Molly stumbles into his and Fjord's room with every intention of throwing up, enthusiastically, on the half-orc. Never mind the sailor's reflexes or the sword he summons to his hand at will; Molly holds firm in the belief that you never truly know someone until you've shared bodily fluids. He's already had a taste of Fjord's... spit? Morning sickness? Whatever that salty bullshit had been, it's high time that Fjord returns the gesture in kind. It's a display of affection, after all.
There's a vague recognition in the back of his mind that he's making negative amounts of sense, but hell, Fjord's about as utterly hammered as he is. Chances are, all of this will be forgotten by morning.
A dim light filtering through the window is offered by the moon and an occasional rogue firework, and it illuminates the room to the point where the lump of bedsheets on one of the beds is just visible. Molly beelines towards it, tripping over his own feet and collapsing face-first, becoming a puddle of drunken tiefling on the bed. He lies there for a second, a string of vomit exiting his mouth, before he realises that the pile of bedsheets just crumpled under his weight. He concentrates, raises his head just enough to check the other bed. It's empty.
"Fjord?" He calls out weakly, coughing up a bit more vomit as he does so. "Fjord, buddy, you here?"
The dark of the room gives no reply, but it's definitely judging him.
Supposing that a missing, inebriated, party member probably warrants a certain level of concern, Molly summons all the resolve he can muster and pushes himself into a sitting position on the bed, wiping residue from his mouth with his tail and hitting the side of his head with one hand in an effort to force his brain into gear. He notes with approval that the absence of his friend does seem to focus his mind somewhat, although not as much as he'd have hoped. He remembers that Fjord had excused himself at least half an hour ago in search of the pisser, and Molly had no recollection of him coming back to the group after that. Perhaps he was still there?
The tiefling forces himself to his feet and makes the journey down the dark corridor of the tavern in search of his friend. He finds the right door with relative ease and cracks it open.
"Fjord?"
There's a barely audible answering grunt from the depths within. Molly takes this as a sign of encouragement and opens the door fully, stepping inside. He spots the half-orc sitting propped against one of the walls, a thousand-yard stare written on his oddly slack face, and squats down next to him. Something about his demeanour seems off. Even while drunk, Fjord has sharp eyes, but now they're strangely unfocussed. Molly cautiously reaches out to touch his shoulder.
"You all right?"
Of all the responses he was expecting, Fjord shying away from the contact was not one of them. Molly withdraws his hand with frustratingly sluggish reflexes, leaving it waving vaguely in mid-air. He considers it, then replaces it resting on his own thigh.
"You're so natural," Fjord slurs, apparently in all seriousness, eyes still fixed on the wall opposite him. Molly has absolutely no idea what's going on, but he's not one to decline a compliment when it's offered so readily.
"Why thank you, I don't try," he ventures, intended as a joke, although it comes out as more of a question. A moment passes in silence.
"Is Ireena still lookin' for me?" Fjord turns his head, slowly, to scan Molly's face.
"I don't think so," Molly replies, his confusion only growing when some of the tension seems to leak from Fjord's posture. "Can I ask you something?"
Fjord shrugs, casting his eyes down towards the floor. Molly takes this as permission.
"Why pay a perfectly pleasant and enthusiastic woman gold for her services, only to spend the whole time hiding from her in a bathroom?"
Fjord winces.
"'m not hiding from her," he tries feebly. Molly raises one eyebrow, cocks his head, and patiently waits for Fjord to realise that, for once, he's convincing absolutely nobody. It would almost be comical, watching the half-orc's brow furrow in what seems to be puzzled defeat, if it weren't so wrong.
"It's okay to be nervous," Molly says. He's not sure exactly what the problem is yet, but it's beginning to dawn on him that perhaps Fjord himself doesn't know, and if that's the case then they'll be here all night if he doesn't do some prompting, some stirring the pot. Shaking the trees to see what falls out, as it were. Much as Molly appreciates his friends, he also appreciates the value of nursing a hangover in a soft bed rather than on a suspiciously damp floor.
"Did you used to be?" Fjord asks quietly. Molly realises he doesn't know. That's probably not a bad thing, judging by the state of his companion.
"Gods, no," is what he actually says, with a wry smile and an atmosphere-lightening chuckle thrown in for good measure. "I woke up and knew how to do everything. It was really quite convenient." Fjord snorts and then sighs.
"Does it get as good as people make it out to be?"
"Absolutely. Well worth the practice," Molly says, grinning. It doesn't seem to cheer Fjord up as much as he'd thought it might; the half-orc's shoulders sag a little against the cold wall behind him, and he mumbles something inaudible. "Pardon?" Molly says.
"I don't get it," Fjord repeats quietly, lifting his head again with something akin to cornered defiance in his eyes. "I can do all the rest of it. I can lie and manipulate and bullshit and suck up to all the right people, charm them off their feet if I need to, but I can't- I can't follow through."
Molly blinks at him.
"Can't? There's doctors for tha-"
It was meant as a joke, but Fjord slaps the ground in frustration and glares at him.
"Molly," he growls. "I could really use some help here." Molly bites his tongue and obligingly takes a minute to reassess the situation, mulling over everything that's been said. It's difficult because his brain still isn't working in straight lines, but he's started this now, and Fjord evidently isn't getting anywhere with it by himself. Molly likes to think he's pretty good at knowing about people, giving them suitably vague advice that always seems to somehow apply, drawing tiny pieces from every tiny part of society that he's experienced and turning it into something that feels real. Fjord's going to need better than vague, though. Molly owes him better than vague.
"So you don't like sex," he eventually says. Fjord just continues to glare at him in response, which he takes as confirmation.
"I thought it just needed honing like everything else I can do," Fjord mutters, ducking his gaze. "But the thought of trying to- to actually 'hone' it..."
"...has you paying a perfectly pleasant and enthusiastic woman gold for her services, and then hiding from her in a bathroom?" Molly finishes for him, waiting for the half-orc's nervous nod before continuing. "Maybe you just don't like sex."
Fjord stares at him blankly. Molly doesn't blink.
"Thanks," Fjord says drily.
"I'm being serious," Molly says. He struggles to come up with a better way of explaining it, and fails, so settles for a different one instead. "Beau doesn't like guys, right? What if you don't like anyone?"
Fjord blinks. Then blinks again. Then he squeezes his eyes shut and reopens them as though he's expecting (hoping?) that Molly will disappear. Molly takes great satisfaction in staying exactly where he is.
"That's a thing?" Fjord asks warily.
"Sure," Molly says, waving a hand as though it were obvious. Truthfully, he's maybe only heard about it a couple of times from people at the carnival, and you can't always trust the things you hear from the carnival. But everything he's hearing now is certainly lending credence to the theory, and he doesn't see a reason why it might not be a thing. Especially given the faint outline of suspicious hope that's now making an appearance in Fjord's amber eyes.
"Huh," the half-orc says intelligently. Molly stands up and extends a hand down to pull him up. Fjord's a little unsteady on his feet, but Molly puts both hands on his shoulders.
"You feeling better?" he asks. Fjord appears dazed.
"Maybe?" he offers, pulling himself out of his thoughts long enough to string a sentence together. "Thanks, Molly."
Molly pulls him into a vertically-supportive hug by way of response, and begins the journey back to their room.
"No problem," he mutters into Fjord's shoulder. "That's me, your neighbourhood sexuality-affirming tiefling."
And if Molly passes out face-down in bedsheets stained with his own vomit, he'll maintain that his original bed was stolen by a drunken, heavy half-orc before he had a chance to claim it.
(It will absolutely be a lie.)
A/N - Hope y'all enjoyed. There's not enough ace fic so I thought I'd share my headcanon in the hopes that it'd make some internet folks happy. Let me know what you thought by leaving a review 3