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It has been something of a day, and Molly has had a drink or two, and so he has set to pondering a few things he normally does not allow himself to ponder. Or maybe it's not so much that he's not allowed and more that for a while there has simply been no need for such pondering.
"Molly?" A blue hand waves in front of his face, and Molly looks up from the inn's hearth to meet Jester's soft violet gaze, even her eyes smiling at him. "You look like you are pondering and I am sorry to interrupt, but we are going to turn in for the night now."
It's a question that has always had an answer, and so he has not asked it for a long time: "Ah. I do hate to intrude, but where exactly will I be sleeping tonight?"
The answer is always, of course, the circus. Mollymauk lives with the circus, travels with the circus. Eats, sleeps, and breathes with the circus. It's his work and his life; it is, if not his home, at least a habit, and maybe even a good one.
"If you'd like to share my room, you can," Fjord says, jerking his chin up toward the stairs.
("Don't go anywhere," he'd said outside the lawmaster's office. "I have nowhere to go," Molly had replied.)
Molly doesn't look gift horses in the mouth, so he simply flashes Fjord a mostly harmless grin and gestures for the others to lead the way. Beau and Jester veer off to the right at the top of the stairs with their arms linked, their giggles lingering in the hallway for a few moments after the door shuts behind them. Fjord, one hand extended toward the doorknob, opens his mouth and inhales like he might speak, though he apparently thinks better of it; he holds the door open and Molly glides past him with a flourish.
The thing is, he should have expected this.
It's efficient. It's practical. It's the only thing that makes sense, really, given that there's three of them: Jester, Beau, and Fjord, and only one Fjord. One Fjord, one room. One Fjord, one room, one bed.
Of course, practical and sensible and a grand cosmic prank orchestrated by Jester's capricious deity aren't necessarily mutually exclusive.
Fjord shuts the door behind himself and clears his throat. "I can, uh, sleep on the floor no problem."
"Oh, please," Molly snorts, flicking the idea away with a swish of his tail. "There's plenty of room for both of us. We all sleep in piles in the circus anyway." It's true enough; most nights Molly shares his tent with Yasha or Gustav or both, plus any and all members of the troupe who are cold or lonely or bored or up for after-hours acrobatics.
Fjord doesn't seem to be any of those things, but he shrugs and begins methodically unbuckling his armor. Molly tends to his swords with one eye on the other man, who seems to take no notice of him; next he drapes his coat over a chair with artful carelessness, toeing out of his boots and rolling his shoulders with a series of satisfying pops. By the fire, Fjord lets out a hushed curse, arm twisted unnaturally as he struggles to reach a buckle near the small of his back.
"Honestly," Molly drawls with a cluck of his tongue, "what could have inspired you to buy such poorly designed armor? Or did you have a squire at some point?"
A flush appears across Fjord's fascinating cheekbones. "I had to repair it myself at one point, and it was the only way to—"
"That makes more sense. Here, let me." Molly reaches out; Fjord hesitates before dropping his arm, and their fingertips brush in passing. They both shiver silently as Molly makes quick work of the strap. "There. Though I must say, I usually prefer to take my time in such situations." He flicks out his tail, gently swatting Fjord's thigh.
The other man is staring as Molly strips out of his flowing shirt; whether he preens in the glow of the firelight, turned to his best advantage, is between him and his better angels.
With a cough, Fjord glances away, eyes fixed on the floor as he quickly sheds the rest of his armor, plus his boots and, after a moment of deliberation, his shirt as well. He addresses the gleaming curve of Molly's collarbone when he says, "If you don't mind, I prefer to sleep with my back to the wall."
"Not at all." Molly bows, one arm stretched out to gesture Fjord onto the bed; a spill of half-tamed curls tumbles onto his brow and he looks up through his lashes. "You are, after all, my most gracious host."
Fjord blinks several times in quick succession. Then he turns and mechanically climbs onto the bed, pressing his back against the wall. Something sparks in the gold of his eyes, and Molly can't help wondering if it's more than the fire crackling in the hearth; Fjord watches him expectantly, head propped up with one fist tucked under his magnificently carved jawline.
It takes everything Molly has not to leap onto the bed and crush his nose into the curve of that jaw, run his tongue along the line of Fjord's exposed neck. It would be unseemly, mostly unprompted, and possibly unwanted, and he shudders at the thought. So instead he merely sprawls out on his back with one arm over his stomach, slowly melting into every inch of available space until he feels Fjord's elbow pressed against his shoulder, the other man's breath on his neck.
"Is this alright?"
Eyes closed, he feels Fjord's nod in the changing vibrations of the air between them. "I've been told I'm a bit cold. To the touch, I mean."
Molly grins. "I run hot."
"Of course you do." It's somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, and then Fjord is shifting against him, their hips bumping, one hand on Molly's chest to steady himself.
"Careful, now. Don't get fresh." Molly opens one eye to look over at him.
Without breaking eye contact, scarcely daring to breathe, Fjord leans over him and grazes his teeth over the curve of Molly's collarbone now shadowed by his own bulk. Then he settles back into the lumpy mattress, one arm under his head. Eyes closed, he mumbles, "Go to sleep, Mollymauk."
And Mollymauk does, eventually, sleep.
Fjord, pressed between the cool of the stone wall and the infernal heat of Molly's body, watches the firelight flicker across the tiefling's face. For a long time he considers this strange new acquaintance whose tail twitches in his sleep.
And when he finally slips into unconsciousness himself, the smug smile on his face remains.