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There aren’t many memories that Caleb holds with any kind of fondness any longer. Even those that weren’t burnt and bloody are tainted now with the knowledge of either what would come or what had been twisted, wrought iron in Ikithon’s grasp. Few, though, burst through like the sudden swollen sweet of summer fruit against the tongue. There’s the way sunlight would haze thought Astrid’s tight curls, the unabashed boom of Eodwulf’s laugh, Astrid softly correcting the way he held silverware, Eodwulf teaching him to braid his own hair, Eodwulf’s palm against his jaw rough with callouses, Astrid laughing whining out “Jungs!".
[There's the catch of Eodwulf’s fingers as he cleaned whip lashes over Caleb’s back, Astrid with kohl running down her cheeks as she sobbed, blood in Eodwulf’s golden hair, blood between their teeth, Astrid and Eodwulf scrubbing his hands raw to try and wash the permanent ash-stain from them]
His favorite, though, is the feel of their bodies in the night. At the Manor, the beds were utilitarian. Thin-padded and not much wider than the average human. But the pupils from Blumenthall were quick to establish themselves as resourceful, even at Soltryce. Every morning they found their three cots made up perfectly in a line, corners tucked and pillows centered. And every night, the three of them hefted the mattresses from the frames, tossed the pillows and the sheets. They made a nest and curled, all of them, together. Astrid, the smallest, was always between Wulf and Caleb. Generally, she would fit the whole of her back against Wulf’s front and tuck her face into Caleb’s collar. Her legs tucked up to her chest so Wulf and Caleb could tangle legs together.
Those memories are the ones that Caleb kept to himself, through everything else. Those are the sensations he hasn’t let himself expel like bile, cast out like demons. He holds so tight to the feeling of two heartbeats close to his own, the heat of Wulf’s breath against his forehead, and Astrid’s hands clutching at his shoulders. He had forgotten just how powerful a feeling it was, until the night that Nott first climbed into his bed. The goblin girl and Frumpkin’s purring weight were different, of course, but it was two bodies, two souls, willing to be so close to him. To let him so close to them as they slept, as if they believed he wouldn’t do them any harm.
Caleb wept that first night. Frumpkin stirred to lick at the salt over his cheeks while Nott stayed slumbering on.
And it is all these memories that come to him at once when he lays down with Molly.
The tiefling presses his palm over Caleb’s cheek, sleepy smile coming to his face. “What are you doing here, dear?” he asks.
Caleb chokes on his words. I just want to remember what it feels like , he tries to say. Can you pretend that this is something you want ? He tries to say. I am just so very tired , he tries to say. He ends up hardly getting any of those syllables out, let alone the full words, and Molly takes pity on him.
“Shh,” he finally hushs through the stammers. Caleb stops trying to talk but it seems that his lungs won’t give and there’s an awful pressing against his larynx like the feeling of fire coming up and he hasn’t lost control since he was a teenager but it feels like he might now, feels like he might burn up this bedroll, this tent, this camp, this family. But then Molly tilts forward. Forehead to Caleb’s. The roots of his horns are unforgiving against the fevered skin and ragged fringe. Caleb sinks into the sensation. Grabs hold of it in his chest. “You’ll work yourself into death, sweetheart,” Molly mutters to him.
When Caleb opens his eyes, he finds that Molly’s are shut. Daring in inhales, Caleb shifts closer. The tiefling is giving off heat and, gods, it’s just like the furnace that was Astrid. He can still remember the awful wrinkle to her nose when they teased her about it. A sob sticks against the back of Caleb’s spine and when it blurts through the hot air between them it takes the shape of her name.
“I know, darling,” Molly murmurs, although he doesn't know, can’t know. “You must miss her.”
Caleb nods and there’s something terrible crawling from the pit of his stomach, something like pitch. “She was so fucking... bright ,” he says, gagging on the last word. "It was blinding."
Molly is moving then, pulling Caleb to press his face against his scarred chest. Caleb scrabbles for something to hold and digs his fingers into the fabric of a tunic -- horridly pale for Molly, even as sleepwear. His arms around Caleb are tight and Caleb can’t help but be thankful for the anchor, for something solid. “Of course she was, dear,” Molly says soothingly. There’s a rustle as he brushes a kiss into Caleb’s hair. “Did you love her?”
Caleb nods and it’s only then that he realizes there are tears over his face, a wet spot growing on Molly’s shirt. He has wept countless times since leaving that asylum but it was for his parents every time, loathing himself. He hasn’t let himself spare thoughts for Astrid and Eodwulf.
“I loved them both.” It’s a harsh whisper swallowed up by Molly’s chest but the tiefling makes a soft noise, something sympathetic and keening.
“And they loved you.” Molly says it without any question and Caleb almost wants to laugh. Molly, who doesn’t know what he’s talking about, Molly who doesn’t know who Caleb was, Molly who doesn’t know what Caleb has done. Instead of laughing, Caleb chokes on another sob. Molly cards a hand through his hair, moving slow against the tangles and snares. He says something but it’s in Infernal and it moves like smoke down Caleb’s spine.
A moment later and Caleb has quelled his emotions aftershocks of heaving breaths and a damp face. “Gods,” he says. His face is hot now and he keeps it against Molly. “I’m sorry, Mollymauk, I…”
“Don’t apologize.” It’s not the playful tone that soars through conversation like a child’s kite, which is what Caleb was expecting. No, this is something low and careful and kept close. Something so near to Infernal that Caleb is surprised to find he can understand it without the muttering of Arcane knowledge. “I’m quite happy to hold you at any time, Mr. Caleb.”
Against everything, Caleb chooses that moment to look up. His eyes set on the burning red of Molly’s and what he sees there makes the oxygen in his lungs combust. Their noses are practically brushing in this position and with his attention on it now Caleb can track the line of Molly’s body sealed to his.
[Eodwulf’s name bitten from his lips, the taste of blood as he was shoved into the stable wall, the way Astrid would pant out “Bitte!”]
“Those two,” Molly says finally, eyes still trained on his, “Astrid and…”
“Eodwulf,” Caleb supplies.
“They were lucky to love you.” The hand at the back of his head tracks forward and cups over Caleb’s cheek. One deft thumb wipes at tear tracks.
“I was the lucky one,” Caleb says, voice wrecked. And it’s the first time he’s voiced anything other than regret and shame for those few short years of his life. Because so much of it was awful, so much of was Ikithon’s iron hand and beatings and murder and murder . But before that, before it was something with the skin and muscle removed from it, before, it was three young farm children. Before any of that, and even through it, it was the three of them, it was Caleb and Astrid and Wulf tangled so far within one another that you could hardly tell where one started and the other ended. Through it all, Caleb only ever felt doubt when he heard his parents screaming. Through it all, Caleb was so sure. He was sure of Trent, of their mission, their fate, their purpose. But more than any of that, all of that, he was sure of Astrid and Wulf.
And now there was nothing to be sure of.
“Caleb, dear, please,” Caleb can see the red of Molly's eyes again [hay catching blaze, blood over Wulf’s split knuckles, Astrid’s lips, blush high on Wulf’s cheeks, Ikithon’s cruelly curling whip]. Caleb blinks, finds Molly speaking, “I’m sorry things didn’t turn out different for you. For all of you.”
“I am too.” Caleb is a little surprised to find that what he says is true. In all his wishing that things were different, he only ever wished himself stronger. He only ever wished to have held his teeth set against Ikithon, he only ever wanted to never set that fire, he only ever his parents back. He’s surprised to find that it’s not all he wishes he could have changed, protected, kept. He’s surprised to find that he wishes for something for himself.
He loved them, they loved him, and he wants enough for himself to want that again.
“I am too,” he says it again, like a spell, like Arcana, like a vow.
“You, Mr. Caleb Widogast,” Molly’s forehead is against his again, “are most worthy of love.”
Molly may be the diviner of them all, with his cards and his Sight whether it be real or bullshit, but in that moment Caleb sees the future. At least, he sees the next few seconds of it. So it’s not a shock when Molly’s mouth lands on his.
The kiss is soft at first, just one more hot point of their body matched up. When Molly shifts, though, he tucks a leg between both of Caleb’s and that sets his stomach to drop out. There’s a scorching twist low against his groin and he presses into the plane of muscle.
He pressed, in the fog of memories true, against Wulf like this, in the dark of the stables with the horses huffing their restlessness. Molly curls his hand into his hair the way he used to twine fingers into Astrid’s frizzy curls — she would smack his shoulder when he did, complaining about messing her hair up. Molly kisses hot and open the way he did, Wulf and Astrid teasing him for it. Molly’s hand finds the spot over his heart, lingers, slides lower, finds the eager pulse of his cock and presses insistently against it.
They’re all caught up in his mind, bound together in silver thread, in the scarlet fall of a whip, in Molly’s violet tail. Caleb wonders at having had the luck of Astrid and Wulf’s love both in his lifetime. And this may not be love, not yet, but it could be, or something like it, and Caleb isn’t quite sure that it’s something that he deserves. But Molly is happy enough to cant his head back with a handful of hair and kiss down the straining length of his throat and Caleb thinks that, maybe, it might not be something that he doesn’t deserve.
When Caleb comes, following Molly into whiteflash, he’s thinking of them all. He’s thinking of Wulf and the galaxy-wide smile he’d wear when watching Caleb and Astrid dance together. He’s thinking of Astrid and the look she cast over her shoulder to be sure that he boys were keeping up. He’s thinking of Molly, a man reborn from the very earth itself, a man covered in gilt and ancient blood magic and patched color and so much good in his soul that Caleb aches to pull tatters of chaos cobwebs and touch the core of it.
He’s thinking of Molly and wondering just how many new memories he can find, new sensations he can save away. He’s thinking of layers and threads and past to present and wondering just how much of the future Molly can read.
All he says, softly, to the hot air between them, is a rattled, “Fuck,” and then, a little louder, “Molly!”
Molly won’t let him leave but to be honest Caleb doesn’t try all that hard to. He keeps his arms around Caleb, keeps Caleb’s face pressed into his collar. And Caleb feels his heartbeat close to his own, the heat of Molly’s breath rustling through his hair, the solidness of Molly’s shoulders in his grasp. Two bodies, they are, two souls close to each other, trusting and believing neither will do any harm.
Caleb doesn’t weep.
He doesn’t dream.
Caleb sleeps, and Molly sleeps too, through to morning.