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Ragnor weaves through the flatteringly large crowd, noting occasional smiles and even chuckles among the guests that have gathered in otherwise sombre little groups. He’s glad. Life should be remembered for its joy, not only mourned.
He finally spots Magnus, sitting alone in one of the rows of chairs facing the front of the room. Ragnor grins and makes his way over.
As he slides into the chair next to Magnus, he feels the familiar itch between his shoulder blades—something tugging at him with increasing urgency. He pushes it from his mind.
“I see you chose the good portrait,” he mutters. “Thank you for that.”
Magnus starts, almost imperceptibly, then makes a show out of sighing. “You always did think that pose flattered your chin. You were wrong, you know. But who am I to deny a man’s last wish.”
“You say that, and yet there are lilies everywhere. You know I detest lilies.”
“Angela insisted.” Magnus smiles. “There was quite a scene.”
Ragnor throws his head back, groaning. “Angela! I suppose she’s to blame for the all black dress code as well, then? You know I wanted everyone to wear colours.”
“You should see my socks,” Magnus says, tipping him a tiny wink. “And don’t blame me. You’re the one who married her.”
“Temporarily,” Ragnor complains. “The problem with modern divorces is that one still stays so very much connected.”
Magnus makes his broken-hearted face.
“I wouldn’t know,” he says.
“Not yet.” Ragnor stops himself from putting a hand on Magnus’ shoulder—he hasn’t attempted touching anyone yet, and he doesn’t know how that would work. The itching across his back returns, and he rolls his shoulders irritably.
“Your time will come, my friend,” he continues. “Well, not that I’m wishing divorce on you. But the marriage part—I don’t think that ship has sailed for you, no matter how much you claim it.”
Magnus scoffs, but doesn’t quite manage to hide the accompanying smile. He’s softened up so much lately. He likes to call Ragnor prickly, which is a case of the pot and the kettle if there ever was one—ever since Camille, Magnus has had his little hedgehog defences up, ready to bristle at the slightest provocation. It’s nice to see them finally settling down a bit.
The itching reaches a fever pitch. Ragnor winces.
“What’s wrong?” Magnus says, turning to him with immediate concern, then makes an apologetic face at another mourner. As the woman moves on, he mutters, “Or did you come here just to make me seem like I’m talking to myself?”
“Unexpected bonus.” Ragnor grins at him, then sighs.
“It’s getting harder to stay,” he says.
Magnus doesn’t look away. They’ve always managed to share the hardest truths with each other frankly.
Ragnor manages a smile. “You know I love you, don’t you?”
Magnus blinks, swallows and then smiles back at him. “And I you, old friend.”
It's not the most eloquent of goodbyes.
It is everything it needs to be.