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The collar of his shirt is choking him. Logically, Caleb knows that that is both statistically improbable and highly unrealistic, but that doesn’t change the way his skin itches uncomfortably beneath the silky fabric and the memories it brings. Attending this masquerade had been Jester’s idea for potentially finding someone who could help with their latest query, but the knowledge of how elated she’d been does little to aid the unease slipping its way up from the depths of Caleb’s mind.
This isn’t the first time he’s dressed up for a job. Back then, before the Mighty Nein, before the asylum, before everything, it had almost been common. Master Ikithon had been meticulously clean and expected the same out of his students. Whenever there had been anything resembling a public event, where Soltryce Academy had expected presentability, Ikithon had demanded perfection.
There is a flash of short brown hair at his side, a hand on his elbow. He startles and looks over to see Beauregard scrutinising him with an irritated look. “You look constipated,” she says bluntly, looking him up and down. “Everything okay? Do I need to find you a trash pile or something so you can puke?”
“Nein. I am fine. I am looking people over.”
“It’s a masquerade. What’re you gonna do, x-ray vision them?”
“Some people are less subtle than others are, Beauregard.”
“Molly doesn’t count.” As she says it, Caleb catches sight of the lavender tiefling just as he spins Jester under one arm and laughs aloud, ruby eyes flashing behind the mask of peacock feathers he’d crafted with a surprising dedication to detail over the past few days, and Jester throws her head back laughing so hard her cloak nearly slides off
The tension loosens for just a moment in Caleb’s chest before he clears his throat and tears his eyes away. “That was not my point. I am looking for a place to start so I do not have to work my way through the entire crowd making idle conversation. Chances that we will discover anything are already slim-“
“Then maybe try to just enjoy the ride or something?” Beauregard scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Gods, Caleb, not everything has to be an analysis problem. Have a little fun sometimes.” She plants her hand firmly between his shoulder blades, and before Caleb can protest he finds himself shoved forward into the dancing area, where he barely avoids colliding with a dark-haired woman as he stumbles.
A hand catches his elbow, steadying him. “That wasn’t quite graceful, darling. You alright now?” Caleb looks up to find Molly grinning, the jewelry on his horns catching in the light and throwing scattered rainbows across his face. He’s radiant like this, skin dusted with glitter courtesy of Jester’s makeup efforts, and it makes him look like he’s actually glowing.
Caleb straightens, grateful for the mask that covers at least part of his face. “Ja, danke.” He glances around Molly to give Beau a stern look, but she’s already disappeared.
Molly lets go of his elbow with a nod just as the tune changes from the merry jig it’s been to a slower number not entirely unlike a waltz, though perhaps a bit livelier. Caleb starts to look for an exit route almost immediately. Beside him, Molly grins. There is a flash of colour, and Caleb looks over just as the tiefling drops into a low, extravagant bow, glancing up through a fringe of loose purple curls that fall from behind his horns. “In that case, Mister Caleb, may I have this dance?”
A brief uncertainty stumbles its way through Caleb’s chest, something to do with the way Molly’s eyes are gleaming. He is not stupid. He knows what this means, what this feeling is, how often it comes up when he catches Molly in a particularly wonderful moment, of which he has many. What he is not certain of is if it is a good idea to pursue this. There are many people who would be happy to see his head on a pike, and even now that the group knows something of that history, the risk has not lessened.
But Molly’s eyes are beautiful like this, and the rest of him is as well. He is in his element, and lovely, and there is no way to make a graceful escape and Beauregard, damn her, is entirely right. They will likely not find anything useful tonight, so he might as well distract himself from the unwelcome memory of what things like this used to mean to him. Caleb swallows, nods shallowly, and takes Molly’s hand.
Muscle memory makes things like this easy. It has been some time since his drunken dance with Jester, and it was a good deal longer before that since the last time he attempted to waltz. There is little call for it while on the run, and he has been running for years. All the same, when he finds himself taking the lead after only a moment of hesitation, the action feels natural, easy.
“You’re pretty good at this, you know.” Molly ducks his head just slightly, his smile easy in the minimal space between them. “You practice a lot?”
“I used to. I am, ah, a bit rough on the finer points.” His feet smoothly slip into the promenade step and Molly follows easily. “It has been some time.”
“You could have fooled me. I think you’re wonderful.”
Caleb nearly misses a step before catching himself. Sensing that the mask is no longer fully hiding his flushed cheeks, he fixes his gaze over Molly’s shoulder, though the man is only marginally less stunning in his periphery, clearing his throat and ducks his head. “Danke.”
“Bitte.” Caleb’s eyes shoot back toward Molly, whose grin only broadens.
“You’ve learned Zemnian.”
“Bits and bobs. You speak it quite a bit.” Molly twirls beneath Caleb’s arm, and the loose fabric of his flashy attire twirls vibrantly in the air. “You’re the one I keep picking it up from.”
Caleb raises an eyebrow. “You have never asked what any of it means.”
“Context is a wonderful thing, Mister Caleb. Especially when it means I can pick up swear words in other languages.” He winks one heavily made-up eye. “Don’t think I haven’t put two and two together to come up with what schiesse means.”
Caleb flushes again and inclines his head in brief concession. “Ja, that is fair. I am sorry I have not picked up Infernal in the same way.” He’s been meaning to find books on it, because both Molly and Jester speak the language and it somehow keeps coming up, but he hasn’t found the time or resources recently to actually follow the idea to fruition.
“Oh, no need to fuss about it. How do you say it? Nine problems?”
“Kein problem,” Caleb corrects, and laughs softly. “You are close.”
“And you are clever, so if you’ve got all those brilliant spells and gods-know how many languages already rattling around that mind of yours, you don’t need to worry about sticking Infernal up there too.” There is a softness in Molly’s eyes, and a hint of implaceable sadness behind the edges of his smile that disappears so quickly Caleb thinks he’s imagined it.
He looks away again and clears his throat. “You are also clever, Mister Mollymauk. You, ah, think quite quickly in conversations.”
“Circus had to keep me around for something. I’ve got the devil’s tongue, y’know. Comes in handy now and then.” Molly pokes Caleb where his hands are resting on his side, and Caleb smiles again, if only briefly.
With a few final notes, the waltz fades. Applause erupts from the dancing crowd, and over all of it Caleb can hear as Jester and Nott both cheer too loudly to be entirely appropriate. A fondness bubbles gently in his stomach as he gives a bow to Molly and prepares to slip away, only for the tiefling to catch him by the elbow again as the music picks up with a lighter, quicker tune. “One more round for fun?” he asks, and even though Caleb is smart enough to know better he agrees anyway, letting Molly take the lead this time as they make their way in clumsy patterns across the dance floor.
They narrowly evade stepping on the foot of some noble individual or another, but Molly seems unperturbed. As they half skip and step their way in circles, Caleb finds himself nervously calculating the million ways he is likely to end up injured in the next few minutes and is not entirely fond of the results. “Are you certain you know this dance?” he asks breathlessly.
Molly laughs aloud, and the sound reverberates through the space between them, making Caleb’s stomach churn. “Oh, this one I’m making up entirely as I go. Fun, isn’t it?” He grins and pulls Caleb closer for a quick spin that nearly knocks him off his feet before he finds himself caught by a heavily-tattooed purple arm. “See, you’re a natural.”
I am going to be ill, Caleb doesn’t say, and Molly pulls him closer for another promenade. They pass by Jester as she drags Fjord through a similarly nonsensical dance, and even in the split second they are close Caleb can see her elation. It is worth any discomfort he has experienced as a result of old memories, and so is this – dancing with Molly, watching him laugh, watching him revel in life and light with that grace which comes so naturally to him even here in the stuffy ballroom of some noble in Tal’dorei as the music swings to a close a second time and Molly sweeps his feet from under him, dipping Caleb low to the ground.
Caleb freezes, looking up at Molly, the glow in his eyes, the flush to his cheeks. The peacock mask on his face makes his skin look deeper, even more vibrant than normal, and his grin is radiant. Silhouetted by the light overhead, he looks like an angel, something fallen from one of the books he had studied Celestial out of so many years ago. Their eyes lock and there are no words between them, and Molly is beautiful and Caleb loves him, loves him more than he can say, more than he deserves.
Molly straightens, and Caleb’s feet return to the ground beneath him. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?” Molly ruffles Caleb’s hair, long fingers tangling in the curls as he draws a strand forward to rest over Caleb’s mask and gives it a light tug. “Come see me again if you’re up for another go,” he says, and gives Caleb’s hand another squeeze. There is a kiss on his brow, and then Molly is gone, disappearing across the dance floor to where Yasha is holding a squirming Nott who, from all appearances, seems to be intent on swimming in the elaborate fountain of wine that sits near the rest of the refreshments.
Caleb stares after him long and hard, his cheeks flushing, and when he looks to his hands he sees it – a bright, blue-green peacock feather woven between his fingers. Come see me again if you’re up for another go, Molly says in his mind, and for the first time, Caleb does not feel himself suffocating in a shirt that is too tight and too formal and too full of bad memories. Instead, he finds himself smiling, just slightly, as he tucks his feather into a pocket on his vest and makes his way across the room to pour himself some wine.