Mezzo

Ponyfeather's Bar and Club. Pink neon lights, flashing, with an image of a featherdancing drag queen towering regally over the building's patrons. How saccharine, Octave mulled, though I surmise it's customary in such a field of business.

The air was nippy, as was common in the fall, and Octave no longer had any regrets about overdressing. However, though their enrobements warmed them, they were shaking as they walked, a brilliantly idiotic question bouncing around their head to endless annoyance. "Ah... Record... do I have to... dance? I'm not sure I can; I'm wrapped up so tightly in these clothes- not that they aren't flawless, of course- and I don't want sweat to dissolve my pomade..." Octave slicked back their meticulously styled mane out of habit, visibly wincing at how awkward the question sounded, but it was a concern they could not shrug off. At least it helped any concerns about their appearance or passing ability seem shadowed by the silly, trivial thought.

Record pursed his lips in mocking seriousness. "Well, it's gonna be my music, so... hell yes, you have to dance! I command it!" After wiggling his hooves "spookily" to send the point home, the stallion nearly keeled over with laughter. Octave rolled their eyes and steadied their friend with a forehoof.

"Ah... I, I guess I will, it's just never been a thing I've... done. You know my parents never let me go out, and I only just became an adult less than a year ago. I've been so engrossed in applying to colleges... Record, I've had to compose 10 musical pieces in two months and write an essay on my "feelings" about music theory! Can you believe that? And I've been waiting on a response from Canterlot University of Fine Arts for almost the same amount of tim-" Octave was cut off by a playful jab from their friend, which was just forceful enough to cause them to nip their tongue. "Ach!"

Naturally, Record chuckled and nudged Octave some more, but his eyes softened a bit as he let off.

"You, Octave, will be fine. You're so flying talented, I... I mean, your music inspires me, and I'm not even into classical! Unless you write it, of course. And... does classic rock count as classical?" Record smiled at his jokingly asinine question, and Octave giggled.

"Well, it is classic, if anything! I used to dabble in such music when I was moved out of that sod-awful preparatory school... actually, I think it was you who introduced me to it when I met you back then! one of the brighter notes of that age, I'd say." Octave closed their eyes, rubbing their teeth with their slightly painful tongue. "A shame I've been so wrapped up in my studies that my variety in musical palate has diminished."

Record opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by the bouncer, demanding identification. "Here you go, my good man!" Record clucked, tipping an invisible hat and curtsying, levitating a card out of his hoodie with a cloud of blue magic.

The bouncer squinted. "Only 19? We can't let foals your age in here, so drop that cocky smirk o' yours."

Record smiled knowingly. "Ain't never heard of me? The DJ-Pon3, man! I've got a temp gig here tonight!" he boasted.

The guard suddenly beamed, the boyish smile contrasting the hulking figure quite unflatteringly. "Ah, yes, Vinyl Scratch! Big fan! Go right on in, ma'am! And... your escort?"

Silence filled the air for a few painful moments.

"... Ma'am?"

Record looked fit to puke, and Octave stared half-accusingly, half-sympathetically at the guard. Record isn't out here? At a gay bar? Octave pondered with concern.

"They... they're with me," Record muttered, pulling Octave sharply by the ear with his magic, practically trotting to the door without looking back for confirmation from the guard.

"Okay, uh, go on i- wait, did you say "they"? Who else are you smuggling... ah, to hell with it."

__________________________________________________________________

"... Record, are you okay?" Octave said, after minutes of silence. The pair was sitting at the bar, both with faces plastered to the table and strong, questionably legal drinks left unsipped in front of their face.

"Yeah. It's fine. Happens all the time. My shift is in three minutes. You can have my drink." Record skulked away.

Octave was concerned, but Record was too busy to get a hold of, and the music would almost certainly cheer him up as soon as he laid down his first scratch. However... the drink offer was quite tempting, all things considered. But, after pondering the situation for a moment, they recalled that they were underage, and had never had more than a sip of wine, which they had found utterly abominable. Octave pushed the martinis away with their forehoof and sighed. Just as they did, the music cut flat, and a charismatic voice boomed through the fluorescent air.

"Yo, yo, yo! How's everypony tonight! DJ-Pon3 here, gonna lay down some sick drum and bass! House! ...Dubstep!" -The last was met with a disproportionately loud cheer, much to Record's distaste, as he accidentally let out an uncomfortable chuckle- "...so, fillies, gentercolts, and... whatever else, here's Everfree, the house remix!"

An electronic melody began to creep up through the cheers, vigorous, but calming. Octave's tension melted into the table, and they smiled, having not heard anything but baroque for months.

"So... you a filly-fooler, hun?" a shrill, nasal voice squeaked. It scraped against the calm ambiance of the house music like a razor blade across concrete. Octave reeled around with the shock, barely containing a shudder, and came face-to-face with a middle-aged pegasus mare. With a dingy yellow coat and short pumpkin-orange mane, streaked with a gaudy shade of pea green, the mare made Octave want to scrunch their nose with distaste. Upon meeting with a waft of cheap, fruity cologne, mixed with the scent of vodka, their nose really did scrunch.

"Uh... ahem, sorry, can I help you?" Octave said as politely as possible, their eyes downcast, idly searching the mare's "flirtatious" smile for bits of lettuce and finding yellowish stains instead. Wow, that's even more disgusting, Octave thought.

The mare only smiled wider, winking awkwardly. "I said, 'es you a les-bi-an?" the mare clapped her hoof sharply on the glass counter to emphasize every syllable, like a teacher lecturing a foal. Before Octave could even open their mouth, the mare opened hers- again. "Eh, of course you are, or else ya wouldn't be here, methinks. Got ya eyes on any of these fillies?" In the most horrid manner, she even waggled her brows, as if she couldn't get any more obnoxious.

"Er... uh..." Octave had to think deeply before responding to such an overtly rude jab at their identity. "I can't be a lesbian, I'm not a mare, but your interest is... flattering?" they forced that last word through tightly clenched teeth, forming a thinly veiled attempt at a polite smile.

The tipsy yellow mare squinted and tilted her head. "What in the hay kind of stallion is you? Your nose is like a toothpick, and your voice..." The mare trailed off, eyes becoming softer. "...Your voice is familiar... who?... ah, Freddie Marecury! You sound just like the guy!" The mare clapped her scuffed hooves together as if she had won "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?", completely forgetting her previous attempts at sexing her object of desire. "... when he sings like a gal, at least."

Octave turned away and placed their head on their forehoof, elbow uncomfortably pressed into the hard bar table. Stirrings of nostalgia creeped up on the back of their mind. Freddie Marecury. I used to listen to Queenie, Octave mused. I always thought Freddie sang so beautifully, his falsetto so perfectly riding the line between mare and stallion...

When Octave looked up, the mare had left.

They took a long swig of the now-lukewarm martini and gagged.

______________________________________________________________

The night had been quite soothing, all things considered, and the pair walked out of the bar with muzzles held high in youthful laughter.

"Did you see that one drag queen, the purple pegasus with the blue streaks in her mane? Shimmamore? She was a hottie-with-a-body!" Record piped enthusiastically, a bit too tipsy to keep his douchebag switch in the "off" position.

Octave grinned. "Yes, she certainly was beautiful. So confident. Her mane cascaded in such a marvelous way. I simply must tell her how much I love it one day. I wonder what hairspray she uses to keep that wig so stiff?" Octave made trails in their chin with their hoof as they mused about the lovely the performer's style had been, as if she were a divine, animate sculpture as opposed to a warm, sweaty body.

"Octy... you really aren't into mares, are you?" Record cackled, slapping his comrade on the flank, met with a piercing squint of disapproval from Octave, though it was softened by an affable chuckle.

Completely avoiding the question,Octave nodded toward the path in front of the two. "Well, here's the crossroads. Sure you can make it home fine by yourself, buddy?" Octave said, stroking their friend's mane tenderly.

"I'll be fine, I only had... some drinks!" the colt hammed, trotting off with a wave. Octave watched Record jog away affectionately, eyeing the way his black hoodie picked up wind and whipped behind him, and the way he occasionally stumbled and let his drunken guffaws wake up the neighbors. He would be just fine, and he wouldn't let Octave help him if they offered, anyways- he was always the independent type, and he was quite adamant about this fact. Alone, Octave turned around and set off for their apartment down the street at a merry cantering pace, ruminating the day's events. Nothing but the gentle clack of hoof to asphalt rang through the chilly, serene night air. Luna's moon smiled down, only but a waxing crescent, a winking eye foretelling times of growth, or so the legends told. I hope that means my forelocks will grow longer, Octave daydreamed.

Octave's momentum was suddenly broken off- the steady sounds of breathing and trotting were marred with more suspicious rustlings, noises that possibly hid a drunken couple taking their business to a berry bush or another drunken couple bickering over the fact that dinner had been a bit underseasoned this night. Drunkards and their salt, Octave thought, rolling their eyes, the relief of excuses lifting their pace back to a canter. However, the sounds grew stronger, and sinister yelps and poorly-concealed, conspiratorial whispers dug at Octave's ears too much to ignore. Octave's eyes snapped open. A laugh, not Record's. A nasal shriek of a laugh. More of them. Hoofsteps. A voice, barely intelligible, slurred and gurgly, creeping closer, louder.

"Ha, lookit that mare! Plucks 'er eyelashes like some *hic* drag king and comes into our bar tryn'a trick us? What a pervert, and that's a-comin' from *hic* me!" it was the tacky yellow pegasus, her mane disheveled and her muzzle stained with appletinis and cheap wine. She had a cohort: a tall, green earth pony mare macking on her neck, probably a lover.

"Ah... tell 'er, baby!" The vapid mare quipped, licking her "baby's" neck sloppily, her hooves wrapped around her associate's shoulders. The two were stumbling, piss-drunk, absolutely soused to the withers. They were stumbling closer and closer, smirking in a way that made Octave's breathing labored and their hooves beg to run away. However, Octave was frozen in shock, panicked, unable to think. The duo circled them, coming around to Octave's behind.

"Ha... tail's so short! Howd'ya expect to hide your marehood with such a squatty thing above it? I see'n it plain as day!" The vile mare sputtered. Octave snapped their tail over their rear defensively, pupils like pinpricks, breathing accompanied with panicked cries. They had to run. Had to. But they couldn't. "If ya wanna come up in our place lookin' for fillies to fool with, why not just use *hic* us? Ya know ya want it, sweetie!" The green mare rubbed Octave's rear aggressively, and Octave kicked her hoof away in reaction. As it connected, a satisfying crack filled Octave's ears, snapping them out of their catatonia.

"AH! Crap, my hoof's chipped!"

"Baby, who gives a flying feather 'bout that tranny? Ya got me, we don't need some other pussy to have fun!"

"... didya even hear me? I think it's broken!..."

The voices and sobs trailed off quickly as Octave ran. Ran. Ran. Ran. Far, far away. Driveway. Door. Stairs. Bed. Pillow.

Octave wept into it, hoping to drain all of these feelings of fear, feelings of anger from their eyes forever.