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You remember vividly the day Hugin went away from this place. Of course you do, the memory itself is a terrible, yet unforgettable thing. It was a few days after Munin passed away, her body nowhere to be found, thus there is no body at the bottom of that tombstone of hers. When you asked Hugin about it, about what happened, he immediately burst into fresh tears, babbling a lot of things more emotional than logical.
If I noticed it sooner—he kept on repeating that sentence but you knew it’d be him that die if that’s the case. Fate isn’t as kind as people would have thought, after all. You didn’t say that to him though, for you are merciless but not cruel enough to rub salt over an open, bleeding wound.
You feared speaking the wrong thing—the words you speak are only facts spoken in a harsh way. You who incapable of being gentle in the face of someone you love could not be a source of comfort, so you only held Hugin close to you as he sobbed. That was the only thing your care could be conveyed. His face is hidden, pressed against your chest, soiling the freshly-laundered shirt with snots and tears. You let him do that, made a mess of himself—so long as it was you that he held onto, that was fine.
Sweet nothings were whispered, despite knowing that it was only to fill in the absent of words between his voice. It only lasted a few minutes since your words were limited, so repetition of okay and fine quickly became obsolete. Again, you are not someone good enough to be a source of comfort, but you try—tried—as best as you could.
Now that you have time to think about the past, maybe your best at that was not enough; as soon as you let him go, he disappeared. Without a trace. Hugin is a prankster and a detective at heart, so trying to detect his tracks was pretty much useless.
You’d never give him up. Never. Those are the commitment you wish stay within your heart, but alas, what can you do when it backfires into the opposite? That you’ll give up on him?
Nothing much, you’d reckon.
“Are you going to let him go then?”
This is Lorin who asked you in the after hours of your work, the only person you trust in the matter of personal problems amidst all the chaos committed by the terrorists who kills the Queen, Munin, and many others.
“I don’t know,” the square ice inside your whiskey clinks against the glass as you put it down on the table after taking a sip, “for once, I’m in a bit of a predicament.”
It’s nice to have a friend like Lorin who can switch his understanding based on situation—and at that time, he was talking to Rex, not the Superintendent of River Constabulary, just like how you regard him as an old man pushing his 50s, not as your junior or the Chief Inspector.
“Predicament, you say.” He retorts, chuckling, but you see through him—same as you, though not as intense, Lorin was worried about Hugin’s sudden departure from Silvernia. “He always has been like this, right? Mischievous.”
“Well, I know—”
“Give him some space, Rex. He just lost his sister, you know.”
Despite his rank, Lorin is reliable, with years of experiences that you cannot grasp with how young you are—although you understand more than your peers, in his eyes, you might just come off as innocent in terms of affairs like this. Romance has never been your strong point to begin with.
“I know but I want him to be here, with me, relying on me and no one else.”
“What you want might come off as egotistic, Rex.” Lorin says, nursing his own glasses, half-empty, “Not everyone can do that—relying on others. We cannot dictate how he copes with loss.”
Though, you wouldn’t call this talk a banter about romance or love—it is just you trying to make sense of Hugin’s action with someone who knew him too.
The crumbling mask of indiference and ire slips off, revealing a side that most people couldn’t see in you—vulnerability.
“I’m just … worried, Lorin.”
Lorin sighs. “I know that.”
“I’m worried that he’ll try following his sister’s footsteps.”
You watch the ice slowly melts, the sharp edges blunting, maybe if you was to be softer and kinder and more convincing, he’d stay. However, that is not the case. Your rational self has let it know to you that no matter what you say or have said to Hugin, that man will do whatever he want.
“Rex, forgive me for trespassing my boundary when I say this, but—” Lorin begins, his eyes casting down to his own glass. “—you’ve fallen in love with Hugin, haven’t you?”
Maybe if it was spoken teasingly, you’d be embarrassed and rejected such speculation, but tonight, where the mental wall you erected falls down in a swoop along with Hugin’s disappearance, you elect to answer with a sip instead.
Lorin hums, finding the action sufficient to answer his question. “Am I right?”
The glass hit the wooden table again, empty, leaving only the half-melted ice. You signal the bartender for the same one you just have and he carries that order immediately by taking your empty glass away.
You look at Lorin, watching as the older man look back at you with a contemplative expression. He don’t smile teasingly as he tried to push you into confessing your secret affection for Hugin.
“That’s right—I love him. That’s why I don’t want him to go somewhere far I cannot follow.” You whisper, “but in the end, neither my affection nor my existence is enough to keep him here.”
“Don’t lose hope, Rex. We never know if he’ll come back or not—”
“Him, returning to the city where everyone thought of the twins as the perp for that regicide? To the city where everyone rejoiced at his sister’s death? Even the most incompetent officer can conclude something better than that, Lorin.” You berate him, your tone a pure venom, but in the end, you speak again, tad smaller. “He won’t be returning here. I know that.”
You watch Lorin wince because your hurtful honesty. “Maybe one day, he’ll return here because of you.”
That was the sentence that made you laugh, a pitiful one that seemingly made Lorin frown. Just in time for you to stop, the bartender hands you a different drink. A dark purplish-red drink, like a mix of wine and something else. The murkiness reflects your mood and heart, so you don’t mind the wrong order. Alcohol is alcohol, whatever form it comes in with, it will still debilitate you enough until tomorrow.
“Lorin,” you talk, your hand taking the slim handle of the wine glass, swirling the liquid inside slowly. “If he’s back here, he wouldn’t return because of me. It’s to pursue his sister’s killer, I’m sure.”
Hugin would not come back for someone like you. If it is you that served as the reason of his return, he wouldn’t leave in the first place.
“It’s okay to have a little hope, Rex.” Lorin says solemnly, “even if the situation is an adversity that seemed impossible to overcome.”
Maybe, it is easy for Lorin to speak of that—years of experience of seeing brutal massacres from werewolves rampage, friends passing away slowly and surely, the lonely nights he spent alone working, and yet he’s still here.
“You’re too naive.”
“It’s not naive, Rex. It’s called being positive.”
“Realistically speaking, you’re just running away.”
Lorin might know better about the painful feeling of being left behind but it didn’t translate well into yours; his grief belongs to the dead people, while yours is still alive, you mourning the future days spent with him is an equivalent to losing something important—a part of your heart.
“Perhaps, but I don’t think of it as running away per se—only retreating and arranging our strategy. Which is why I said it’s better for you to wait.”
How long can you even wait? What if all the waiting becomes naught when Hugin doesn’t come back to Silvernia?
Those questions swirl around your brain like a broken recording; you put the glass down on the table, only to take it in your hand again. The glass is cool to your glove-less touch. You drink the new drink you were given, in hope the sound of your heartbreaking will be louder than the ones in your mind.
“Too sweet.”
“The new drink?”
“Mhm. The bartender is still new, I suppose.”
“Want me to give him a holler to change it?”
You take a sip again, slowly, savouring it. Now you know why you dislike the sweetness from before. Even though you don’t like sweets, the taste reminds you of your wayward raven whose existence is probably miles away from Silvernia.
“No need.” You said, looking to the side, to the empty chair beside your right. His usual seat. He might never step foot here anymore, thus quietly, you curse to yourself—
“It’s sweet. This kind of drink is what he likes the most.” You notify and command, “just like him.”
—because the drink reminds you too much of that one mistake with Hugin, a kiss that lingered for far too long for someone who is not important for him, once upon a time.