I feel her lift the covers and slip in beside me, her breath hot on my cheek. My ear flicks. She sees me smile, and knows I’m awake.
“Good evening, Vinyl,” Octavia whispers, planting a kiss on my forehead. Her voice is soft on my ears, smooth and feminine, with just a hint of a Russani accent left over from her days as a filly in Stalliongrad.
“Morning, Octavia.” I reach over and ruffle her mane and she giggles as I do it. Damn her and her giggling, why does that have to be my favorite sound ever? “How’d it go?”
“It went great, but… di haropi, I’m… haa… exhausted.”
She yawns and stretches out on the bed, arching her back like a cat in sunlight. My hoof finds her waist, and I help her snuggle up closer. Not one to be outdone by shows of affection, my little cellist’s tail does some searching under the sheets, and she wraps hers around mine.
“Mmm. You’re warm,” she mumbles, snuggling into my chest.
I bury my muzzle in her mane and smell her neck. She smells amazing, like lavender and honey. New perfume, I guess. Can’t smell bad for those fops at the concert, now would we?
Not that she needs perfume. “Natural Octavia” is my favorite smell.
She yawns again, and I catch a glimpse of her perfect little teeth through the gloom of our bedroom. I swear she’s doing it on purpose. “Go and sleep,” I say, giving her a few more pets behind the ears. “I was just getting up anyway.”
Purrrrr…
“Okay. Have… um, good day,” she says past yet another yawn. Another flash of teeth.
Oh man, she’s so cute when she does that...
Reluctantly, I toss the sheets aside and slip out of my marefriend’s warm embrace. “I’ll try to get home early tonight. We won’t miss the movie, I promise.”
“Mmm,” she murmurs. I bend over and give her another kiss, this time on the lips.
“G’night. I love you...”
But she’s already asleep and didn’t hear me.
Gently, I shut the bedroom door and feel my way through the dark hallways of our little apartment. We just moved in a week ago, and yet-unpacked boxes are stacked everywhere.
Work’s been hard on both of us. She gets home right around when I get up. It’s these ponies in Ponyville, I swear… hick town, but they’re always finding ways to stay up til’ dawn. Means I get to make breakfast for Octavia, make out a little, a few heartfelt sighs… and then I’m out like a light, Bam, flat on back. Sometimes I don’t even make it to our bed and just crash on our couch.
Our bed, our couch, our bedroom, our apartment…
Hell effing yeah!It feels awesome to be able to say that!
I open the door to my studio—more like a repurposed broom closet, but I’m not complaining—click on the light and throw myself in the chair. My computer monitor sits off to the side, powered-down and silent. The clock on the coffee pot blinks the time in neon blue;10:38 PM. I pour myself a cup, plop in three sugarcubes, and chug the stuff down piping hot. Then I lean back in my chair and prop my hooves up on the table and sigh with exasperation at myself and my screwed up sleeping habits.
It’ll be another long day… okay, long night, but same difference. I’ve got just one gig, but it’s with that crazy pink pony and her crazy friends. She’s always pushing cider on me. What, does she think I’ll pass out in the front yard all nice and quiet? I’m a pro. I could drink her under the table if I wanted, and I kinda want to do it just to prove to myself I can still do it. I haven’t wrecked another pony at the drinking game in too long.
But I can’t do that. Octavia gets snarky when she has to haul my drunk ass home, and besides, I’m not going to the film with a hangover. Big screen, flashing lights? We’re gonna go see Flanksplosions 12: Revenge of the Return, Etc. I’ll die if I go with a hangover.
Octavia’s gonna be laughing her flank off. Film’s supposed to have two gay protagonists, see? Female, since the director is male and the audience is supposed to be male, but hey… Might be dumb, but definitely good to point and laugh at. No ponies know how to be gay better than me and Octavia.
If the unthinkable happens and Luna crashes the moon into the earth and I can't make it tonight, then I'll make it up to her in other ways. She knows I keep my promises.
I pour myself a second cup of The Good Stuff and glance around. My little studio is a mess. Empty cartons of take-out litter the floor. Plates are piled on the mixing table. Sheet music is everywhere, mistakes scratched out when songs can be salvaged, and pages crumpled up when they can’t. The wastebasket is overflowing. Didn’t take long for me to make a pig of myself, like usual.
Sniff. Phew. I need a shower, too. How can a pony as amazing as Octavia stand to snuggle up next to my stale-female self? Then again, I might as well ask why she can stand me at all. I still can’t believe how lucky we were. Finding your soul-mate is something a lot of hack musicians try to write about, but nopony ever really believes in it. We do, though.
I always knew she was special. I’ve given all my friends and enemies nicknames, but never her. There’s only one word that can sum up Octavia and her kindness, her grace, everything that makes her so adorable… she’s Octavia. Freakin’ perfect just the way she is. Calling her anything less would be an insult. It’d be wrong. Like calling Princess Celestia a horse.
We’ve come a long way, but I think we can go farther—no, I know we can. And I think she thinks so, too. I see it her eyes when she kisses me. I feel it in the way our hearts quicken when our chests are pressed together, her lips pressing on mine, and…
It's not the caffeine that's making my head spin. Dammit, Vinyl. I should know better than to tease myself like this so early in the morning. I'll just keep thinking about her all day. The thought of thinking about her all day makes me think of her sleeping face. And then of her soft, warm body lying under the creamy white sheets, and…
I need something to cool off before I barge back into the bedroom and plead for something my poor marefriend is too tired to give me, so I pinch my cheek hard and slide off the chair. I decide to take another look at it, instead. To refocus my skewed priorities.
I’ve hidden it under a deliberately messy stack of record sleeves in the corner.. For the millionth time, I open the jewel case and look at the two tiny earrings inside. One is a magnificent Treble Clef, all its minute twists and bends guided by a master jeweler—or at least, the best jeweler I could get for two months pay. The treble clef earring is studded with little Amethysts. The other earring is a humble beam note, done in Onyx.
Maybe not tomorrow… but soon, Octavia. I promise.
I shut the case and tuck it back in its hiding place, then grab my shades off the table and shove them on. Time to start another day.
