He hadn't even realized it.

It had gone by so quickly.

Winter had arrived, and it had arrived with fury.

It was completely covered.

Shrouded.

Blanketed by the thick, white snow.

The blank white cloud layer and the blank, white snow it brought had arrived early.

And it had arrived with fury.

And it had covered, shrouded, and blanketed the town with thick, white snow.

The town.

Ponyville was its name.

The residence of Noteworthy, and the other ponies around him.

Ponies he didn't see. Ponies he didn't want to see. Ponies he hadn't seen. Not in days, not in weeks, not in months. He no longer ventured out of his house, the front door growing dustier and dustier with each and every single day that passed. He no longer left his house. No longer opened the curtains. No longer made food.

No longer answered the distressed sounds that sounded at his front door with the accompaniment of a rapid set of knock knock knocks that signified his boss' sorrowful arrival.

No longer went to sleep.

He was starving himself. He was exhausting himself. But he didn't notice, and if he did, he didn't care one bit. It wasn't like there was anypony to impress anymore. It wasn't like there was anypony who would be there for him. Anypony to love him.

He hated to accept it, to following the stereotypical and traditional steps of grief. But he had, and he was now in the acceptance stage, neither happy nor mad, and most certainly not sad. No. He wasn't sad. He couldn't be. He couldn't be sad over something so simple as one mare. One mare he loved.

Oct-

No. No. He wasn't sad. He wasn't sad, but he couldn't mention her name. Despite this, his mind drifted to her more than he was okay with. Or, more than he could handle.

Octav-

No.

Stop.

Noteworthy. Stop.

He must'n't drift into the same routine again. Every time. Every single time he thought of her, an overwhelming amount of pain drifted through him with the lash of a thousand whips, as if it was a sort of torture. Maybe to him, but maybe not. He didn't know all too much anyhow. Maybe he was going crazy, he no longer left his house, and he most certainly didn't open his curtains to let the sun in-

The sun. He hadn't seen it for a long, long time. No opening of front doors, no opening of curtains. No sun. His house was most certainly a mess to see in the sun, but he didn't let it in, so how bad could it look to him now? He still wondered, despite. He tried his hardest to keep it presentable, but he still found himself wondering how he still did anything like that. It wasn't like there was anypony to impress, anypony to bring into his house and rate it like a Canterlot aristocrat who would stick their noses high into the air as if staring forward was but a sin, a curse. It didn't matter to him.

He was okay with it. And that was enough for Noteworthy.

And Noteworthy was always right.... right?

Right?

Was Noteworthy always right?

He thought back to his past. All the times he was right, and all the times he was dead wrong. Octav-

No. School. Grades. Family. Friends. Octav-

Damn it all. That was no good.

Maybe thinking wasn't best for him. At least, not of his own rightness. It didn't matter anymore anyhow. He was where he was at, because of how he thought, and who he thought of. That gray, Earth pony mare-

Stop it.

His head hurt sometimes. More times now than before.

He clutched it, shaking the ringing in his ears to the floor beneath him, dispelling them and sending them to oblivion in a pained hurry. As he shook his head, he blinked once, twice, three times, and found himself in the present once again, no longer sitting and thinking. There was no hill to go to.

His house was dark. The curtains were closed, as always, their dusty blue fibers remaining at a stand-still, like the rest of Noteworthy's house. Yes, his house seemed to be at a stand-still. As if it were stuck in one part of time and would remain like that for eternities to come. What he assumed to be the sun's beating rays tried their hardest to peer through the thick silk, only to be stopped by the thick silk itself. It was, after all, thick silk.

Thick silk. Huh. He didn't remember when he had acquired such a luxury. Thick silk wasn't a rarity around Noteworthy's residence, but it was a sight to see. At least, it was to him.

Thick silk. Thick. Silk. Thicksilk. Thick. Thick, thick silk.

Thick.

He rubbed his head again, gritting his teeth this time.

And this time, he blinked away his thoughts even more, and finally peered upward, only needing to lift his head up slightly to realize what he was doing.

Lying on the floor. Again? It couldn't have been the umpteenth time, but it sure was a time. He didn't remember the last time he had actually slept in his bed. Or, really, the last time he had ever been in his room for more than ten minutes at a time. It was all mismatched, mixed-up.

That probably had to do with the bottles that clinked lightly as he shakily rose to all fours, golden eyes narrowed in exhaustion and a tiring so affecting that he had remained inside his house for months without any contact from anypony ever.

He was becoming something reclusive, something that could only seek solitude and loneliness in its entire life, but he couldn't quite place a hoof on it.

And it wasn't like his brain was functioning properly all too often anyway. Only one thing roamed through it constantly, which most certainly wasn't healthy as far as he knew, but then again, neither was starving, exhausting, and drinking oneself to death. Which was what he was doing. It worked out for him; if he didn't eat, there wasn't any food to slowly lose. He had a refrigerator, a freezer. He could keep food stored for quite awhile.

Octav-

His eyes wandered to the floor, finding the bottles in full motion, rolling circles, curves, or even away from him, as if sensing what the stallion was capable of. Sure, he wasn't a unicorn, and he was certainly not a wall-ball player, but he was not something to trifle with as far as he knew. If he had the chance, he would probably beat the tar out of himself in complete anger for no reason whatsoever.

Noteworthy wasn't a devil. He knew that well.

But Noteworthy wasn't a saint, either. He knew that even more, but that was most likely due to his low, if non-existent self-esteem. He hated himself, it was true. He was a horrible pony, and quite honestly deserved the position he was in. He was a horrible person. He thought so. And Noteworthy was always right, right?

Maybe.

Snow.

Snow snow snow snow.

Winter. It had arrived.

And it had arrived with fury.

He didn't open the curtains, and he did not open the front door and step outside, but he was able to safely presume how covered his residence was. He had lived there for more than twenty five years. He knew the residence like the back of his hoof, which he could no longer see in the light-less interior of his household.

He raised the hoof, and noticed that he could indeed see it. Scratch that then, but what of his face?

It hadn't exactly struck him, but it wasn't like he necessarily cared. He raised the hoof, higher this time, to assess his face.

He scratched at his chin, under his nose, and around his cheekbone. He scratched at what he assumed to be a beard, something he seemed to be growing from neglect for his face. He hummed at it, a low, silent hum, and raised the hoof even further up to assess his mane. It was scraggly, unkempt, practically wild, like an exiled lion's who fell in love with a mare and was subsequently subjected to heartbreak and failure at every turn and finally broke down one day and kept to himself for four whole months, not opening the curtains, not opening the front door, forgetting about his appearance for lack of a better word, forgetting about everything around, counting the ponies and the town and his boss and Octav-

Stop.

He rubbed his forehead and grimaced. His vision swam in front of him as he slowly stepped through his house, the darkness from the sun-blocking curtains shrouding any mess that may have been lying on the floor. He always avoided the drywall of art, knowing full well what mess was on the floor by it, and what mess would become of him if he witnessed the painting again. It would remain on the floor for as long as would transpire, and that was just the way it was. And Noteworthy accepted that without a single word of skepticism.

Faust, he was a mess. Faust, he was a mess.

Faust.

He should really clean himself up. But, then again, why bother? He was inside his house twenty-four seven, and it wasn't like anypony bothered to try to interact with him, save for the knock knock knocking of his boss' arrival, but that was it. Nopony else.

Truth be told, he had nopony else anyhow. Not the biped hunter, not the carrot farmer, not the dentist enthusiast. They weren't his friends, they were Octav...

...they weren't his friends. He accepted that, and truth be told it didn't affect him as much as he thought it would. They didn't knock at his door, and he hadn't talked to them in a long time anyhow. He hadn't talked to a lot of ponies in a long time, anyhow. Not even his boss, no matter how much she knocked at his door and insisted he talk to her. He just didn't, and she would soon leave his door, only to return the next day to rinse and repeat.

He wondered why she knocked.

Damned thing wasn't even locked in the first place.

Even when he thought he'd collapse on the floor and sleep, the idea of locking the front door never crossed his mind. Maybe it was because he didn't care if anypony came to rob him in the middle of the night as he stupidly slept, or if the bastard finally came back to finish the job in the middle of the night as he stupidly slept. He just didn't.

He wondered why she knocked.

Maybe it was because she didn't want to witness the monster, the beast, the mess that was her friend Noteworthy, or maybe it was because she simply couldn't stand to see him.

His head hurt.

The bottles probably had something to do with it. He, after all, consumed much of their kind as of late. He hated to admit that he liked the taste, even when, by the third or fourth, it was just simple cold liquid pouring down his throat. Bottoms up, after all. Just like a game.

Just like a game.

A game.

Game.

Noteworthy thought that maybe it was all a game in the start. Maybe everypony he knew, everypony he met, everypony he faced, maybe everypony in his life was just playing the same game of interaction with him, and were now laughing at the results they, together, had wrought. He didn't like to blame himself, but he still did anyway. When he wasn't, he was blaming his friends, his enemies, his acquaintances. He wouldn't necessarily call it blaming, it was more of a meek observation, a tender sight to discover.

Or maybe that was just the excuse he was pulling. He didn't quite know for sure. And along with the blinding headache, it was most likely the bottles' fault.

Octav-

Oct-

Octa-

Octavi-

Noteworthy blinked.

He had stopped in the middle of the open hallway. He stood, blinking occasionally, as he swept his vision across his darkened household.

Oct-

No-

O. What a good letter.

Octa-

Noteworthy-

O. Probably one of the best letters, when it came down to it.

Octav-

Noteworthy no-

O. A perfect circle. A perfect shape. Perfect.

Octavi-

No stop-

O. Perfect.

Octavia.

Octavia. Philharmonica. Absolutely perfect.

Yes.

Absolutely perfect in every way.

Octavia.

Noteworthy smiled, despite all he had been through. It wasn't ear-to-ear, but it wasn't small and stout.

It was just a smile, one of happiness through blackness, and one of nostalgia through suffering.

Oh, how she would never know.

Octavia knew. Octavia knew that he loved her. Octavia knew.

For sure, Octavia knew.

But, oh, how she would never know.

She would never know how much he loved her. How much he needed her in his life. How much she mattered to him.

Noteworthy smiled, despite all he had been through. He looked to the floor, eyes narrowed not in anger. Narrowed, like the eyes of a caring pony witnessing their newborn foal asleep for the first time, like the eyes of somepony who had something to live for, the eyes of somepony who could wake up everyday feeling bright and happy and look to their side and find their special somepony nestled next to them with smiles upon their faces, happy.

Happy.

She made him happy.

He woke up, groggy and achy, but thinking of her, and her alone.

She made him happy.

She was his sunshine.

His one and only sunshine.

The only thing he needed, and the only thing he would never receive.

It was sad to him, but he still felt happy. After all, he couldn't drag her down. After all, he couldn't be obsessive over her, he never wanted that. After all, he was happy for her, no matter what she chose and who she chose. He had to be happy for her. He was.

Right?

Noteworthy was happy for her. She was the Lead Bassist in the Canterlot Symphony. She was highly esteemed as one of the greatest double bassists who had ever lived. She had a nice house in Canterlot. Good company. Great friends. It was perfect, and he was happy for her. It was the least he could do after all he'd done.

Yes. That was it. He could be happy for her. He couldn't be selfish, or vulgar, or rude. And he most certainly couldn't be so sad.

But.

Why was he, then? Why was he sad? There must be a reason why he was keeping to himself in his own house without opening the curtains and cracking open the front door and avoiding everypony he could. There must be a reason he drank himself to sleep and why he didn't eat and why he didn't like to sleep in the first place. There must be a reason, and being sad was the most likely culprit.

He bowed his head and sighed. Maybe he was sad. But he shouldn't be. He had to be happy for her, and he couldn't be sad about her at the same time. No, that wouldn't do. It couldn't. Then, why was it?

He shook his head, then raised his hoof to assess his now swimming vision. He groaned again, then looked around his house and found a darkness, shrouding everything from the mess to the painting to his hoof- no not his hoof. He could see that. He wondered why he couldn't see everything else, though. Why he left the curtains closed, in the end. Maybe it was because he didn't like the light, or the sun, or seeing ponies roam about their happy lives while he himself was trapped in depression and anger and alcohol and starvation and dehydration and fatigue all by his lonesome with nopony by his side to help him through it. Sparrow no longer sent messages. Roseluck never opened the door, despite it never being locked. He hadn't kept contact with any of his other friends, or any of Octavia's other friends. There really was no need to, in the end.

He wondered why he suddenly thought of her. Of Octavia. Why, after all this time and after all this suffering because of his stupid decision in loving her, he thought of her. He knew it wasn’t good, thinking of something that made him hurt, but he couldn’t stop. It was obsession; that he knew. He was obsessed with her, and he never liked to admit it. He liked to believe that it wasn’t obsession, that it was merely just a case of falling so deeply in love with someone that she was on his mind constantly. He liked to believe that he thought of her because she was the thing that he needed, and that she was the only pony who could make him happy for once in his life.

And then he realized that it was obsession at its core, straight and true like the arrow through his heart. He thought only of her because he was obsessed with her. Octavia. He was obsessed with Octavia, no matter how much he didn’t want to admit it. It killed him. It killed him whenever he thought about it. And he thought about it a lot.

After all, he never opened the curtains, or the front door, and he hadn’t talked to anypony in months. There was always time to think, no matter how slurred or how damaged or how painful they were, through the bottles and the fatigue and the starvation. There was always time to think, inside his shrouded home with the curtains tightly shut, inside his home practically black from the sun’s shade.

He hadn’t seen the sun in a long time. There was no need to. There was always time to think, and thinking was all he could do.

There was always time to think.

Time to think about where he was, where he was now, and where he would be. It was a short time to think about before his sunshine took its place in his mind once again, but it was still a time to think about, and when he sat, he thought about it.

He thought to his past. All he had done, all he had went through because of one stupid decision. Because of one thing he wanted in his life, something so simple to anypony else that had turned into something so incredibly and indescribably difficult for him and him alone.

He thought to his present. All he was doing to get to where he was now, shutting himself inside his own house, shunning the sun, the front door, the curtains, and himself at every possible opportunity. All because he had worked for something in his life that he thought would make it better, only to discover its inevitable collapse and downfall for his life.

And he thought to his future. His future, the only thing he was unsure of. Sure, he accepted that he would be alone for all his life after what he had done, but he still clenched to something deep within him. Still clenched to hope, a small hope, an almost absent hope, that he would reach his happiness. He sure didn't deserve it, but then again, maybe he did in the end. Maybe Old Faust in the sky would show mercy. Maybe Old Faust was testing him for more than fourteen years, in hopes of watching a single pony lose everything in life for one thing in return. One little thing, but a big one to him.

It seemed odd to him whenever he thought like that. If, in the slightest chance, he succeeded, it would definitely not be the same. It would be better, of course, but it would definitely not be the same. Maybe it was because he hadn't experienced it before, having a special somepony in his life, somepony to wake up next to and smile at. Somepony to look forward to talking to everyday, somepony to enjoy life with. It was all foreign to him, but in the end, if he didn't succeed, he was okay with that.

But maybe. Just maybe, it would come to him. Maybe, just maybe, he would succeed. He sure wanted to, but he wasn't sure that fate wanted him to.

He cast another glance around his home, and his vision swam. He raised a hoof to his head to assess it, winced, and opened his eyes to find nothing in particular. Just his normal, darkened, shrouded, sunlight-evading house.

He hummed. He turned his head and looked at the bottles lying forgotten and empty on his floor. He looked toward the curtains, still closed and dusty. He leaned forward, craned his neck, and looked at the front door, expecting something to arrive that never did. He looked to the ground and sighed, then looked to his right and walked down the hall. He stopped halfway, turning to his left and looking right at his closet door.

His endgame. The finisher.

He reached for the golden knob that shone in a sharp contrast to his shrouded home.

Knock knock knock.

Noteworthy's eyes darted to his far left, through the drywall and toward the door.

Knock knock knock.

He didn't breathe. He didn't move. His hoof neither faltered nor continued.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It was probably nopony.

The knock came only once.

It was probably nopony.

Another.

It was probably his boss.

Silence.

It was probably-

"Hello?" The voice sounded out, muffled by the unlocked door.

Noteworthy cleared his throat.

"Hello?" The voice came again.

"Is this the residence of one Noteworthy Blues?"

Yes. Yes it was. And the other ponies around him, ponies he hadn't seen.

Noteworthy struggled to speak. He hadn't any idea why. He coughed into a hoof, and turned his head.

There was no reason to talk to the pony at the door. Noteworthy had ignored visitors before. He could very easily just leave it be, and not respond so the pony at the door would simply think he was at an empty home. He could very easily just leave it be. But something, something he couldn't quite place, was different about this. He could very easily just leave it be.

But, he didn't.

"Y-yes?" His voice. Gravely, rancid, like a grumbling ghoul after a smoking session.

And he had no idea why.

"Mr. Blues, I hope you don't mind opening the door, I feel a tad uncomfortable talking to it, especially seeing as how it's locked."

It wasn't locked. But, there was that accent, he noticed it now. He had heard it before, it was familiar.

Noteworthy coughed again. "Of- of course. Gimme a second."

A Canterlot resident. A stallion at that. Who in Equestria was this?

Noteworthy breathed heavily out of his nostrils, his gaze returning to the closet. His hoof remained, shakily, until it fell to the floor, and Noteworthy turned and walked away from his endgame and toward his door.

He stopped in front of it. He walked toward it, sucked in a breath, and raised his hoof to turn the knob. He didn't care who it was, he would yell at them to get off his property if he had to. He didn't care, not even if it was the bastard who had come to finish him off, or even if it was Tirek himself come to drag him to Tartarus. He didn't care, maybe he would find salvation in death or eternal labor.

The door opened. A bright white light blinded Noteworthy, who raised a hoof to his eyes and turned away in response, seething all the while. He groaned as the light passed, and looked around his front door. The town was completely covered in snow; his suspicions were confirmed. After all, Noteworthy was always right, and he indeed was right about the snow. The sun was high in the sky, the feeling of natural heat completely forgotten and nostalgic now as Noteworthy looked up at its source. The sound of fillies playing in the distance sounded out, the joyous chattering of ponies not too far away either. It was all so foreign to him, as if he had stepped into a different world that he had only seen once. His house was silent before, but now he could hear things. Wondrous things.

Something coughed in front of him. Noteworthy turned to his left, golden irises staring into ocean blue irises, a tan colored Unicorn standing idly on his front door, a black scarf around his neck and a small grey hat reminiscent of an old chimney sweeper.

"Ah, hello there, Mr. Blues. Pleasure to meet you." He raised his hoof to shake. Noteworthy stared at it awkwardly, before returning the gesture and introducing himself into an almost unwanted conversation. Sooner or later, he'd make him leave. But, nopony had made him open the door before. He might as well have heard him out, so he did.

The stallion, obviously an older one, looked him over and said, "Might I say, you are looking sharp today-"

"Don't lie to me. What do you want?"

It was harsh. It was short. But it sent the right message, and the Unicorn stuttered.

"I-I am sorry if I am disturbing you, Mr. Blues-"

"It's Noteworthy. Call me Noteworthy."

The Unicorn cleared his throat and started over, "I am sincerely sorry if I am disturbing you, Mr. Noteworthy, but I have come to deliver a special message from Canterlot."

Noteworthy raised his brow. "Excuse me?"

The Unicorn smiled an admittedly odd smile, before he craned his neck toward his side and looked at Noteworthy from the corners of his eyes. "Yes, yes. You see, Noteworthy, I'm from the Symphony, the Canterlot Symphony, you realize, and I was told to send an invitation for our holiday concert later this week-"

"No."

The Unicorn's muzzle slowly withdrew from his saddlebag, turning toward Noteworthy as if he had just slapped him. "Sir- ahem, Mr. Noteworthy, I hope you realize the importance of this. The Symphony themselves have sent them out for ponies to see them, they have promised that it will be an event that anypony who attends will never forget-"

"I said no already."

"But, Sir-"

"No. I wouldn't ever consider it. Ever. Go away, and don't come back, no matter what they say."

The Unicorn looked at him, mouth slightly open in apparent shock, before he looked to the snow-covered front step and gave a long sigh. He looked up at Noteworthy with a pleading nature.

Noteworthy glared down at him, his hoof already extended toward slamming the door.

"Well, sir, if you ever reconsider, I would like you to-"

"Don't worry. I won't."

The Unicorn glared at him finally, before his horn lit a vibrant blue and a small envelope flew out of his saddlebag, his reply coming out short and slightly aggravated, "If you ever reconsider, take this anyway. It's later this week, the twenty-fourth, well, Hearth's Warming Eve. Seven o' clock sharp."

Those leaps of faith. Those leaps of faith, at seven o' clock sharp.

He gasped for breath. The Unicorn shoved the letter into his outstretched hoof with enough force to show his anger, but enough to not fully reveal its extent. The Unicorn tipped his hat, gave an almost unnoticeable smile, and trotted off with a simple call.

"Good day, Mr. Noteworthy."

Noteworthy watched as he left, his face blank with a mixture of shock and anxiety. The Unicorn turned a right at the far end of the street, toward the long forgotten train station. Noteworthy blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He swallowed a lump in his throat he hadn't realized he was harboring. He cleared his throat twice in rapid succession, and looked down at his shaking hooves, the white envelope teetering on top of his raised hoof, its sealed backside facing him on his snow-covered front steps.

His breath made itself noticed as it floated in front of him and into the grey sky, whisping away into the clouds as Noteworthy stared down at the envelope in a stunned silence, his hooves shaking now to excess, almost as if they were quaking in their own boots at what could be inside the white paper their owner was currently grasping.

Noteworthy said no words, only breathing, and suddenly, slowly, began to sink to his haunches, the hot sun and the cold wind neither helping nor hindering him. He didn't care, in the end. It didn't matter one bit to him. He didn't care whether he would soon be freezing to death or getting heat stroke on his front steps, he didn't care if it rained, or if it snowed further, or even if the world were to suddenly be thrust into an apocalypse.

No.

That didn't matter.

What mattered was the envelope in his hooves. Something about it was off. Odd.

It was a plain white envelope, one expected to accompany a greeting card signed with scrawled signatures akin to a five year old filly with arthritis. He hadn't seen one in years; his family had stopped sending them a long time ago, but he wouldn't have been dissatisfied with receiving one.

But that was not what he had received. Sure, the Unicorn courier could have easily misplaced his other letter unbeknownst to himself, or he had accidentally given the wrong letter in the end. But that was not what he had received. It was not a greeting card for the holidays, it was not a house bill, it was not a letter.

No.

Noteworthy opened it, and his voice caught in his throat as he stumbled on his words, only coughing into a hoof as he stared down at the invitation.

It was a simple letter, he had seen many in his few years of attending the Symphony's concerts, it wasn't new to him.

But, what was written sure wasn't something he had seen before.

Written in purple ink at the bottom was a signature. A familiar signature that caused his heart to stop altogether, his eyes growing wide until they threatened to dwarf his untouched kitchen plates.

I hope to see you there!

Signed,

Octavia Philharmonica

Noteworthy struggled to breathe. He struggled to speak. He struggled to raise his hoof to his head to muddle his unkempt mane, but he succeeded to do so after a few delayed heartbeats. As his heart began to pulsate at a regular pace, Noteworthy felt a huge pressure rise from deep within his gut. He cleared his throat, then screwed his face up and cleared his throat again, and then once more.

There were no words.

No words as Noteworthy quickly flew through his house, packing his essentials into a single suitcase for his trip to Canterlot. He hadn’t a single idea why.

There were so many things wrong about what he was rushing into. What he was blindly running toward, as if it were the one thing in life that he could not, no, would not miss. It was odd to him.

He didn’t quite understand it.

But he didn’t have to.

Not for long.

He didn't have to understand it, because he didn't. And this lack of understanding came to him suddenly as he reached for the briefcase again to close it. His hoof raised on the top half, he halted and began blinking rapidly, as if attempting to convey something to the contents of the case in some kind of code. But it wasn't a code, and the contents were just that. Inanimate and unable to understand code in the first place.

His hoof faltered and fell to the floor along with his bottom, which collapsed onto the floor as Noteworthy fell to his haunches, staring straight forward in a thousand-yard stare, peering into something he couldn't quite see, but couldn't quite grasp either.

Why was he blindly going into this? Just out of the blue, he receives an invitation to a concert and it suddenly snaps him out of his depression, his longing. It didn't make sense to him, and he didn't understand it. He didn't need to. Or at least, he liked to tell himself that from time to time whenever the need arose. It comforted him that maybe he didn't need to understand what he had experienced and why he had experienced it in the first place for years upon years upon years of his life.

Maybe it was better not to know.

He shook his head slowly, dispelling the slight discomfort that came with it as his brow furrowed softly. He stared at the brown briefcase in utter silence, thousands of yards away from him but still in the same room. The same room he hadn't seen for months, just as the sun and the ponies and the sky, though those three had been broken, his room was something he had just witnessed and was still sitting in.

Ordinary. Boring. Those words described his bedroom, as his golden eyes scanned its bleak grey walls and its single white ceiling fan, dust and grime covering its every feature to the inch. Cringing slightly, Noteworthy's eyes flew back to the briefcase, its contents staring back at him with their gleaming surface, as if sensing his hesitation and beckoning him to pack them up and go.

Go.

To Canterlot.

A city he loved, but a city he hated.

Hated, but loved.

And vice versa.

And vice versa, once again.

No.

There was time for thinking later.

There was time for thinking later, on the train.

Why he was going he didn't realize, or understand in the slightest. But he was. He was going.

He was going. And not a single damned thing could stop him from going. To Canterlot.

To Canterlot.

To the concert.

To her.

He glared in determination, and threw his hoof onto the case, shutting it.

Clicking the case's locks into place, Noteworthy slowly backed away from it suddenly, as if being near it were nothing but a poison to him. He scooted away from it until his back slammed against the grey wall behind him. He scooted away until something stopped him, until something got in his way before he scooted his way across Equestria.

He blinked in silence at the closed case, not a single sound reaching the blue stallion's ears.

His breath came out short but heavy, slightly hitched as if he were in a room full of noxious gas. Looking toward the briefcase, he saw the piece of paper sticking out from inside. He scrambled to get up, and trotted over to it, unlatching the locks and grabbing at the envelope with a look of concern and hurt. Quickly attempting to undo the fold that had fallen upon the envelope's corner, he succeeded after a few painstakingly heart-attacking tries. Raising it to his eyes, he fell back to his haunches and proceeded to read it again.

He didn't know why.

Maybe he was doing it to reassure its validity, or maybe he did it for another reason.

But he did it. He read it over.

And then, once he was done, he read it over.

Again.

And again. And again.

He read it for the sixth time. And the seventh. And the eighth.

He read it until he could say its contents with his eyes closed, he read it until he had rehearsed every single word and every single comma and period and space and every single thing that was on the paper. He read the signature at the bottom the most. And every time he did, his heart would always skip, as if seeing it were the thing that would change his life forever for the best.

Big things started small. And Noteworthy believed it to be a small thing to the beginning of a big thing. It would happen. It would work.

Hopefully. Hopefully it would. The back of his mind practically bled into his ears and his conscious, telling him and asking him why he was doing something so stupid, why he was throwing himself back into this game he had stopped playing, stopped winning, stopped losing. The back of his mind was right most of the time, but Noteworthy needed only look at the letter over again to bear the strength needed to ignore the back of his mind.

It may be right most of the time. But right now it was not. Noteworthy believed that.

And Noteworthy was always right.

Noteworthy delicately placed the envelope back into the open case, before locking it back up once again. He stared at it for a few echoing heartbeats, before he bit down into the leather handle and trotted quickly out the bedroom door, shutting it with care as he turned to face a shrouded household. His attention was shifted to the curtains, still shut tightly and garnering dust idly. Looking at them with a hint of shame and regret, his hoof fluttered in its direction as he proceeded to walk over to a pair. The loud crinkling of bottles met his ears and shattered the silence he had grown so accustomed to.

His breath caught in his throat as he cast his gaze downward, finding the objects of his attention. Simple glass bottles, packed closely together like a can of sardines and lying forgotten and empty on the hardwood floor. Their worn labels told Noteworthy that they were hard cider, fresh from Sweet Apple Acres. Fresh as in months ago, most likely. He didn't quite remember when he had last drank his problems away with those bottles. He lightly kicked a vial, and watched in silence as it rolled an inch away from him, as if frightened by his presence.

He wouldn't doubt it if it was true. He'd be scared of him as well if he wasn't him in the first place. He was already a bit scared of himself anyway, but he didn't like to admit it. He could change. He could. Everypony does.

He bent toward the ground, coiling his hoof around the shifted bottle and bringing it up to his golden eyes. His expression fractured instantly as he gazed at himself in the surface of the glass, moving the bottle in his hoof around so he could properly see himself every which way. He sure was a mess. Large, dark bags nestled under his eyes marked his lack of sleep. The scraggly beard on his face marked his lack of cleanliness. The wild, unkempt mane atop his scalp showed him and the world his vast self-neglect. The soft, staring golden orbs marked his two eyes that had seen way more than he, and anypony else, would be okay with.

His expression darkened, until he found himself glaring at the glass bottle in his hoof. He grit his teeth violently, scraping his jaw together until he felt the bottle in his grasp about ready to blast apart. His grip tightened.

He quickly fell to the floor, scooping up the rest of the pile in one clean swipe and rising back to his hooves. With an angry scowl plastered on his face, he all but threw himself into his kitchen, violently forcing a nearby cabinet on the ground level open, narrowed golden eyes spying a small, dusty, black bin lying inside by itself. Taking one last glance at the bottles out of the corner of his eyes, he flung the bin out of its home and listened to its plastic clattering on the hardwood floor, turning tail and letting go of the pile of glass in his hooves.

Each shattered upon impact.

As the sound died out a brief second later, Noteworthy looked down into the bin.

He smiled. Picking the trash bin up with his teeth, he began to trot into his bathroom, flicking the light on with his tail and facing the porcelain toilet sitting in the corner. Unlike most of his house's luxuries, Noteworthy hadn't prohibited his usage of the toilet one bit. He may have forsaken anything else essential, such as eating, drinking, or sleeping, but using the toilet was something he wouldn't abandon. He didn't want his house filled to the brim with his own passed food and drink, or, well, the lack thereof. It sickened him whenever he thought against using it, he surely couldn't just become some kind of savage, no matter how close he was to it already.

Walking over to the toilet, he stood in front of it as he contemplated what he was about to do, and promptly turned the bin upside down, the now-crumbled glass splashing loudly into the water and floating at the top harmlessly. He gazed down at the shards with a blank look, before he glared in silence, his head darting to the small grey handle on the side of the toilet. Promptly slamming his hoof into it, he turned his attention back to the shards for a final time as they became enveloped in a twister, spinning around violently until they disappeared into a tunnel that led behind the toilet, a new batch of water replacing them and emerging, showing itself to Noteworthy.

Noteworthy walked off without a word, not even stopping at the door as his right foreleg swung at the light switch, the room suddenly turning pitch black, just like the rest of the house.

His mind moved to this.

And Noteworthy went back to business, trotting over to the curtains in his kitchen with a hint of anger in his step. His hoof flew to the thick silk and halted. Noteworthy stared at the silk for a brief second of his life, and threw the curtain open as if revealing the winning prize in a game show. A white light blinded him as he reeled back, raising a foreleg to his eyes and wincing in pain. As his vision adjusted to the sudden fixture of light, Noteworthy rubbed at his eyes subconsciously, giving a low yawn as if he had just woken from a deep sleep.

Brow furrowed, he harrumphed in defiance as he flew through his kitchen, cracking the curtains open as widely as he could to let in as much sunlight as was possible. Once he was done with the kitchen, he stopped to admire his work, feeling the warmth of Celestia's sun radiating against his body as he smiled a small smile. His brow elevated suddenly, and Noteworthy quickly turned tail as he went into his living room with similar intent, his golden eyes drifting to the next set of silk blocking the sun's rays.

He raised his hoof to fling it open as well, but found himself unable to do so. The blue hoof wavered shakily, as if doing so was something to be afraid of.

Perhaps it was.

Noteworthy lowered the hoof without a word. Perhaps it was.

Looking back toward the kitchen, he hummed quietly. There was enough light already, maybe he didn't need to open any more curtains.

Yes. The ones in his kitchen would suffice. Noteworthy gave a short, curt nod, and fell to his haunches, absent-minded.

Twenty... twenty...

Twenty... when again?

The Symphony's courier had told him at the door before he had stormed off, angrily at that. Noteworthy forgot when it was, when the courier had said it would be. Twenty.... twenty... was it the twenty-third maybe..?

Noteworthy's eyes snapped to the clock hanging above his fireplace, his ears taking form and standing tall as even his own heart stopped to listen.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Noteworthy stared up at the clock, eyes widened to their full extent and peering at their left-most corner.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Noteworthy licked his lips involuntarily.

Tick. Tock. Tick.

Tock. Tick.

Tock-

It was four o' clock in the afternoon. Nineteen minutes.

Tick.

Thirty-two seconds in.

Noteworthy got up and turned his head toward his kitchen, and his hooves guided him into it, and toward the wall adjacent to his fridge. Golden eyes scanned the blue wall and found the old piece of paper that Noteworthy had called a calendar.

The open section displayed the name October in bold, orange letters. A few of its days were scratched out with a black marker, stopping near the end on what Noteworthy noticed was the twenty-fourth. Squinting, his mind came to him and told him that that day meant something special, but its supposed specialty was lost to him somehow. He tapped his chin with a free hoof, but the specialty never reverberated into his mind, and he eventually sighed softly and lifted the piece of paper, revealing November directly underneath it.

Not a single mark was present on its surface.

Noteworthy lifted the calendar again, and found December staring straight at him.

A dry smudge lay on the eighteenth, a Thursday. Its importance didn't quite click either, but something in his mind told him that good had come out of it in the past. Maybe he would remember it, he had to. If something good had come out of it, well, he had to remember it. His good times were few and precious to him. He had to at least remember the eighteenth's good fortune, no matter what it was.

Noteworthy narrowed his eyes, scanning the calendar until he found the week in question. The twenty-fourth showed itself underneath the section entitled simply, Wed.

Wednesday. So it was a Wednesday, the concert.

His next leap of faith, at seven o' clock sharp.

A blue hoof rose to the twenty-fourth silently. Fur met cold paper.

It was Monday, then.

The courier had said later this week, not tomorrow.

So it was Monday.

The twenty-second. He still had two days until the concert.

His mind still told him that what he was doing was wrong. That nothing good could come out of what he was doing. That he would only experience sadness and despair from what he was doing.

Noteworthy shrugged to nopony in particular.

He had experienced it all before.

Sadness. Despair. Depression. Alcoholism. Loneliness. Anger. Resentment.

He had experienced it. All of it. Every single thing bad that he could have felt, he had felt. And he had felt it for a long time. He was sad for a long time in his life.

But he had gotten through it in the end, with nothing but a simple idea keeping him going and keeping him dying at the same time.

There were times where he thought all hope would be forgotten, lost, defeated.

But he had gotten through it in the end.

And if this were to bring it. This thing he was doing.

For her.

For Octavia.

For his sunshine.

If going to her concert were to bring sadness, and despair, and loneliness, and everything else, well.

He would get through it.

Surely, he would.

He always did.

And he would now.

He knew that.

And Noteworthy was always right.

Noteworthy's hoof fell to the floor with the rest of his hooves.

He sat on his haunches in the kitchen.

And smiled, before slowly, gradually, falling to the floor.

And sleeping soundly.

He was going.

He was going to see her again.

After he had sworn her off for so long.

He was going to see her.

He was going to see Octavia.

He was going to see the mare he loved, in a city he so desperately hated.

And how much she would never know.

How much she would never know, how much he loved her.

That's just the way it was, and would be.

And Noteworthy accepted that.

Author's Note

Take a quick look at that Incomplete tag, folks. There will be more in two days, on Christmas Eve. Hope to see you then.