Mezzo

12th of Harvest Season, year 4 of Luna's Second Era. 1:23 AM.

The pristine poise of Canterlot has once again proven itself a veil too often rent out from under my hooves, baring its foul nakedness to me in full this day, disguised as a reciprocation of my own "offenses"...

The author nursed their quill, sipping the acrid ink from the nib without so much as a wince. The fur of their lips was matted, gnarled, black, the most saturated shadow of a gray storm, their cheeks frosted with cold tears. With tongue, they twisted their pen and pressed it to their paper once more.

... these ponies, fair and conventional ponies, pink mares and blue stallions. Children locked away from themselves and all there is to unearth by the time their cutie marks emerge, only steered to milk their talents for fame and respect from their elders, justified as their only destiny, their path set for them by their assigned peers and betters. Assigned every aspect of their identity. Cross this blatantly invisible line at one' own peril; cropping my tail was immediate invitation for such regal and refined folk to take pleasure in muttering about my flank's contents, such tenaciously strict parents turning their foal's attention to a fellow pony's body, commenting on the perceived offense of my existence. "Ah, and of course it is a mud pony", some chided, while some chose to convey their disgust by turning up their snouts, their social status being seemingly above the concept of self-expression. I don't care if my short tail draws such bitterness. All the more accessible to my "betters" when they feel the need to gawk at something lewd to satiate their repressed and withered impulses.

- Octavia Melo

Melo...

It was a struggle to finish penning that word- each miry letter clung to the flow of the author's thought and muddied it, a heavy weight on their brow. Though they had abandoned their old name months ago to make room for their own, self-guided identity, their past would creep up on them in their darkest moments, plunging them deeper and deeper into their chronic worries, their ever-constant feelings of insecurity and trembling indecisiveness. However, the pony, slicking their tear-stuck mane away from their forehead, allowed a small, subdued smile to beam forth. I know who I am, and I'm not the type to indulge in foolishness for the sake of being agreeable. I won't let anybody convince me that they can look at me and dictate my identity. As their nose perked up, this triumphant thought echoed itself in their head for a moment as they scribbled in contentment, not out of resignation, their true name.

-Octavia Melo Octave Symphony

___________________________________________________________

With a hoof dangling carelessly from their mattress, Octave lay sprawled, awake, on their bed. It was early afternoon, but the plum curtains transformed the sun's rays into a rich, violet ambiance, embracing the pony in darkness. Delirious from hunger that had been growing since the previous night, with no food to sate it, Octave groaned in frustration. They had no intention of doing anything other than laying in their darkness, veiled by it, veiled by their thick blankets piled endlessly on top of one another, veiled by their normally pristine and stiff-gelled mane that had grown feathered and soft during the night. They did not want to enter the light and see themself today. Octave tolerated their body, even embracing it, but the jeers of other ponies drew all of their attention to it this afternoon, as if they were covered in cysts and lacerations as opposed to soft, supple, normal body parts. The pony's emotions and their hard-nosed logical mind did not coalesce on this day. No positive thinking or thorough rationalization could shake this feeling.

Octave rolled off of their bed, half of their blankets falling with them, wrapping them up in a heap. With much effort, they stood on their aching hooves, keeping their veil of sheets on their back. Slowly, they plodded down the stairs to the kitchen, nearly tripping on the blankets many times along the way, and fondled around in the dark, reaching for a fruit or an estranged cereal box, hoping to find something they would not have to invest time in preparing. Suddenly, juice flowed from their hoof as they pressed firmly onto an unseen pear, a bit too ripe, but edible. Despite its age, it was sustenance, and Octave needed nothing else but an end to their gnawing hunger. Well, I might need a bath, I feel like a moldy hay pile, and I wouldn't be surpised if I smelled like one, they thought reluctantly. A bath would be an immense chore on such a day, but the routine had eluded them for almost two nights, and their fur felt dingy from sweat and their muscles heavy with fatigue.

On the way into the bathroom, Octave nearly snapped their light switch as they slammed it into the off position. With a kick, they began pumping water into their tub, the collision of hoof to metal causing them to wince. They shook their cloak of sheets off onto the tiles and let themself fall into the vessel, uncaring of the temperature that had certainly not risen above 50 degrees in the few seconds it had been given to build up. Eyes closed, brow furled under the running water, Octave shivered. Their nerves had been worn so, so thin; they had been at the brink of tears too many times today. Breath became heaving, tears fell from their wells, and Octave whimpered helplessly, the stream of water chilling the blood that rushed to their inflamed eyes. Whimpers climbed to bared-tooth shrieks, echoing throughout the room. The sound reflected off of the walls flawlessly and rang throughout the whole of the house, which had been designed to cast noise- although their screams of panic were far from the music meant to reverberate in the place. The tap water ran freely through their open mouth, washing away their utterings with the metallic tang, and the shivers grew stronger, wracking their whole body. With a final, exasperated spasm, hoof chipping off a bit of gaudy, synthetic porcelain from the tub, catharsis enveloped them like so many warm, dry sheets in that pool of bitter ice water. Their breathing was labored, but their need to cry out had been sated; their anxiety declined into numbness. Octave rolled to their side and let their muzzle fall below the rising water for a moment, cracking their eyes open slowly, letting their tears diffuse into the pool, the cold both stinging their eyeballs and relieving their lids from the salt and stick.

After a measureless time, Octave curled onto their back and turned off the flow of tap water, which was now a slightly uncomfortable lukewarm. Even in the dark, Octave's dove grey fur stood out from the blinding white of the tub porcelain, and they looked hard for what they wanted to see in the shadows. Detachedly, they surveyed their torso with a forehoof. It was flat and featureless, as was the case for all ponies. It swayed out into Octave's hips. Avoiding gazing at the center of this area, Octave focused on their left cutie mark. Though they took great pride in their talent for music theory, it, just like their gender, felt assigned to them, and it made them feel restricted. Instead of enjoying it as a calling, a passion, it had been looked at as an obligation or a bit-making perk since it sprouted from Octave's flank. It was a part of their body, but it did not define their destiny and their identity- and neither did their past, or the mutterings of strangers, as much as these things lay heavy in their heart.

Octave slipped their hoof over their lower belly, feeling, but not looking. Two small mounds, as always. Octave occasionally dreamed that these were as flat as their chest. Those were never nightmares. They lifted their hoof and gazed at their breasts detachedly, attempting to rationalize their existence. As always, this was in vain, and Octave moved on- between their breasts and a bit lower, a gash. Octave rarely saw it as such consciously- this was another part of their body, no better or worse than anyone else's. However, there was no pleasure or acceptance as Octave distantly inspected the fold, silent tears falling beside them as they closed their eyes, terrified of this part, this curse. If only, if only, this piece of their body didn't label them as a mare, their identity coupled with it labeling them as a perverted filly-fooler or a confused cross-dresser. Octave's hoof fell, a leaden weight, and landed on something soft... not a part of Octavia's body. The pear juice squirted violently into Octave's eve, and they laughed uproariously, perhaps more out of neurotic mania than amusement.

Though they would not admit it, their thoughts about their body, their mind, and their identity had been warped into the same scoffs and prejudiced venom that their assailants sprayed at them, and they bathed in it. It soaked their soul and fueled a visceral hatred, one that lurked deep within, hooked so strongly that Octave was subconsciously certain that ripping it out would be the death of them.

___________________________________________________________

Seven calls, and, finally, an answer.

"Record, I need you to come over."

"Octy, it's flying 9 PM! I don't wake up until midnight to fill my shift, you know that, and tonight there's a drag show I'm playing for."

"I know, you know that I know, but yesterday... I need to tell you when you get here, but... today has been a very dysphoric day, oka-"

"...Say no more, Octy, I'll bring my stuff. Do you want the blue tie or the lavender collar?"

___________________________________________________________

Everything was a little too tight, but it didn't matter; Octave beamed at the mirror anyway. The vested tailcoat, a dark violet tweed, contoured the slopes of their back in such a perfectly elegant way. The front lapels framed a lavender tartan bow-tie fixed in the center of a silken collar, Octave's favorite. However, the most superbly elegant image was in that of Octave's body. The pony's face tapered ever-so-gently to a button muzzle, with smooth, full, dark grey lips. Their eyes were a beautiful violet, almond-shaped, framed by thick black lids and strongly arching brows, but no lashes, as they had been freshly plucked. These eyes contained a gleeful fire in this moment, darting and searching their owner for more beauty to take in and relish. It was okay to be beautiful, and they were. The tailcoat was fitted with an extra accessory, one often forgone unless the owner specially commissions it. Around the waist was a thick band of tight, but smooth fabric. Completely smooth. The breasts underneath were completely hidden and pressed securely to Octave's stomach. The very mild discomfort was nonexistent in the light of Octave's joy.

"I got this specially made for you." Record Scrape's white lips brushed Octave's ear, almost jabbing it in a most fraternal manner. "This one designer- she was the first pony I called that didn't whine when I asked to have the binder put in. Actually, she asked me if I wanted to get some fitted in my own clothes! Now I have them on all my hoodies and some by themselves. Price was really sensible, too... well, I guess it'd have to to be covered by my wages! Do you think I should get a muscle shirt with one? Blue, probably, to match my mane... and maybe..." As much as Octave was interested in the subject, their attention broke in and out as they continued staring at this vision of themself, a healing vision, while nodding inattentively. Their short mane was perfectly slicked back, tidy, but not pretentious. Their lavender hooves were framed with forelocks that were unshorn, silky, and long, something that a city mare would never dream of being seen in. That was the appeal, of course. Their bobbed tail was raised high in confidence, tucked right between the twin tails of Octave's new coat, and it belonged there. Everything was perfect.

"... and maybe even a skirt, but not until I can go stealth when I start my gig at that new joint in Manehattan. Do you think I'd get some side-eye for binding with a skirt on? Well, it doesn't matter, that's my- Octy, are you even listening?"

Octy snapped out of their daze, having only absorbed the last of what Record had said. "Yeah, Record. You know, I like that black skirt. You wear it better than any stallion I've ever seen... in a black skirt... eheh..." Octave tightened up uncomfortably, without knowing why, a bit reserved after the thought came to mind- but the feeling faded, transitioning into a new, more tangible worry. How would people react if they saw Octave dressed like this? Would they even be able to tell that they were raised a mare? Octave would much rather be stared at for being too androgynous to read than be scoffed at for being a confused filly. The thought of dressing up in public crossed Octave's mind every time Record came over for these sessions. The idea made them anxious, but it seemed as if it was an inevitability, perhaps a good one if Octave could only act normal and carry themself highly. Could they?

No, not yet.

A light blue hoof rested itself on Octave's mane, carefully slicking a stray hair back. "Octy, I know you feel scared, and I know you think you might be wrong, or people will see you that way even though you aren't. But... Octy, I'm going to try my hardest to help you feel safe. I don't want to have to watch you feel frightened or insecure anymore, Octy. There's only one thing that helped me when I was figuring out that I was a stallion, and what that meant to me." Record smiled, an expression of earnest sentimentality- outwardly. Octave huffed and squinted their eyes, knowing that the following statement would betray any expectation relevancy or seriousness- the occupation of giving out real advice suited Record about as well as a set of pegasus wings.

"We're going out tonight!" record cackled, his voice cracking like a pubescent colt talking about his first time. Octave facehoofed, but they were smiling underneath, however weakly.

Ponyfeathers, looks like we're going to the drag bar.