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“Oh good, you’re free,” Magnus says, closing the door to Ragnor’s office behind him.
“I was trying to finalise next month’s menu,” Ragnor says.
“So you know Alexander, from my level two class?” Magnus breezes over him, helping himself to Ragnor’s drink wagon. It was his birthday present to Ragnor a few years ago, and he always knew it would come in handy. (To be absolutely fair, he may be using it somewhat more than its owner is, but then, that’s what friends are for.)
“You may have mentioned him,” Ragnor says, rolling his eyes and bending his head again over the several sheets of paper on his desk. “And Raphael has been quite tiresome about it as well. One half of the perfect couple, yes?”
Magnus groans and throws himself onto Ragnor’s sofa—carefully though, so as not to spill his drink. “That’s the problem. The husband is flirting with me. Well. I say flirting. He’s not good at it.”
“You do not want to cheat with a student. Trust me, Magnus.”
“And the wife seems to be fine with it.” Magnus smiles slightly, raising his glass and giving Ragnor a meaningful look over the top of it. “I’d go so far as to say encouraging.”
Ragnor sighs noisily, pushing the reading glasses he’s far too vain to show in public up into his hair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I will never understand this young generation,” he says, because he tends to get snappish around the end of the month when work is piling up.
“You’re thirty-nine, Ragnor.” Magnus takes a sip of his drink. “I think they might be in some kind of open relationship? I believe the word is polyamory.”
“Dreadful mix of latin and greek,” Ragnor says, pursing his lips in scholarly disapproval.
“You did all of three terms of classical languages before dropping out to start the restaurant,” Magnus reminds him. “Don’t you think it’s time to let that air of faux-academia drop?”
Ragnor rolls his eyes and turns back to his work, holding up a page and squinting at it critically. “So the husband, who according to Raphael looks like the love child of St Michael and Milton’s Satan—”
“Enough with the academia, Ragnor...”
“—this sculpted Adonis may be trying to sleep with you, and his wife is cheering him on? I don’t see the problem here, dear friend. It truly seems to be the definition of a victimless crime. Shag the man and high-five the wife afterwards, I suggest. Oh, I’m not even sure any of these dishes are appetising any longer. Would you say winter apples are overdone?”
“Yes,” Magnus says firmly, then as Ragnor frowns unhappily, attempts to steer the conversation back onto more important matters. “But the thing is, after Camille—”
He’s interrupted by a loud snort from Ragnor. “Terrible person. Always overused cumin, too. You should never have let her into your kitchen.” He looks up for a moment. “Well, or your life, I suppose.”
“The thing is,” Magnus repeats pointedly, “after Camille, I haven’t really met anyone who could make me feel anything much at all. When she left, I didn’t think I’d ever be whole again.”
He ignores the rather sarcastic huff from Ragnor and continues, “For almost a decade—”
“Four years,” Ragnor mutters, picking up another piece of paper.
“—I’ve closed myself off from feeling anything, for anybody. But this man…” Magnus sighs. “He’s made me feel things I didn’t think I would again.”
“You are so dramatic,” Ragnor says, but he looks up as he says it, and his smile is more fond than sarcastic. “So you’re afraid you may be falling for the husband? If they are truly polyamorous, may there not be a place for you with them as well?”
Magnus throws his drink back and frowns. “I don’t know how they work. And I don’t have an interest in Izzy, the wife, and I think that’s mutual. So I expect, assuming Alexander is even interested in anything beyond sex, it would be some sort of vee arrangement?” He sees the look Ragnor gives him and makes a face. “Look, I’m just learning about this now. I barely know what these words even mean.”
“My dear, do you really think you’re likely to learn more by hiding out in here with me?” Ragnor asks. “Go on a date if that’s what’s being offered. That’s the only way to see the way forward.”
“I’m not sure this is what I want,” Magnus says, the words spilling out in what he hopes isn’t as whiny a tone as he feels. But there’s so much contained in all of this—so much worry, so many uncertain waters to navigate. Magnus has been comfortable in his bisexuality for many years, and it’s a surprise to realise how many preconceived notions about relationships he still has. And it’s difficult, trying to untangle what he wants from what he’s been accustomed to want, from what’s the norm, from what he just hasn’t ever questioned. He feels untethered, trying to find land.
And, just as frightening in its own way, he feels like Alexander might be something solid he can steer by. It’s breathtaking, how much this man affects him after only a few short weeks.
Ragnor, to his credit—although about as sociable as a cactus when he’s on a deadline—always makes time for listening to the unsaid words in any conversation.
“My friend,” he says quietly, “it seems you’re doing a good job of breaking your heart all on your own. How about you at least try to see this man’s intentions before you declare what’s possible or not?”
“Oh, well. That’s me told,” Magnus says, raising an ironic eyebrow and pulling the drinks trolley closer to him, and Ragnor is gracious enough to just smile about it. (Another good thing about Ragnor is that he’s prickly enough himself to recognise an eyeroll and a grimace as the thanks it is.)
“Sea bass,” he says, shuffling his papers into some kind of order. “We’ll go with the sea bass.”
“Sure the monkfish isn’t better?” Magnus asks, just because it’s always fun to be devil’s advocate.
“Sea bass,” Ragnor repeats, putting his reading glasses aside. “I’ve decided. In large part because I really can’t keep watching you decimate my vermouth supply while I’m stuck here with work.” He comes over and takes his place on the sofa, holding out his hand for the drink Magnus just mixed.
“Now,” he says, taking a sip and raising his eyebrows, “onto the truly important questions. Are you ever going to show me some pictures of this gorgeous human being, or do you really want me to resort to stalking through Facebook?”