Mezzo

Record groaned, as did his dated loveseat, as he tossed and turned on it, trying to stave off the incessant noise that was penetrating into his dreams. His eyes flickered back and forth underneath their lids as his body, which was quite debilitated from the previous night's indulgences, tried to guard him from the morning. Gradually, he became aware of the itch he felt from the roughspun fabric of the couch, the greasy sensation of caked, dried sweat that matted his chest fur, the beams of light that filtered searingly through his thin eyelids, and the rancor of the fucking doorbell ringing off the hook. His respite was no longer comfortable, but the obligation to answer the door seemed like an impossible task in this state. However, Record reflected, if a fan from last night- or even one of the ponies I danced with- oh... how many did I dance with, again? Well, if I gave out my apartment number while I was juiced last night, I wouldnt want to disappoint them... bad for publicity, Record...

Record's eyes creaked open and snapped shut again. The light was absolutely blinding. His hoof flailed around clumsily on his nightstand, as his magic was impossible to use at the moment, until he discovered his trademark glasses.

"Oh", Record sighed out loud as he held his sunglasses high over his face, "how versatile you are. You helped me pass before I learned how to pluck my lashes right, you help me get through security when I'm flying high and my eyes are all weird, and now you're going to help me go to the door when I'm hungover. Glassy, you're a true chum." Record dropped the glasses onto his face and squirmed it around until they fit into the proper position. Much better.

The doorbell wasn't even ringing anymore, but a faint rustling could still be heard from outside. Record flopped off of his couch and wobbled drowsily toward the sound. He peeked at his mirror as he passed by and fruitlessly smoothed his hoof over his fur a few times, which simply stuck back up again, as the salt from his sweat had formed tiny, icky, sweaty stalactites of hair overnight. Record winced, but took solace in the fact that his eyes were covered, as they probably looked like red, droopy sandbags. After making his way to the door, Record reached for the knob and noticed that it was... wobbling. Rattling. He quickly attempted to turn the lock, but something had been stuck inside. Realizing the situation, Record's brows shot up and furrowed tightly, looking like ram's horns, and he bared his teeth in a growl. "STOP!" record barked, his magic flaring up painfully out of anger and forcing the lock to turn and the door to open. Lashing his head from side to side as he leaped through his doorway, his glasses whipping off behind him, Record shrieked, "Who the fuck do you think you are, trying to pick open my door!? What do you think this is, a Bethesda game? Just because we dance or snog a few times one night doesn't give you the right to-bleph!" Record's cheeks were squeezed between two dirt-covered hooves and his head was steadied so that he could look at Octave directly. And he did, with reasonable concern. The gray pony seemed even grayer than normal, like ash. Their mane was completely undone, and stuck out in every which way, framing their eyes, which were puffy and inflamed. Record's eyes opened wide and let forth tears of guilt. "Octy! I'm so fucking sorry! I didn't mean to make you cry, I thought you were some bastard I flirted with last night or something! Why didn't you just call me?" he wailed.

The ashen pony gazed downward at Record's chest, wearily. "I did, four times." They said this with no malice, but an undertone of desperation. "I figured you were hungover from yesterday evening, so I took it upon myself to come check on you." Octave chuckled sadly. "Record, how in Equestria did you manage to lock your door in your state of intoxication?" Their faint smile did nothing but cause Record's concern to well up, and he reached out and pulled them into a tight embrace. When he retreated from it, he looked at Octavia through reflective, wet eyes.

"What the hell is going on to make you try to pick my lock, Octy? Er... actually, let's go inside, I think my yelling might make my neighbors come out and see what the fuss is about, and I don't want them to see us like this..."

___________________________________________________________

The drain gulped down the slimy water with a hollow gurgle. Octave and Record shook off the moisture that clung to their fur, showering the tile with it. Both ponies looked quite a bit cleaner than before, but as they looked at each other's faces, they saw no sign of relaxation or glee in each other. The entire shower, which had been shared- a normal practice between close friends in pony culture- had been completely silent. The pair had cared only about washing away the sting of tears in their eyes and the layer of film accumulated from the previous night.

Octave spoke first.

"I need help, Record."

Record's brows tilted upwards as he processed the question- while simple, the way they said it made his heart feel tight. "With what?"

Octave closed their eyes and sighed. "I'm not normal, Record. Ponies like us aren't safe among the normal members of society. You can hide behind your bravado and your glasses and not be hurt, but I can't make myself look or act or be normal enough-"

"Stop saying normal!" Record interjected. His breathing was quick, and his eyes flamed a little. He tried to squelch the fire inside himself before speaking next, huffing out metaphorical smoke as he sighed. "The reason ponies like us get mocked, or hurt, or... killed, isn't because we're broken or bad, it's because ponies are afraid of what they don't understand, and they go to any limit to rationalize that fear; it's a defense mechanism. They tell themselves that we must be immoral or dangerous to justify their fear, and then they tell it to themselves over and over again to justify the terrible things they do because of that fear. It's nothing wrong with us, it's cowardice and cruelty on their part. We aren't bad." Record smiled comfortingly, his face now streaked with tears. "You aren't bad." He placed his hoof on Octave's shoulder.

Octave tried to keep their expression blank, but it was teetering. "I took intro to psychology in high school, Record..." their lip trembled a bit more the more they spoke, and, eventually, their barriers broke and they bawled openly. "Why do they all have to victimize us? We didn't do anything to them! We're just trying to be who we are and be happy with ourselves and they look down on us! They compare us to Discord and condemn us to burn in Tartarus! They try to rape us!" Octave screamed out the last sentence with panic and labored breath. Their legs buckled and they laid on top of them, cowering in fear, hot tears streaming down their cheeks and plinking onto the cold, ceramic tile below. "... Please, Record, I can't bear any more of this pain and fear in my life. I just want to be normal." Octave looked up at their closest friend, pleading with their eyes. Record's face was stone serious.

"We're calling the cops," He declared. "Right now, as soon as you tell me what that piece of shit looked like."

"No!" Octave implored, their pupils constricting into pinpricks. "You can't!" They hopped to their feet and put on a facade of wellness. "I'm fine! I got away before they could do anything, and... I'm fine!" they sputtered unconvincingly.

Record put both hooves on his friend's shoulders and pressed his forehead into theirs, staring them right in the eyes. "Octave, you are not. Fine. You came over to my house looking like a wreck, you had obviously been crying all night, you ringed the doorbell for a good five minutes solid and you tried to pick my fucking lock! You needed help, like you said! And I'm going to help you by getting that bastard arrested so they don't hurt you again!"

Record's nostrils flared. Octave could feel his hot breath washing over their face as they shrunk down, conceding to his pressing, his intense feeling of duty to avenge his friend. Exhaling, Octave rose to their hooves and backed away a bit, gazing down at the floor. "Fine, Record. I'm not fine. I need help," they admitted. "But we can't inform the police of anything. I... didn't even get a fleeting glimpse of what they looked like. It was dark, and I was heavily intoxicated. All I remember is the rustling and the hoof on my flank," Octave lied through their teeth; the faces of those mares had been burned into their memory.

Record puffed his chest out defensively at the last detail, struggling to repress his, quite frankly homicidal, urges towards Octave's assailant. "Well then, Celestia help their souls. They'll get what's coming to them." His serious gaze was fractured by a single teardrop. "This is my fault."

Octave stepped closer to him and frowned. "Record, no, this isn't your fault! I was in the wrong place at the wrong time!"

"It's my fault! I tried to take you to the bar to help you feel safer and more secure with yourself, and I did just the opposite! I let you walk home alone, drunk, in the slummy district of Canterlot, and you got attacked! Why the hell did I think that was a good idea? I'm such a fucking idiot! I'm a terrible friend!" Record yelped, kicking the tile.

Octave sat on their haunches and shook their head, frustrated and weary of the conversation, the back-and-forth bantering of guilt and self-pity. "You are far from a terrible friend, Record. You are my best friend, my only friend, and I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you. What happened was not your fault. Or... my fault," Octave quavered, looking off to the side, "it was theirs. They assaulted me. All you did was try to help a friend in need." Octave slowly opened their forelegs, an invitation of truce.

Accepting the respite from the issue, Record practically fell into their arms, heavy and tense. Gradually, his breathing slowed, and his muscles went limp. He pulled away slightly to be face-to-face with Octave. "What are we going to do? You still need help, and I can't just let this go." Using a forehoof, he rubbed his temple, which was still panging from last night's overdrinking and compounded by today's events.

Pensively, Octave averted their gaze. What were they going to do? The very idea of opening up and pursuing their attackers was mortifying and they didn't consider that an even remotely viable course of action at this point, but, admittedly, if they didn't find some sort of solution, or resolution, for what they were feeling, they would probably not fare better with time.

"I don't know, Record."

"Well, what do you think would make you feel better? Off the top of your head?"

Octave struggled to open up about their needs- they always had a difficult time asking for specifics. They could spew forth their feelings like a gushing geyser if pushed far enough, though it was uncharacteristic of them, but demanding specific help- do this, do that, I need this, I need that- wracked them with guilt. However, this was Record. Though they had a few associates and acquaintances, Record was their only close friend, and the only pony they could truly trust not to persecute them- be it for their appearance, their identity, their feelings, or for expressing what they want and truly need.

"Um... I suppose I'd feel better with more support. Somepony to talk to about this," Octave blinked, "somepony besides you, though I truly and dearly hold your support close to my heart. A community, more ponies like me... like us, who I could talk to without any pretenses. To 'vent' to, as one might say. Of course, I'd want you to be there with me. I know that that sort of thing could help you; it could help anypony who was similar to ourselves, I believe".

Record grinned for the first time in an hour, beaming forth his usual, peppy personality. He bolted out of the bathroom and into the lounge, slipping around on the linoleum hallway a few times. The flapping of pages could be heard, along with the occasional magical surge or knock of a stubbed hoof.

"Octy! I have an- ow!- idea! Get your flank in here!"

Octave smiled softly, the day's anxieties rolling off of their back as they looked forward to the future.