Chapter Text
It was Nott and Jester’s influence, Caleb thinks. Though the two of them are currently trying to copy Fjord’s drunken sea shanties, they had done a good job of putting the thought in his head. Their singing doesn’t suit the music currently being played in the tavern , and if he were a little more sober, Caleb would’ve been able to separate the two of them and focus on one or the other. But right now it makes weird, perfect sense. Their clashing sounds, the out of tune harmonies and different beats compliment each other in an odd way that makes him sway on his feet in more than a drunken stupor.
Jester had already swept him up in a fast paced frenzy earlier, and the movements linger in his body. He knows what he had said to her. He hopes he doesn’t know it tomorrow. But it still stands that becoming inebriated for the first time in so long had dredged up memories he was uncomfortable with confronting, and he closes his eyes tight in an effort to remove them from his head. He can still feel her hands in his, her laughter in his ear. His feet move faster in clumsy half circles before spinning the other way and nearly falling down.
With all of their attentions diverted, it isn’t like he should feel any shame for trying to dance his memories away. It feels like if he were to stomp a little louder, to twirl a little tighter, he may be able to sweep himself away from his past and live in this moment with his new companions. Nott, his most treasured friend, appears to be enjoying herself atop Jester’s shoulders as the two sing horribly and swirl around Fjord. Behind them, Beauregard hiccups as she flirts with some poor, unassuming lass who seems far more sober than her. Upstairs, Yasha must be curled up tight with Kiri, the two of them peaceful and indulging in a long deserved rest. And then… and?
“Woah there, big fellow!” A familiar voice says as Caleb runs backwards into somebody. Just as he nearly falls to the ground, two hands pick him up beneath his armpits like a child, setting him on his feet before taking his hand in theirs. Before he knows it, he’s being tugged into another dance by one of his companions, only just now registering his partner as Mollymauk. So that’s where he had gone.
Caleb doesn’t resist, and if anything, he throws himself into the dance, holding his hands tightly to keep a grip on reality. Mollymauk’s hands do not feel like hers, they are large and tough, calloused and clawed. His smile, looking down at Caleb, is toothy and fanged, lined by bright purple lips.
Right, he hasn’t said or done anything, has he? In an attempt to acknowledge his friend, Caleb offers a late, crooked smile, and Molly throws his head back in delighted laughter. “I’ve only ever seen you smile at books and goblins the size of! Come now, pick up your feet--the night is still young!”
“You are very talented,” Caleb mutters, his voice much quieter than the boisterous tiefling.
“What, at dancing? You must be drunker than I.”
He shakes his head, missing a step and accidentally stomping on one of Molly’s feet. If he feels any pain, the other makes no indication. “Of sweeping people into your shenanigans like this. Do you always take hold of the first stranger you encounter every night drinking?”
Mollymauk adjusts their position, moving one hand to Caleb’s elbow while the other, still locked in his, arcs up to the height of their faces. When they twirl, Caleb runs into another patron and takes a step closer to him. “Surely not, I only grab those who are willing, and my friends.”
“Your friends don’t have to be willing?”
“It comes with being friends with me. One must anticipate these things, and I’ve not had any complaints yet.”
“You also haven’t had many friends,” Caleb says matter of factly, almost mischievously as he is unable to register the complex expression that flashes across Molly’s face. He figures it must not matter as a smile is quick to replace it anyways.
“Neither have you, and you’ve lived longer than I, sir wizard. What’s your excuse?” he asks.
Caleb shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “My… smell? My social skills, or my inhibitions, or…”
“I think,” Molly cuts him off, “that Nott was your only friend for thirty years, and in my two years alive, I have already made six times that number. Though you have also improved six-fold since this journey started as well, haven’t you?”
Caleb doesn’t respond verbally, but he nods. A wave of fatigue prevents him from focusing on two things at once, and he figures it more important not to subject Molly’s feet or any other patrons’ to the heel of his boot once more. He looks down at the ground, concentrating as he would a complex spell on the pattern they’ve settled into moving with. It’s only just when he feels comfortable with the dance does the music change, picking up speed, and Molly changes with it.
The tiefling lets out a loud ‘whoop’, the hand on Caleb’s elbow moving to wrap his entire arm around the human’s waist as he’s whisked into a much faster and frenzied motion. “Eyes up here, Caleb!” he shouts over the music, and Caleb lifts his face to see his infectious grin. “All the good parts of a party are up here, don’t subject yourself to the ground before you have to!”
He nods again. And he does as Molly says. There is no reason he should feel confident, and he certainly hasn’t gained any new experience to back the sensation up. But Caleb watches Molly’s face light up as the night goes on, not a hint of their troubles traceable on his face. Just like that, he mirrors the feeling, plunging himself into the dance and the music ringing in his ears.
If he were more sober, he might acknowledge how ridiculous it is to try and run away from his problems in such a silly way. If he were more sober, he would realize Molly is no better dancer than he by any means. If he were more sober, he wouldn’t be here at all.
But the security of Molly’s arm around his waist grounds him into this night, and as they grow closer, the warmth of his figure lulls Caleb’s eyelids downwards and over his eyes. He leans forward, forehead hitting Mollymauk’s chest. The booming of the drums in the floor takes a back seat to the thumping of Molly’s heart against his face, and although Caleb must hunch his back uncomfortably to make the position work, he doesn’t pull back. His other hand finds Molly’s hip, and he hears the circus man laugh before launching into an obnoxious song. Perhaps it’s the one being played right now. More than likely, it isn’t.
“If you are so loud, our friends might…”
“Look upon us and feel jealous?” Molly’s smile grows wider though Caleb cannot see it, the ends pulling up in cheeky corners. “Let them, the night is ours, my dear Caleb!”
The simple statement changes something. It is not like when Astrid would take his hand and he was suddenly more aware of everything around them, his chest tight and his pulse loud. Instead, his heart seems to loosen, relaxing in its ribcage. For the first time in what must be years, he allows himself to relax and indulge in pointless revelry. His feet skip alongside Mollymauk’s, and Caleb lets the rest of the world disappear into nothing.
Not much matters besides the warmth that has pervaded his chest since the two of them first started growing closer. No, this is not, nor has it ever been, just a silly feeling egged into light with the encouragement of alcohol. But perhaps it has helped him to settle with it, to say ‘ah, that’s right, isn’t it?’ and continue the same way as before. Perhaps it is the booze that makes him imagine the lingering press of lips to his forehead. More than likely, it isn't.
The smell of booze remains in the air, but more present is the smell of the tea Molly had prepared earlier that day, soaked into his clothes. The rest of the tavern disappears before his eyes, his vision filled with intricate red and purple patterns adorning Molly’s coat.
The warmth of alcohol in his body, the warmth of Mollymauk’s chest, are replaced by cold biting at his cheeks.
The music fades into nothing, and the sound of Molly’s pulse is replaced by wind.
Caleb finally pulls away, and all that remains before him is Mollymauk’s coat, hanging from the remnants of a tree they felled earlier. Beneath his feet, the ground is disturbed, not packed as tightly as it had been before it was dug up.
When he turns around, Beau and Nott look on with sympathetic expressions. They are the only two who know of his past, and perhaps the only two now alive that ever understood the complex labyrinth of his emotions. Farther off, Keg stands alone, turned away.
The valley is not entirely covered in snow, and patches of the dirt and grass remain present beneath. Stains cover the landscape where horses and carts had traveled, and more where blood was shed. The long coat that had always been a bright beacon of mischief and love for the world stands alone, colors not native to the landscape, never native to quite anywhere but wherever the seven of them roamed. The wind cannot push it very far as blood begins to dry and weigh it down, replacing the memory of where the edges once flowed and billowed with stiff material, not unlike crumpled paper.
There are many things from Caleb’s past he wishes he could remember. There is a lot of life he missed out on, was taken away from him because of it. Many years he could have spent outside, stolen beneath his feet and landing him in this strange and unusual world. He wants to know who he had been, and who the man that lived in that facility had been, too.
Because right now, he is all too aware of the memories he only wishes he had forgotten. Of the curl of a hand at his back as they twirled and turned. Of the smiles and laughter that fit the music better than any lyrics. Of the words of love that had been exchanged, and the knowing glances that followed the next day that proved neither of them had truly forgotten or regretted the events of the night prior.
It would be easier to be the man who was already broken and could feel nothing, the one whose memories were lost and abandoned for the world. Anything would be easier than being the same man as that night and still remembering all the steps to a dance that no one else knew and the words to a song that were never written down.