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It’s always raining in London.
Maybe it’s because he happens to only visit in January, or the aura he carries, either way Magnus isn’t overly fond of it.
But it’s tragically fitting.
Ragnors cottage is still the same as it’s always been. The year before, Magnus had constructed a simple preservation spell to keep it from deteriorating. Maybe it’s his way of wishing for things to go back to the way they were, maybe not.
There’s a cactus in a small painted pot in the bookshelf, the memory that comes with it is familiar but it hurts this time. The smile on Ragnors face when Magnus had given it to him, his smiles are so rare and he’d felt so proud that it’d been because of him that Ragnor did.
The cactus could dance too, a spell it took Magnus weeks to learn, but he’d been so happy that it had paid off. That he truly made something that was just between he and Ragnor. It started as an inside joke, really.
A joke he’d never hear again.
Magnus came name every book in that bookshelf. Some, Ragnor had read to him on rainy days, or outside in the garden. Sometimes under a blanket with a hot cup of tea, other times laying in the sun.
Ragnor was- is- more than a friend.
Though he never admitted it, it felt like for the first time in his life he’d had the guidance his father refused to give. The genuine lessons without the punishments and scolding words spat from someone who didn’t care.
Ragnor cared, he wanted Magnus to know different things about the world, he didn’t get frustrated when Magnus needed help, he didn’t mind if it took a little longer to learn that one latin phrase, he-he was so kindhearted.
He felt like what a father should be like. It felt like he’d gotten a taste of a normal, loving childhood.
But of course it never lasts.
Ragnor is gone. Magnus still hasn’t come to terms with it, he refuses to.
The room in the attic is still the same, the bed pressed against the far wall with a direct view of the sunset through a dusty window.
So with a heavy heart, Magnus sleeps.
And dreams of a garden.
Their garden.
Downstairs, a phone wakes and blares a familiar ringtone. It cuts itself off, the voicemail echoing around the empty room. Unbeknownst to the sleeping inhabitant, a familiar voice cuts through the fog of silence settling in the crevices.
“Magnus? Are you okay? Nobody's heard from you in weeks. I know-I know how we left things but I’m worried. Someone named Crowley, and Aziraphale, I think, are coming to check on you. I don’t know where you are, but I trust they do.”
There’s a pause, before a quiet whispered “I love you,” makes it out of the receiver. With a click, the cottage quiet is restored.
And there’s dreams of hazel eyes, and raven hair.