood in that hush for a mont.

The late afternoon light poured in from the window, casting long golden shadows across the floor.

Billy looked at him again, slower this ti.

"You okay?" he asked.

Artur nodded, but his eyes held a flicker of sothing—sothing thoughtful. "Yeah. Just... first day was a lot. Kids are chaos."

Billy smirked. "And yet you didn’t run."

Artur smiled back, tired but proud. "Nope. I stayed."

Billy tilted his head slightly. "Good. Because I think this place needs you. Sa way I do."

Artur didn’t say anything. He just looked at Billy, quiet and steady.

Then he reached out, gently ruffling his hair as he passed by.

"I’ll go wash up," he said. "You keep dreaming. I’ll catch up."

And as he walked down the hall, Billy turned back to his sketch—his world of crooked shelves, sunlight through windows, and a piano waiting to be played.

Maybe... just maybe... it was all starting to co together.

Later that evening, the scent of sothing warm filled the kitchen—onions simring, a hint of pepper, the kind of sll that made you feel like you belonged sowhere.

Billy stood barefoot, stirring the pot gently, wearing Artur’s too-big hoodie that slipped off one shoulder.

A faint tune humd under his breath as he tasted the broth, made a face, and reached for the salt again.

Behind him, footsteps approached.

"You’re cooking?" Artur asked, voice teasing but curious as he leaned against the doorfra, now fresh from his shower, damp hair curling slightly at the ends.

Billy didn’t turn. "Trying. You didn’t exactly leave much to work with."

"There was rice and eggs."

Billy shot him a playful glare over his shoulder. "Wow. Gourt."

Artur chuckled, walked in, and leaned over to sniff the pot. "Slls edible."

Billy nudged him lightly with his elbow. "That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to my cooking."

"I’m being generous. It’s your first official dinner as a future bookstore owner-slash-pianist. I figured I should be nice."

Billy rolled his eyes, but his smile stayed. "Well then, sit. I’ll feed you like a king."

Artur raised both brows, pulling out a chair. "Dangerous promise."

A few minutes later, they sat at the table. It wasn’t fancy—just two bowls of soup, slices of bread, and a jug of water between them.

The kind of al that filled more than the stomach.

For a while, they ate in silence.

Then Billy looked up, voice quieter. "How was it? Really. Your first day."

Artur chewed slowly before answering. "Loud. ssy. Half the kids tested on purpose."

Billy smiled. "You survive?"

"Barely. But then one of them ca up at the end and asked if I’d be back tomorrow." He paused. "That kind of made it worth it."

Billy leaned back slightly, studying him. "You looked different when you walked in earlier."

Artur raised a brow. "Different how?"

Billy hesitated. Then: "Lighter. Like you’d found sothing that fit."

Artur didn’t answer imdiately. He took a sip of water, then looked at Billy across the table.

"I didn’t expect it to feel... right," he admitted. "I thought it’d just be sothing to pass the ti."

"And now?"

Artur shrugged one shoulder, but his voice softened. "Now it feels like maybe I can be part of sothing.

Build sothing. Not just fix roofs or haul crates. Sothing that stays."

Billy’s gaze dropped for a second. Then, quietly, "I know the feeling."

A gentle silence settled between them. Outside, the night deepened, cicadas humming like distant violins.

A breeze drifted through the open window, brushing past them.

Artur stood first, grabbing the bowls. "Let clean."

Billy reached too, catching his hand. "No. I’ll do it. You’ve had a long day."

Artur didn’t pull away. Their hands lingered a second longer than necessary.

"You sure?"

Billy looked up. "Yeah. Go play sothing," he said, nodding toward the upright piano in the corner. "It’s been quiet."

Artur hesitated, then gave a small smile. "Alright. But if I ss up, don’t laugh."

"No promises."

As Billy moved toward the sink, Artur crossed to the piano, sat, and let his fingers hover above the keys.

The first notes were slow, hesitant—then steadier, fuller. A lody began to form.

Billy listened as he washed the bowls, the music threading through the water and steam, curling into the corners of the house.

In that small mont—warm light, clinking dishes, piano humming softly—ho didn’t feel like a place anymore.

It felt like this.