Chapters 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
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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.
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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?"
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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.
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."
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"... 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.
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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.
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..."
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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.
