"I need to discuss something with you," Twilight said, and Rarity could only hope it wasn't the discussion she had been dreading for six years straight.
She had come into the Carousel Boutique with an obvious sense of purpose in her gait, and the heat of anger behind her eyes.
"Of course, Twilight." Rarity smiled. Hope could let her smile, even as that little nagging worry tugged at her soul. "What can I help you with? Did you want to discuss historical fashion, or -- "
"It's about -- well, it's about him."
Oh, no. It was going to be the dreadful discussion.
Twilight got that calculating look, the one she always had when she was trying to think about somepony else's feelings. Twilight, Twilight. You have to get a feel for feelings. Logic simply won't do. It was advice that had fallen on deaf ears every time, but Twilight had a hammer, and everything looked like a nail. "Look, Rarity, we're friends. We're very good friends, right?" An establishment of the current situation, a moderately friendly opening; another trademark Twilight move for hard discussions.
Rarity nodded. She had to think, and her heart was starting to beat faster. "We are, Twilight."
"You know I have certain responsibilities. I'm . . . I'm like a mother to him. That means I have to watch out for him."
Rarity nodded again, but held up a hoof in the interrupting gesture. The longer this goes on, the harder it will be for me to keep it together. Best to appeal to her logic and move us to the point. "Twilight, you don't need all this preamble. I know you're practically his mother. I know you're my friend. Trust me enough to hear what you have to say without getting offended, all right?"
Twilight blinked and tilted her head a little. The anger did not dissipate, but it shifted in some barely perceptible way. "Fine, then. What are your intentions, Rarity?"
"You mean, am I going to try to . . . "
"Yes. Are you going to try to have a relationship, or even consummate?"
Rarity drew a long breath. "No. I am not."
"And are you going to tell him that?"
"I -- I felt it'd be better not to bring it up at all, Twilight, because -- "
"You need to. It was cute for a long time, and I know you thought it was cute to have him around the Boutique all the time, but it's cutting into his duties at the library -- "
"Don't do that," Rarity said, and she was as surprised as Twilight that there was a bit of edge in her voice.
"Don't what?"
"This isn't about the duties. You're a mother, not an employer. You are thinking of his well-being. You are even perhaps thinking of his heart. You are not thinking about how many books he puts back on the shelf in a day."
Twilight shifted on her hooves. "Fine. Okay, if you'd rather discuss that aspect, then I can do that."
Rarity hesitated, just as she'd always intended to. She'd had to rehearse this speech so many times that she'd added all the little nuances that made it look spontaneous; so much of social training was simply working through the likely cases and preparing oneself for them. Over the years, Rarity had polished and whittled at it, researched a few salient points, and had a full explanation to give.
She'd been expecting this for nearly all of the six years she'd known him.
"Do you know what a mayfly is, Twilight?" Rhetorical, of course. Twilight knew everything, except the equine heart.
"Of course. What's that -- "
"How long do they live?"
"It varies from species to species, Rarity, but . . . it's usually very short, a day or two in many cases."
"Imagine if you were a mayfly, and you fell in love with a pony." Rarity lifted her eyes, and kept them on Twilight's. "Imagine what that would be like, knowing that your love would live hundreds of your lifetimes past you. Would you try to kindle love in their heart, in the hope you might have the short joy you could have -- and leave them forever tainted by the grief?
"Or would that mayfly do their love a better service by letting them find a pony to love them, perhaps until the very end of their days?"
Twilight's eyes widened. "Rarity, are you saying what I think you're saying?"
Rarity lifted an eyebrow. "Twilight, if I'd said what you think I'm saying, you'd have heard it. Listen to what I am saying, and don't worry about what is implied."
"But if you -- "
"It isn't going to be that simple, Twilight," Rarity said, straining to keep her tone polite. For all her knowledge, Twilight didn't think things through if they weren't on her radar. "I'll explain why, if you'd like."
"Maybe you should. I guess I don't get this."
"I'm a mayfly, Twilight. We all are, except him, and the Princesses. Do you think I don't know that?" She shook her head and turned away. "I'm an infatuation. Someday, a millennium or two from now, I'll barely be a memory for him. You'll be a mother, perhaps, and that'll stick for him. But I'll just be some silly little pony he thought was pretty once."
"Rarity, it isn't like that. He's your friend." Twilight's voice seemed to falter a bit. “This isn’t the kind of decision you can just make for someone else.”
"He's a baby, Twilight. You know this. He isn't an infant, but let's be honest -- what do you remember from the first few days of your life? Do you remember all the friends Galaxy and Nightlight had back then?"
"No," Twilight admitted, voice small. "But he's almost fourteen now."
"The first fourteen years of several thousand? It might as well be the first minute of his life."
Twilight was quiet for a few moments. "I don't think it's quite that simple, Rarity. You could try to wait a few more years, and then tell him."
Rarity settled on her fainting couch; for once, she actually felt the need to feel supported. She turned her head to look out the window, and watch the cloud drifting. If she didn't have to see the realization on Twilight's face, she didn't have to think about what she was saying. "What would I do, Twilight? Tell him the truth? Tell him I find myself making excuses to invite him over? Tell him I tried to be polite but unbearably demanding, and then I came to anticipate his every visit? That I wished he could be made older more quickly, that I even looked for spells to age him -- "
"You -- Rarity, did you really do that? You're not that strong, Rarity. I'm not that strong."
"I know that," Rarity said through gritted teeth. "I had to look anyway. He is so kind to me, and -- I tried to drive him away, I tried to simply seem like I was taking advantage, but he's never . . . " She sighed and drew a breath to strengthen her resolve. "He's been so good to me, Twilight. Better than I could have asked. Better than I could have hoped. I'd never be able to show him the love he deserves, and even if I could, he wouldn't remember it in a few centuries anyway."
Twilight eventually found a response. "Rarity, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't . . . I didn't know how hard this was on your side. I didn't really get it."
"It's okay." Rarity's voice was somewhere between a whisper and a bleak little cough. "Just -- just forbid him from coming, if you think it's best. Maybe it will help. Maybe it'll get him off my mind. I will act as though it is entirely your doing, and with time, well -- I think he’ll move on."
"I . . . I can do that, I guess." Twilight hesitated. "Are you sure?"
"No," Rarity murmured. "Do it anyway, though. It's been long enough. I have indulged my selfishness enough. I need to accept it."
Twilight sighed and turned towards the door. "I don't think he'll forget you, Rarity. I think he'll move on, yes, but -- you don't forget your first crush. You really don't."
"I guess we’ll never know," Rarity said. She'd recovered some of the energy in her voice, through effort. A lady always makes an effort to provide a gracious adieu. In this case, that meant keeping her eyes on the window, lest Twilight see the leaking tears and change her mind about this kind little cruelty that would be inflicted.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Rarity," Twilight said.
"Of course, Twilight," Rarity returned. “Of course.”
The door was shut, and she was alone again. Rarity let it out, let her trickle of tears topple into a torrent. She hoped that Twilight was wrong, that he’d let go in a few months or years and eventually forget about his infatuation. Having to remember one's first crush dying in your infancy was a burden none should have to bear.
She would only have to live with heartache for her lifetime, and he wouldn't have to live with it for his.
