The night carried on with jokes and drink, with Caleb consuming his fair share of ale and more. He slumped lazily against the tiefling, cheeks a visible shade of red, and he smiled up at him. "You're quite dashing from this angle," A hand rises to push Mollymauk's hair to the side so Caleb could see him better. "But I might just be unable to focus on you. Everything is spinning a bit."
touch meme: @wiidogasted
Caleb tips towards him and Molly instinctively lifts an arm, opening himself up to receive his weight against his side. The way the tavern’s lights play across his hair and ruddy cheeks reminds Molly of polished copper, but—well, it could also be contact drunkenness making him leapfrog into quasi-poetic gibberish. Molly knows it’s the alcohol that makes Caleb tilt his face up the way he does, it’s what’s making his smile feather-soft and deeply inviting. And it’s the alcohol, Molly is certain, that makes him want to close the gap. But he knows better.
Knowing better doesn’t stop Caleb’s words from pulsing through him like a northern starburst, startling enough to cause his gaze to sharpen. The world always glitters at the edges when he’s caught between tipsy and properly sauced. The way Molly tips his head to chase the brush of Caleb’s fingers with the softest exhalations is reminiscent of Frumpkin, but it’s subtle enough to go unnoticed. Maybe. Caleb is very drunk. Molly is maybe a little less drunk. He’ll know for certain when he stands.
He huffs, teeth a soft gleam of white points. “Incredible. That was almost a compliment, which means it’s time to cut you off.”
Molly playfully scratches his claws through Caleb’s hair, returns the gesture twofold like he’s not allowed to keep it. Because he isn’t. “Up you get, Mister Caleb. Let’s get you to bed.”