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Almost ten years had passed since Hugo lost touch with his fate. He was withering away, unable to find his place in the world, waltzing from person to person while trying on one mask after another. By the age of thirty-five, he'd built up quite the collection, he could share with no one; and despite all its usefulness, it brought him no peace of mind. And so Hugo spent those ten years trying to patch the hole in his destiny with fleeting affairs, momentary whims, and robberies that looked more like reckless performances balanced on the edge of madness.
Until, at last, he found solace in Wise’s embrace. It was not love at first sight. Nor was it the kind of perfect relationship other destined pairs had, the kind where they understood each other without words. Sometimes they fought. Hugo pushed too far, testing boundaries, how much Wise would allow him to push. Wise, meanwhile, would usually retreat into himself, stewing in his own fears for weeks, slipping into a total ignore, hiding behind work, until either the conflict faded on its own or one of them finally broke and came to apologize. A sharp tongue against slow attrition. And attrition often won. But the more they employed their tricks, the faster they learned to recognize them, and their conflicts evolved into a sort of arms race: who could bite faster, who could provoke an emotional reaction sooner, and who would be the first to break the vicious cycle and take a step forward.
No, their love wasn’t perfect. Their hearts did not beat in unison as the social advertisements on billboards dictated. Sometimes, as if to spite one another, they fell out of their shared rhythm, yet their inner stubbornness refused to let the relationship end. Because only Hugo could find a true emerald among a handful of shiny stones – stones so varied and cheap, yet synthetic. Wiping away the layers of prejudice and dust the emerald had spent years burying itself beneath, Hugo polished it with the care of a collector and the persistence of a Mockingbird, determined to show its shine to the world. On especially dark nights, Wise would hold a broken child against his chest, whispering words of comfort. His shoulder would soak up all the grief that young soul had carried within himself for thirty years, his fingers combing through strands of gold while the lights stayed on all night long, so that the lost soul could find its way home. Their love was not perfect. But it was a love they had grown together, taking small steps toward each other. They were together not by the will of fate, but by the command of their own hearts. And of this, Hugo was very proud.
"We choose our own fate, every day," he would tell Wise later, slowly stroking his back. "Our love was not dictated by anyone. That is what raises us above the rest. We are stronger than fate."
Hugo could already see their happy ending: a beautiful wedding in some picturesque place, vows exchanged under a floral arch, merry and slightly tipsy guests competing in the stealthy art of clipping clothespins to one another. A cozy shared home in a quiet district, where, in Hugo’s estimation, his own refined taste would blend perfectly with Wise’s uncanny ability to make any space feel lived-in—a small corner just for the two of them. Friday night dinners with the whole family. Vivian enthusiastically describing a new fanfic she and Liliac had written together, trying to pull Belle into the conversation while Robin muttered complaints about her manners. And, of course, the night would end with a horror movie brought specifically by Belle to tease her older brother.
There remained only one significant problem – Wise’s thread was still intact.
It stretched toward someone out there in New Eridu, someone Wise had not yet met and perhaps never would. A reminder that loomed every day on the periphery of Hugo’s consciousness, mocking him and his plans, threatening to snatch Wise out of their established life and decide their destiny for them. On yet another sleepless night, Hugo could not tear his eyes away from that red, persistent snake that so insistently bound two hearts. It pulsed in the darkness with a vivid light, full of life; tracing the curves of its owner, flowing across the rumpled blanket, slithering into the shadows beyond the door, leading to someone Hugo had no power over.
Unlike the man lying beside him…
Wise slept deeply, utterly exhausted after a relentless chain of commissions that had left him no room to breathe for the past two weeks. His back was an open canvas before the man. The Mockingbird slowly withdrew his hand from the other’s hip and reached for the dagger he always kept under his pillow. His movements were fluid and lingering, like honey. His long fingers closed around the worn hilt, and the blade flashed hungrily in the moonlight. With his other hand, Hugo carefully hooked the thread; it pulsed in time with Wise’s measured breathing, sensing no threat. He looped it over the blade and, with one effortless motion, severed the connection.
A second.
A long second, like an eternity of deafening silence, as if the entire world had fixed its gaze upon this specific event.
And then, a gasp.
Wise woke instantly from a sharp pain in his chest and an all-consuming void that expanded in his heart with every passing second. It felt as if an entire civilization had perished within him, and he was being forced to watch its demise. The red thread crumbled in his palms until nothing remained but a ragged, tiny tip. He stared at it, powerless to do anything. An unbearable sense of chaos and helplessness overwhelmed him. His eyes filled with tears. Hugo’s concerned voice was drowned out by the echo of his own scream. He cried long and inconsolably, while a single question swirled like a vortex in his mind:
"Why? Why did that person do this to me?"
He mourned a person he did not even know, but whose departure would leave an indelible mark on his heart. In despair, Wise clung to the shirt of the man who, as he would come to believe, caught him the moment he was so cruelly and cold-bloodedly thrown off a cliff. Hugo held him tight, pressing Wise firmly against himself, stroking the grey head buried in his neck. He held him as if he wanted to shield him from the entire world. And this only made Wise weep harder.
"Everything will be alright," the Mockingbird repeated. He would be there; he would wipe away the bitter tears and whisper sweet promises of their future. He would not curse Wise’s "fate". On the contrary, he would smooth over the rough edges, suggesting that perhaps that person had suffered too, perhaps they had grown disillusioned with love and their heart was equally broken, or perhaps they felt they were not worthy of Wise because they had done many bad things in their life. He would appeal to mercy, because he knew understanding and forgiveness came more naturally to Wise than hatred or vengeance. Hugo knew his beloved would have a hard time, but he would be there to comfort and love him as no one else ever would.
He would hold out the end of his own thread, as if to say: I understand, I was betrayed too...
"But I made it through because you were by my side. And I will be by yours."
Hugo's thread was short, severed at the end, just like Wise’s. Wise reached for it eagerly, clutching the little that remained like a lifeline, weaving their threads into a neat little bow.
And so, in the silence of the night, while the world slept under the faint hum of a computer from the ground floor, the Mockingbird stole someone else's fate.