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The first color Molly can remember seeing is the soft violet of Yasha’s left eye.
The world was all gray and white and black when he dug himself out of his shallow grave. Empty. He was empty, and though at the time he couldn’t remember what it was he was missing, it ached somewhere in the pit of his stomach. The world was flat, and cold, and there was something so wrong about it.
Later, he’d learned about soulmates, and the color he could no longer see, and knew that he had lost something precious. He learned to live with it.
The first time he looked into Yasha’s eyes the world had exploded in a way he couldn’t comprehend. They had both reeled, Molly had stumbled and fell back into the grass—greengreengreengreen, Molly’s delirious mind had chanted—and he’d laughed like an absolute madman. Raised his hands to his eyes and his mind screamed violet like a call of angels.
“You are purple,” Yasha had said, softly. Reverently.
She had lain down in the grass beside him and laughed with him, lacing their fingers together. Breathing together through the euphoria, the sensation of finally, finally coming home, they had laughed because really, was this the first time in a whole month of friendship they’d bothered to look each other in the eye?
The rest of the troupe threw the most obnoxious party. Mona and Yuli had been good sports, for once, even though they could never understand this. They had seen color since the day they were born. They had never known what it was like to be missing a piece.
It took Molly and Yasha two days to realize something was still missing.
Blue.
The sky had remained gray, Yasha’s other eye had remained gray.
They had both asked Gustav to give it to them, to give them both something to hold onto so the second it happened they would know. Gustav was solemn and understanding as he wove blue cords into Yasha’s hair, sewed a pair of many-patterned breeches for Mollymauk.
Mollymauk coveted color, had sewn it into his hair, his clothes, his skin. Yasha was more subdued. She remained a monolith of black and white. She was comfortable there, in the shades she’d known all her life. Molly didn’t push her. She was one of his missing pieces, his best friend in the world. He loved her as she was.
And now, in the privacy of the rooms they’re sharing with their new companions, Yasha whispers to him in a gleeful, terrified tone he’s never heard her take before. Big, pale hands grasping a cord from her hair, reverent and shaking.
“I see it, Molly,” she whispers. “I see it.”
Beau has given her blue. Molly is so happy that he forgets to be jealous. There’s no room for anything but joy, and love, as she giggles hysterically, overwhelmed and teary-eyed. He kisses her head as she slowly calms.
He keeps hoping over the next weeks. Keeps watching her and Beau dance awkwardly around each other and tries to keep the envy from rising like bile in his throat.
He notices little things, though. In Alfield, he notices the deep green of Fjord’s skin, and how the grass and the trees and Jester’s little cloak are sharper, more vivid. How one day, after he looks into Nott’s eyes, the gold in his pocket seems to gleam with fresh vigor and the wild flowers that dot the road to Zedash are so vibrant they seem to pulse with warmth. Jester makes surprisingly lewd jokes, and for all her boisterous teasing there is a deep well of kindness in her, and the pale pink of her blouse caresses Molly's eyes, petal-soft and gentle. Jostling Beau out of the cart with his elbow, laughing at her as she tackles him and tries to rub dirt in his hair, he sees the warm tan of her skin intensify. Caleb’s hair gets more vivid the more he looks at it, as he flirts and laughs at Caleb’s rare, dry wit, lets himself slip into a bit more than just affection, until his hair is bright as autumn leaves.
It doesn’t happen until they are all deep in the Labenda Swamp, damp and sore but victorious, back at the rundown inn and trying to seem upset at Febron’s demise. Nobody buys it.
Everyone else is still sleeping when Molly wakes up, except for Caleb. He finds the wizard on a rickety stool at a table that is almost too warped to be of any use.
“You’re up early,” Molly says, sitting beside him.
“Guten morgen,” Caleb mutters.
Soon, Molly is nursing a mug of terrible, stale coffee and watching Caleb go over his spells for the day. Thinking about how nice it would be to lean over on his stool and kiss him, even though he’s smelled Caleb’s terrible morning breath firsthand. He might go for it, he’s in a fairly good mood.
Caleb closes the book and rubs his eyes.
“Did you sleep at all?”
“A little,” Caleb says. “Sometimes it is strange to be separate from Nott.”
“You know, Mister Caleb.”
Caleb sighs but gives a weak smile. “Yes, Mister Mollymauk?”
“I’ve been thinking about kissing you.” He’s casual about it. Why wouldn’t he be? The worst Caleb can do is say no, and then that will be that.
Caleb goes a pretty shade of pink, whips around to face Molly. Meets his eye for a fleeting moment.
It’s like lightning.
It seems to send a spike into his brain, it’s almost painful . His stomach roils as a giddy wave crashes through him. So this is blue. Blue is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Blue is Caleb’s eyes. Blue is everything.
“It’s you.”
He takes Caleb’s dirty face in shaking hands. Feels an awful, saccharine smile spread across his face.
“Gods above, I was hoping it’d be you.”
Caleb looks terrified. Shrunken, and overwhelmed, but he doesn’t pull away and that might be a good start. His eyes dart feverishly over Molly’s face, seeming to search for something. Anger, maybe, or cruelty. He doesn’t know exactly what happened to Caleb but he’d have to be a fool not to know he’s been mistreated.
“i-I didn’t know,” Caleb stammers. “I thought--I thought it was Nott, who gave the color to me. I...Gott, I did not know how dull they were.”
“You’re what I’ve been missing,” Molly says, “Oh, Mister Caleb, you’ve given me such a gift.”
Caleb is weeping. Tears cut through the grime on his face as slowly, slowly his hand touches Molly’s. It feels like he’s a cold floor and Caleb’s hand is a weak beam of sunlight. Searing warm in ways he can’t understand.
“You would have me?” He says, voice soft and weak, his accent rounding the words over like river stones.
“Of course.”
Caleb kisses him, and his breath is terrible, but it’s alright. It feels right. It feels natural to hold him. To slot together with his final missing piece.