There are a couple of thoughts that cross Magnus’ mind as he watches Kravitz doing the dishes in their kitchen.
The first is a fleeting laugh at the realization that Death lives with him and is currently elbow deep in dishwater, scrubbing blackberry juice off a pot that their other boyfriend had forgotten to soak.
The second is that he looks really pretty right now.
He’s changed his hair. Typically shoulder length dreads now a curtain of braids that hang down to his waist, pulled back in a loose ponytail to keep them from getting wet. He’s been mixing up his looks more often recently, likely because of Taako’s hobby of complaining just how lucky he is to be able to change his form at will. No spell slots required and you’re still always in this boring black three piece, bones. What’s up with that?
So he’s been changing. Not too much, nothing too different, (he worries about forgetting, what he looks like, who he was, he’s forgotten so much already-) but little things. Like his clothes. Like his hair. It looks good on him. Everything looks good on him.
The third thought is that Magnus really wants to kiss him right now.
The fourth is what really catches him off guard, and that is that he’s allowed to.
He still needs permission, of course, every time, like anything else, but in general, he’s allowed. That was what they agreed on, just recently. Magnus likes Kravitz. Kravitz likes Magnus. Magnus can walk up to his boyfriend in their own home and kiss him, if he wants to. And he really wants to.
It’s still a new and novel feeling, no matter how many times he’s loved before. Stranger when it’s someone he’s fucked and been fucked by months before any thoughts of romance entered his head. But not as strange as he thinks it should feel, in hindsight.
He slides out of his seat and into the kitchen, cutting off his mind before it can work itself into knots and ruin this whole thing. Kravitz is singing to himself, half hum, half mumble, trailing off when Magnus catches his chin and presses their lips together. Just a quick kiss. Kravitz blinks at him when he pulls away, adorably owlish behind his reading glasses.
“Hello there,” he says finally, a smile tugging on his lips. Magnus grins back.
“Hey.” He rolls a loose braid in his fingers before carefully tucking it behind a long ear. “Your hair looks nice.”
“Oh, thank you.” The smile on the reaper’s face is so genuine, Magnus wants to kiss him again. So he does. Kravitz is more prepared this time, cold lips pressing back eagerly.
“What song was that?” Magnus asks when they pull apart. He doesn’t miss the spark in the man’s eyes at being asked something about music. Dorky. Cute.
“Oh, just an old folk song. I heard it again in the pub last week, but they were singing it differently.” Magnus hums, picking a tea towel to dry as the other man goes back to the dishes. “These things change over time, of course, especially when they’re passed by word of mouth, but I think it was a regional thing as well.”
“Well how’s it meant to go?” Kravitz smiles, and starts to sing again, clearer and louder. His voice is nice, deep and measured. It suits him. Everything suits him.
Magnus wants to kiss him again, but he doesn’t. He’s got all the time in the world for that.