"Well, well, well. Our little stray," Raphael greets me with a laugh and before my feet cross the threshold, he pulls me into a tight hug. I've missed this, him and his easy-going manner. As always, he exudes a light scent of freedom and the unmistakable aroma gel with black pepper, lemon and ginger harmoniously highlights the heart note of basil with violet. It is Raphael and instantly awakens the homey feeling in me. I was always protected and sheltered by my parents. Ragnor also contributed a lot to the fact that I never experienced a spontaneous outburst of teenage despair and left the house and my family in a fit of raging anger. We were not a picture-perfect family; we too had disagreements and clashed. But we could always talk to each other and that meant the world to me.

"I missed you," I say softly and hear Raphael sigh
"We missed you too." Soothingly, Raphael rubs my back, I feel his heartbeat, slow, steady. Raphael.
"Jonathan and I had a fight. It was heated and he kicked me out," I croon close to his ear. Only now do I realize the full extent of it. He kicked me out the door and I need a new place to stay. Great. As if I didn't have enough problems already.
"Spencer's making up the bed now. Yorick's not here. He's spending the night with his moms."
"Thanks," I breathe, only too happy to drop into the hug he offers. He rocks me back and forth like a baby, and the leaden tiredness that already brought me to my knees in the cab is back. Yawning heartily, I look startled into Spencer's amused face.
"Had a long night?" he asks, and Raphael wordlessly pushes me toward his husband. Spencer's grip around my body is strong and firm, his long muscular arms wrap around my body and I just let myself fall. Here I am safe and I feel secure.

"Now come inside first and then you'll tell us everything. Would you like some tea? Or would you prefer something stronger?" asks Spencer, gently pushing me deeper into her home.
"No alcohol. I can't take it today. Afterwards, I'll sit here and cry about the injustice of the universe. No thanks. I don't want to be on your backs too long either," I say promptly and they both roll their eyes in unison. A small smile settles on the corners of my mouth. They are adorable.
"You can stay as long as you can stand us," Spencer's dark voice rings out, and as so often in recent years, I wonder what I've done to deserve such friends.
"I'll make some coffee," Raphael replies and disappears into the adjacent kitchen.

Curious, I look around. Nothing has changed. The house looks exactly the same as it did on my last visit, and once again I marvel at their exceptional taste and keen eye for detail. Raphael was born in America, but his roots are in sunny Portugal. His husband on the other hand, has frosty ice water instead of blood in his veins. The furnishings clearly show his origins. Light wood dominates, as does the furniture, and in every window of the house there is a small lamp whose light never goes out. That's how the Scandinavians are. They love the rough earth and the stormy sea, miss the sun and enjoy life.

All too well I remember the day Spencer painstakingly added white-painted wood panels to the walls of the living area. It was dusty, smelled like wood chips and sweat, hard work and the joy of living. This, is his dream from a young age and with Raphael by his side, it became a reality. The sofa with beige upholstery is an imported original piece of furniture from a long-established Swedish upholstery company. Spencer paid a lot of money for exquisite furniture from his homeland. But it was worth it, definitely, and the sofa harmonizes lovingly with the small table of white lacquered oak and beautifully turned legs. Handmade. Old. Worth a fortune. Flowers on the table and family pictures on the walls. A dream and clearly nicer and more homey than the horrible 70's New York style. The chair is new and reverently I stroke the slightly rough fabric and take Mr Brumm on my lap before snuggling into the soft cushions. The backrest is the ideal height and wonderfully nestles perfectly against my back. I sigh and stroke Mr. Brumm's cozy fur, lost in thought.

"I remember the day of Yorick's birth so clearly. You were so excited and kept half the maternity ward on their toes. You never looked happier than with the little blond angel in your arms. That was beautiful," I say lost in thought, fixing my eyes on a picture on the wall across from me. Yorick with his dads and Mr Brumm. He had just been home a few hours and I timidly put the teddy in his much too big crib. He was so small, fragile and innocent then. A little angel with ice blue eyes and blond curls. Mr Brumm has been watching over the little man for seven years and my two friends fall more in love with their son every day.

"So, tell me," Spencer says, settling down on the sofa across from me and clapping his hands joyfully.
"No!", shouts Raphael from the kitchen. I know what's happening now.
"Wait for me. The... fuck hot... the coffee is almost ready. I'll miss the beginning otherwise," Raphael calls out to us.
"We're waiting honey," Spencer confirms to his husband.
"How's the writing going?", I ask to cover the rising silence. I feel like silence would just pull me further into the spiral of a thousand thoughts.
"Fine. I'll let Kjell die," he just blurts out freely and I wince, startled.
"What?", I ask squeakily. Why?
"Why? How? You can't do that," I get indignant at my friend. That would be my emotional death.
"Because I can. He's my hero and I want him to die. I already know how."
"Will you tell me?" I have a hard time processing that information. Fuck. Kjell.
"His brother will kill him in battle."
"So he can get a place in Valhalla next to Odin and his father," I reply, nodding.
"Exactly," Spencer confirms happily. His ice-blue eyes sparkle and all weariness has escaped his face. That's what I've been missing. That glow, that sparkle, lightheartedness and life. Pure happiness and life.

"I have a great scene in mind. You're going to be thrilled. It's a bit like Ivar in York, but never mind. Artistic freedom," he says euphorically and eagerly I listen to his words. It's perfect.
"Kjell, bloodied with wrathful eyes, and Egil, the man with red hair and a long rampant beard, engage in a battle surrounded by death and stench. The rain beats down hard on their leather-covered bodies, the spongy ground offers little grip underfoot, and the sound of metal from axe and sword echoes across the vast plain. They fight for their lives and the rule of Norway and Sweden. To be king of the Northlands one day, that is their great dream and Kjell's heart breaks as the point of his sword slips through the gap in Egil's armor, skin splits and muscles are torn to shreds. Egil snarls and his eyes rest accusingly on those of his brother. Murderer. Fratricide. Yet it is always the same and has happened so many times in Viking history. Kjell cries and holds his little brother in his arms. Suddenly the coldness around him fades and warm blood flows from his chest. Egil holds a dagger studded with gold and gems in his hand and presses the tip of the loot into his chest at a steady pace, slowly and painfully. It burns and Kjell looks from widened eyes into the sneering face of his brother. The cold metal bores deeper and deeper into his burning body, the blood rushes in his ears and the onset of unconsciousness relieves the king of the Nordlands of his suffering. He has lost everything, his country, his love, his family. But one thing his enemies could not take from him. The legend of Kjell the Giant, King of the Northlands and just, strong ruler." With my eyes closed, I listen to Spencer's narration, smell the metallic blood and damp earth, feel Kjell's pain and Egil's suffering. So clearly, so clearly. It's going to crush my heart in my chest, and secretly I'm insanely looking forward to reading it.

"I'm not reading that," I say, demonstratively crossing my arms in front of my chest.
"Come on. You're Kjell's and my biggest fan."
"I thought I was?" says Raphael indignantly, and Spencer shakes his head vigorously.
"No honey, that's definitely Magnus. You're married to me and you love me. You're not really objective."
"You have a point," Raphael ends the discussion and places two cups of hot steaming coffee on the small table. He hands Spencer a cup of tea and together they wait for me to report.

"So?" they ask simultaneously, and chuckling, I realize that nothing has changed so much. Even though I haven't been in this cozy house in a while, it doesn't feel wrong.
"Where do I start?", I say more to myself and yet it's Raphael who senses how hard this conversation is getting.
"I'll quickly text Sharon to please take Yorick for another day or two. How bad is it?"
"I met someone."
"Oh," escapes Spencer. Raphael interrupts the fluid motion of his fingers and looks at me from widened eyes and slightly open mouth. My reaction wouldn't have been any different.
"Oh hits the spot. That was three years ago already," I confess.
"What?" asks Spencer.
"Who? Where? Three years?" They are slightly shocked. No wonder.
"I'm sorry. I talked to Ragnor about it, and I wanted to tell you. But somehow I didn't want to drag you guys into this mess. I don't know."
"It's okay. We're glad you're here," Raphael takes the pressure off me and I take a deep breath. Now it's me telling a story.

"I met him in London. In a pub. I saw him and it was over. So over. I didn't have a clear thought anymore and I think also a moment when my heart wasn't working properly. It was fierce and beautiful. We didn't talk much. He bought me a beer, told me his name and I told him mine. Furtive glances, little random touches, and I thought he just wasn't into intimacy in public. At some point I asked if he wanted another beer. He looked at me and fuck I thought he was going to collapse at any moment. His eyes, so blue, shining like the ocean and in them was a longing for more. So much desire. He leaned forward and his lips gauzily brushed my ear. I had to close my eyes to process it and when he told me he'd rather have something else, I almost left the pub in a hurry. Luckily for me, he understood my exit correctly and was suddenly standing next to me on the street. He had his hands buried deep in his pants pockets and I answered an unspoken question by saying, "My hotel is only a ten-minute walk from here." And that was it. We went to the hotel and had sex. Really good sex."

"Wow," Spencer breathes, and they both look at me in fascination.
"The way you talk about him. That, I don't know. That's more than just a fuck, isn't it? What happened?" asks Spencer.
"He's married. That's what he told me after we had sex. And... fuck I shouldn't talk about it," I say, wrestling so hard with myself. I don't want any more secrets, I want to tell my two oldest friends.
"That bad?" asks Raphael. I don't know right now.
"Actually, no. But for him, yes. That bad. Do I have your trust? Not a word, to anyone," I say imploringly.
"Not a word." Raphael.
"Not to anyone." Spencer. Fuck I love her and I'm smacking myself right now for waiting so long.
"He's playing soccer. In London. Very successful apparently."
"Wait," Spencer exclaims excitedly.
"Oh please, don't. Magnus, what have you done?" says Raphael, sighing.

"What?" I'm confused, what did I do? Spencer euphorically hammers away at the screen of his phone. What is he looking for?
"Where's he playing?" he asks suddenly, and briefly all information about Alec is blown away.
"Um...", I stammer.
"Oh, come on. I'll find him. So. What club?"
"Back in the day?", I ask unnecessarily. Spencer gives me an annoyed look.
"No. When he was six. Back then, of course." Raphael sits comfortably on the sofa with his cup of coffee, legs crossed cross-legged, smirking. I'm not, because I'm clearly very confused.
"He had just moved to London," I muse. How much soccer is played in London?
"Well, great. London has seven clubs in the Premiere League. Arsenal, Tottenham Hotspurs, Watword, Chrystal Palace for example. Chelsea not..."
"Chelsea," I shout, and Spencer claps his hands in glee. It's not long before his smiling expression changes to incredulous staring.

"Shit. I would have fucked him too." What?
"What?" croaks Raphael, coughing. The coffee has literally stuck in his throat.
"Oh believe me, even you would have wanted him."
"I only want you," Raphael immediately interjects.
"How do you know it's the guy?", I ask Spencer, but he studiously ignores me. Instead, Raphael and he click through a series of photos-presumably-and Spencer was clearly right. Raphael is interested.
"You're right. Magnus, he's really hot...wait, go back again. Is that for real? Fuck." What? Is? Here? Going? On?
"Are you going to let me in on this?", I ask, offended. They both look at me after what feels like an eternity, and in their eyes I see the drops of pity. Fuck. What have they discovered?

"I know he's married," I say tonelessly. And the thought of Alec with a woman is sickeningly painful.
"It's not that. Three years you say?" asks Spencer sympathetically. I nod, not daring to speak. My throat tightens and I'm not prepared for what's coming. I can feel it; their stares are unmistakable.
"Alec, right?" I nod mutely. How does he know? How did he find him so quickly?
"Alexander Gideon Lightwood, 27 years old, born in New York, USA. Married to Sara Lightwood. Both living together in a suburb of London..."
"Please don't," I breathe on the verge of tears. A foreboding creeps over me and the nausea of the previous night abruptly returns.
"... With their son together, Mason Blue Lightwood. He's eight years old, Magnus."