Extra, Extra!

Chapters

Ch 1 - Hot Potato
Ch 2 - Gunka Galunka
Ch 3 - Primer
Ch 4- Golden
Ch 5 - Reunion
Ch 6 - Da Funk
Ch 7 - Documentary
Ch 9 - Crucible II
Ch 10 - The Crucible III
Ch 11 - Mural
Ch 8 - Crucible I

Ch 1 - Hot Potato

Print Inkwell woke up with his face smooshed into his brother’s flank, drooling onto his ass. A long night of video games caused them to drop where they had sat, and somehow he’d fallen on his brother’s back half. He woke up bleary-eyed, his head pounding, unsticking his cheek from his brother’s cutie mark. He glanced at the clock; 7:10; school started at 8:00. As he rubbed his eyes, he felt Mango Smoothie stir, and the sudden realization hit him that he had been sleeping on his brother’s plot.

Print shot up as fast as his legs would let him, gagging while he scrambled to the shower. He turned the water on full-blast, not even waiting for it to heat up, scrubbing his face violently with a loofah, still too shocked and disgusted to vocalize an “eww” or “ugh.”

“Print?” Mango Smoothie called sleepily from the other room. “Why is my flank all wet?” Print froze, his eyes shooting open.

“Were you sleeping on…” Mango’s voice trailed off. Print heard him gasp in realization, then gallop towards the bathroom, jumping into the shower in an act of illogic that only the recently-awoken sleep-deprived can make. He crashed into Print, knocking both of them off their hooves. To both their horrors, Mango landed on top of Print.

“You’re making it worse!” Print screamed, fumbling to push Mango out of the shower. His brother’s groin landed right near his face; Print closed his eyes and shoved as hard as he could. Mango’s now even wetter body made a squealing squelch against the side of the tub as he flopped out, stunned and groggy.

“You’re making it worse!” Mango shouted back at him, his long black mane sticking in his eyes. He brushed it away from his face, scrambling to his hooves to rinse his flank in the sink. “You had to fall asleep on my ass!” he whined as he turned the faucet on and shimmied his plot into the basin.

“Uuuuuughhhhhh,” Print moaned as he scrubbed his face with lye soap for the third time. “‘One more game’ you said. ‘It’ll be a quick one’ you said,” he mocked.

“Yeah, well… If you didn’t suck so bad, I could have beaten you quicker!” Mango Smoothie retorted, squirting hoof-soap onto his flank, since it was the only stuff by the sink.

“Oh, right, blame me for this,” Print said, rolling his eyes and shampooing his mane. It normally looked wind-swept and suave, but a night of pinning it between Mango’s smoothie cutie mark and his own thick skull left it looking greasier than a plate of hay fries.

“Your cutie mark should be a tent,” Mango asserted, working the soap into a lather. “Freaking camper.” Print began to reply when Mango shushed him; they could hear hooves coming up the stairs.

“Well, it’s certainly unlike you two to get up so early,” their mother crooned from around the corner in her cultured Ponjabi accent. “But I can’t compla-” she stopped herself as she turned the corner and saw Mango with his plot in the sink.

“Uhhh… What are you doing?” she asked, staring in abject disbelief. Mango and Print stood stock-still in stunned silence.

“Getting ready for school…?” Print offered nervously from the behind the shower curtain.

“...On a Saturday…?” she asked, incredulous. Mango facehoofed, and Print immediately flopped down to sleep right then and there in the running water.

They woke up again much later, separate from each other this time. Print's head pounded and his eyes felt dry and achey. He dragged himself downstairs to the kitchen for a cup of tea and some toast, noting it was 1:30 in the afternoon. Mango followed soon behind, plopping himself in a kitchen chair with a mug of coffee.

"Look who's finally decided to join the world of the living," their mother tutted as she strode into the kitchen. Ordinarily Papaya Smoothie was out of the house all day running the "Smoothie Smoothie", but she always came home for lunch in the afternoon.

"...Brains..." Mango croaked, a little grin lighting up his muzzle.

She levitated two plates over to them. "Potatoes," she corrected.

"Thanks," Print said gratefully before tucking in to the fried potatoes ravenously. His mom tousled his mane lovingly, but gave him a stern, yet gentle buffet on the ear. Before he could swallow his potato to protest, she boxed Mango's ear as well.

"That was for staying up all night playing video games," she scolded, waggling a hoof at them. Her expression softened, and she gave each of them a kiss on the cheek. "And that was because I love you both," she said, pulling back from the table and trotting out the door. "I'll see you both for supper!" she called.

Print and Mango rubbed their ears, looking at ear other in bewilderment.

"Dude, she's..." Mango began.

"...whacked out of her head," Print finished.

"She was worse when I was younger," Mango said, munching on his spuds. "Makes a hell of a potato, though."

"Yeah. How was she worse?" Print asked, apprehensively, sipping his tea.

"Oh, old Ponjabi disclipline," he chortled. "Once she wrapped me in a blanket and hit me with a stick."

"Mom?!" Print asked, surprised. She was known to thwack them on the head every now and again, but he couldn't imagine her going so far.

"Well, it was more like a sleeping bag," Mango reminisced, "and the stick was more like a twig. I don't remember feeling anything. I just stood there getting the linguini like 'You got me! Nothin I can do; you got me.'," he said, smiling his goofy grin.

Print stayed silent, knoshing on his potatoes. It sounded like her, all right. Traditional, but softer than a feather pillow when it came to disciplining them. Their dad was another story. He was known to make them copy out lines of old Ponjabi poetry as punishment for something as trifling as leaving a light on when they left the room. Even when he was just learning, Print breezed through it, while it still took Mango hours to struggle through.

"At least it wasn't 'Gunka galunka'," Mango mused, sharing the same thought as Print. "My hooves still cramp up every time I see the freaking Ponjabi alphabet."

"Meh," Print said nonchalantly. "Never bugged me."

Mango shot him a look. "S'because you write faster than most people can talk, man, come on."

Print held up his hooves in a weak surrender. "Alright, sorry," he conceded. "What do you want to do today?"

"Hmm, I don't know..." he said, glancing at the clock. "It’s 1:35... Kai's probably stoned already,’ he concluded, sounding annoyed.

"Yeah, like as not," Print said. He liked seeing Kaimalomalohumunuka'oliva'a in school, but he wasn't much of a fan of his behavior elsewhere. The drugs and general atmosphere of his house brought back too many memories of a foster home or two. He didn't feel like reliving that, and although Mango didn't mind as much, he only hung out with the big Hoofalulu native to keep him out of trouble. "Probably better we didn't see him."

"Yeah, I suppose not," Mango agreed. "Hmm, it's been a little sparse since Lucky moved away..."

"Yeah, that sucks..." Print nodded. Lucky Charm had been Mango's main gaming partner for a long time, and had helped Print get up to speed in a lot of things, from how to play Road Brawler to the basics of not being a total dork all the time.

"What about your friends?" Mango suggested. "The journalists?"

"Reporters," Print corrected. Print ran the Canterlot High school newspaper, the Fast Times, which was reputed as one of the better high school newspapers in Equestria. Everyone on the newspaper’s small staff was friendly, but had more quirks than a poorly-written program. "Emmett's probably in church and Ee-sang is at an AngelRing tournament all weekend."

"He's good at AngelRing?" Mango said with mild surprise.

"Yep, he and his team made top eight at Equestrian Cyber Games last year," Print said, taking another sip of tea.

"Woah," Mango said, sounding quite impressed. He'd always been a fan of watching pro-gaming, and AngelRing was the hottest shooter at the moment. "Well, then, I guess we're on our own, bro."

"Oh well, I don't really mind," Print said.

"Neither do I," Mango agreed. A coy smile crept onto his face. "Want to go hit on fillies at the mall?"

"What do you want me to do, play bad cop? You know you're the bad cop."

"You wound me, you wound me," Mango giggled, still smiling. "That'd never work anyway."

Print looked him up and down judgmentally. "Not with what you're wearing."

Mango looked down at his boxers and tanktop, scratching his scruffy chin. "Mares go crazy for this."

Print cast him a sarcastic glare, popping his last potato in his mouth and sashaying to the sink to drop his plate off.

"If you were Soarin the Wonderbolt," he snarked. "Unless you've got wings under there the mares aren't going to bite."

"Good! I don't want them to bite!" Mango retorted, shoveling his last three little potatoes in his muzzle, hopping up to follow his brother upstairs.

"Do you seriously want me to wingman for you?" Print sighed, slipping into a well-pressed collared shirt.

"Not really, man," Mango said, carelessly tossing the idea away. "You always end up making friends with the fillies and cockblocking me."

Print was taken aback, but understood nonetheless.

"Maybe you should try making friends with them first," he offered, doing up his buttons and slipping on his casual undervest.

"Maybe you should stop being so gay," Mango retorted.

"At least I didn't hit on my cousin," Print snapped.

"Our cousin, and I'm sure even you, the biggest queen, can admit that Lac was hot," Mango contended, quickly adding: "Besides, she showed up late to the reunion and I didn't recognize her."

"Hitting on anypony at a family reunion is generally ill-advised," his younger brother said serenely. "Besides, she was pregnant."

"Again," Mango huffed, flustered, "I didn't recognize her, and she wasn't showing."

Print looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

"She had the foal, like, three weeks later," he said, straightening himself out in front of the mirror. "You can't actually be serious, right?"

"You said you thought Naan was hot," Mango countered angrily, turning away to hide his blushing face.

"I stand by it; he is," Print said, flushing a little. "But he's still my cousin, so I didn't hit on him. I really don't care if you have a fetish, dude," Print said, trying to end the discussion. He hated talking about his own sexuality, and even though Mango was more blatant about his, he didn't want to keep talking about it when it was clearly bothering him.

Mango stayed silent, still blushing heavily, eventually pointing to the TV.

"1v1, No items, Coyote only, Last Waypoint!" he shouted, hoping to redirect the conversation.

"Challenge accepted," Print chirped, happy for the break. A few matches of Smack Bros later and all talk of sex was forgotten. Print stole a glance at the clock: 2:45.

"Want to see a movie?" he asked.

"Without a filly? I'm not a loser, man," he said, his eyes staying fixated on the screen.

"Yeah, let's sit in and play games all day," Print snarked.

"What do you want to do then, huh?" Mango chided as his controller clicked and clacked. Print sucked his tongue for a moment, thinking it over.

"Want to make dinner for mom and dad?"

Mango let out a cry of laughter like a phoenix’s mating call. "Us? Make dinner? You're totally insane," he hooted.

"Why not?" Print said defensively. "It can't be that hard."

"You can try, dude," Mango sniggered. Print stood up.

"Come on," he said, "we're going shopping."

Ch 2 - Gunka Galunka

"Pepperoni and green peppers, mushroom, olives, chives..." Mango recited, reading labels as he trotted behind his brother navigating the supermarket. "What are you even planning on making?" he asked.

Print took a can of stewed tomatoes down from the shelf. Weighing it in his hooves, he opted for a second can, placing them both in the cart.

"Some sort of gumbo," he said in an easy tone.

"You don't know what you're making?" Mango chided, half-surprised, half-incredulous.

"I have a general idea, and I'm going to throw in whatever looks good," Print said. He didn't cook often, but when he did, he usually used whatever was around. More often than not the results were edible.

Mango leaned against him in despair.

"You're such a faaaaaaag~," he whined. The tan colt brushed him off.

"Isn't that what you do when you make smoothies?" he asked defensively.

"You can't go wrong mixing fruits," Mango replied, leaning on Print again, harder this time. He put most of his weight on him, eventually shimmying up onto his back draped across him like saddlebags. Print's legs, though not weak, weren't quite athletic, and he collapsed in the middle of the aisle. He shrugged a giggling Mango off of him, checking to make sure nopony saw. Luckily the store was mostly empty on Saturday afternoons.

"Philistine," Print mumbled under his breath, brushing himself off, and inspecting his clothing for tears. Mango, in his tanktop and beanie, couldn't care less.

"Can I propose a side dish?" Mango said, hijacking the cart, which was already halfway full with gumbo-makings.

"Let me guess," Print deadpanned.

"Garlic bread," they both said at once; Mango gleefully, Print exasperated.

"You know that typically accompanies a pasta," Print pointed out, reclaiming the cart.

"It would go with gumbo, dude," Mango said, gently shoving and nudging Print's side in rapid succession. "It goes with everything."

"Even with z-lax and hot peppers?" Print snarked. Mango flushed as he remembered the "Blastoff Affair", as it had come to be called among the residents of Starswirl Street.

"Those were the best fuckin' s'mores I ever had!" Mango replied angrily. As Print retorted, an ear stuck up two aisles over.

The ear belonged to Stump Chunkman, the captain of the stormball team. He held up a hoof, his face screwed up in concentration. His fellow players, Buff Drinklots and Blast Hardcheese, came to a halt. Over the vapid muzak playing over the PA, Stump heard the two brothers' voices.

"It's them," he said.

"Who?" Blast asked.

"'The Kid' and his faggot brother," he said softly. Instantly, the trio wheeled around the corner.

"It's anything with chocolate and bread, fucknut," Mango explained angrily.

"Oh yeah, so you think tapas and fondue are..." Print trailed off when he saw the three big pegasi stalking towards them. Mango saw his face and caught sight of them too.

"Man-go Smoothie..." Stump said in an oily voice.

"Not now, Stump," Mango said in a warning tone. "We're in public, dude."

"No, this is Pone-Dixie," Blast corrected. Ignoring his utterly vacuous lackey, Stump continued:

"You cost me a lot of money, you know," he said menacingly.

"You shouldn't have bet on your own team to win."

That sent Stump into a rage. In one fluid motion he took Mango's legs out from under him, lifting him by his tank and pinning him to the freezer door.

"Maybe you should have buckin' made the kick," he seethed. "Dirt pony," he spat, as an afterthought.

Print was paralyzed, numb all over, not sure what to do, or if he even could do anything. Mango had been the kicker for the stormball team last year, one of the few positions a non-Pegasus could play. He wasn't amazing, but he was good (and young) enough to earn the affectionate nickname "The Kid". He was something of an in-joke amongst the varsity players, and for the first time in his life, Mango had been swimming in fillies. The season came down to a final deciding kick against Canterlot High's rival school, and Mango flubbed it. He didn't much care, since he rarely cared about anything, but the rest of the team hated him immediately. He was still somewhat of a polarizing figure in school; some liked him for what he was, while others hated him for choking at the wrong time. Most just forgot and moved on. He didn't bother play stormball again this year.

"Call me 'dirt pony' again," Mango said darkly, somehow managing to seem intimidating despite being pinned.

"What are you going to do?" Buff Drinklots laughed flippantly.

"You've seen me buck," Mango said, stonefaced.

"You couldn't hit me if you tried," Stump said, pushing Mango against the door even harder. "And your faggot friend isn't going to stop me either. Are you, dick-lover?"

"He could hit you!" Print said defiantly, some flame of passion roaring to life within him. "He could hit you right in the stomach. And if he misses by a little... Your sternum’s not an easy bone to set, and if he went lower..."

Stump stared at Print, grudgingly moving his torso farther away while still keeping Mango pinned.

"You know, Stump, I really ought to thank you," Mango said, a smirk creeping onto his face, curtained by his long black bangs. "If I never got on the Stormball team, I never would have gotten to fuck your sister."

Stump clocked Mango in the mouth. Print made as if to help him, but he froze in place, the fire inside dwindling to mere embers. Mango felt around his mouth with his tongue. No teeth missing, he noticed, as Stump seethed.

"Sorry, man," Mango laughed, spitting blood. "If I'd known she was the only filly you could fuck I would have left her all to you."

Stump roared an incomprehensible slur and let him drop, planning to buck him into the wall with his hind hooves. Mango wrenched out of his grasp sooner than Stump expected, dashing away before the bruiser's buck hit the freezer door, just inches from where he was. Grabbing Print by the neck, Mango bolted from the aisle as soon as he could, making a beeline for the exit.

The three pegasi pursued on hoof, as indoor flight was illegal in Canterlot except for designated areas. They were bulky, and slow without their wings, so Print and Mango had quite a lead on them as they bolted out the door.

"Faggots!" they called.

"Dirt ponies!"

"Go touch dicks!"

Mango swished aside his tail, showing them his plot, and gave his brother a quick peck on the cheek, grinning maniacally.

"That ought to excite them," he panted, still running.

"We gotta find somewhere to hide," Print said, panicking as he glanced over his shoulder to see them still in pursuit.

"I know a place," Mango said, still riding the high from pulling one over on his ex-teammates. They sprinted a few blocks down the street, melting into the crowd as best they could. Mango's dark green fur and black mane didn't draw attention, nor did Print's tan coat and brown mane, unlike some of the more gaudily colored ponies, like pink, purple, and red. Mango stuffed his beanie inside Print's shirt as soon as he was able, trying to reduce his visibility from the air. After a few blocks, Mango had them pull off into a small video arcade, the both of them scrambling behind the island of booths in the center so they couldn't be seen from the door.

"Think we lost them?" Mango panted, with a small grin. His mane stuck to his sweaty face.

"I have no bucking idea," Print responded, fixing his coif and straightening his shirt. He noticed the colts and fillies in the arcade were starting to notice them, having caused a ruckus.

"Bullies," Print wheezed. The denizens of the arcade gave them a knowing look and nodded, but said nothing. They'd probably been in a similar situation.

"While we're here..." Mango said, starting to catch his breath.

"Road Brawler?" Print completed the thought for him.

"Super Road Brawler," he corrected. "4."

They played for a while, praying to the arcade gods that Stump and his goons wouldn't find them; happily, they never did.

“What was that kiss about?” Print asked offhanded, feeding a bit into the machine.

“Huh? Oh yeah, I forgot I did that,” Mango chuckled, gripping the fightstick. “Was it that weird?”

“I guess, sort of,” Print admitted, not sure how to feel about it. The game started.

“It was for them, man,” Mango reassured him, dashing towards Print’s character. “Just to piss them off.”

“Thank Celestia,” Print said, relieved, blocking all of Mango’s hits. “I was afraid for a minute…”

“That what? I was into you?” Mango asked incredulously, his eyes focused on the screen.

“No, not that…” Print said pensively, countering poorly-spaced attacks with jabs. “Just like… You were exploiting me, almost.”

“Naaaaaaaah,” Mango said dismissively. “Anything to rile ‘em up.”

“Okay….” Print said, still not sure how to feel. It was one thing for Mango to tease them, but getting a kiss, even one so non-sexual and brief, felt overwhelmingly odd, especially in the context of running away. It made him feel… Naughty, or bad. Associating that with his brother, even if he wasn’t related by blood, couldn’t be a good thing.

"So, um" Print asked nervously, "did you ever actually fuck Stump's sister?"

Mango looked down in despair as he lost by a hair. "Nah, but she's looked like a full grown mare since sixth grade. Even back then she had a fatass plot! I was like 'What are you doin' with that! I'm just a colt, and you look like you're college, of course I'm going to like you!'" he laughed as they both shoveled another quarter-bit piece into the machine.

"So you never fucked her then?" Print absentmindedly said, a little relieved.

"No, she started dating a senior as a freshman. GIve a boy time to develop some game, jeez."

Print laughed it off, and they played on.

After three hours of intense gaming (Print actually coming out on top in terms of score, for once), Mango glanced at the clock.

"Holy shit, dude, it's 7:30," he said, the grin dropping off his face and going stone white.

"Oh, buck," Print said, scared.

"Mom's going to have a cow," Mango said, holding his head in his hooves.

"How far are we from home?" Print asked, having only been to that arcade once or twice, and having lost track of his bearings during their escape.

"A half hour walk," Mango gulped.

"We should run," Print posited nervously.

"We're dead either way," Mango said, trotting to the door.

"Dad gets home at 8:00. Do you want the figurative sleeping bag, or 'Gunka Galunka?'" he asked, following him out the door.

"Sleeping bag!" they said in unison, bolting for home as soon as the words left their mouths.

Ch 3 - Primer

"So what’s the difference between a sub and a hero, anyway?" Mango puzzled. He scratched his scruffy chin. The sun beat down on them, heating the street until the horizon shimmered.

"I think it's what part of Equestria you're from," Print answered, wiping the sweat from his brow. He took a moment to admire their handiwork; the whole side of the Smoothie Smoothie was whitewashed, and there was no trace of the bricks that lay beneath. Their mother had set them to prime the whole side of the building in preparation for some famous artist that was going to adorn the side of the blend shop with a mural.

"Then what's a hoagie?" Mango said with a furrowed brow. He let his brush fall into the bucket, pleased that they were finally done with their punishment. They'd explained as best they could, but their mother's ire saw no logic in their prodigal gaming.

"It's hot, maybe?" Print offered absentmindedly. He stood still trying to imagine what the side of the building would look like when the mural artist was finished. "Is it the same thing as a grinder?"

"All in the sandwich family," Mango mused. They cleaned up their buckets and brushes and went inside. It was midafternoon on a Sunday, so the post-lunch crowd was sparse, but there were a few ponies enjoying smoothies in the booths all around the shop.

"All finished up, boys?" their father asked from behind the counter. Their mouths filled with paint handle, they could only nod in the affirmative. The white stallion had two smoothies ready for them by the time they got back from putting the paint away in the closet; Print's favorite, still-green bananas and dark chocolate ice cream, and Mango's, a mix of kiwi, papaya, pawpaw, and of course, mango.

"You two should be getting home soon," Strawberry Smoothie suggested in his good-natured Ponjab accent. "I hear you're making us dinner tonight."

"Print is making us dinner tonight," Mango corrected, who had long since mastered talking while drinking without taking the straw out of his mouth. Print nodded; he felt bad that he had failed to deliver on his original plan, even if it was supposed to be a surprise.

"What are you making?" the pink-maned stallion asked, more amused than anything. He'd never seen Print cook; since both he and Papaya were excellent chefs, Print had never had to cook for them. His adopted son had picked up a little while bouncing around between foster families, even staying in a home or two where he made all his own meals. His cooking wasn't good, but he felt like he knew the basics.

"Umm, some sort of gumbo, I think," Print said, weakly gesturing with his hooves. "It's still in the embryonic stages." His father chuckled.

"Well, don't let me stop you," he said with a smile, gesturing to the door. "And Mango, lend him a hoof."

Mango groaned and upended the rest of his smoothie, which was more than half, into his mouth. The first time Print had seen him do that, he was positive he was insane, but Mango seemed to be utterly immune to brain freeze.

"Fine, I'll make the garlic bread," he sighed, dragging his brother out the door.

"Garlic bread isn't the answer to all of life's problems," Print said, nodding sagely, still sipping his shake.

"It solves most of them," Mango replied, his eyes glazing over as he thought of tasting the sweet, salty, warm, crunchy bread.

"I wish my favorite food was dirt cheap," Print said, somewhat jealous. He had taken quite a liking to the spicy curries their mother made, but his stomach still cried out for the first food he had when he visited the Ponjab: saffron milk and Turkish delight.

"I'd eat garlic bread for every meal, if I could," Mango said as they trotted along, Print doing so awkwardly because of the shake in his hoof.

"You'd get fat," Print teased.

"Bread makes you fat?" Mango asked, incredulous.

"I'm actually surprised you aren't fatter than you are," Print said, honestly not sure why Mango didn't share proportions with a balloon. "You eat a lot of bread, snack on candy all the time, drink beer… And all you do is lay around and play games..."

Mango just grinned and flexed between steps.

"I'm hella athletic dude, what are you talking' about? You're talking to the Kid," he said proudly.

"Yeah, but... you don't do any upkeep," Print said, still baffled. He certainly wasn't athletic himself, but he didn't eat but half of what his brother did, and they both had stomachs as flat as ironing boards. Their flanks weren't big, either, though Mango's were certainly more toned.

"Good genes, bro," Mango said. "Sucks that you didn't get any."

"Yeah, it does," Print agreed flatly, not bothering to keep the annoyance of of his voice. Noting how perturbed Print was, Mango backpedaled.

"What about you? Your parents give you anything cool in that department?" he asked.

"Huh? Oh, not that I know of," Print said, catching on to Mango's train of thought. "I wasn't upset about the whole fat thing; I was just sort of annoyed we weren't blood brothers."

Mango slowed his pace down a little, brooding.

"But we are blood brothers, for all intents and purposes," he said after Print slowed down accordingly, allowing him to catch up. "It says so on your birth certificate."

"Yeah, but Mom didn't, you know, have me have me," Print said matter-of-factly. "I don't look like either of them."

"Is it a big deal?" Mango asked, worried he might have brought some tension to light.

"Well, sometimes. Sometimes not. I had another mom and dad," Print said. "I still love Mom and Dad, but it's weird to remember there were other ponies who loved me the same way."

Mango chewed on that for a minute.

"But you didn't have another brother," he said. Print smiled, glad his brother had found peace in the situation, and threw a hoof around him.

"That I didn't," he agreed.

"It is still sort of weird, though," Mango said, "I can't imagine having a family before this one."

"Well, it definitely is hard to sympathize with," Print agreed. "Sometimes when I remember back to when they were still around, when I was really little... I think it's our Mom and Dad. Like, not only that it's them, but I feel like they remember doing things with me as a foal, too."

"Woah," Mango said, stunned. "So you mix them up?"

"Not really," Print said. "If I think about it it's obvious who's who, but when I'm not thinking I'll mention something that Mom or Dad doesn't know about, expecting them to remember. Like, they used to take me to the park near the School for Gifted Unicorns when I was really young," Print said, doing his best to explain.

"The one with the statue of Ericious Symphonia?" he asked.

"Yeah, that one! If I wasn't thinking about it, I'd just casually thank Mom for doing that or something. Or ask Dad to make the griffonese toast my other dad used to make. Simple stuff like that."

"Man..." Mango said, floored by Print's explanation. "That's some mindgamey stuff, dude."

"You know what's even weirder? Sometimes I forget, and think Mom and Dad are my other mom and dad."

"What do you mean?" Mango asked, shaken.

"How do I put it... I guess the easiest way to explain it is… It’s like when you write the wrong year after New Years’ for a few weeks. You just sort of get in the habit of expecting something since it was there for a long time. So sometimes I wake up in the morning and expect to see Mom with a coat and mane like mine,” he explained. “Because I see her and Dad as loving me the same way as my mom and dad.”

“That’s heavy,” Mango murmured, trying to imagine the sensory detachment Print described.

“And the weirdest part, the part that completely blows my mind," Print said, finishing his shake for emphasis, "is that I never did that with any other family. I don’t think any of them expected to keep me, so I was just around. For about ten years, I felt like I was on my own, completely forgetting my mom and dad, then Mom and Dad show up and I start remembering things again."

"Like repression?" Mango asked.

"More like association, I think," Print said. He didn’t know much about psychology, but he didn’t get flashbacks, so he was reasonably sure his memories hadn’t been repressed. They just hadn’t been relevant.

"Because you have a family that loves you again," Mango said happily, glad to have found the root of the Print's feelings. "Does it bug you?"

"What? No way! It's awesome that I feel at home again!" Print said, tossing his cup into a nearby trash bin. "I think it's a sign that something is right."

"Man," Mango said, still struggling to comprehend. "This would make a great article."

"Ehhhh," Print said, his voice wavering. "I don't really like harping on you guys. It makes me feel like I'm crying for attention."

"That's cool, that's cool," Mango said, nodding. "I guess just the once, then?"

"Yeah, yeah, I wrote about you guys once and I didn't even expect it to get off the ground. But I don't want to write about my life," Print said. He hated being the center of attention, and he especially hated talking about private things like that with anyone besides his family.

"Oh well, you can write about my blend," Mango suggested.

"The one with the pomegranates and mangos? I don't think I could fill a column with that, much less a page..."

"So, do an exposé on me!" Mango laughed, bumping into Print's side. “All my smoothies and how I’m the best all-around gamer in Canterlot!”

"Naaaah," Print dismissed him. "If I did that I'd have to write about all your incidents!"

"What incidents? The noodle incident?"

"No, that one's too risqué for the Fast Times, but the Lac Incident and the Blastoff Affair would do nicely," he teased.

"Lac is an incident now?!" Mango gasped, horrified.

"I'm sure Lac will tell her foal about 'The Mango Incident', " Print laughed.

"Ohcelestianoooo," he moaned, shrinking away from Print. They walked in silence for a few moments, Print holding back laughter, before Mango piped up again.

"You'd have to include the 'Pillowplot' incident," he said in a small, triumphant voice, a smirk painted on his face.

"Oh, that's an incident?" Print asked, surprised and incredulous.

"Yup," Mango said, smiling smugly. Print flushed and said nothing until their house, a simple two-story on Starswirl street, came into view as they turned the corner.

"At least I didn't need a wet noodle to-"

"OH HI MOM." Mango called as loudly as he could in order to drown out Print as they entered the house.

Print set the pot down on the table, carefully ladling out servings of the gumbo. It was a simple affair, a low heat with chunks of vegetables, and it was passable for a first attempt. His parents tasted as soon as he had finished serving everybody, but Mango didn't touch his spoon. He eyed the bowl of red soup warily, munching on a piece of garlic bread he'd forced Print to make.

"This is excellent!" Their father exclaimed as soon as he swallowed his first spoonful. "Great use of pepper, and the vegetables are cooked perfectly!"

"This is a lot like an Equestrian style of curry," their mother mused. "I like it a lot; great job Print!" Noting Mango’s hesitation, she tried to goad him. "Come on, Mango, try it."

"I don't trust it," he said, eyeing the bowl suspiciously. Print had only tried to cook for him once before, and Mango had only narrowly escaped having his tail burnt off. He was still leery of anything that involved Print and food.

"It's not going to bite you," their father encouraged.

"Well that works out nicely, then," Mango said, taking another bite of bread, "because I don't plan on biting it, either."

Print shot him a look. "Seriously?" he asked. Mango gave him a look of pure disdain, pulling a face that could be interpreted solely as 'only-for-you.' He lifted the spoon to his mouth and swallowed. The disdain melted, giving way to a look of pleasant surprise.

"It's... actually pretty good," he mused. "Not what I was expecting."

Print relaxed a little, now that he had universal approval. His parents might blow smoke in the interest of his self-esteem, but Mango would tell it to him straight.

"Hot sauce?" he questioned.

"Counter," Print answered.

"So I want you two in bed early tonight," Papaya cautioned. "School tomorrow and all that."

Mango groaned and Print sighed, but there wasn't much to be done about it once she got an idea in her head. Mango traipsed back to the table and proceeded to dilute the gumbo so much it was barely recognizable.

"Do you want some gumbo with your hot sauce?" Strawberry snarked.

"That can't be good for your digestion, dear," Papaya agreed.

"It tastes good," Mango defended himself.

"Three," Print said.

"What?" his parents asked in unison, not sure what he had said.

"Two," Print said as Mango raised the spoon to his lips. He had no doubt that his tongue could handle the spice, but his other end...

"One," Print continued, his parents beginning to suspect something was wrong with him.

"Blastoff," Print whispered evilly. Papaya rolled her eyes, and Strawberry gave in to a fit of giggling. Mango pounded the table and Print could see gumbo dripping from his nose as he struggled not to spray it all over the table from laughter. He swallowed, hacking on the hot liquid, taking a moment to dry his eyes of tears from the heat.

“You bastard,” he coughed. “You utter bastard!”

Mango cleaned himself up, finishing what remained of his gumbo as the rest of them talked. Print went unpunished, as the Smoothie family abided by the rule of funny: anything was excusable if it got enough laughs. Similarly, the law of conservation of dishes was in full effect: the cook didn’t do dishes. Usually that meant the work was split between Print, Mango, and whoever had closed up the blend shop instead of cooking, but that night Print was off the hook.

He took the time to pick and press an outfit for the next day, choosing a casual permutation of a jacket popularized by some long-dead Ponjabi minister. It was light, breathable, and complemented his form well. He was known around school as a bit of an eccentric dresser, contrasting to Mango’s simple “tanktop-at-the-most” philosophy, but he enjoyed his style unironically. Canterlot was one of the few places in Equestria where most ponies wore clothes all the time for the sake of fashion, but Mango never quite got the memo. His friends had grown to like Print's style, though, and he actually enjoyed gossiping fashion with the fillies in his homeroom.

“Too gaudy?” he asked, holding it against his body in their bedroom.

“Honestly, man,” Mango said, flopping on the bed, “I think you overdress.”

“Stallions like a sharp-dressed colt,” Print said with a pout.

“They also like them naked,” Mango retorted, covering his eyes with his hooves. Print stuck his tongue out at him, knowing he couldn’t see.

“Want to play some AngelRing?” Print suggested. Mango wearily agreed, having not yet hit his night’s second wind. They gamed into the night, quietly, killing each other softly so their mother wouldn’t hear.

Ch 4- Golden

Print trotted into the biology lab, pleased with himself. He'd gotten a full night's rest on Sunday, so he hadn't fallen asleep in any of his classes, nor even needed any caffeine to make it through the day. Mango had protested, since he had wanted to play him in PlanetCraft, but Print’s good sense got the better of both of them and they got at least eight hours apiece.

The lab was cluttered with various diagrams and models; a ball-and-stick phospholipid stood among the papers on Mr. Cycle's desk at the front of the room, and a stuffed amoeba hung from the ceiling. Similar biology paraphernalia were strewn about the room on top of cabinets, and even in the disused sinks on the lab benches. The walls were covered in posters of biological processes, from the carbon cycle to anaerobic respiration. The desks were the standard sort: one-piece tables with attached seats, but the lab benches were stationary with black, chemical-resistant tops. In one corner lay an old computer, not much good for anything besides entering data, and in the other, a television, most often used by substitute teachers to make them watch videos on Ebola or somesuch. On the lab benches sat five big totes full of live goldfish, for some experiment or another. A few had been separated out into individual plastic cups, probably as a control.

Print set down his bag with a smile, wondering what his crack team of reporters had brought him today. His investigations team, and their sponsor, Mr. Cycle, sat huddled around a desk.

"Anything, guys?" he called over to where the reporters were.

"Nope," huffed Emmett Van der Claw. The chubby griffon stroked the black bush of feathers that surrounded his beak as he rolled a die onto the table in front of him; before he had met Emmett, Print didn't know griffons could grow beards, but Emmett had had one since he was a freshman.

"Not unless we can write about Vinyl Scratch's DUI," snarked Ee-sang Han-mal, a short jade-colored earth pony from a country nobody seemed to be able to guess- and he was content to let them guess. He, too, rolled a die on the table, fiddling with paper and a pencil.

"Absolutely not," barked Cometsong from the lecturer's desk. The lavender filly fixed Ee-sang with a glare before returning to her novel, The Glass Ménage à Trois.

"Yeah, let's call that a 'no'," Mr. Cycle added sarcastically, shuffling his papers. "Scores, boys?"

"A ten, an eleven, a fourteen, and three seventeens," Ee said proudly.

"I got a ten, a twelve, a fourteen, two eights, and a five," Emmett said, grimacing.

"Re-roll, both of you," Mr. Cycle said automatically. Emmett looked pleased, but Ee-sang was indignant.

"Come on, these are the best stats I ever rolled!" he protested.

"If you want to play them, you need some sort of a handicap," Mr. Cycle said impassively.

"Fine... My wizard's a drunk," Ee said. Print covered his eyes in exasperation.

"...And?" the biology teacher prompted.

"...And what?" Ee asked, annoyed.

"Three seventeens, man," Emm said, trying to calm Ee down.

"Three seventeens," Mr. Cycle agreed.

"Fine! He's a double amputee, then—no back legs," Ee-sang spat. "Can I play two characters?"

Mr. Cycle thought about it for a moment. "Only if your other character uses Emmett's original rolls."

Ee snatched the paper from Emmett's claws.

"Perfect; he's an ogre barbarian who carries the wizard around in a backpack," he said triumphantly. Print stifled a giggle, and Mr. Cycle simply looked shocked that he'd been tricked.

"It's not going to matter once I make the atomizer knife," Emmett clucked, much happier with his second set of rolls.

"I don't want to break the game, I want to break the DM," he said, giving Mr. Cycle a challenging glare.

"I invite the opportunity," Mr. Cycle said confidently. "I've been powergaming Mazes and Monsters since before your parents were old enough to read." The older stallion rose, trotting out into the hallway. "I have to make some copies; I'll be back in an hour."

"So what's your build?" Print asked Emmett casually.

"Ranger," he said offhandedly before taking a swig of Hill Nectar, the ridiculously caffeine-heavy soda that was so popular with gamers. "I plan to minmax into the atomizer knife."

"The one where you can only do one or two damage, but reroll and add your score on max or min damage?" Print tried to recall.

"Yep! Infinite damage, as long as I hit. I plan to tie the knives to arrows and rain death," he said with a comically-evil grin showing through his feathers.

"So," Print said, changing the topic of conversation. "No news?"

"It's a Monday, man, give us a break," Ee-sang said, laying back in his chair.

"Besides," Emmett said, rising from his seat and shuffling over to the computer, "Comet's writing an op-ed."

The griffon stopped when he saw the goldfish in cups, fixating on them. "What are these for?" he asked, nibbling a claw.

"Each tub had a different amount of phenol put in it," Cometsong explained without looking up from her novel. She was quite studious when she wanted to be, and was certainly the most conventionally intelligent among the Times staff. Her cutie mark of a comet and telescope stood out against her lavender coat, and her mane was a short black shock. She planned to attend university for astrophysics, and her grades put her within striking distance of valedictorian of the senior class.

She'd been the editor-in-chief before Print came along, unceremoniously swept to the side because the school felt it was his right to lead the operation; a pony with a relevant cutie mark always took precedence when it came to giving out positions, in high school at least. Print had felt bad, and Comet had resented him at first, but once she saw the way he ran the paper, she warmed up to him, legitimately enjoying the articles he wrote. She was content with her role of matriarch, doing what Mr. Cycle either couldn't do or didn't bother doing: keep the boys in line.

Emmett noticed one of the goldfish cups was on a hot plate, likely to warm the fish or add a second variable to the control; Mr. Cycle liked side experiments like that. Noting that both Ee and Print were looking, he turned the heat all the way up, a cartoonish, ax-crazy smile plastered on his beak. He chuckled quietly, as if prompting them to respond. Ee closed his eyes and leaned back nonchalantly, while Print shook his head in disapproval. Even Comet looked up from her book for a moment.

"Don't," she stated flatly, her voice piercing Emmett's good mood like a thorn through a water balloon. Emm's shoulders slumped, and he half-hearted turned the dial back, with a soft, defeated "Y'all suck."

He sullenly turned on the computer and booted an indie game from his flash drive, mumbling about how 'comedy was dead'.

Even though he was a year behind him, Ee was far better at maths than Print was, so he grudgingly coached him through his calculus homework, since there was nothing better to do. Ordinarily, Print would find something useful to accomplish, but since there wasn't much that had happened, he'd bank on Cometsong's op-ed, and hope somepony stirred up trouble during the week. Mango Smoothie always begged him to do an article on his blends, but Print thought the nepotism would be a little transparent. Not only was he his brother, but his best friend, first and foremost.

They had met when they were freshman; their personalities clashed wonderfully, Print’s measured and deliberate calm acting as a balance to Mango’s reckless and fiery disposition. They shared a great number of interests, Mango showing Print all about video games, and Print introducing Mango to pulp novels and tabletop games. They had the same homeroom, most of the same classes; they even had the same lunch period. They hit it off immediately and became fast friends. Mango was the first pony Print had confided in, and Mango didn’t change his relationship with Print at all after he learned he was best friends with a colt-cuddler, save refraining from playful slurs.

Print was in the care of the state at the time, bouncing from foster family to foster family; no family to adopt wanted a meek, nebbish teenage colt. None, save the Smoothies. After spending most of his afternoons at Mango's house after writing for the Times, relaxing and playing video games, he got to know them well. To everypony else, they were just the kindly couple who ran the blend shop on Solar Street, but to him, they were the most stable family he'd ever known, even of it was only for a few hours at a time. They, too had taken quite a liking to him; they made him a quiet proposal, and he jumped for joy. Print had a mother, a father, and a brother before the week was over. The paperwork had gone through just before Spring break, and his new family took their two sons to reconnect (and in Print's case, meet for the first time) with their family in Ponjab Pradesh.

It was the first time Print had left Canterlot, and it was the first time he recalled opening up and being happy with anypony else besides his one middle school friend, Shooting Star. His new dad explained that he had a lot to learn, just like he had when he married Print’s mother; Mango’s relatives were accepting, but certainly different to ponies from Equestria. Moustachioed uncles had clapped him on the back and given him ornate gifts, like flutes and kites and an ebony stationery kit. Aunts wrapped in the finest cloth gave him advice on how to attract a stallion, all while Mango tried to teach his new little cousins how to play Sorcery: the Quickening when he wasn’t geeking out about how good he felt to be a big brother. Print’s head had swam with the culture shock, but he came to love his new adopted family nearly as soon as they loved him.

Print soaked up the new culture like a sponge; he picked up mannerisms and customs through observation, and the subtleties through interview and study with his family. While learning about his adopted culture, which he had much more of a taste for than Mango (who lamented the lack of video games in the countryside), Print wrote a short memoir on what it meant to be accepted and loved by a family who was so new and so different. He was startled they never saw a problem with his sexuality, and that they loved him right from the start. Upon his return, he quietly slipped his memoir in the Fast Times submission box, expecting Cometsong, then the editor-in-chief, to reject it.

To his surprise, he saw it in the Friday edition of the Times, and to his even greater surprise, in the Sunday edition of the Solar Sentinel, Canterlot's citywide newspaper. Cometsong, whose family also came from the Ponjab, took a liking to how it accurately represented an oft-demonized and alienated culture, and after that, Mr. Cycle had sent it to his cousin who made sure it made the third page at least. When ponies realized it had been written by a freshman in high school, he was entered into a contest without his knowledge. Before he knew it, he was in the runner-up for Equestria's Best Young Journalist award, which inadvertently forced him to reluctantly supplant Cometsong as editor-in-chief.

“What’s your op-ed going to be on, Commie?” Print chirped happily as soon as he finished his calculus. It felt good to be free of homework; it meant he could help Mango with whatever he had, and they could get right to gaming.

“Oh, just a little piece on exclusionism and stratification in Canterlot,” she said. “Unicorns dominating high society and education, pegasi compromising the middle class, and Earth ponies being relegated to only certain neighborhoods.”

“That hasn’t been done to death,” Ee-sang said sarcastically. “I’m sure ponies are going to love a rehash of ninth grade Equestrian history.”

“It’s an op-ed,” she retorted. “It’s about my experiences.”

“Yeah, growing up the daughter of two neurosurgeons, must have been hard,” Ee snapped.

“Yeah, like growing up with them never around,” she replied, annoyed. Ee left it alone. He glanced over at Emmett to see what he was doing, but something caught his eye. He his lips parted in a toothy smile. He was about to say something, but Mr. Cycle came back in, carrying a stack of copies.

“You two finished building your characters?” he asked eagerly.

“Yep,” Emmett chirped, leaping from the computer chair to the gaming desk with grace that defied his pudgy frame.

“What. Is. That?” Mr. Cycle said, his face turning dark and dropping the stack of papers to point a hoof at the hot plate. Print saw a goldfish floating upright, its stiff body bouncing jauntily between bubbles as the water in the cup boiled.

The smile dropped from Emmett’s face immediately, as Ee and Print did their absolute best not to explode with laughter immediately.

“Did you do that?” Mr. Cycle asked darkly, more angry than any of them had ever seen him.

“No,” Emmett said, keeping a pokerface the likes of which Print had never seen. His diaphragm was convulsing from stifled laughter, Emmett’s bumbling idiocy having created a unique brand of hilarity.

“You mean you didn’t have anything to do with that?” he seethed.

“Nnnope,” Emm said, looking him straight in the eyes, his eyes nor beak showing no emotion whatsoever. Ee had his eyes closed and his hoof over his mouth to stop from guffawing, and even Cometsong was holding her chest and trying not to fall to stitches. Print himself faceplanted on the desk out of sheer hilarity, but luckily Mr. Cycle was too angry and fixated on Emmett to notice any of them. Cometsong pulled herself together first.

“So who did this, then?” Mr. Cycle shouted, gesturing angrily at the cooked fish.

“It was probably the freshmen in third period,” Cometsong suggested, miraculously keeping a straight face.

“Or somepony from Chess Club,” Ee agreed. Chess club used the room every other day, but both the Fast Times and Chess met every day at the same time, regardless, using the time to get more done and to relax with their friends. Between them, an informal academic team had sprung up, but didn’t get much traction.

“Hmmm, maybe… Yeah…” Mr. Cycle growled, rubbing his jowls. “Those goons are always mucking around in here… I’ll be back in a few minutes.” he mumbled, scuffling out of the room, doubtless to have a talk with the principle or something about restricting Chess club’s access to his room.

As soon as he was gone down the hall (Cometsong looked to be sure), the three ponies devolved into a raucous pile of howling hyenas, hooting about Emm’s misfortunate idiocy.

“It got buckin’ fried!” Ee wheezed.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Emmett exclaimed. “I turned it back down! I didn’t mean to kill it!”

“Let me see that,” Comet giggled, trotting over to the hot plate. Seeing the dial, she couldn’t help but keel over from laughter. “You broke the knob!” she wailed.

“I swear guys!” Emm protested comically, his voice rising to a squeak. “It’s not my fault!”

Print gasped for air as he gripped the desk, unable to keep from laughing. He felt bad for the fish, but the sheer look on Emmett’s face during Mr. Cycle’s accusation would have him laughing for a long, long time.

Ch 5 - Reunion

Print's head bobbed as he flitted in and out of consciousness. He caught snippets of what Mr. Packet was droning on about, but nothing stuck. He leaned farther and farther forward, periodically pushing himself up again in an attempt to stay awake, but Packet was his kryptonite. The old stallion, with his craning neck and bald head, looked like a turtle, and moved just as slow.

"Hay Cart's ontological proof signified for many proof that there was a higher being beyond those who moved the heavens," he droned, averaging one word every two seconds.

Some of the class had given up on paying attention; the grade was based on your ability to argue a philosophical position, so listening to Mr. Packet slow-play them wasn't worth it for many. Print's head rocked in a slow-motion headbang of fatigue, finally crashing down on the desk, waking him up immediately. He jerked upright in his desk, a strange noise coming unbidden from his mouth:

"WuzzzzAH!" he yelped. Mr. Packet narrowed his eyes at him slowly.

"Mr. Inkwell," the old turtle of a pony said. Print blinked a few times, taking a moment to realize where he was.

"Wuuuh?" he replied groggily.

"Explain to me the principle behind existentialism," he drawled at Print, hoping to catch him off guard.

"The senses are inherently untrustworthy, and thus our sensory experience is unempirical, so we can't truly be sure we exist," Print said, groggily and robotically reciting what he could remember from the textbook verbatim, more from muscle memory than actual knowledge. Old Packet blinked slowly in surprise, then went right back to teaching. Print went right back to sleep.

Second period was calculus, another one of Print's banes.

"Sirty-fawwr seegmeh fihifty-weh," said Mrs. Ju-Xi, the maths teacher from Neighjing, writing thirty-four sigma fifty-one up on the board. Print had a hard enough time following the math, but her accent made him sure he wasn't going to do better than a C in the class.

"See?" she said, "Eeesoseemple!"

The class stifled a titter (her accent was a common source of entertainment) but did the work she handed out anyway. After puzzling through most of it, and deciding to save the rest for homework, hoping (against all odds) that Mango would be able to help, Print caught a few minutes of precious sleep. His brother was no laggard, but he wasn't a brilliant student, either.

In the hallway between second and third period, Print felt a hoof on his shoulder. He turned, and amidst the roiling masses, he saw a familiar pink Pegasus filly named Shooting Star.

"Hi, Print," she said, moving a bit closer now that he noticed her.

"Oh, uh, hi, Star," Print said, not sure how to respond. It had been a while since they'd talked. They'd been very close in middle school, but he'd gone into the Fast Times when he was a freshman, and she'd gone into cheer.

"How's it going?" she prompted, feigning casual small talk.

"Uhh, good, I guess," Print said, still not sure how to handle her. "How about you?"

"I have little problem," she said with just a hint of a pout. "And I think you might be able to help!"

"Okay!" Print chimed.

"So... You know how Prom is this Saturday?" Shooting Star asked, looking at the ground and casually rubbing her foreleg.

"Yeah… Did you need a date?" Print asked.

"Oh my gosh, yes!" she said excitedly, all but jumping up. Print was taken aback, but happy he could help her nonetheless. He wracked his brain for colts he knew that would want to take her. Emmett and Ee-sang were... not quite cheerleader date material, or at least Print expected she’d think so.

"Ummm, I don't think Mango has a date yet?" he said. Mango would chomp at the bit to take her to the dance, so Print made sure to offer him first.

"M-mango?" she sputtered. Print almost laughed at her utter disbelief, but regained his composure quickly.

"Or Kai," he said, before she could get too offended.

"Kai?!" she said, more shocked than before. "He's..."

"A douchebag?" Print offered. Kai really was a sardonic jerk, given to sour moods, but really fun once you got to know him.

"Yeah. And he's going with Crystal Blur," she said, sounding bitter for some reason.

"Hmm," Print mused, bringing a hoof to his pursed lips. He didn't really know any other colts well enough to be of much help; besides, Shooting Star was a cheerleader, meaning she could have her pick of almost anyone in school, even the fillies, if she liked.

"It's not them I meant to ask about, Print," she said, looking into his eyes. "It's you."

"M-me?" Print repeated, shocked.

"Yes, you," Star affirmed, nodding.

"Y-You know that I'm a..." Print said, trailing off in the cacophony of the hall.

"Yes, Print, I know you're gay; so does everyone," she said gently. "But that's why I wanted to ask you."

"B-because of that?" Print stammered, still confused.

"Well... I wouldn't expect you to understand, Print, but you have to hear me out, okay? I want to make you happy." she said. "What's your next class?" she asked as a side note.

"H-homeroom," Print said nervously.

"You can skip that to talk, right?"

"I guess so. I-"

"Good, follow me!" Star said, whisking him through the halls towards the auditorium.

The auditorium was huge, designed to seat nearly a thousand earth ponies and unicorns, and there was balcony seating for pegasi. Print followed her to the sound room in the nook by the projectors, all the way in the back, near the exit. The room was small, dark, and cramped, but at least they were alone.

"So..." Print started. "So it… helps that I'm gay?"

"You have to understand, Print, being popular is all about appearances. The more gay friends a filly has... it's almost like a sign of prestige," she said, unhappy with the idea.

All at once, Print felt disgusted. He knew she had changed since they were best friends in middle school, but her blatantly talking about using him was a total betrayal in his eyes. The fact that she wasn't even trying to hide it stung all the more.

"Why?" Print spat.

"I have no idea," she admitted, hoping to console him. "I think it's because we want your approval."

"You haven't said three words to me since we were freshman, and now you want me to be... An accessory?" he fumed, livid at her brazen request.

"Calm down, Print," she said, honestly not meaning to offend him. "That's just what's in it for me. Taking a colt-cuddler to prom is the holy grail, but I'm sure you've noticed I never exploited our friendship before this, right?" she said.

"I suppose you haven't," Print conceded, sitting back onto the sound technician's chair and crossing his forelegs. "... yet. Why not?"

"Because I care," she said. "I protected you, in fact. There were other fillies who wanted to snatch you up, but I wouldn't let them."

"Th-there were?" Print said, his surprise overcoming his annoyance.

"Print Inkwell? Chief editor of the Fast Times? Best Young Journalist award finalist two years running? Video game lover and Mazes and Monsters dork? Print, you're what the girls like to call a 'pet nerd'. The fact that you're a 'cuddler only makes you cuter to them," Star said, her face completely serious. "And the way you dress..." Her visage melted into bliss.

Print flushed, not sure if he was being made fun of, but somewhat grudgingly appreciative that someone noticed his deliberate style of dress. "And why didn't you keep me as a..."

"Pet nerd? Don't get me wrong, I like adorkable, but I just couldn't bear to do all your geek stuff, no offense. Besides, I crave a strong stallion first and foremost," she said, her wings flaring a tiny bit before she remembered herself.

"I know what you mean," Print sighed wistfully, calming down a bit. "Okay, I'm listening; what's in it for me?"

"Well, by being seen with me, you would be a part of our group of friends," she stated matter-of-factly.

"And why is that a good thing? I have friends, you know."

"Yeah, an alpha bitch, a junkie, a foreigner, and a griffon who thinks he lives in a comic book?" she said sarcastically.

"Yes, an alpha bitch, a junkie, a foreigner, and a griffon," Print spat defensively. "Who doesn't think he lives in a comic book... he just... reacts to things differently than most people. What about my brother, huh? Say something about him," Print said, flipping his mane for effect, his voice oozing venom.

"Mango Smoothie? He's... he's different," she said blinking and scrunching. "Look, I'm sorry if I insulted your friends; clearly that was the wrong way to go about this. What I meant to tell you is that you don't know any other coltcuddlers."

Print opened his mouth to retort, but bit his lip instead. She had a point; he didn't know any other gay colts his age, mostly because they all hung out with the popular fillies. Or, because the popular fillies kept them close.

"Fair," he said, measuring the word out carefully. He was still furious, but maintained a facade of calm in the face of her blatant elitism.

"So... this is your in! This is how you meet someone!" she squealed excitedly, as if it was her problem that she'd solved. Print ignored her, chewing it over.

On the one hoof, she clearly wanted to use him as a social tool for her own benefit. On the other hoof, this did represent his way to meet the few coltcuddlers at Canterlot High. At the crux of the issue was the harsh reality that he couldn't take another colt to the prom even if he did know someone who wanted to. It was against the rules, even though fillies could take fillies if they wanted.

"Print?" she said, made unsure by his silence, unaware that his wheels were turning.

"If I'm such a big deal, and the fillies want me," he asked flatly, "why don't I go with somepony who knows royalty, or has better social standing than you?"

"Two reasons," Shooting Star said quickly, clearly pleased with herself for having prepared for the question. "First: we have a history. You can't just waltz up to, say, a Princess, and ask to dance. You need to have an in. There are fillies that would love to go with you, but since you don't know them well, they can't."

"So why haven't the fillies I do know asked me yet?" he asked.

"Again, two reasons. First, they might have another colt, or a filly, or whatever. The other ones... they think that you're out of their league," she said, stressing how important it was.

Print wasn't sure how to feel. It felt strange to be an object of desire, but it was from the wrong ponies, and for the wrong reasons. He felt all at once better and worse about himself.

"The second reason you should go with me: there's a new student transferring in shortly after the prom. Our age, our grade," she said.

"So?" he asked.

"So... one of my girlfriends knows the family, and says he's a gr- er, coltcuddler!" she beamed. "I'll introduce you to him before anypony else even knows his name."

Print chewed it over for a moment.

"What makes you think he'd like me?"

"She said she has a feeling about you two," she said sweetly.

Print stayed silent, still turning the idea over in his head. He didn't really have much to lose; he didn't expect any of the fillies he knew would be offended because they didn't go as friends. Besides, he didn't even know any colts to go with, even if he could. He hated how political and stratified everything was. If this was what the real world was like in Canterlot, he'd have to move to the country.

"Alright," he conceded. Shooting Star threw her hooves around his neck, tackle-hugging him.

"Thanks Print! I'm going to make sure you have a good time, you'll see," she said excitedly.

"Yeah, I guess there's no reason this shouldn't be fun," Print laughed nervously. "Besides, we can hang out more after this, right? I miss all the fun we used to have."

"Why not?" Star said. "I miss 'us' too. I'll admit that has a lot to do with why I asked."

"Really?" Print asked, not sure if she was buttering him up.

"Well, it's sort of embarrassing, Print... But, when we were in middle school, I had that really big crush on you."

"Y-you did?" Print asked, shocked.

"You didn't know?" she asked, equally shocked.

"No way!" Print said, thinking she was joking. "Get out of town!"

"No, I'm serious!" she said, indignant. "I thought you knew, and were just being...?"

"Tsundere?" he offered, stifling a chuckle.

"Tsundere," she said, trying it out on her tongue. "I thought you didn't like me back, for the longest time. Then you came out, and it all seemed so obvious... For a while I was mad at you; I felt like you led me on."

"S-sorry," Print said meekly, not sure if he should feel bad or not.

"But then I just got sad that I'd never be able to be with you," she said, turning away. "I thought about why I had a crush on you, and realized it was because you were just like me."

"Oh, Star, I'm so sorry," Print said, starting to hurt for her.

"But I got over it. I had to forget you. That's why we stopped being best friends..." She turned back to him. "I'm sorry I was such a selfish bitch," she said, looking at his pained expression.

"I... I know what you went through," Print said carefully. "I had a crush on a colt once. He was tall, handsome... perfect... and straight."

Shooting Star hugged her old friend, her eyes watering a little.

"It sucks doesn't it?" she whispered.

"It does," Print said, putting a hoof over her back, gently stroking her wing. She pulled back, sniffing and wiping her eyes.

"You know, going to Prom with you has been a dream of mine for a really long time," she said.

"I'm glad we made it happen," Print said, feeling much better about the whole affair. Everything made so much more sense now. She hadn't strayed because she didn't like him; she strayed because she loved him. "You know," he murmured, mockingly suggestive. "If you had asked me to date when we were younger..."

"I wanted you to ask me!" she exclaimed, giving him a gentle punch on the shoulder.

"I'm the same way; I'm n-not the kind of colt to, um, take the first step," he laughed, uncomfortable with the idea.

"Well," she said curtly, shooing him out of the sound room, back towards the exit, "I'm glad I was."

"What, a colt?" he mocked, sauntering to the exit.

"Go to class," she said darkly.

"Oh, how I've missed this," he giggled to her as he slipped out into the parking lot. He trotted back to the main building just in time for the third period bell.

"I've missed you too," Shooting Star said in a small voice, only after she was sure he'd left.

Fourth period was history with Mr. Stronghoof. Print tried to pay attention as he rambled on about the war between the Griffon Kingdom and the Garuda tribes hundreds of years ago, but his head was in another place and another time. Star had been in love with him. As he sat, turning over memories in his head, it all made so much sense. The way she acted around him, the way she used to spurn the colts who asked her to middle school dances... Print realized that she went to Prom alone every year because she had been waiting for him to ask her.

Print drifted to his fifth period class, biology, without tearing his mind from how blind he'd been. His hooves carried him without thought to Calvin Cycle's lab, his body lackadaisically ricocheting off the roiling masses of ponies in the halls. Why hadn't he seen it? He knew he was never interested in a relationship with her, but could he have loved her back? As a sister? As a friend? Her body didn't entice him, but she was only pony he had ever truly known before Mango. Maybe it could have been that Star's parents adopted him rather than the Smoothies. He had no regrets, but his head still swam with what might have been, and what his inexperience might have cost Star.

A mumbled greeting to Mr. Cycle, and class was under way. Ordinarily he would be paying attention to the molecular processes and complex chain reactions up on the projector, but even when he'd run out of thoughts relevant to Star, he replayed them over and over, cursing himself.

"Print?" Mr. Cycle called.

"Hm?" Print said, snapping back to reality.

"Class is over," he said softly. Print looked around him; all the other ponies were shuffling out of the lab, lugging their backpacks behind them. Even the unicorns carried their books, since magic was forbidden in the halls.

"Oh, yeah, sorry," Print mumbled, shouldering his bag and rising.

"Is... everything okay?" the biology teacher asked.

"Oh, yeah," Print said nonchalantly.

"Getting enough sleep?" he asked knowingly.

"Not really... Can I have a sleep deprivation curve?" Print joked nervously.

"Print," Mr. Cycle said sternly, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Print said holding up his hooves. "I've just been thinking about a new article," he lied.

"What about? I've never seen you get so wrapped up in an article you haven't pitched to me yet," he said skeptically.

"Umm, oh my, how do I phrase it," Print stammered, stalling for time. "It's going to be an exposé on..." he glanced around desperately, looking for anything to save him. "...socks...?" he said, catching sight of a molecule on the projector that looked strangely like a sock.

"On... socks...?" Mr. Cycle deadpanned. "Don't you think that's a little risqué?"

"Well... Not- not really..." Print gulped. "Not what I have in mind." Mr. Cycle looked him up and down skeptically.

"Does this have anything to do with... not that I'd discriminate, but... it doesn't have to do with the, erm, gay aspect of-"

"Nononono," Print hurriedly said. "It's more about the... erm, manufacture... and... history... of socks..." he finished weakly. Mr. Cycle looked at him as if he had lobsters crawling out of his ears.

"And you were zoning out because..." a look of clarity swept over his face. Print wasn't sure what he was thinking, until he realized: Mr. Cycle thought he was having a clop daydream.

"Oh, no, nonononononono!" he sputtered. "I'm not like that; I was thinking about... cotton! And, um, nylon...?"

"Oooookay," Mr. Cycle chuckled. He trotted back up to his desk, a smug smile plastered on his muzzle.

"Really, it wasn't-"

"You're going to be late, Print," he said, smirking as he gestured towards the door. Print shouldered his bag and trudged out to the cafeteria, hot shame hanging over him. He couldn't backpedal now, nor could he convince Mr. Cycle that he wasn't having sexual fantasies in his class. He could only quit while he was behind, let his ego and reputation take the hit, and suffer as his sexuality was thrust into the open air. He hated it when other ponies thought of him as being sexual, in any way. He felt shame, embarrassment, and self-loathing as he went his way to lunch.

"So I said to him: 'Ten for that? You must be mad!'" Kai intoned. Mango nearly choked on his food, tears streaming from his face. The chubby brown pony continued, "So I talked him down to five bits, and he had to smoke me out, then and there."

"Aww, man," Mango wheezed. "That's bucking insane," he said, brushing his mane out of his face.

Print plopped down next to him, looking shaken, and for all the world like he'd seen the dead come back to life.

"You okay, man?" Mango said, putting a hoof on his brother's arm.

"Probably got raped in the bathroom," Kai quipped.

"I've had a heck of a day," Print said.

Ch 6 - Da Funk

"I'll admit, I'm jealous," Emmett said, not looking up from his game of AngelRing. On the television, his vision danced against Ee-sang's. From what Print could tell, Ee was somewhere in a tower on a beach, while Emm was plodding around on the ground trying to find him; Print had tried his hoof a few times, but he was no match for either of them. A crack issued from the speakers. Emmett's half of the screen panned out onto his dead body, and he glanced at Ee-sang with disgust. The green colt shoveled a hoof-full of snack crackers into his muzzle and grinned.

"Alien sniper..." he muttered. Ee's sardonic grin grew wider. While Emmett respawned somewhere far away, he turned around to look at Print.

"Can I have her?" he asked, his smug, toothy smile fading to a more genuine grin. Print was taken aback.

"What...? Y-You mean Sh-Shooting Star?" he stammered. Ee turned back to the game, leaping off his tower, favoring running around with a sword instead.

"No shit," he said amiably. Catching his mistake, he looked around the room for Mr. Cycle. Luckily, he was out making copies or something. Ee-sang took another hoof-full of crackers, and shifted his focus back to the game, not much caring about Cometsong's scowling at his language. Emmett's avatar crossed into his vision, and he shuffled a bit in his seat, running after him silently. Emmett didn't seem to notice.

"I mean..." Print said. "If you can convince her to date you after the prom, sure; I really don't care who dates her. But unless you want to take her to the prom instead of me, we’re sort of going as friends"

"What if I found you a stallion?" Ee-sang said casually, charging at Emm's back, killing him instantly. The griffon squawked in surprise and anger, once again turning to the short colt and muttering curses in broken Neighponese. Cometsong groaned comically from behind Mr. Cycle's desk, burying her face in her hooves behind a stack of papers.

"You know taking a colt is against the rules," she croaked, obviously annoyed.

"Yeah," Ee said mischievously, "But he looks just like a filly. Sometimes he wears filly's clothes."

Print shook his head.

"I'm not... I like stallions, not... Fillycolts," he spat.

"Suit yourself,” Ee said, rolling his eyes.

"A-haaaaa!" Emmett cried, bouncing a bit in his seat, clutching his controller more tightly. He leaned forward more in enthusiasm, and over his back, Print was able to see that he had gotten into some sort of floating vehicle. It wasn't long before he was back on top of Ee-sang's avatar, doing his best to run it over. A few short boosts... and Ee's character flopped across the ground, dead. Emmett and Ee looked at each other, Emmett's eyes narrowed and his beak pinched in a self-satisfied smirk.

"Splattered," he said, holding up a claw as if to hand something to Ee-sang. The colt just shrugged and waited to respawn. Emm cackled evilly. "Why is it against the rules to take another colt to prom?" he said in vengeful mirth. "Fillyfoolers get to go, right?" Cometsong got up, stalking over to the huddle around the TV.

"There are more fillies than colts, and there always have been. Probably always will be," she said. "Mares together has been seen as natural since... When would you say, Print? The Vernic Wars?"

"Probably around there, yeah," Print said, not quite sure. History wasn't his best subject; he liked it, but the dates just never stuck. He had only managed to skate by in that class because his essays and exams were so well-written. Nonetheless, he didn’t want his friends to think he was stupid, so he pretended he knew.

"So the ratio of mares to stallions has always been about six to one. It just makes sense that mares would pair off and find love together. But since stallions are in such high demand..."

Ee-sang snorted, and muttered something about how I had never helped him. Comet glared at him, but continued: "...their homosexuality is really discouraged."

"Cultural materialism," Ee posited.

"Precisely," Cometsong agreed. Emmett clucked as he ran over Ee-sang's avatar again.

"Sounds like the same reasons nobody likes any same-sex stuff in the Kingdom," he mused.

"Prrretty much," Print sighed. ‘Why couldn't things be different?’ he thought. Almost everyone in school was fine with how he was, and most liked him, in fact, but society at large still wasn't ready for him yet.

"It's okay, Print," Cometsong reassured him, putting a hoof on his shoulder. "You'll find somepony. I'll help you."

Print smiled gratefully for a moment before he was interrupted by a jarring cry from Ee-sang.

"Ha!" he shrieked. "Back on top!"

Print didn't even need to look at the screen to know what happened.

"SHIIIIIIIIIIIIT!" came the comedically-prolonged cry from Emmett, who dropped the controller and backed over to the computer, doubtless to brood while playing some obscure Neighponese indie game. Neither his expression nor his mock-shriek changed during his whole walk across the room. Print and Comet stifled giggles at his usual coping technique, while Ee called over, completely dead-faced and serious: "Hey, Emm, want some Goldfish?"

Print looked at his hoof in abject disbelief, only now noticing that the crackers from before were, in fact, goldfish crackers. Unable to control himself, he burst out laughing, nearly falling over in a fit of giggles. Cometsong scarcely contained herself better, leaning against a desk and wheezing. Emmett's eyes narrowed, and he stolidly refused to tear his eyes from the monitor, but his fluffing feathers told the whole story.

"It wasn't my fault," he pouted as his nimble claws danced over the keyboard.

"It so was!" Print giggled, pointing a hoof. Ee-sang triumphantly turned back to the TV, choosing the Gameprism over the Y-Box so that Print could play Smack Brothers with him this time. Emmett had no reply, simply hunching over the keyboard as he grumbled.

"So you honestly don't mind taking a mare?" Cometsong asked casually as the game booted up.

"SURVIVAL!" blared the TV.

"It's either that or stay home, I guess," Print said, dejected, as he absentmindedly selected his favorite character, Commander Hawk.

"You do enough clopping as is," Ee-sang said off the cuff, choosing the swordspony, Mark.

"What?! No, I mean... I don't clop, I..." Print said, flushing and waving his hooves. Cometsong raised an eyebrow skeptically. The game started, and Print was caught unawares, taking a few hits from Ee before he even looked at the TV. "Nice," he spat sarcastically before picking his controller back up.

"So let me get this straight," Comet said. "You're willing to share with us that you're gay. You've admitted that you have a crush on Soarin the Wonderbolt. You basically told us that you want the d. But you won't admit that you clop?" she finished.

"Umm, I, uh..." Print stammered, blushing. On the screen, Ee's character combo'd Print's to death. "I'm..."

"Come on, dude, I clop," Ee-sang said, still focused on the game. "Prodigiously."

"I clop," Cometsong said encouragingly. Print just began to sweat and stammer at the unbid thought of his friends clopping off. It wasn't something he had thought about before, and he was extremely uncomfortable in overt sexuality.

"I... I mean, just, like... No...?" he stammered, blushing even harder. His face felt hot and his hooves trembled, barely able to hold his controller.

"Everyone does it!" Ee insisted. "Even Emm sticks his dick in dead goldfish from time to time."

"YOUUUUUUU!" came the comic shriek from computer, the griffon pointing accusingly at Ee-sang, his feathers all fluffed, and his wings flared in disgruntlement.

"It actually sounds sort of nice," Ee said, making a mock concession. "As long as you warm them up first."

Emmett's claw dropped. His wings folded back into his side slowly as a sign of defeat; his face was a mask of anger and verklempt. He had no immediate retort, so resumed grumbling while playing his game. Cometsong stifled a giggle, and even Print managed a nervous laugh.

"So, how about it?" Comet pressed, after a moment.

"He's probably into some embarrassing stuff, if he's this nervous about it," Ee-sang said before Print could answer. His character on screen had lost yet another life while scarcely touching Ee.

"I'm... I'm not into..." he muttered.

"Griffons, I'll bet," Ee pressed.

"No, I-" Print protested weakly.

"Ooh, paws and claws and feathers," Comet swooned. "Or he could be into BDSM or something..."

"Ha, yeah!" Ee-sang laughed derisively. "I can see him swinging from some chains, all covered in leather."

Cometsong and Ee-sang had such a laugh that Print began to get mad.

"Bukkake?" Ee suggested.

"Petplay?" Emmett grunted from across the room, grudgingly finding the conversation funny enough to join in again.

"Yeah, he likes to pretend to be a pet goldfish," Ee snarked.

"YOUUUUUUU!" Emmett fumed. "SONOFABROODMARE!"

"Or maybe watersports?" Cometsong suggested. That was the straw that broke the camel's back. Print's hooves stopped shaking, and he tensed up. He landed an amazing string of moves of Ee-sang's character, ending with a flying buck to the face.

‘Show me ya hooves!’ Commander Hawk taunted.

"I'm not into any of that!" Print barked, dropping the controller. "Except griffons," he added under his breath. "It's none of your business what I like, and I don’t like you guys treating my sex life like it's publicly traded information!"

"Alright, alright, sorry," Ee-sang said smoothly, clearly trying to calm Print down more than anything. Comet and Ee shared a look of acceptance, realizing they’d taken a joke too far. Cometsong put a hoof on his shoulder.

"Hey, Print, it's okay. I'm sorry we pushed you; we thought you were having fun," she said, looking him in the eyes. Print sighed and hung his head.

"I shouldn't have gotten so angry," he chided himself. "I'm going to have to get used to this eventually."

"How come?" Comet asked.

"People are going to ask about how things went with Shooting Star after the prom, you know? We all know what the trope is..." he said.

"She wouldn't make you... She couldn't!" Cometsong reassured him, surprised. "Print, you're gay, and everypony knows it. Not to be blatant about it... But most ponies knew before you came out."

"Wow, that gay?" Print asked, looking back up at her. He never thought of defining himself by his sexuality, but being recognized for it, and being validated felt good.

"Really gay," she said, nodding. "There's no way she would make you have sex with her after prom, just to fulfill some social expectation."

"Yeah..." Print agreed, still unsure, but feeling better.

"But be careful," she cautioned. "I don't think she would, but you know her better than I do."

"Doesn't say much," commented Emmett.

"Yeah..." Print said, feeling a little more confident. Shooting Star was his friend in middle school. Even if she did still have some feelings for him, she had her pick of the litter in terms of colts at her school. No reason for her to force him into anything; she was being honest the whole time.

"Are you still playing?" Ee-sang asked, drawing Print's attention back to the TV. Cometsong withdrew her hoof, smiling. She leaned in as if to kiss him, but whispered in his ear: "I like griffons too."

She pulled back, giggling, ignoring Print's blushing face as she flounced away. Print shakily turned back to the TV, realizing the gravity of what he'd let slip. A nervous glance at Ee confirmed his suspicions. The green colt resumed the game, and resumed his slaughter of Print's character. In the middle of a combo, he quietly asked: "Do you like Emmett?"

"Not like that," Print breathed.

"Good," Ee replied, relieved. "I'd feel bad for you if you did."

"Oh, I'd feel bad for anypony who did," Print snickered, mashing buttons as best he was able.

"His shitty Neighponese..." Ee spat.

"His beard..." Print agreed.

"The goldfish..." Ee murmured.

"The fedora..." Print said.

And, both at once: "Yuck!"

Ch 7 - Documentary

"Dude. Duuude! Duuuude. Dude."

Mango was more than a little surprised about what Print had told him while they were doing the dishes.

"She's like... a cheerleader!" he exclaimed.

"So? You're The Kid; you knew lots of cheerleaders, right?" Print asked. He shifted on his bed, a game of Retris on the GameColt in his hooves.

"Not in the biblical sense," Mango replied.

"Well, I mean, she didn't sound like she didn't like you," Print mused. Shooting Star had said that Mango was different from his other friends, but she'd left exactly what that meant open to interpretation. "Maybe I could introduce you."

"This is the first time I regret flubbing the kick," Mango sighed. He sat at his computer, casually playing a game that had only come out very recently. He was making a character run around with four others in a large trident, while an opposing team of five ran around because of... reasons. The game was too slow for Print's liking, but Mango (and everypony else, it seemed) loved it.

"You're still The Kid," Print asserted. "You probably could have drowned a foal in the moisture on the cheer bench during the games you won," he said, shuddering at the thought.

"Maybe," Mango said impassively. "She's going with you, either way. This means I have to find a date soon, otherwise I'll go down in history as being less popular with mares than my gay brother."

"It's probably not that uncommon," Print said. "I mean... I'm good with mares... Like, because I'm gay."

"I'm just glad you're not bi," Mango said, clacking a few keys on his keyboard as his character threw a bolt of energy at another player. "I'd never find a mare."

"Fillies don't like bi colts," Print stated, not really sure what difference it made.

"I know," Mango said sourly.

"What...? You're..?" Print said, sitting up and looking at him, fighting a grin at the idea.

"Maybe," Mango said.

"I'd think you'd know by now," Print said, leaning back and smiling.

"I'd fuck anything at the moment," he said. His character died and the screen went grey.

"Well there you go," Print said, waving his hoof dismissively. "You're just using a dry spell."

"What would you know about dry spells?" Mango shot back. "You're a virgin."

"Know any colts around who would do the deed?" Print asked defensively.

"Not me, if that's what you're thinking," Mango said.

"I wasn't," Print answered darkly. Mango changed the subject.

"So I heard talk that you—" he pointed at Print "—are a griffon-groper."

"What?" Print asked, annoyed, sitting straight up with a furrowed brow.

"I heard talk that—"

"No, no, I got that; who from?" Print asked angrily.

"A certain reporter of yours..." Mango said slyly as he turned back to his game, his character having respawned. Print said nothing. He was going to make Ee-sang's life a living hell, but that was a problem for later.

"So you don't deny it?" the green colt asked without looking away from the screen

"I have a thing for paws, alright?" Print confessed, blushing deeply. He was too uncomfortable to talk to anypony else about his desires, but he was always at ease with his brother. "And they're big and strong."

"So I take it you don't like the Fishslayer then?" Mango surmised.

"Ha ha, ha ha," Print laughed sarcastically. His fake smile went flat. "No." Emmett was a bigger griffon, but he was rotund and uncouth.

"So... Paws?" Mango asked.

"They're nice," Print admitted.

"But... beaks," Mango protested. "I kissed Porfira Merryfeather behind the gym in seventh grade."

"Was this before she got fat?" Print asked, sardonically savoring the thought of his brother kissing the griffon who was too fat to fly more than a few hundred feet.

"Uhhhhh, probably in the in-between stages," he said. "She had a nice pudge, but it was cute."

"Ah, right in the goldilocks zone," Print mused. He was approaching his high score in Retris, but the casual conversation seemed to arouse apathy to that fact.

"Precisely," Mango agreed. His character and several others were fighting over what looked like a defensive tower, and it looked like his team was losing. "Beaks, though," he continued.

"They'd probably be okay; I mean, they're not going to cut your lips or anything," Print said.

"I didn't mean your lips, bro," Mango said, taking a quick glance away from the game to give Print the suggestive eyebrows. Print groaned, but didn't reply. After a few moments, he spoke up:

"So who would you ask to Prom?"

"Dunno," he said whilst scratching his scruff. "I'll probably ask Cloudia Hail; she comes in the shop almost every time I'm working." Mango worked Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at the Smoothie Smoothie. Print only joined him on Fridays, since the Fast Times went to press on Thursdays, and any weekend news got reported back to him on Monday, so his afternoon was free. Originally he had felt bad, not working as much for more or less the same amount of pocket money as Mango, but his parents had made an excellent point: the shop was going to go to Mango, since he was the one with the smoothie cutie mark, and running the paper would help Print get a job at a national paper, anyway, so in they end they panned out even.

"The goth?" Print asked. "You think she has a thing for you?"

"She's not a goth, she's punk," Mango corrected. "And yeah, I think it's possible." He frowned; his team seemed to be losing. Print missed a block, which set off a pileup he couldn't undo. He barely beat his high score, but not by enough to feel worthwhile. He pouted.

"You have to tell Mom and Dad, you know," Mango said in a small voice. Print groaned again.

"I bet I'm the first 'cuddler in history to dread telling his parents he's taking a mare to Prom," he sighed.

"They'll be all like 'Ohhhh, Print, you're such a sellout!'," Mango teased.

"Shut up," Print said scornfully. "Want me to tell them you're bi?" he continued, hoping it would quiet him.

"That I'm maybe sorta-kinda bi? Knock yourself out, buttercup," he retorted. "They'd have a cow if they knew you were into griffons."

"It's not an exclusive thing!" Print spat. "I just like them equally! Besides, I'd just quote 'Hirushna Mataram nu Ridash' at them,” he said, the name of the Ponjabi ballad rolling off his tongue.

"That's the one where...?" Mango trailed off curtly, prompting Print to explain.

"Where Hirushna, the princess of Felhi Pradesh, fell in love with a griffon and married him, and the pradesh was ruled by hippogriffs for probably 200 years."

"And you bucking memorized that?" Mango asked incredulously, surrendering and turning around in his chair to face Print on the bed.

"Parts of it," Print defended himself. Mango sighed.

"'I like them equally,'," Mango intoned. "Says the guy who memorized ancient poetry defending it." Print said nothing, turning over to look at the wall.

"Do you want me to tell them about Star for you?" Mango asked. Print nodded weakly. Mango slid off his chair and trotted downstairs. Print heard the muffled sounds of conversation, and twelve hooves clip-clopping up the stairs to their room. He turned to face the door. He saw his mother and father, with Mango close behind.

"So you're taking a filly to prom," his mother stated.

"It's either that or go alone," Print sighed.

"We should really fight to get that changed," Papaya said, looking at her husband. "It's not fair that somepony like Print would have to take a... friend to the dance like this!" Strawberry was thinking differently.

"Agreed, but in the meantime, he's taking a cheerleader to Prom, Papaya. Most colts would kill for that sort of opportunity," he reasoned. She shot him a sardonic glance.

"Because they have nice hips-and-plots-and-things-that-go-boom?" she said, overemphasizing her Ponjabi accent. "That's not what he's after, Sweetieberry."

"No, no, this isn't about what I'm after," Print said, holding up his hooves and blushing. "It's just that... She's a good friend from when I was in middle school, and she figured I needed a date since I don't even know any colts I could go with."

"A good friend? How come we have never met her?" his mother asked, curious and mildly annoyed.

"We sort of... went our separate ways after middle school. She used to have a crush on me, and when I came out she thought I was leading her on the whole time." Papaya's expression softened. She realized that even though Print was gay, he was still a colt. And colts never picked up on when a filly had feelings for them, regardless of whether he is interested or not.

"I see," she said in a small voice.

"But you're back together now?" Strawberry asked. "As friends, I mean?"

"I guess," Print shrugged. He closed his eyes and ran his hooves through his thick, flowing mane. He found it very hard to talk about romance or sexuality with anyone besides Mango, so having his parents grill him like this was torture. He opened his eyes and continued: "She's alright; I think she's over me now, in a romantic sense, at least."

Papaya and Strawberry looked at each other.

"This might be the start of the healing process," Strawberry suggested. He look expectantly at his wife, hoping that was the end of the conversation. He was certainly fine with how Print was, but he wasn’t very keen on delving into details, romantic or physical. Print wished his mother was that way, but she insisted on knowing everything.

"She's not expecting to date you, after this, is she?" Papaya asked, concerned. She knew what went on in a filly's head.

"I sure hope not," Mango chimed from behind them. His parents fixed him with a glare, and he withered with chagrin.

"No, she just wants to go to Prom and help me get to know people," Print said honestly, laying out her intentions as she had explained them. He left out the bit about social appearances, though; he didn't want his parents to think he was being used. "It's going to be fun!"

"You're sure?" his mother asked.

"Yeah; it's not like I'm marrying her or anything," Print laughed nervously, hoping his whimsical facade would get her to back off.

"Thank Celestia," Mango responded. He preemptive my held up his hooves in weak apology, before Print and his parents could give him the 'laser eyes'. "She's a cheerleader," he offered, as if it made his frivolous hope completely transparent.

"Well, as long as you think it's the right thing to do..." their father said. "I suppose all we can say is to have a good time."

"Sure will!" Print chirped with feigned enthusiasm. They shuffled out of the doorway, Mango squeezing past them. As soon as they were out of sight, Print flopped back down on his bed, relieved. He hated talking about romance.

"Come on, sweet flanks; Smack Bros," Mango demanded. Print groaned a dejected affirmative, and lazily slid off the bed like a snake, his plot high in the air with his chin on the ground as he fumbled for a controller.

"That wasn't so bad," Mango said consolingly. He booted up the game and they picked their characters.

"Still sucks," Print croaked. The game started.

"Print and Mango are playing Smack Brothers," Mango said in an affected Trottingham accent, mocking Sir Neighvid Appleburrow.

"They said they were going to talk to the school about letting colts take colts," Print moaned, dreading the inevitable scene their mother would create. He'd be dragged into the office and forced to watch as Papaya went "mama-bear ballistic" on Principle Athens. He hated people making a big deal over his sexuality, but even more so, he hated being responsible for strife. He'd end up shrinking back into the chair, wishing he was invisible, bathing in the awkwardness of having been the root of it all.

"Each player has four lives, or stocks; when a player loses all four, the game is over," Mango continued with his mockumentary-worthy imitation. He sat passively, making extremely uncharacteristic errors against Print's despair-fueled attacks. He lost one life, then another shortly after.

"And I'm sure they're going to try to talk to Star's parents or something," Print pouted as he took Mango's third life, oblivious to Mango's joking. "I wish I could keep all this separate."

"He will lose three lives on purpose," Mango intoned as his character fell off the screen, his character's last life floating down from the heavens and dropping him on the stage. "Now, he will try."

Print was caught off-guard as Mango's character began moving faster than Print's eyes could follow, dashing around the stage quicker than he thought was possible. His troubles were temporarily forgotten as Mango turned up the heat, fluidly taking two of his lives without getting hit once. Mango's controlled clacked clicked while his hooves jumped over the buttons.

"How is possible for a player to be so fast and precise," Mango resumed. "That even the great Print Inkwell is no match?" he finished, killing Print one last time to end the game.

"He doesn't have a girlfriend, for one thing," Print answered derisively, simultaneously annoyed that his brother led him on as well as amazed that he was able to dominate him so hard.

"The noble Inkwell offers weak excuses for his ineptitude, appealing to the basest of reasons," Mango chided from within his charade. He started up the next game, this time selecting the worst and most useless character in the game. Print was expecting him to play harder this time, playing harder himself.

"Is it entirely possible that 'The Inkwell' has no answer for 'The Kid'?" Mango teased.

"Is it possible that 'The Kid' has no cock?" Print shot back sardonically, mimicking the accent even better than his brother could. Even though the match was more even, Mango still beat Print with ease—and style. The match finished, and Mango grinned wildly. Print ignored his smug face and snaked back up onto the bed, mumbling “The Inkwell is defeated.”

Ch 9 - Crucible II

"Hey, dude, I bet you can't this really hot pepper!" Emmett said rapidly to nopony in particular as he materialized in the door, a wickedly red pepper in his claw. Not caring who the challenges was meant for, Mango, being the closest to the door, rose to his hooves.

"Uhh, I bet you I can! Gimme that!" he said equally rapidly so as not to miss a beat, snatching the pepper out of Emmett's claws. He gnawed on it as he would a piece of corn, devouring the whole thing in less than a second. He stood proudly for a moment, a smug look on his face.

Print covered his mouth in disbelief, expecting his brother to start sweating and request a drink at any second. Emmett wouldn't challenge them so if the pepper wasn't ridiculously hot. Mango said nothing, but widened his self-satisfied grin. Cometsong looked from Mango to Print and back again, as if checking to make sure if this was normal. Emmett's beak hung open in utter bewilderment, not believing that any pony would eat an unknown pepper so recklessly. Ee-sang watched with bated breath, sadistically waiting for Mango's mouth to start burning.

"Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt," Mango chirped happily as he sat back down and returned to his pulp novel.

"But... You just ate a phantom chili!" Emmett said in utter disbelief.

"That's what that was?" Mango asked impassively. He nonchalantly turned a page.

"Maybe it was a dud," Cometsong suggested. She was as shocked as Emmett.

"Nope!" Mango said, blowing a gust of air over to her. When her eyes began to burn from the pepper on his breath, she admitted he was right.

"He's insane," she cried. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her eyelids puckered as she comically ducked beneath the desk to recover.

"...He's brilliant," Emmett said, his face lighting up. "Mango, you could eat more of those if you wanted, right?"

"Probably," he mused.

"Provided he doesn't take a laxative," Print joked. Mango gave him the ‘Seriously?’ face.

"Ridiculous! Here's my article for the week!" Emmett squawked. "World record for eating those is three in a day. I have another five," he said solemnly, patting his backpack.

"Wait, you mean I can be in the paper?" Mango said, his smug smile lighting up into a more genuine grin of glee.

"National paper, if we get pictures!" the griffon cried. “They go nuts for world records!”

"WHAT ARE WE WAITING FOR?!" Mango roared. Cometsong facehoofed with one hoof and pulled out the Fast Times’s camera from beneath the desk with her other. Emmett snatched it and both of them were gone before Print had time to process what happened.

"How did he even get--?" he started.

"Just don't bother," she cut him off, wiping her eyes.

"But why does he have--?" Print asked.

"I don't even know," she stated flatly.

"I mean, WHO could have--?!"

"He's a blithering idiot!" Ee interjected. Print's head was swimming; there was truly no explanation for the events that had just transpired.

"Does he eat them like that normally?" Comet asked nervously. Print mused and ran a hoof through his mane; Mango had a reputation as a garbage disposal. He's drink nearly-boiling coffee without complaint, could drink a smoothie without brainfreeze as quickly as he could a bottle of water, and he never sweat from Mrs. Smoothie's hot curries that kept Print's mouth burning for hours.

"I think he has a superpower," Print said with a straight face.

"I'd warn Cloudia if I were you; that stays on the tongue for a few days," Comet said coyly.

"I don't think she'd mind; she likes the spicy wraps we have at the shop," Print said, oblivious to the joke. Comet took his innocence in stride.

"Can I interview you for my op-ed?" she asked, gesturing to her paper in order to change the subject. She probably wanted his opinion as an Earth pony, a minority in Canterlot.

"Nah, seems cheap," Print said. He didn't want to brush her off personally, but keeping source material in-house at a paper as prestigious as the Times seemed amateurish in his opinion.

"But if I pick some random Earth pony in the hall or something I have to get waivers/ and they have to sign and..." she trailed off with a pout. She turned her wide eyes to Print, hoping she could sway him.

"It's my reputation on the line as EIC," he said sternly. "So, no." She groaned and left to make copies of the tedious waivers she'd have to deal with in order to interview anypony.

Print turned his attention back to his books. He had half an article so far; not a front-pager, but a passable exposé on the history of socks. He pored over the books until it was dark out, scratching tediously at the parchment, crafting the perfect educational piece. He mentioned Flightus Adromecus, Whinneyopatra, and Atilla the Pone, and more as examples of how socks shaped history. Some because of their lust for socks, some for their expert use of sock-bolstered wiles, and some for stimulating the textile industry. He mentioned the great sock market crash, and modern Equestrian opinions on the controversial tubes of fabrics.

By the time he finished, it was much later than he had anticipated. Their mom expected Print and Mango home by 6:00, and it was already 6:15. She was going to have a cow. Print gingerly left his parchment on Mr. Cycle's desk so he could find it in the morning and send it to press, and slung his full backpack over his shoulders. He galloped off in search of Mango. After nervously flitting from room to room, he finally found Mango and Emmett in the woodshop.

"You're never going to believe this, Print," Emmett said gleefully as he snapped photo after photo. Mango stumbled around the woodshop, falling onto the floor with his hooves splayed in all directions. The green colt giggled as he saw his brother.

"What did you do to him?!" Print shouted at Emm.

"I think in large doses the peppers have psychoactive effects!" Emmett said happily, ignoring Print's worried ire.

"He's drugged?" Print asked, incredulous. It didn't seem possible that peppers would be able to induce a dissociative psychosomatic response.

"I think his body's turning the capsaicin into phlebotinol," Emm chirped happily, ruffling his feathers at the mention of the psychedelic molecule. "They're pretty similar chemically, so maybe there's enough blowback to produce a high." Mango ran his hooves over a 2x4, picking it up and appraising it as if it was a piece of fine art.

"Are you okay, bro?" Print asked, worried.

Mango didn't reply. Instead he stated at his hoof intently as if committing its every detail to memory. Emmett snapped another picture.

"This is medical textbook shit, man," he said. Print whirled to face him.

"You!" he said in the most commanding voice he could muster. "All you care about is your stupid world record!" he said viciously. The smile dropped from Emmett's beak at once.

"It's not just-"

"Help me get him up!" Print snapped. He was at his brother's side, struggling to lift him to his hooves. Emmett scurried over and hoisted him with ease, setting him back down in a standing position. The griffon simpered at Print, but the tan colt was too furious to notice. He was mad at Emmett for starting the whole state of affairs with his outlandish idiocy, and he was mad at Mango for recklessly following.

"How many did he eat?" Print spat, brushing Mango off. Mango hummed a tune and rocked his weight from one side to the other.

"All five," Emmett admitted sheepishly. Print looked at him as if trying to make the griffon's head explode with his mind. His enraged face frightened Emm, but he took a picture nonetheless. Print snatched the camera from his claws, dragging Mango out of the room.

"Come on, you're coming with me," Print said with an air of command. Emmett snapped to follow without question, obeying nervously.

They made it down the hall to the biology lab, Mango blathering about how they had to step on certain floor tiles.

"Step on the black ones; we'll go faster," he urged. "The green ones heal us."

"This had better not be permanent," Print fumed as he walked into the lab to get Mango some water.

"What are you talking about?" Comet asked. She was spreading sand over her parchment to help the ink dry.

"Mango ate all the peppers and now he's tripping balls!" Emmett chirped helpfully. Print seethed, but nodded. Comet was off her chair in an instant, looking into Mango's mouth, checking his pupils, and feeling his coat.

"How bad is it; do we need to go to the hospital?" Print asked nervously.

"I don't think so," Cometsong said, relieved. "But he is pretty high."

"Your... head spike thingy is high!" Mango shot accusingly, looking at her horn. Print blinked before he could continue.

"So he's not OD'ing or anything," he asked.

"No, no," she assured him. Her parents were doctors, and had taught her quite a bit. She knew the signs of common medical emergencies when she saw them. "But you need to get him home."

"Can't you just teleport him?" Emmett asked, hoping the easier things went the quicker Print would be to forgive and forget. Comet shook her head. Emmett retreated to the lab bench to get Mango some water.

"I can only teleport myself. How far is your house?" she asked.

"A mile or so," Print estimated. The distance was no fun for a unicorn to walk, but earth ponies and pegasi never had any problem walking or flying to school.

"Mile and a half," Mango corrected in a moment of lucidity.

"We can make that in twenty minutes if we hurry," Comet said optimistically. Emmett returned from the bench with a cup of water. He offered it to Mango, who refused at first. Print grabbed him by the jaw and veritably forced it down his throat.

"Another," Print demanded. He made Mango drink two more, and then they set off.

Mango fell down once on the school's front lawn, and needed to be lifted to his hooves.

"Couldn't you levitate him?" Emmett suggested.

"The whole way? Who do you think I am, Princess Twilight?" she lambasted.

Print kept a hoof around Mango's shoulders, letting his brother lean on him when he needed.

"What are you seeing, dude?" Print asked out of curiosity. Emmett made sure to take mental notes.

"The ground... It's like a liquid, but only when we're walking. And I'm seeing these little triangles everywhere, man. Stuff's moving' around that's not s'posed to move," Mango struggled to explain.

"It's okay, man. It's okay," Print reassured him, squeezing Mango against his side for a moment. He was sweaty and cold, which Print didn't think was a good sign.

"Fuckin' triangles, man," Mango complained, dejected.

They took the back roads, since Canterlot was a safe city, even at night. They were in a group, which made them less likely to be accosted, and Print knew which were the dangerous areas to avoid since he had lived in some of them. Ar about the halfway point, in front of Party Platter's Noodle Shop, Mango threw up all over the sidewalk. Print silently apologized and made sure to remember to leave a big tip next time he went there. They scrambled away, Emmett starting to get really nervous. He was concerned for his position as a reporter, but Print was too focused on the task at hoof to worry about retribution.

"Hahahaha; you guys," Mango giggled. "You guys."

"What do you mean?" Print asked nervously. Mango just cracked at them, hooting and howling with laughter so intense his legs wouldn't hold him up. Print made them help him sling a convulsing Mango onto his Back so they could continue.

"I don't think this is good," Comet said nervously.

"Hospital?" Print asked, groaning under the weight that by all rights, Emmett should have been carrying.

"No, no... I just figured he would have calmed down by now." She eyed him, concerned. "You're not going to be able to hide him from your parents."

Print's heart dropped into his stomach. He had been so concerned for Mango's wellbeing that he had given nary a thought to the parental ballistics that would ensue.

"Can't be helped," he sighed, shrugging the giggling colt into a more comfortable position on his back and pressing on.

A few blocks from their house, Mango's laughter turned to rapturous tears of joy. He babbled inconsolably, unable to coherently articulate a thought, but clearly having some sort of religious experience. Commie and Emm shared glances of apprehension; they were uncertain as to how they were going to disentangle themselves from the situation.

When they came upon the Smoothies' lawn, Emmett was the first to flake out. He pointed to his side of the city and flared his wings.

"Hey, man, I gotta get going; it's late..." he said. Comet joined in immediately:

"Yeah, and I have to get up early on Thursdays, and I have to make dinner, and-"

"Did somebody say dinner?" came a voice from the front door. To Print's horror, there stood his mother.

Ch 10 - The Crucible III

"Oh, Print, you brought your friends from the newspaper!" Papaya said happily. Emmett gulped, and Print's mouth hung open in horror. He had planned on whisking Mango up to bed and letting him sleep it off, but now there was no escape.

"Hey Ma," Mango gurgled from Print's back. Their mother squinted at him.

"Is he alright?" she asked. Mango was trying to slide off Print's back, but having a hard time of it. He reached one hoof to the ground and wobbled, throwing Print off balance and setting them both stumbling. Print shrugged him onto the ground, trying to heave him upright.

"There's been a bit of a misunderstanding," Cometsong said in Ponjabi. Print silently noted her genius. She what his mother would call a 'good influence', which softened the situation a bit. Further, hearing somepony speak her native tongue better than Print was able would only butter her up even more.

"What sort?" Papaya asked warily, gesturing them to come into the house.

"Mango has eaten some particularly spicy peppers," Comet said evenly, her accent and phrasing impeccable. "And he's having a bit of a reaction." She trotted inside, careful to wipe her hooves. Emm shuffled in, helping Print drag an uncooperative Mango who was holding forth on the nature of the 'sky shinies' he claimed to see.

"Phantom chilis?" Mrs. Smoothie asked knowingly.

"How did you...?" Emmett asked, his feathers slowly floofing out.

"His father has the same allergy," she said dryly.

"Wait... It's an allergy? And Dad tried these?" Print asked incredulously.

"It is," his mother said, sounding exasperated. "And it's a simple fix. Get him in the shower and clean him up; I'll have the antidote ready by the time you're back down. The rest of you-" she said, pushing their plots to the table with her magic, "-are staying for dinner. Hope you like creme d'embrelaisse!"

"Food is soul fuel!" Mango ejaculated.

Commie and Emm were so stunned that they allowed themselves to be ushered to the table, shakily plopping down in the seats and looking at each other like they were in over their heads.

"Cold water, Print," Papaya deadpanned as she gave him the ‘get-your-butt-moving-we-have-guests’ face. Print snapped to, lugging Mango up the stairs to their bathroom.

"Come on dude, help me out," Print complained to him as they created the top step and Mango splayed out on the floor.

"The floor is moving dude," he said weakly.

"No it's not, come on," Print reassured him, picking him up under his sweaty forelegs and heaving him into the bathroom.

"It iiiiiiis," Mango whined. "It's like those stormball vibrating game things!" Print had no idea what he meant, but decided it wouldn't be important in a few minutes anyway.

Downstairs, Mrs. Smoothie was ladling out bowls of the creamy, zesty soup for them.

"So you're the famous Fast Times staff I hear so much about?" she said pleasantly.

"We're some of it," Emm said, looking around and taking note of the architecture and decor. He'd lived in Equestria his whole life, but he hadn't been inside many ponies' houses, certainly not one belonging to ponies from outside Equestria. He took a spoonful of the soup, and, finding it to his taste, happily spooned it into his beak as fast as he could swallow. Cometsong was more reserved, but enjoyed it all the same.

"This is delicious," she thanked her in Ponjabi.

"Equestrian, please," Papaya tutted. "We wouldn't want to leave anybird out." Comet flushed and Emmett glanced between the two of them.

"But thank you," Mrs. Smoothie said sincerely. "Is he hard on you?" she asked nonchalantly, brandishing a knife and beginning to slice fruit.

"Print?" Commie and Emm asked at once, turning to look at each other.

"No way!" Emmett said.

"He's probably nicer than some of us deserve," Cometsong said, kicking Emm's paw under the table.

"Oh, yeah," he said as his feathers floofed out again. "Sorry about the peppers; Mango ate the first one like a piece of candy, so I figured..."

"Not your fault," Papaya assured him. "That colt loves fiery food… He'd eat a raw goldfish if you told him it was spicy." Emmett's feathers fluffed up as much as they could, and he buried his face in his claws, flushing.

"Something I said...?" she asked, noting his reaction.

"Just a coincidence," Comet stated nervously. She wasn't sure how much Print had told her about Emmett’s piscicide.

Print wrapped Mango in a bear hug, his lighter frame struggling to lift his more athletic brother into the tub.

"Come on, dude," he groaned, straining to lift Mango more than a few inches off the ground. He collapsed on top of Mango's belly, his muscles aching. Mango licked his cheek.

"You don't taste like a smoothie," he mused. Print's cheek burned where his tongue had been. He brushed Mango's sweaty locks out of his face. He held his brother's head in his hooves, looking into his searching, addled eyes.

"Mango. Mango, listen to me. I need you to help me out here, and get into the tub," Print said solemnly.

Mango's eyes caught his for a brief moment, and Print thought he saw understanding. When he let go, Mango did his best to climb into the tub. He only got halfway over, and Print had to push his plot over, but Mango ended up in the fetal position on the shower floor. Print wearily turned on the water, leaving it cold. Mango shrieked in fright and surprise, flailing his legs, but he soon calmed.

"Feeling better?" Print asked over the dull hiss of the shower.

"A little," Mango croaked.

"Still seeing stuff?" Print asked, relieved to have some of his brother's lucidity back.

"The water is like... a road... I'm going down the road and passing all the drops," he said. He held up a hoof to interact with the cold water, letting it fall limply again onto his stomach. Print grimaced; Mango wasn't all-there just yet.

Print quickly shampooed Mango's hair for him, and scrubbed his coat. He decided that he never wanted foals. He considered cleaning Mango's back half, simply for the ammunition it would give him in future arguments, but he thought better of it, and just let water rinse his flanks and groin. He shut the water off, and toweled grumbly Mango off, leading him downstairs.

"So some ponies do eat meat!" Emmett exclaimed triumphantly.

"If you want to go to the outskirts of Hydrabad to meet them," Papaya quipped.

"Just a victory in principle," Emmett said in a smarmy tone. "It's an argument I've been having my my brother for a few years now, and--"

"Are you two okay?" Papaya asked when she caught sight of Mango and Print in the doorway at the bottom of the stairs. Mango's mane was tangled and ruffled, and Print hadn't escaped a second-hoof schvitz. Mango had an air of drugged sedation about him, swaying lazily with a towel around his neck, but Print looked ragged and weary. He was determined to set his brother right.

"Super," Print drawled, venom all but dripping from his lips. His cheek still burned.

"Still seeing those damn triangles," Mango complained.

"This will make those nasty triangles go away, sweetiepea," Papaya cooed, levitating a glass of some blend of fruit to Mango. He caught it after a few tries, and Print helped him knock it back. Cometsong and Emmett watched with bated breath. Mango swallowed the last of the blend, exhaling happily.

He stopped swaying within seconds, straightening up and his pupils returning to their normal size and shape. He opened his mouth to speak:

"That... was..." he began quietly. Everypony leaned in to hear him better.

"...TOTALLY WICKED!" he shouted gleefully.

Emmett collapsed back into his chair, thanking his lucky stars Mango wasn't cross with him, and Comet sighed a huge sigh of relief that the whole ordeal was over. Print's head bobbed in exhaustion, and Mrs. Smoothie turned away to hide her wry smile.

"What was in that?" Print asked desperately. "I need to know."

"Papayas, strawberries, and mangos," she said slyly. “Family recipe.”

Print facehoofed and staggered to an open chair at the table. His mom had a bowl of soup at his place before he finished sitting down. He sucked it down quicker than Emmett had.

“So you’re feeling better?” Papaya asked Mango.

“Oh, yeah, a ton; I feel like nothing even happened!” he bubbled enthusiastically. “I think I have a new routine for concerts.” Print snorted, but his staff stayed silent.

“Well, now that that’s over with, can you tell me anything about the articles you’re writing this week?” Papaya asked, offering everypony seconds. Emmett happily obliged.

“I wrote an opinion piece on stratification in Canterlot,” Cometsong said off-hoof.

“Mango broke the world record for eating phantom chilis, and I have pictures, so I’m probably going to write about that,” Emmett said sheepishly. Print turned his gaze towards the griffon.

“Yeah, and next week you’re going to write a follow-up piece explaining the chemical processes that turn capsaicin into phlebotinol,” Print said darkly, sounding for all the world like an angry father disciplining his child. “And the week after that, you’re writing an technical on the optimal thermal conditions of goldfish.” Emmett turned his eyes down to his soup, looking like he wanted to cry. A harsh punishment, by any standard, but Print was in no mood for mercy. His patience had been tried all week and his nerves had been rubbed raw.

“Come on, Print, that sounds a little harsh,” Mango said. Print directed his ire at his errant brother next.

“If you worked at the paper, I’d have you cleaning out the presses for the rest of the year,” he said coldly. Mango made as if to reply, but thought better of it. Print sardonically encouraged the retort. “Please, brother. Enthrall me with your acumen.” Rather than take the bait, he stalked up the stairs to their room, saying nothing.

“That was harsh, Naani,” Papaya said gently, using her affectionate nickname for him to cool his temper. Commie and Emm stayed silent, basking in the awkwardness that came from being in the middle of somepony else’s family spat.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“You can

Ch 11 - Mural

"So you think Aero Flynn was hot?" Shooting Star asked Print as they trot through the hallway.

"Just look at the stallion," Print said, as if it was plain to anypony. "The suave, debonaire look..." Print bit his lip and smiled, unbuttoning the top buttons of his Oxford and fanning himself with a hoof. "Mmm-mmm!"

"But he got weird," Star contended as they rounded the corner to the biology lab. The last bell rang less than ten minutes prior, so the odd throng of ponies still roamed the halls. Most were on their way to clubs, but some had stayed a few minutes late to finish a test or something.

"He did," Print said, his fanboyish grin turning to a grimace. "But he was still good-looking."

"I guess," Star said dismissively, trotting into the lab. Print followed. Emmett, Ee-sang, and Mr. Cycle were embroiled in a game of Mazes and Monsters.

"Article okay?" Print asked casually. Mr. Cycle nodded and waved a hoof, not bothering to look up at him, too engrossed in devising ways to exact revenge on Ee's game-breaking characters. Print nodded happily, turning about and heading back out the door. He was supposed to go to the Smoothie Smoothie with Mango today to watch a mural artist, but he wanted to make sure his article was good enough to run in the Friday edition. Print knew Cometsong's op-ed would be good, and as much as he hated to admit it, Emmett's article about Mango and the peppers might blow up, since they did break a world record. The jury was still out on Ee-sang's piece.

"Have fun hoof-painting," a voice called. Print turned to see Cometsong cantering by.

"It should be pretty good," Print said.

"Yeah, he's supposed to be a famous artist!" Star added. Comet looked her up and down, appraising her. She didn't make any snap judgements, Print could tell, but she was certainly wary of a cheerleader who knew fine art.

"I know he's famous; he's the only Earth pony with a painting in the royal palace," Comet said in a guarded tone. Outwardly, she seemed friendly, but Print could tell she was still forming an opinion on Star.

"You can come if you want," Print offered.

"I've seen him before," she said, grinning. Print noticed that she relaxed, dropping her scrutiny. "I saw him at a gallery I went to with my Auntie, and then again at the Best Young Artist competition in Manehattan."

"You met him?" Star asked in wonderment.

"No, but I saw him both times," Comet explained. "You might want to watch out; he's a bit of a firebrand."

"He... lights things on fire?" Star asked.

"He gets into fights," Comet corrected. Print bit his lip. Hopefully Mango wouldn't make him angry. That reminded him, where was-

"Puh-rint!" Mango called, loping down the hall towards them. His mane was a mess, and he neglected to shave. He eyed Star appreciatively as he caught up to them. "And Stuh-ar~"

Cometsong winked at Print, ducking into the lab.

"Someone's gotta watch the boys," she giggled.

"Pa-rint!" Mango said again, deliberately overemphasizing his name. He gave Print a series of gentle shoves. "C'monc'monc'monc'mon," he said rapidly.

"Alright, alright, we're going," Print conceded, chuckling at his antics. "Magno," he retorted, turning and trotting to the exit. The green colt grinned and followed, Star in tow.

It wasn't a long walk to the Smoothie. Mango had heard the same thing Cometsong said about the artist; he was ludicrously talented, but also had a penchant for making a scene.

"Something to look for in artists," Mango said happily as they opened the door to the shop. It wasn't crowded, which was to be expected on a Thursday afternoon. A few fillies gossiped over shakes in the corner, and Strawberry Smoothie was talking to a stallion with a bag over his shoulder at the counter. Mango bounded up to the aqua stallion and elbowed him in the ribs.

"You the guy?" he asked, grinning.

"Mango!" Strawberry and Print chided in unison. Mango just brushed a hoof through his mane, which looked short next to the stallion's chestnut locks.

"The artist?" the stallion asked, surprised. "Yeah, that's me! Canvas Clawston," he said, sticking out a hoof for Mango to shake. Mango shook, but his face betrayed surprise.

"The hell dude; you're our age!" Mango exclaimed incredulously, nodding his head to Print and Star. Print blushed and hid his face. The stallion was more of a colt, quite young indeed.

"Mango, come on," Print said softly as he walked up to the pair, trying to mitigate the damage his brother's socially inept honesty might cause.

"So I take it you're Mango Smoothie, then? Your dad said a lot of good things about you," Canvas Clawston said happily, breaking off the hoof-shake.

"He is," Print said, cutting Mango off before he could reply. "I'm sorry; he gets a little excited sometimes..." Print said apologetically.

"Hey!" Mango called out, annoyed at being treated like a foal.

"No, it's totally okay!" Canvas said, smiling. "I /am/ pretty young... What was your name, again?"

"Oh, um, Print Inkwell," he stammered weakly, holding out a hoof. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Clawston."

"Please, Canvas is fine! And who is this young mare...?" he asked, turning to Shooting Star.

"Shooting Star," she said elegantly, holding out her hoof to be kissed. The artist didn't know how to respond, so she dropped it to a simple hoofshake. "Canterlot thing," she intoned at his surprise.

"So /you're/ the filly Print's taking to Prom!" Strawberry interjected, a smile lighting up his face.

"I am," Star said, blushing. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Smoothie."

"I'm glad you two could go together," Mr. Smoothie responded good-naturedly. "So, Canvas, what were you thinking for the mural?"

"Hmm, I was thinking of all sort of different fruits, sort of like planets, and having a pony with a smoothie off to the side. Almost like those old ads from right after The War?" Canvas suggested.

"Ha, I love those," Print said, amused that somepony else liked them too. They were old-fashioned and campy, but they were a throwback to a time when newspapers were much more professional, so he loved to use them as stock art for his articles.

"I know, right?" the artist laughed. "Only the greatest and most refined kitsch," he said in an affected Canterlot accent. Strawberry furrowed his brow at the term.

"Isn't kitsch bad?" he asked.

"It's an ad on the side of a building, Dad," Print quipped. Canvas looked at him for a moment, puzzled, before turning back to Strawberry.

"I can do something else if you like," he offered.

"I'm not sure," he said. "I thought kitsch meant it's bad art."

"It just means it's devoid of social commentary and it's firmly within the zeitgeist," Print explained. "It's safe and has mass appeal."

"Sounds like what you want in order to advertise the shop," Mango said, scratching his scruff. Strawberry agreed.

"Ah, when you put it that way, it makes perfect sense," he said, nodding. The door bell jingled, and a group of sweaty colts fresh from hoofball practice scrambled inside.

"I probably have to take them Strawberry said, simpering.

"No problem; I'll get right to work," Canvas chimed cheerily. They migrated outside, and out of his large bag he pulled all sorts of paints and brushes.

"Anything we can do to help?" Mango asked.

"Sure! Talking helps," Canvas said, rubber banding a brush onto his hoof and setting to work on the white background.

"So... Uh... Clawston... That's a Griffonian name, right?" Star asked.

"It is!" Canvas chirped happily, brushing a wide stroke across the wall.

"Adopted?" Star asked, asking the question on Print's mind for him.

"Nah, married into it," he said off-hoof, neatly outlining the shape of a papaya on the wall.

"Griffons are matrilineal?" Print asked with surprise.

"What?" Mango asked flatly.

"I didn't know husbands took their wives' names," Print elaborated. It didn't make much sense, especially since up until recently, a griffon in the Kingdom could have as many wives as he could afford.

"They don't; it works the same way as it does for ponies," Canvas said happily, filling in the outline. Realization dawned on Print, and he couldn't help but smile and bit his lip.

"He proposed to you then?" Print asked, doing his best to contain his glee. He'd never met a stallion in a same-sex marriage before, and certainly never one in an interspecies marriage.

"Beautifully," Canvas said, turning to them. "You interested in marrying your marefriend?"

"M-my... what?" Print stammered.

"Print's gay," Shooting Star said matter-of-factly.

"Dude, come on, don't spread that around, to ponies he doesn't know," Mango chided.

"He's gay, too. Duh! Like he even could be a homophobe!" Star retorted.

"Oh, so you're just going as friends?" Canvas surmised, starting a new fruit outline, this time a bunch of grapes.

"Yeah; school won't let colts go together," Print confirmed dejectedly.

"But you're out?" Canvas asked approvingly.

"Since I was a freshman," Print stated.

"It takes courage," Canvas said, his tongue between pursed lips as he varied the size and shape of the individual grapes. "But at least it sounds like ponies around here are okay with it. My town... Not so much." Print was glad he didn't know what the artist was talking about.

"So Mr. Smoothie is your dad?" Canvas asked after a while.

"Yup," Print and Mango replied at once.

"Adopted," Print clarified, knowing where the artist was going. He really did look nothing like his family.

"Nonsense," Mango joked. "We're twins!"

"I got the brains-" Print said, starting their stock routine they used when they had to explain it to somepony.

"-and I got the good looks!" Mango finished. "Besides, we've been feeding him so long his blood is basically a smoothie anyway."

"Smoothie blood runs through my veins like giant radioactive rubber pants," Print snarked.

"Don't ignore his veins!" Mango said with mock-gravity. Canvas cracked up, nearly smearing the wall with red paint.

"You two are a riot!" he giggled.

"According to the government, we're an insurgency," Mango replied without breaking stride.

"Terrorists win," Print intoned wryly, quoting a game. Star looked lost, but the artist seemed to get the joke. The aqua stallion took a moment to recover from his fit of laughter, and kept painting.

He painted for hours, drawing fruit after fruit orbiting a big ball of light in the center of the frame. The shading and detail was incredible; Print and Mango had brought various fruits out of the freezer to model for him, and he got every seed and hair perfect. Print and Star provided the models for the smiling, simplistically stylized ponies with smoothies on the side of the solar system image. Print really liked the way his mane looked when painted in such a way.

Canvas didn't like silence while he worked on something that, to him, was so simple, so they talked. They had talked about art, smoothies, mane styling tips, pulp novel, fighting games... After an hour of casual conversation, Print started taking down Canvas's remarks in a sort of informal interview. Though he was neutral on being in the press, the artist was wholly supportive of Print's journalism.

"Anything we could get you?" Mango asked for the umpteenth time as the sun dipped below the Canterlot rooftops, rendering it too dark to see. Canvas wiped his brow, pleased with the finished work. It felt like it was missing something, however. A smile leapt onto his face.

"Can I see your flank for a minute?" he asked Mango.

"The Kid is in demand," Mango snarked, presenting his flank.

"He just wants to look at your cutie mark, fatflank," Print quipped.

"Yep! I just need to see the colors and size," Canvas said, mixing his red and yellow to prepare for the mango color of Mango's smoothie. He changed the shape of the glass a little, but it was still recognizable, even as he painted it whooshing around the sun as a rocket ship.

The streetlights came on, bathing the side of the building in an orange glow. Somehow, there was no diminishment in the look of the mural.

"That's pretty good!" Mango commented approvingly as Canvas put the finishing touches on Mango's cutie mark.

"What did you expect? He's one of the best artists out right now," Star derided. Print remembered what she'd said about him before, readying his quill.

"So, you get into fights a lot, I hear," Print said with the reserved neutrality of a journalist.

"I do?" Canvas asked, climbing down from his ladder and wiping his drinking his brushes in the water bucket.

"Yeah! At galleries!" Shooting Star agreed. She looked just as confused now that Print had brought it up. Canvas didn't seem like the sort to get involved with that sort of thing.

"Oh, um, how do I put it...?" he said awkwardly, lazily applying a small signature to the bottom right of the mural. "Sometimes, ponies get mad that I'm married, or engaged or whatever."

"R-really? I actually haven't had that much of a problem," Print said, honestly surprised a place like a Manehattan art gallery would be a place where ponies would take issue with a gay stallion.

"They're generally older," Canvas qualified. "I'm sure our generation is a little better. Around here, at least."

Our generation. Truly, the aqua stallion was closer to a colt, and he wouldn't look out of place in one of Print's classes. He was humble, but Print still somehow felt inadequate next to Canvas's artistic genius. His own talent, putting words together, felt so paltry in comparison to the amazing art this stallion, not much older than he was, could knock out in a few hours time. Print scratched his remark down anyway.

"Old greymanes tend to be jerks about stuff like that," Mango agreed.

"Good for you for defending yourself, though," Star asserted.

"Yeah, you're sort of a hero," Print mumbled without thinking. The artist looked at his quizzically.

"Overreacting to insults from homophobes makes me a hero?" he asked, cocking his head at Print.

"S'better than just sitting there and taking it," Print said, his face flushing. "Besides, I mean... There aren't many gay stallions to look up to." Canvas nodded. He felt weird to be considered a role model, especially for somepony so close to his own age.

"I'll bet you will be," Canvas said, clapping Print on the shoulder. "If you end up writing for a big paper... Who knows? Maybe you can change public opinion a little."

"I guess," Print agreed, smiling nervously. He had toyed with the very concept, but he had found it egotistical; he didn't want to achieve by using his sexuality as a gimmick, nor pigeonhole himself as a gay talking head. Canvas certainly seemed easy to talk to, and Print had no trouble opening up to him. He resolved to take the artist's advice. "I really should have a goal," he said, coming around.

"So the 'gay agenda' is a thing!" Mango snarked.

"Oh, ha-ha," Print deadpanned. Mango just made the Mangoface, a pinched little smirk that showed his dimples. As far as anypony could tell, it was unique to him. Print turned to Canvas as a thought occurred to him.

"How much do you charge for portraits?" he asked.

"Portraits? I... I'd have to think about it. Why?" Canvas said, unsure, and slightly jarred by the sudden request.

"All the most famous journalists and authors have at least one really good portrait of themselves. They put in under their big articles, op-eds, and stuff like that," Print explained. "Plus, it looks great on a resume."

"Oh, um... I'm not sure," Canvas said, biting his lip.

"Give it a thought; my dad has your address, I think," Print said. "You live in Manehattan?"

"Ponyville, actually," Canvas said, gesturing over the mountains to the village.

"That's in the middle of bumblefuck nowhere," Mango blurted. Star stifled a giggle at his terminology.

"Well, it's home," Canvas said cheerfully. "And it's closer than Manehattan, so I might be able to next time you're in town."

"Might as well; I hear that town is in desperate need of a real paper. It's so remote that an elementary school press is popular over there," Print said, looking as though he'd tasted something foul. School papers in Canterlot (of which there were many) generally weren't circulated outside their own school, though the Fast Times had some notoriety and had some circulation at other schools. Print had heard the editor in chief of the Solar Flare, Canterlot's (and Equestria's) biggest and most prestigious paper, occasionally looked at the school papers to scout talent, but he was reasonably certain it was a myth.

"From what you guys say, you'd like it," Canvas said, nodding to Print and Mango. "You'd probably like Manehattan, though, Star."

"Oh, I know," Star chirped happily. "My family has a high-rise there."

They talked for another half an hour as the sun set completely, Print wrapping up his impromptu interview with all the material he needed to make a good profile of the artist. Mango suggested Canvas return whenever he needed a male model; The Kid worked pro bono. Canvas humored him. Star asked for his address, stating she might like a portrait for the yearbook next year, as well. Canvas was honestly floored by the interest the trio showed him, quite pleased to have made a good impression. After making certain Strawberry found the mural to his liking, Canvas set off to the train station, only a few blocks away. Mango sent him on his way with a smoothie, and Print scrawled out his contact information so he could send a copy of the paper to Canvas so he could read the article. As the aqua stallion stepped onto the train bound for Ponyville, Print couldn't help but feel wistful, wishing he could someday achieve such great heights.

Ch 8 - Crucible I

Print was surprised at how little fallout Shooting Star had caused him. When he went into class on Wednesday, he faced the same problems: lack of sleep, the occasional shove from a jock or two, and a homophobic critic lambasting his cute style of dressing himself. Mr. Packet still bored everypony to death, Mrs. Ju-Xi still blathered unintelligibly, and the halls still brimmed with ponies bigger than he was. In fact, there was so little reaction that he wasn't even sure other ponies knew that he was going to prom with a mare.

"It's not a big deal; colts go with fillies most of the time, you know," Mox Opal reminded him in homeroom. Moxie-O, as Print called her, was the biggest gossip in their grade, so it was no surprise that she knew.

"But I thought ponies might get mad that I'm... you know... Taking a filly," Print said, gesticulating nonsensically. "Away from them."

"Well, I heard Stump was mad about it," she said offhandedly, "but I don't think most people were expecting her to take anypony. She hasn't been sweet on anyone since middle school," she said, her face twisting into a coy smile. "And you know how that went."

Print buried his head in his hooves, dreading seeing Stump anywhere. He was worried for Mango, too. He and his brother both took the advanced classes, which were on a different side of the school building from Stump's classes, and they didn't share a lunch period, but that didn't mean problems weren't going to arise eventually. It was only a matter of time. He groaned, wishing life wasn't so complicated.

Classes that day went smoothly. After biology, Mr. Cycle pulled him aside and asked if everything was alright, offering help if he needed it. Print told him it there weren't any problems, but thanked him. During lunch Kai asked if he could have her instead of going with Crystal Blur, and Sessile Roads made cunnilingus signs at him during gym class; otherwise the day went by without issue. Print had long since learned to ignore the trifling philistines. He hoped that someday somepony would notice his pluck.

The last bell rang, and instead of walking home like the rest of the school, Print made his way to the library. He had dug his own grave, and now he needed to fill it; he checked out all the books he could find on the art of clothing, fashion, and textile manufacturing. There wasn't anything in the Canterlot High library specifically about socks, but Print was determined to make do.

'The first leg and hoof warming garments were produced by protohistoric Neighnanite cultures,' he read out to nopony in particular after he'd lugged the tomes from the library to the biology lab. Cometsong, who was deeply embroiled in her own writing, scarcely noticed. 'The development of fashion followed, and some garments became associated with cults of fertility.'

"How did that even happen?" Mango asked, somewhere between incredulous and sarcastic. He had come to the Fast Times meeting for the day, since the mural artist was going to paint the wall the day after. Their parents wanted both of them to be there, and since minors was only allowed to work so many days by law, Mango had the day off. All the better it was on a day where Mr. Cycle didn't officially stay to sponsor the paper, instead entrusting them with the room key and hoping they'd clean up whatever mess they would inevitably make.

'While initially utilitarian in their implementation, leg coverings became an important social feature of nearly all pony societies, primarily in the interest of increasing mares' suitability for marriage. Certain practices involving fashionable leg coverings were reputed to increase fertility,' Print read, abjectly disgusted. "Gag me with a spoon."

"Well when you put it that way, it all makes so much sense," Mango deadpanned.

"You should interview Tosret," Ee-sang suggested from the corner. He was playing AngelRing so silently that Print had almost forgotten he was there.

"No, no, Print wouldn't do that to her," Mango said dismissively.

"Then Bé--" Ee suggested.

"Him neither," Print said with an air of finality. Poor Bé and Tosret, a pair of zebras who had recently transferred in from the great grasslands, had made a great effort to appear as Equestrian as possible on their first day of school. Due to their limited exposure to Equestrian media, they had thought it appropriate to turn up in striped socks. The brother and sister had been enthusiastic at first, and so had the other students, mockingly and cloppingly, but the administration had stepped in and sent them home. They'd been rather quiet ever since, save for the friends they made from their inadvertently audacious display. Mango had been one of them.

"They would be worthwhile to reference, though.... As an expert opinion, maybe," Mango said nonchalantly.

"No, that would be Cloudia," Print asserted.

"It's a gift shop, not a sex shop," Mango said, grating his teeth. Mango's potential Prom date worked at a variety store in the mall. They mainly carried t-shirts, but they had quite a few novelties as well.

"They have vibrators and lube," Print tutted. "And socks."

"Definitely a sex shop," Cometsong concluded, setting her quill down and massaging her horn. She'd been writing for the better part of an hour; unicorns tended to get headaches if they used magic for more than a an hour at a time.

"Mishar," Mango spat in Ponjabi, summoning the little he did know, which was limited to curses.

"Mishahr," Print and Comet corrected simultaneously.

"Whatever. You know what I meant," the dark green colt grumbled.

"Well, one's a curse and one is a type of bread," Comet clucked.

"Fine," Mango spat. "Mishar derembi mishahr."

Print and Cometsong both laughed.

"You called her a 'bitch sandwich,'" Print giggled petulantly.

"How does Print know this and you don't?" Cometsong chuckled. Print cringed internally. It was a bit of a sore subject.

"He's better than me at learning," Mango spat.

"That's... not true," Print said consolingly, reaching a hoof to the desk next to him to put it on his brother's shoulder. He shrugged it off.

"You picked up more Ponjabi in 2 years than I did in 17. And you know fucking everything about the culture," Mango said, dejected.

Print felt bad for having an advantage in that regard; his cutie mark was for reading and writing, and he had spent a good amount of his time reading the newspapers in the Ponjab. He was utterly fascinated by the gaudiness, dryness, and completely serious tone on which things were presented, especially the sections devoted to arranging marriages. He learned the basics of cultural interaction quickly, shortly after he got a handle on the language.

"It's complicated," Comet offered, seeing how upset he was getting. She wasn't the biggest fan of Mango, but she tolerated him for the sake of her friendship with Print. Even so, she hated seeing another pony in pain, especially from her own words.

"Too complicated for me," Mango said, slumping onto the desk and burying his face in his hooves. Print didn't know what to say.

"Do you consider yourself Ponjabi now?" Mango asked after a spell. Print turned it over in his head.

"I guess, I have dual citizenship," he said evenly, hoping the diplomatic response would placate him.

"No, no," Mango said, shaking his head. "You know what I mean." He wasn't in the mood for diplomacy. Print had to think hard. He loved the culture, but it was clear he wasn't from the area. He didn't have the mane, the eyes, or the ears the his Mom's side of the family had. He was adopted too late to become completely enculturated, but he wished he had been able to grow up with his family sooner.

"No, I suppose not," Print said honestly, feeling a little defeated. "None of my ancestors are from there, as far as I know."

Mango looked Print right in the eyes, longer than Print felt comfortable with.

"Shut up," he said. It took Print my surprise. Mango put a hoof on his shoulder.

"You're the one who has to carry on the Smoothie family tradition. I know you aren't... like, genetically like us, but you're a better rep for the culture than I am," Mango said, his eyes still level with Print. Comet looked on apprehensively. Print wasn't sure how to respond. Mango continued in response to Print's stunned silence:

"Unless I end up marrying a Ponjabi filly, which would just be a coincidence, and probably won't happen, you have to make sure the family stays Ponjabi. You're one of us now."

"I... I didn't know you cared so much," Print stammered. Mango closed his eyes and assumed a posture of indifference.

"A smoothie with no flavor is just crushed ice," he said sagely.

"Then why didn't you bother learning the language?" Ee asked. Print shot him a poisonous glance.

"I tried," Mango replied wistfully. "I just couldn't do it, no matter how much effort I put in."

"It's harder than Equestrian," Ee conceded.

"I'm good at other stuff, so I'm not too broken up about it," Mango said, a shadow of his usual impish grin reappearing on his face.

"Like all the games I'm into," Print complained, thinking of how Mango dominated him at almost every game they tried.

He was happy to be off the subject. At the very mention of video games, Comet rolled her eyes and delved back into writing, and Mango took to explaining all the different socks he could put on his character in Land of BattleCraft. Comet's quill scratched furiously, almost masking the heavy pawsteps and clacking claws rushing down the hall. Print and Mango's ears stood up, expecting somepony to yell at them for being in the room without a sponsor. They got something entirely different.