A Secret Crush

by Kill Joy

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Soarin, Other, Romance, Sex, Braeburn, Big Macintosh, Slice of Life
Length: 6374

The coltcuddlers writing contest winners!!!

The Coltcuddlers Writing Contest Winners!!!

Theme: a secret crush!
the following is a selection of 5 of the 23 submissions to the first ever Coltcuddler group writing contest. Please read and enjoy, let the authors know what you think.
the winners are...
Appleloosan Psychiatrist
Fimbulvinter
Thunderplunk
Fizzlesticks
congratulations!!!

great work everyone, even if you didn't place, just know that every last one of your works were a pleasure to read.
Just in case the title didn't let on there will be M/M

Published 2013-05-02 17:20:02 UTC
Last updated 2013-05-02 17:20:02 UTC

Fifth Place

Distractions
By: Fizzlesticks

Outright dropping the bag of wood chips I was carrying turned out to be a really, really bad idea. A cloud of fine wood dust billowed from the bag’s opening, right into my face. Being me, I immediately gasped and inhaled a mouthful of wood. My mind reeling and far too busy to appreciate the innuendo, I stumbled back from the low set bench. And right into the opposite wall of the supply closet.

As if to top it all off, in my scramble for purchase, my flailing arm struck a toolbox teetering on the edge of a shoulder height shelf. It splayed open on impact with the ground, spilling all manner of important-looking metal things. I thought that I heard something heavier drop, but couldn’t see it. I could almost hear my father’s sarcastic voice as I forced my eyes open and looked at the mess I’d created.

Nice one, Caramel, he would say.

A sharp stinging in my eye prompted me to make my way half blindly out of the closet and into the shed proper. I could do that without incident at least. There was a tap there I could wash my face with. I started wondering why I’d taken this summer job in the first place. I had a nice, regular job that I could be doing instead. One that I was actually good at.

I’d only splashed my first cupped handful when I heard it. The low rumble of a tractor engine. It sounded kind of sick, and getting closer. After quickly wiping my face, I swivelled around on my heel and walked to the barn’s sliding door.

I had to squint because of the glare. It was approaching the hottest part of the Summer day, and the sky was almost completely cloudless. The only good thing about this sort of weather was that shirts usually started coming off, especially among the other farm hands.

The sudden sound of the tractor cutting out and an exasperated groan simultaneously brought me out of my thoughts and made my heart flutter, just a little. With a deep breath, I loosened the chok on the door’s wheel and managed to slide it all the way to the side.

Big Macintosh was already checking the tractor’s engine by the time I got out there. His red singlet had turned maroon at his chest and armpits. My throat tightened. Oh yeah, this was why I’d taken the job. Sometimes I wished I didn’t mancrush so hard.

“Fuse is blown,” said Mac, rather abruptly. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere on its own.” He stood and looked at me. I avoided eye contact and pretended to be focused on the tractor; nodded and glanced in his general direction, just so it didn’t look like I was ignoring him.

“Want some help pushing it in?” I managed.

He sighed, as if he didn’t want to come to that conclusion. “Yeah, thanks. Jus’ grab the wheel an’ steer. Try ta pull, too, if ya can.” I stood astride of the driver’s seat and tried to get a good grip on the steering wheel and the handle on the outside of the mudguard. I waited for him to start, but nothing happened. “Hold on,” he muttered, and swiftly slipped off his singlet. He tossed it haphazardly into the seat.

Big Mac’s broad, naked chest made it exceptionally hard for me to concentrate on the task at hand. I kept having to shuffle my feet in an effort to cross my legs. I sure was glad that my jeans were pretty loose. My sweating palms were beginning to slip.

“Havin’ trouble, Caramel?” Mac grunted, pausing his efforts.

I shook my head. “No, no... Just a little distracted. I have a lot on my mind, Macintosh.”

By the time we had pushed the tractor all the way into the shed, I was panting quite heavily. “You’re always distracted. ‘ts why ya have so many accidents,” continued Mac shortly. He stood next to me, almost a full head taller.

I quickly changed the subject. “So,” I said, “what do we need to fix it?”

Macintosh was silent for while. I think he was staring at me. I wasn’t game to look. “Jus’ need a couple spare fuses. Should be some in muh’ toolbox.” He turned towards the storage closet. The one I’d trashed.

“I’ll get it,” I proclaimed, louder than necessary. I swung past him, heat rising to my face.

“Cara-”

“No, really I-” My foot came out from under me, and I stumbled back. Two strong arms caught me by the shoulders and yanked me back up. My head landed on Mac’s chest, one arm tucked against my side and the other clutching his shoulder. My heart was racing. This would have been my exact fantasy of how I wanted to wake up in every morning, if we were horizontal and he were completely naked.

I pulled away as soon as I could, realizing how awkward it must have been for Mac. I looked down at what I’d slipped on; a trail of oil coming from under the closet door. “Oh,” was all I could say.

Big Macintosh sighed, “Accident?” I gulped and gave a slight nod. Stepping over the oil slick, Big Mac opened the closet to inspect inside. He stood there for a few moments, contemplating something. Suddenly, he turned and walked slowly out of the closet, to one end of shed and sat a barrel against the wall.

“Sit,” he instructed calmly, tapping the top of the barrel. I had to jump to properly get onto it. He held out his arms. “Gimme yur hands.” I looked away distractedly and offered them up. He took them in his. “Look at me,” he said with more authority. I looked into his green eyes.

Slowly, he guided my hands to the sides of his chest and placed them there. He leaned in, parting my knees and nestling the crotch of his pants between my legs. He placed his hands on either side of my head and brought his face closer to mine. My heart was thumping in my throat by the time he caught me in an open-mouthed kiss.

I closed my eyes, running my hands down Big Mac’s firm stomach. He was the one to end it, pulling away like nothing had happened. I took a sharp intake of breath. My head was spinning.

“There,” said Big Macintosh, “Now ya’ll can stop fantasizing. Did that help?”

I was grinning like an idiot. “Uuuuh... Yes and no, but how about we get that fuse?” It did help. That was the truth. Did it stop me fantasizing?

Not even a little.

Fourth Place

Solo Flight
By: Thunderplunk

As we swept into Canterlot Royal Stadium over the roaring crowd, I wondered whether he'd be there. I'd spotted him at so many other shows that he'd become a fixture, as fundamental to a performance as the air I flew through and the suit that clung to my body.

I pulled into a climb with the rest of the team, all of us fanning out as we leaned back into the stall. My eyes closed for a moment as weightlessness washed over me, then opened as I fell, scanning the stands. For a moment I couldn't tell. A cold grip worse than any aerobatics clenched across my gut, panic striking with that sense of awful disappointment, making me feel like a stupid colt who's let his parents down.

There.

A flash of gold.

Just the right shade, like spring sunrise on a wheatfield that stretches to the end of the world, and shining as though light itself had been distilled and refined and poured through that beautiful mane.

Everything was right with the world as I snapped my wings forward, pulling out of the dive just in time to skim the ground and soar just over the stands. I could have sworn, as I began to bank into a roll and regroup, that I'd seen a smile from him.

—————

At last we made our way inside, retreating down the cool, bare tunnel, chased by the roar of the crowd. Lightning Streak and Rapidfire peeled off into the male changing rooms, chatting away about something or other. I followed them, lost in thought. Tonight had maintained the almost-perfect attendance record of that strange stallion: he'd been absent in Cloudsdale a few weeks back, but now that I thought of it I couldn't remember seeing wings on him. Why was he always there, all over Equestria? Why had he followed the Wonderbolts across the country for over a month?

Why did he always seem to be lo0king at me?

"Hey, Soarin', you awake over there?"

I started, my daydreams collapsing as I looked up at the pair of stallions across from me. Each of them was wearing a look like a smirk and a grin had had kittens.

"Sorry, guys, I was miles away," I said, smiling in what I hoped was a nonchalant way. I went to pull off my flight suit, then noticed it was off my body and neatly folded on a bench. Huh. Apparently that's another thing that doesn't require me to actually think.

They continued to grirk at me. "We were just wondering if you were hitting the town with the rest of us tonight," Lightning said. "It's been a while since you had any fun."

Ah. That was it. They were looking for another opportunity to exploit my embarrassing ability to get drunk. Well, I'd have to turn them down. With everything that was on my mind, I wouldn't want to let anything slip.

"Sure," I said, "why not?"

That had been distinctly not what I wanted to say.

"Awesome!" Rapidfire grinned like a cat and clapped me on the shoulder. "We'll see you later, yeah Soarin'?"

"Yeah, of course..." I trailed off as they walked into the showers. I supposed it wouldn't hurt too much to oblige them, so long as I didn't critically embarrass the team. Again. I'm still not sure how I ended up hanging, plot-first, half through the window of Fillydelphia Town Hall.

I ambled after them, my mind rapidly filling up again with that golden pony, his wonderfully lustrous coat, the green flash of his eyes, the gorgeous curve of his...

Welp. This had better be a cold shower.

—————

They were waiting in the hotel's lobby as I stepped out of the elevator. Lightning Streak and Rapidfire finished some joke about a griffon, a mule and a sea pony, while Misty and Fleetfoot giggled and cackled, respectively. Even Spitfire was there, grinning and rolling her eyes at the pair. I couldn't help but smile, seeing them all.

Spitfire glanced over, spotting me. "Soarin'!" She waved me over to the group. "We were wondering whether you'd make it," she said playfully.

"Spitfire, I'm hurt," I said, feigning offence. "You know full well I'd never deny you the pleasure of my company."

"Oh, is that what we're calling it?" said Misty, grinning like a filly at Hearth's Warming. "I didn't know we had a code-word for 'trainwreck'."

I snorted at her. "I'll have you know literally tens on ponies have said they like hanging out with me, and I didn't even have to pay most of them." I turned my nose up like a prince in an orphanage. Misty giggled again.

"Shall we?" said Spitfire. "At this rate, Soarin', you'll barely have time to pass out tonight."

I chuckled as we walked into the night. The conversation turned back to joke-telling, and I half-listened, gazing around at the empty, twilit streets. I've always liked nighttime; something about the quiet and the dark just makes me feel serene, like the cool, clean air after a thunderstorm. Scraps of litter blew about my hooves in the breeze, my feathers unconsciously twitching to catch the draught from the dark, wide avenues. A few crowds like us wandered about amongst the businessponies on their way home and the occasional evening jogger.

And there he was.

Tucked away in a side street, leaning against a wall and staring at the ground. He must have heard us; he looked up with a double take as we passed him. I couldn't help but stare.

I walked on with the group until he was out of sight. My thoughts churned in my head. Who was he, and was I really about to do this?

I cleared my throat surreptitiously. "You guys go on ahead, I'll catch you up."

They stopped, looking back at me. Spitfire frowned. "Something the matter, Soarin'?"

"What? No, I was just gonna head to that hay fries stand we passed," I lied. I dearly hoped they'd buy it.

Spitfire sighed and cracked a smile. "Only you, Soarin'... all right, off you go," she said, shaking her head exasperatedly.

I took to the air. "See you in a bit, guys!" I said as I swivelled and flew back down the street. I ducked behind a corner and waited a moment. Once I was sure they'd carried on, I peeked out, spotting the alley he'd been in.

I swallowed. No time like the present, huh?

I could have sworn my hooves trembled as I walked towards that alley. When at last I reached it, I paused, took a deep breath, and poked my head round the corner.

He was still there, sitting by the wall. Even in the dim glow of the city at night he shone. I coughed gently and he snapped his head up in panic. Our eyes locked and we froze, staring at each other for what might have been days.

"Hi," I said.

He was quiet for a moment, then began to stammer as he realised I'd spoken.

"Hi- uh, Ah- Ah mean, um... a-are you-"

"Yep," I said, somehow sounding confident. "You know, I've seen you a few times before. You've been at our shows, right?"

He blushed. "Uh, yeah, Ah guess." Sweet Celestia, that accent.

"So, I noticed you back here and, well, you kinda seemed lonely," I said, forcing the waver out of my voice as I grinned. "I was wondering if you were okay."

He blinked at me. "Me? Ah'm- Ah'm fine, just..." He trailed off. "Ah mean, why are you worried about me? Ah'm just a fan."

"A dedicated one at that," I said. "Like I said, I... well, I noticed you, and you looked interesting." Wait, had that been the wrong thing to say? "Besides, I've always got time for a fan."

He smiled then. Something inside me lifted a little, and all of a sudden I was the best kind of scared I'd ever been.
"Anyway," I said, my grin coming more and more naturally, "how about a drink?"

Third Place

I want him

By: Appleloosan Psychiatrist

It was his eyes, really.

That was the first thing Sorren noticed about him. Amid the surging crowd that flanked the marching Wonderbolts, it was his eyes that caught Sorren’s attention. The crowd was a swirling mass of smiles and colors and shouts, and Sorren reveled in the chaos. He bounced along the cloud with the rest of his team, hearing the shouts and screams. Every time he heard his name, he raised a hoof in the direction he thought it might have come from, and flashed a smile at the mare he thought might have said it.

All that fell from him whenever he saw that stallion’s eyes, though.

The stallion wasn’t waving, or jumping, or shouting. He was sitting as calmly as he could, right next to the rope that sequestered the crowd from the performers.. Sorren’s glance over him was accidental, and he would have completely missed the stallion otherwise. It was a plain looking pegasus, with a mottled brown coat and a mane that was wild and unkempt, framing his head haphazardly. He looked young – not a day out of university. There was nothing about him that demanded attention.

His eyes were golden. They weren’t bright, or shimmering, and just like the rest of him were subdued. Sorren never studied aesthetics or read poetry, but he was forced to a halt whenever his eyes locked with this stallion’s. He felt his hooves hit the cloud slower, and slower, until he was stopped completely, and could only stare at this stranger. The eyes hinted at something, they had something more behind them, and Sorren sudden felt an urge to know. They weren’t the sun, and they didn’t ask for his attention. For the first time since the frantic cries of his name rang out in the crowds of fans – for the first time since he joined the Wonderbolts, he felt small in front of the crowd. This stallion was bigger than he was, somehow, and Sorren wanted to walk over and introduce himself.

The stallion noticed his staring, but Sorren didn’t –couldn’t– stop. The stallion simply smiled without showing teeth. It was thin-lipped and calm. It suited him, somehow, Sorren realized without thinking about it. The smile made his eyes prettier. Sorren smiled back, matching the stallion’s demeanor. He didn’t want to be loud anymore.

The stallion raised a hoof and gave a small wave, like they were old friends passing each other on opposite sides of the street in downtown Manehatten. Like they knew each other but didn’t have the time to say high. Sorren wondered if he went to school with this stallion, somewhere, or if he was an old recruit or teammate. He was about to raise his hoof and response to the stallion’s wave, but then he felt something pushing him forward. His teammates body brushed up against his, pushing him forward. Sorren wanted to move out of his wave.

The stallion blinked, still looking at him, and Sorren fell into the crowd of Wonderbolts once again, and allowed himself to be pushed to the arena. He responded to the cheers absentmindedly. When the show was over hour later, and Sorren was panting and exhausted, he still had to scan the crowd for any sign of the stallion before he departed to the showers. He was absent, which only ensured he would instead have a place in the cyclic thoughts that echoed in Sorren’s mind.

Sorren saw him at the next show. How he could he avoid him, his eyes? He was in the crowd, same as before, Sorren couldn’t stop, he was in the middle of a show, he couldn’t stop and say hi. Was he going to hang around after the show and even if he did how could Sorren approach him? Just fly up and say hi? What’s up? It would never work, Sorren knew the ins and outs of dating and one night stands and hitting on a drunken mare in the middle of a bar but somehow he knew all of his wit and all of his charm would fall into those eyes and they would blink and he’d be gone and he has to focus on the show or his team’s going to yell at him, they’d notice something was wrong.

The next show was the same. Did this guy have a year long pass? He was a heckler, wasn’t he? Some guy just looking to his laugh by showing up at all of Sorren’s shows and making him fall in love, right? Sorren could get him kicked out no, problem. He’d never have to deal with thoughts like these again. Just a sentence to security and he could actually start to focus on the shows again.

At least the showers served as a catharsis. Sorren sat under the running water and let all the thoughts get washed away. He could at least say ‘hi’, right? He could at least say “hi, I’m Sorren. I’ve noticed you around and I was wondering if you wanted to get some coffee sometime,” right? Or should he fly down with a rose in his mouth and give it to him? What color of roses does he like? Red would be too traditional. No, of course, he couldn’t do that, what was he thinking, in front of everyone? In front of his team and the crowd and the world? No, it was out of the question. He couldn’t do that. Sorren wondered if the stallion kept his eyes open whenever he kissed someone. He hoped that he did, even if Sorren wouldn’t have been able to manage to do the same if their mouths touched.

He tore open fan letters with in a panic. Each one could be from him, a hint, an identification. He could tell him his name and where he lived so Sorren could show up and say hi and away from the crowds and Spitfire and everything they could talk and Sorren could tell him how much he’d been thinking about him or would that be too much? Should he just settle for “I like your eyes”? That’d be enough, he thought.

Spitfire noticed how strange Sorren was acting. He knew she would, they were too close, too coordinated that even a single misstep, a single stray from the pattern drew her attention. Sorren brushed away her questions with a cursory answer. He couldn’t get his thoughts clear enough to explain to himself what was wrong and he certainly wasn’t about to get another person like a Spitfire in on the situation even if they’ve slept together before no it just wasn’t going to happen he wasn’t going to tell Spitfire but what if she could introduce me to him?

If his presence disturbed Sorren, if him being at every single show and looking up at the sky as Sorren did flips and maneuvers and clapping calmly and smiling as Sorren waved at him, well, not at him because ponies would notice not at him but near him and Sorren hoped he knew that he was really waving at him, if that threw Sorren off then his absence only amplified it. Sorren noticed it immediately.

Where was he? The eyes didn’t peak out of the crowd anymore. They just weren’t there and Sorren felt his heart maybe racing but it felt more like it was skipping beats and threatening to stop. I was going to talk to him this time, Sorren thought. This time for sure, he was going to say hi. Did he do something wrong, was he not fast enough? The stallion’s been at every single show so far this season, he’s going to be at this one. He certainly wasn’t, and no matter how many times Sorren stopped to scan the crowd.

Sorren awoke to Spitfire calling his name. His body ached, and his skin felt clammy and wet. His eyes were a struggled to open. When he finally managed to gargle out a nonsensical word to his teammate, and he cracked open his eyes, he found an object flying at him and caught a faceful of fabric.

“Hey, stud, time to wake up. You’re late for practice,” he heard Spitfire say.

He grabbed the suit and pulled it out of his face. She was standing there, smiling at him, already zipped up her suit. When he pulled his aching body from the bed and wobbled on the floor, she turned to leave.

“Hey, Spitfire?” he said.

She turned back, her smile fading. “Yeah?” she said.

“Did you see a stallion in the crowd yesterday? One with pr-, one with golden eyes?”

Spitfire’s eyes narrowed. “You feeling okay, Sorren?”

“...yeah, I’m fine. Nevermind.” Sorren said.

“Maybe you should take a break today. You haven’t looked so hot lately,” Spitfire said.

“No, I’m fine,” Sorren said, and began to step into his suit. Spitfire turned to leave just in time.

Sorren didn’t see him at the next show, either.

Second Place

Tomorrow

by: Fimbulvinter

Safe in his bunk at the Wonderbolts’s HQ, Soarin’ quickly looked around to make sure that he was alone. Most of the others were still out celebrating the success of the show they had just done. The Wonderbolts had been hired to perform at the birthday party for a noble’s child, but Soarin’ had needed to sit it out, having sustained a wing strain during the last show and the staff doctor hadn’t cleared him to perform today. From what he had heard, it had gone off flawlessly and the noble had tried to book them again for their other child.

’Easy money’, he thought.

Assured that he was alone in the dorm, Soarin’ gently reached under his cloud and pulled out a strongbox. The box contained his most precious memories or items of value: a feather from his first moult, a signed poster from the last generation of Wonderbolts, a menu from a cafe where he had eaten the best pie ever, but the one that he was taking out tonight was by far the most valuable thing he had ever put into it.

Unlocking the box, Soarin’ reached in and pulled out a small, slightly beaten photograph. It wasn’t a very impressive photo to look at, but it was a memory of a time that he held dear to his heart. The photo depicted two stallions, with Soarin’ being one of them. The other one was his mentor and best friend in the whole world, his fellow Wonderbolt and captain of the team, Flamethrower. They had shared a beach vacation together a few years back, when Soarin’ had finally made the team and he had set up a camera to grab a picture of them as the sun went down. Flamethrower was smiling broadly, holding up a golden yellow surfboard while Soarin’ just looked happy to be there. Soarin’ remembered that day perfectly. Flamethrowers rugged good looks and highly muscled chest; the way he had handled the board with practiced ease.

Soarin’ hugged the photo to his chest, taking care not to crease or damage it. Ever since that day, he had been carrying a secret torch for Flame, and he wished that he could go back in time to that moment so he could tell Flamethrower just how he felt. Flamethrower was kind, funny, a great flyer and fun to be around. Soarin’ was sure that he would also be a great lover in bed, but Flame had made it very clear that he liked the mares. Soarin’ had bedded a few mares in his time; it came with the job of being a Wonderbolt, but he didn’t feel anything for them. Sure it felt good at the time, but his heart would always be among other stallions. That’s why he wanted Flamethrower. He was the sexiest stallion he had ever seen and Soarin’ could easily picture the two of them spending many pleasure filled days exploring every inch of each other’s bodies.

A few times, he had considered just telling Flame how he felt about him. Better to get it out in the open and get Flamethrowers reaction over and done with. At least that way, they could both get on with their lives or have some form of closure. Every time he tried to talk to Flame about it however, he just froze up and either began to talk about something else, or walked away entirely. The timing never seemed to be a right as it had been that day on the beach.

He had viewed and replayed the scene in his mind thousands of times, each one slightly different than the one before it. In some, he would confess his feelings for Flamethrower and the pair of them would instantly fall deeply in love, get married and live happily ever after. In others, Flamethrower would fire him from the team and tell him to never show his face around Canterlot again.

“Tomorrow; I’ll tell him tomorrow. Flamethrower, I love you,” he promised himself, just as he had every night that week. He knew that it was unlikely that Flamethrower would ever love him back, but it needed to be said. He needed to be honest with himself and let Flamethrower know just how much he loved him. Maybe Flamethrower would surprise him and they could spend the rest of their lives in each others hooves. He would never know until he tried.

Soarin’ replaced the photo into his box and curled up in his bed. He hoped that he would have the dream again tonight, the one featuring him, Flamethrower and an industrial size bottle of massage oil. Soarin’ closed his eyes and saw Flamethrower waiting for him, lying on a beach towel in the sun. Gleaming oils dripped off of his golden bronze body and Soarin’ eagerly moved in to join him. Flamethrower rose up onto one side and gently ran his slick hoof down Soarin’s face before leaning in and softly kissing him.

Soarin’ reached forward and embraced his lover, eagerly reciprocating the kiss before rolling Flamethrower on top of him. An increasing pressure at his loins indicated just how much Flamethrower was enjoying their encounter. Soarin’ moaned as he started grinding his hips against his lover’s, their hooves exploring each others bodies as their tongues merged into one.

At least they could always be together in his dreams.

First Place

Kissin' Cousins

By: Appleloosan Psychiatrist

Wait, Braeburn tried to tell the foals he didn’t know except through blood. The word came out as a gasp for air. The room was dark, and Big Macintosh disappeared into it first, like a sacrifice to an eager evil. Braeburn tried pushing back but before he could muster even another syllable of protest, he was shoved into the closet. Applejack, with a dozen grinning foals behind her, leered at the two of them for a second, her face silhouetted in the faint light, before slamming the door shut.

The two colts were bathed in the instant darkness. The closet was cramped, but despite Big Macintosh being only a few inches from him, all he saw as an formless moving mass to represent his cousin. He couldn’t see the dust, but the disturbance made it’s existence obvious – Braeburn barely held back a tight sneeze.

Braeburn backed up from Big Macintosh, uncomfortably close as they were. He stood up and began pacing as well as possible in the meager space. He walked a step or two, then spun. There was a muzzle on him whenever he was in front of strangers, but now that it was just he and Big Macintosh, he felt at ease enough to be furious. The words rushed out of him in a frantic whisper. He knew his ranting was childish, but he felt so in the presence of his older cousin, even though Big Macintosh was still a few years from adulthood himself.

“I can’t believe your sister, doing something like this,”

“She’s your cousin, too...cuz.” Big Macintosh added.

“She should have got us out of this, what was she thinking,”

“Braeburn.” Big Macintosh said.

“You could have talked some sense into her, you know, I don’t see-”

“Braeburn.” Big Macintosh said.

“I’ll just stay home next year, not even bothe-”

“Braeburn!” Big Macintosh said, slightly louder.

“What?” Braeburn suddenly rounded.

“She pushed us in here, didn’t she?” Big Macintosh asked.

Braeburn was quiet as he awaited a conclusion to this waiting for a conclusion to this.

“So?” Braeburn eventually said.

“Well, normally, we should have kissed in front of everyone, right? So if no one’s lookin’...” Big Macintosh said.

Braeburn blinked in a direction that he thought might be his cousin’s face.

“Oh,” Braeburn said. He sat down, and felt himself growing warm. Or maybe he’d just now realized how crowded and hot the tiny closet was.

“Mhm,” Big Macintosh said simply.

“Oh,” Braeburn said again, and stared into the darkness.

“I sure have a clever pair of cousins,” Braeburn added a few seconds of silence.

Big Macintosh gave a snorting, not-quite-laugh in way of a reply.

Braeburn simply sat and listened. There was nothing else to do; nothing else to see. The muffled voices of the foals waiting for them outside the door were too blurry and quiet to be anything more than indistinct noise.

Just like his memories of the last hour. They were a mess of noise and formless images of fillies and colts he’d only recognized in dusty photo albums. The adults had all gone to bed – the traditional family reunion dinner long over – and as their parents curled up in various corners of Sweet Apple Acres, the foals had gathered conspiratorially around a single empty bottle, and they chose Braeburn as the first to spin it.

“This sure is gonna be a long wait,” Braeburn said. Big Macintosh didn’t reply.

Braeburn heard his breathing. It was loud and heavy, and each breath ended in a small grunt. He heard a thumping, and thought it was simply his own heart. It was quiet enough that he felt he’d be able to hear the slightest shift, and even his own beat. It was Big Macintosh’s, though. That’s what he heard. His cousin’s heart sounded like it was a racing. He was that close to Braeburn – he could hear his heart.

“Big Macintosh, you okay?” Braeburn asked.

“You’re the one I should be asking that. You were actin’ like all of our cousins were a bunch of ghosts out there.” Big Macintosh’s voice was as calm as ever.

Braeburn coughed. “They’re all...they’re all strangers to me. I’ve never seen one of them out on the homestead. I don’t know these people like you and AJ and Granny Smith do. My folks and their folks visit you all the time, but no one comes out to visit me.”

He heard Big Macintosh shuffle, and he blinked as if that would somehow clear the darkness from his eyes.

“You live a mighty ways off, being honest.” Big Macintosh said.

“Ain’t an excuse,” Braeburn rejoindered immediately. “‘Sides, you saw the way they were picking on me in there. Making me go first and all. It’s like they hate me or something.”

Braeburn realized his eyes were wet. He never wanted to say something like this, and would never have found the strength to tell his parents. In this dark room with Big Macintosh, a stolid stallion who never had an outburst to throw at anything, he might as well have been confessing to a wall.

“You know that’s not true,” Big Macintosh said, “You know how kids are.”

“I ‘spose,” Braeburn replied, leaving unsaid that they were both still practically kids themselves.

“But if it’s bothering you that much, me and AJ will make sure nopony else says a cross word to ya while you’re here. Last thing I’d want is yo-, last thing I’d want is a cousin being uncomfortable at Sweet Apple Acres.”

Braeburn opened his mouth to object, but Big Macintosh interrupted him as if he could see the words forming.

“And don’t worry, we won’t let anypony know. Like you said. AJ and I are clever. It’ll be okay, Braeburn.”

That’s all it took. The last word wasn’t an assurance or a promise. It wasn’t meant to soothe Braeburn’s worries or give him the knowledge that he could run to Big Macintosh and demand correction when reality subverted that promise. It was fact. It was an indelible, irreproachable statement. When Big Macintosh told him that it would be okay, Braeburn knew: It would.

“Okay, Big Macintosh,” he replied, “Thanks.”

Big Macintosh didn’t reply. He didn’t really need to. Braeburn still heard his heart pounding in his chest, and felt like it was time to leave the closet, for both of their sakes.

“When are they gonna let us out here?” Braeburn wondered aloud, his eyes wandering to the thin slit of firelight that creeped under the edge of the wooden door.

“Hey, Braeburn?” Big Macintosh said.

“Yeah?” Braeburn turned towards his cousin.

In the dark, all he saw a flash of red rushing towards him and he almost jumped back and shrieked but then there was a pair of forceful lips pressing against his greedily. Braeburn’s eyes went wide and he stared into Big Macintosh’s face. His entire body went stiff, paralyzed, unable to move as he tasted Big Macintosh’s tongue. His cousin’s breath smelled like burnt cinnamon.

Braeburn couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak, he couldn’t think. Just the sensations of Big Macintosh’s lips running over his, his snout pushing into his forceful, a kind of strength Braeburn had never seen his cousin use on another pony. His body quivered, and all of his senses melted and shook like gelatin. His feelings didn’t make sense to him anymore.

Big Macintosh pulled back, and Braeburn remained frozen in place, his mouth still wide from where his cousin had forced it open. He stared at the darkness past Big Macintosh’s head.

“Sorry.” He heard, distantly, his cousin say. Big Macintosh sounded out of breath, somehow.

Braeburn couldn’t respond.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Big Macintosh said with tracing gentleness.

“Okay,” Braeburn managed to whisper, still staring, wide-eyed.

“I’m serious,” Big Macintosh said, his voice getting tense, but not angry.

“Okay,” Braeburn said again, barely.

Big Macintosh sighed.

“Braeburn, you don’t know how long I’ve w-”

A pillar of light flashed on Big Macintosh’s face and widened across the entire room as the door was pushed open. Both colts brought up their hooves to cover their faces from the dull light that still burned on their sensitive eyes.

“Time’s up!” Applejack’s excited voice echoed in Braeburn’s ears, sounding suddenly foreign and insufferably loud. “Did you two lovers manage to have a good time?”

Without skipping a beat, his sentence abandoned and fragmented in Braeburn’s ears, Big Macintosh picked himself up from the floor and walked calmly past his sister. He reached up and nonchalantly pulled Applejack’s hat over her eyes as he passed, making the filly shout and rush after him.

Braeburn sat in the dark closet, ignored. He managed to find the power to stand, and tried to walk out and back into the crowd of foals, his legs wobbling. As he looked up, he saw his cousin staring back at him, frowning. Their gaze met for a second, lingered, then broke.