Class

by Scramblers and Shadows

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, DJ P0N-3, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Octavia, Romance
Length: 6854

"In her every motion there's nothin' but pure, unapologetic life. She's doin' what she loves, she's good at it, and there's nothin' sexier than that."

“I lose myself in the music and tug cold, dead notes on a page into sonorous, transcendent life. And momentarily they fall back into oblivion, these notes. It's an immediacy and tragedy no writer or painter or sculptor could know; it's a magic of a kind no unicorn horn could ever come close to, and I am privileged and humbled to be a part of it.”

“I can see the smile on her face, all genuine, and I can see the concentration on her brow. She's into this performance. She's really into it. You can feel, FEEL the passion wellin up inside of her. In her every motion there's nothin but pure, unapologetic life. She's doin what she loves, she's good at it, and there's nothin sexier than that.”

Stress. Self-betrayal. Worries about where you're going in life. And a chance encounter with a fellow performer to show you that maybe it's not all not all that bad.

Pre-read by the inimitable Blue_Paladin42 & jlm123hi. I arrogantly spurned their advice on literary conventions, so if your eyes start to bleed, blame me.

Warning: Contains feels, cuddling without sex, naughty words, and more than one endash.

Published 2015-02-12 22:10:02 UTC
Last updated 2015-02-12 22:10:02 UTC

Class

Class

Friday Night

Down, down, down the steps into The Cellar, and the world changes and the atmosphere of the club gobbles you up. The warmth and the noise and the darkness and the million smells and the thrum you feel through your hooves all hit you at once, and BAM you're inside.

Is it? Is it? Yes! This song! The bass that goes THRUBB-THRUBBA-TCHK and goes right down into your bones, so you feel it as much as hear it, and have they changed the sound system? cus this shit sounds GOOD. This song, it's about sex, and it's sexy and that almost never happens except on Breezies singles (984-996 only).

I head deeper into the club. Dance or drink, dance or drink, dance or drink?

Zaz! It's Zaz, smilin at me, beckonin with a hoof. Dance it is. Zaz and I dance. She knows better than try and talk, and so do I, so we just dance to the song. Seriously though, who is doin the sound here? This pony has got it perfect. The bass drills through you into your soul, but when the guitar and the synth come up they really do come up, and the melody is everythin you want from a melody. Most ponies either take it all bass and drown out the melodic bits or try and turn it into some poncey Canterlot Castle performance piece.

Song's over. Up next is some grungier Coldhoof, and it's decent but nothin special, and Zaz feels the same way, so we go and get a drink.

“Been forever since I last saw you,” Zaz says. “What's up?”

“Workin like you wouldn't fuckin believe,” I say. “Fully booked up, and then I've got this new really hard piece I've been writin, and it's takin up ALL my time. Will be a fuckin relief when I get a night of more than six hours, y'know?”

I regret my little bitchfest as soon as I finish, cus we both know I've got a real sweet gig compared to Zaz, and cus I know that all it took was a little bit of self-betrayal.

(Most arty types will make a big song and dance over how their job is hard work like everythin else. Bollocks. Compared to most jobs out there, its a piece of piss.)

But if it hurt her, she doesn't show it. “What any smart pony would do when she needs sleep, hit the clubs, yeah?”

“Xactly.”

I laugh, and I don't tell her the main reason I'm here is cus I've spent too long wearin that mask, and it was startin to fuck with my head, and I had to come down here to be myself again.

Things we fuckin do for love.

Zaz laughs and claps me on the shoulder. “Nother round?” she says. “I'll get it.”

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

Bit of a frown there. Sorry, Zaz, didn't mean to. Can't keep my fuckin hooves out my mouth today, can I? “Right. Same again.”

And she's off the get our drinks. She's a lovely girl, is Zaz. Never tries to tear you down, never tries to needle you. More than I can say for some our mates. If she snaps, it's cause YOU done somethin. Loads of self-respect, loads of genuineness, loads of skills with her tongue, least until she decided she was definitely into stallions.

I don't begrudge her that. She was figurin out where she was, and in the end she was true to herself. What more can you ask for?

While I'm waitin I head back to the dancefloor and listen and dance a bit to a remix of the Breezies, not the shite one, the good one, and it's made even better by the sound tech.

Zaz is back! Ace. We dance with each other, and we dance with ponies we never seen before, and we make a pretty good effort of not spillin our drinks all down our fuckin coats.

Honest, this is better, cus when we're dancin we're just dancin and it's fun, but when we're talkin I can't get this new piece I been workin on out my head, and I want to tell Zaz all about it, but I know she won't care cus it's not her scene.

Dance, just fuckin dance.

She gestures, and I lower my ear to her muzzle. What? Can't hear you, Zaz. I know its my turn to get the next round, but it ain't that, but we head over to the bar anyway so y'know we can fuckin hear each other over the music.

“Tavi!” she shouts. “You losing your hearing or what?”

“Yeah, yeah, very fuckin funny. What is it?”

“I said, you wanna head down to the Thestral room and listen to the new DJ?”

Y'what? What new DJ? I guess Zaz gets from the look on my face that I know bugger all about what's goin on in The Cellar tonight, cus she continues:

“They've got some mare in to do a set tonight. She's REALLY good apparently. She actually did some of the sound engineering tonight too.”

“That was her?" I grin. "Sign me fuckin up! What's her name?”

“DJ Pone Three.”

Name rings a bell, but I can't place it. Probly seen it on a couple of posters. “Lets go then!”

And so we squeeze through the crowds on trot on down to the Thestral Room and get there just before things kick off, and the first thing I'm thinkin is holy SHITE that is a nice lookin set of gear. Some of it looks customised, and there's even these speakers customised with springs and strings which is gonna give a nice reverb I guess, and all her stuff comes with a custom paint job of jagged purple and cobalt, and it all looks really fuckin sexy.

And the second thing I'm thinkin is love at first sight? This is love BEFORE first sight, I bloody well tell you.

Then DJ Pone Three comes on.

Unicorn, white coat. Blue mane. Her eyes are cherry red, but she covers them with some big fuckoff sunglasses as soon as she gets on stage. I'm waitin for some cheery wafflin like DJs normally do to try and get us in the mood but that doesn't happen, and instead she just looks around them room and smiles at us all, all broad, then goes right into her set.

And what a fuckin set it is! All her gear is perfect, and she's workin the equaliser like a fuckin alicorn, and her effects are so just right that Goldiemane would go weak at the knees. No showin off, no faffin around, but there's enough reverb and echo in just the right places so you know you're listenin to a PERFORMANCE and not just some fuckin pre-recorded lineup.

I can see the smile on her face, all genuine, and I can see the concentration on her brow. She's into this performance. She's really into it. You can feel, FEEL the passion wellin up inside of her. In her every motion there's nothin but pure, unapologetic life. She's doin what she loves, she's good at it, and there's nothin sexier than that.

I can't take my eyes off her.

She finishes her set with, “Thanks, everypony! Thank you, so much. Goodbye!”

First words I've heard from her all night. Her voice is gentle, but you can just about hear a rawness underneath it all.

When I turn to her, Zaz has got her smirk on. “Whaddya think?” she says.

“Oh my fuckin days, she's brilliant! I HAVE to talk to her!”

“Saw that coming.”

Yeah, you know me too well, Zaz.

Lookin back to the stage, it seems our DJ Pone Three has already vanished. Run off to another room already? I plunge into the crowd, Zaz followin. I check out the bar, the entrance. I check out the other rooms, even at the far end where they've got some dubstep shite on the speakers. Nothin, nothin, nothin.

Fuckinell. I'm stormin rather than trottin. She's gone, int she?

“Tavi! Calm down, yeah? She's coming back. “

I spin round.

Zaz is holdin a little flyer. She gestures at some of the text.

DJ Pon3

Fri 15th – Sun 17th

“Wanna come back tomorrow?” she finishes with a smile.

“Oh, Zaz!” I say. “I fuckin love you, I do. I can't do tomorrow. What about Sunday?”

“I'm working. But you come back, yeah? Talk to her, tell me how it goes!”

I grin. “I will. I fuckin well will.”

Saturday Night

There is an art to the correctly tied bow, especially when one has neither aura nor feather to work with. These hooves are for working the fields, not fabric, and again they have failed to produce a presentable result. In the mirror my neck is host to a left-heavy muddle of lavender silk; no amount of tugging will fix the asymmetry. I disentangle it and begin again.

I could use a pre-tied bow, or I could simply go without. In neither case would most of the Canterlot elite notice. But I don't.

On the second attempt I succeed. “Yes,” I tell my reflection. “Excellent.”

My accent is perfect; my tie, straight; my mane, tidy. The facade is in place, and I am ready to be seen in castles and great halls where the crumbling remnant of unicorn aristocracy pretends to have relevance. It is time to leave.

Trotting over the cobbles of the Old City, in the long shadows of worn limestone crenellation, I find I can't pull my attention from last night. I can't pull my attention from the DJ.

DJ Pon3 who performs for ponies who love her music. DJ Pon3 who hasn't sold out. DJ Pon3 with the smile of genuine glee and the beautiful cherry red eyes. DJ Pon3 whose name I do not know.

I know I am a foolish filly, infatuated over a pony I've seen once and talked to never. I don't mind. Even if I do get with her, it won't last. We wouldn't … She wouldn't …

Well.

I'm here: Haylliol College, University of Canterlot. At the lodge, the porter looks up from his book and directs me to the hall where I shall be performing. We talk about the students, about their backgrounds, about their sense of entitlement, until I feel my accent is sliding. I thank him and excuse myself.

Adjacent to the hall is a building that looks like nothing so much as an attempt to render a strawberry cheesecake in neo-gothic brickwork. Fortunately I am saved from bearing witness to the full spectacle of its ugliness by the waning sunlight. Still, the sight preoccupies me so much that I don't notice Fancy Pants until he is right next to me.

Fancy Pants is, I must admit, a perfectly pleasant stallion. I've never known him to be contemptuous or sneering, but at the same time there is a sort of effortless arrogance about him. He is myopic and shallow, often unintentionally condescending to those ponies he sees as below his station. I have not told him about my childhood, and all our conversations remain on the level of small talk.

“Ah, Miss Octavia! Taking an interest in the local architecture?”

“In a manner of speaking,” I say, and offer my observations on the cheescake building.

Fancy Pants chuckles, more for the sake of politeness, I suspect, than my wit. “My, my. You're right. It does, rather!” He turns to me. “And speaking of gaudy things wearing a masquerade of magnificence …”

I angle my head a touch and raise an eyebrow.

“ … Well, I must confess I don't know whether to call this good news or bad.”

“If you carry on like this, you may never get around to calling it anything,” I tell him.

“Yes, rather. Good or bad, then, the news is this: Prince Bluebood will be attending this evening's performance as a Haylliol alumnus and guest of honour. And while I am sure your heart goes out to his fellow attendees, you may also wish to know he's looking to throw a fair number of bits around.”

“A patronage?”

Fancy Pants nods.

I look out across the quad. I've had patronages from many important ponies, Fancy Pants included, and it can not be said that I struggle for lack of money. But in terms of prestige alone, a patronage from Blueblood would be second only to one of the diarchs.

If it means having to endure that fluff-brained fop, endure I will.

I thank Fancy Pants for the information. We talk for a while of recent events, all trivial stuff, then I head into the hall to prepare.

My contrabass has been delivered and set up. Oh, you beauty. You utter beauty. Yes, I'm familiar with it, but the sight always gets me, snags something deep inside heart and mind.

I offer a perfunctory greeting to the ponies I know, then sidle up to my instrument and lay a hoof against the maple. It's nothing special: a busetto with a C-extension. I have a custom one at home topped with a carving of three siren heads, but this has just a traditional scroll. It's nothing special, and it's everything special.

I check the tuning and make some minor adjustments, then give the bow some fresh rosin. For the first time, the events of the previous night are not vying for attention.

I remember with clarity – deceptive clarify, most likely – the first time I saw a cello. Yes, a cello. Not a contrabass. The bass came later, but both the instruments themselves and the frisson they give me are similar enough to count as parts of the same passion.

The passion later grew to encompass such oddities as violone, bowed dulcimer, erhu and saw. I even got my hooves on an octabass, though I can't play it. But it began with the cello:

I, a scruffy little filly with an icecream-stained mouth, on a day trip to Canterbury with her parents. The cello, part of a string quartet, but outshining all its fellows by sheer grace, in the park gazebo. The elegance of the bowing, the warm, haunting rumbling coming from within are bewitching. My parents catch me staring; I ask them what it is. “No, mum, not the violin. The big one.”

When it becomes evident that my passion will not abate, my parents look for a tutor. Finding money for both lessons and an instrument seems beyond our means at first, but we find salvation. An old stallion who was once with the Canterlot Philharmonic Orchestra takes pity on me, and not only provides lessons but also lends me a cello, free of charge, to practice on at home.

“Good evening, Octavia.”

Reverie broken, I look up. It is my accompaniment for the performance. “Hello, Parish.”

“How's the composition coming along?” He says, sitting at his harp and fishing a tuning key out of his pocket.

“Very well, thank you. For the most part, at least.”

Parish gets to work on his harp. “Oh?”

“I became besotted with twisting some of the elements of a passacaglia. I know there's something beautiful in there, but it doesn't seem to be coming out quite right.”

“I see. What precisely are you struggling with?”

Finally, somepony to whom I can ramble about my music. I give him a detailed explanation while we prepare for the performance.

And so time comes to play. I see Blueblood taking one of the comfortable, indulgent seats in the front row. But that doesn't matter because I'm here, bow in hoof, doing what I've always wanted to do since I was a little filly. I lose myself in the music and tug cold, dead notes on a page into sonorous, transcendent life. And momentarily they fall back into oblivion, these notes. It's an immediacy and tragedy no writer or painter or sculptor could know; it's a magic of a kind no unicorn horn could ever come close to, and I am privileged and humbled to be a part of it.

All the compromises, all the self-doubt, all the worries become worth it. I know why I made those choices, and I would make them again without a second thought.

After the piece, after the applause, I silently thank my contrabass and the movers whose unseen work means I don't have to lug it hither and thither, then follow the alumni and students who are filtering out into the quad.

There, to my great dismay, I am accosted by Prince Bluebood.

My own fault, I suppose, for thinking about compromises.

“Miss Octavia, I presume?”

“Yes,” I say. “Prince Blueblood, I am honoured.”

He smiles. “I was impressed by your performance tonight.”

“Thank y–”

“And so I would like to inform you I am considering a most generous patronage for your services.”

I maintain what I hope is a respectful expression.

“Am I to understand you are presently composing?” he continues.

“Yes.”

“Excellent, excellent. In that case, my decision will be based upon the quality of the result, as well your subsequent performances, which I shall also be attending.”

Why tell me that, you boor? It's power, isn't it? A reminder of who's making the decision and who needs to watch her behaviour. “As you wish,” I tell him, nodding politely.

Blueblood smiles. “I used to dabble in music,” he says in an idle sort of way, and looks over in the direction of the neighbouring college. “When I was studying here, we would, my friends and I, sing over the wall at Whinnity. After a bottle or two of champagne … The nights before they had examinations were best.”

“I see.”

From the look on his face, one might suppose he was dredging up great childhood memories. “It was a college tradition. We'd call into question their talents, their heritage, their proclivities … ”

I can't help myself: “I've no doubt the college masters were eternally grateful to have in their midst a pony so concerned with honouring and upholding the traditions of the venerable college of Haylliol.”

“Yes, indeed.”

The sarcasm doesn't seem to register. For the best, I suppose.

Blueblood presently wonders off to inflict himself upon somepony else. My evening has soured somewhat, so I head home before polite society can attempt to reel me back in.

Sunday Night

Mane's all nice and fluffy and there's glitter in it, and with the black choker I have to say I'm lookin SEXY, and it's time to hit The Cellar.

Canter, canter, out of the posh bits of the city and into the heart. Cool air runnin through my coat. I do a little joyful pronk when there's nopony lookin. It ain't so busy tonight, but I don't mind.

I can't fuckin tell you how fuckin glad I am to be out of that fuckin place. Been tryin to compose, but my head's been in a weird place all day. AGAIN. But I got somethin to look forward to tonight. I hope it goes well.

You know what? Even if doesn't I'm gonna have a bloody good time tonight, mark my fuckin words.

Yeah, tonight I'm gonna have some fun and get away from it all. Get away from Prince My-Head's-So-Far-Up-My-Own-Arse-I-Need-Fifteen-Spatial-Dimensions-To-Encompass-The-Whole-Fuckin-Paradox Blueblood and all his little power games.

I'm not bein funny, right, but he really is an arsehole.

And I'm playin along. More compromises, more self-betrayal, more hidin behind that fuckin mask.

What the fuck was I meant to do, though?

Teen Tavi, right? In the middle of that great opening-up of the world where you gettin smacked around by hormones and desires and worryin who you are when you can't sleep at night. She was strugglin – who doesn't? – but she knew what she loved:

Gettin pissed.

Gettin it on with hot mares.

Rockin out.

Swearin up a fuckin storm just becus.

Playin cello and contrabass.

But more than anythin, it was the last one. That's what she wanted to do with her life.

So she tried. She tried and and she found that among the sorts of ponies who could make her dream come true, four-fifths of that list don't count as 'Appropriate Behaviour'. She found that what she loved, how she spoke, who she was, wasn't fuckin appropriate.

It was in the ponies who blanked her, the properly brought-up who said things like – What are you trying to say? Can't you speak properly?, the parties she wasn't invited to.

But this was the only way she could play for a livin. She had to adapt. So she did. She learned how to move in that world. She compromised, sold out, and put on a mask so she could do what she loved.

Oh fuckinell, this was supposed to be goin out and havin fun, and I'm just …

You know what gets me? What you show to ponies, your accent, your behaviours. It's all part of you, int it? Try and keep your distance, sure. You're still fuckin infected.

For fuck's sake just fuckin stop it! Pay attention! Here and now! I'm almost at the Cellar. I can hear the bass, faintly. I can feel the air chill my nose. I can feel the uneven stone beneath my hooves. I can can smell my perfume.

Time to go and enjoy myself.

Outside the club, on the wall, I can see the poster. DJ-Pon3, startin at eleven. Just in time! Ace!

I head down and let the sound and the darkness envelop me and I'm inside! I can hear that fuckin sexy sound already No time to mess around here, so I grab a Jägerbomb, actually, no, two Jägerbombs, take a gulp of each so they won't spill, and then I canter on over to the Thestral Room.

There she is! Just started her set, wearin her headphones and silly glasses, dancin around. Again there's that pure performer's vibe, and I'm entranced, and I'm dancin along and in the moment and in the moment and in the FUCKIN MOMENT.

And way too soon and not soon enough it's over. She's thankin the audience, and I'm over there like a flash. This time I catch her.

“Hey!” I call out. “Sorry, can I just say that was a REALLY FUCKIN AWESOME set? You've got serious skills, girl.”

She looks kinda bewildered for a moment, and I'm thinkin maybe that was a bit too intimidatin, but she smiles, not a polite smile, a real one.

“Thank you,” she says. She's actually quite mousy, I realise.

“Listen, let's go over to the main bar and get a drink.”

She looks bewildered again.

“Don't worry,” I tell her, “there's nothin in it! I do this for every ace DJ sound engineer I meet! Honest!”

This gets a smirk. Then she glances over to the stage. “I don't normally hang around after …” She turns back to me. “And I need to sort some stuff out first.”

“No pressure, alright? I'm gonna go over there now. If you want, come find me when you're ready.”

I grin at her and start retreatin. “If you don't feel like it, I'll know by the alcohol poisonin tomorrow mornin! Seeya!”

I see a smile before I turn and trot away.

Twenty minutes later, and yes, there she is! Sunglasses off, lookin around, so I wave her on over, and we get a drink and retreat to one of the tables.

I get her name:

“Scratch. Uh, Vinyl Scratch, but just go with Scratch I prefer it. What's yours?”

“Tavi.”

She frowns a bit.

“Octavia.”

“Oh, okay.” She gestures at my cutie mark. “Musician, then?”

Hey, hun, check this out: I've got a clef on my hindquarters, and you've got notes on yours. You KNOW nothin comes of music till you stick those two things together.

But this probly ain't the best time to make such a comment, so instead I say:

“Yeah.”

“What do you play?”

I shrug. “A few things.”

She's expectin more, but I push onwards: “My friend said you were doin the sound engineerin in this place.”

“Yeah.”

She gives me a sheepish smile and nods. She ain't, I'm thinkin, big on the spotlight apart from when she's performin. Cute. And you know what else? What that says? It says she's got a passion so strong and so developed it overpowers her introversion.

“That is SO COOL,” I tell her. “You're, like, WAY better than whoever normally does it here.”

Another sheepish smile, lookin down and to the side, but pride too, cus she's good and she fuckin well knows it.

“I mean, the bass was AMAZING. How did you do it?” I ask.

This perks her right up, and she goes into a big lecture about equalisation, and I don't understand the half of it, but I don't mind, cus I'm lookin at the spark in her eyes as she speaks, and that's the main thing.

When she's done I ask her about how she got into sound engineerin.

“When I was a filly, I loved gadgets,” she explains. “Electronics, complex things, taking them apart to see how they worked, you know? Then when I got into music in a big way, when I was a teen, it was the obvious thing.”

She looks down.

“I was never very good when it came to actual instruments. My hooves and my horn weren't steady enough, so audio technology was the closest I could get. I'm no performer,” she finishes with a sad smile.

“Y'what?” I say. “What about just now?”

“That's just playing some songs I liked. And adding a few flourishes.”

“Bollocks is it!”

I look into her eyes, then I twig what's goin on here:

“Are you just bein self-deprecatin cus I can play an instrument?”

No answer. Yeah, that was it.

“Listen, Scratch,” I say, puttin a hoof over hers. “Nearly all the time I play crap somepony else has written, you know?”

She's waitin for me to continue, so I do.

“What I'm tryin to say is, that's the nature of performance, yeah? Most of the time you're just replayin what already exists, and THAT'S OKAY, cus, well at first cus it's a fine and humblin thing to be a conduit for another, but also cus you add your own essence to it. You choose how to perform, maybe the arrangement, maybe all the little flourishes. And then, then the final product is yours, it's an essential part of who you are, even if you're usin somepony else's stuff, and even though it's just a performance for other ponies, it's YOU.” I frown. “Does any of that make sense?”

Scratch nods, then gives me a little smile. “You could work on the delivery a bit, though.”

I laugh. “Oh, fuck off! Point I'm tryin to make is, what you do is fuckin ace, and you shouldn't diminish that.”

–“Okay,” she says, that spark in her eyes again. “No more complaining.”

“Awesome. Now we can talk about somethin important. I heard LOADS of Coldhoof in your lineup.”

So then we talk about music, and we talk about whether Coldhoof are actually any good, and we talk about whether the Breezies are ever gonna get their original bass player back, and we talk about why the Seacolts aren't more popular, and we talk about Grdznth's new album, and then we've finished our drinks, there's been enough talkin, so I take her hoof and lead her onto the dancefloor.

And so we're dancin, and this time it's not to hide, just to be in the moment, and she's really good, and I'm thinkin maybe all that stuff with Blueblood doesn't matter so much, and did I mention that Scratch is REALLY GOOD at dancin? and we're close, closer, and I can see her eyes lookin in to mine, lookin at my mouth, and her kisses are slight and short and soft like snowflakes but warm, and I can taste the drink on her tongue, and she follows them with a bite which turns into a nuzzle, and I'm thinkin when her self-consciousness int in her way it's like WOAH, and so we keep dancin.

We retreat to the tables and drink and talk some more, and now she's gone very chatty indeed, then we're out on the dancefloor again, and far too fuckin soon the venue's about to close.

“Hey, Tavi,” she says. “My place is just a couple minutes walk from here, if, y'know … And I haven't got any pressing appointments tomorrow.”

“Woah, missy, bein a bit forward, aint we?”

The look on her face!

“Kidding! I'm just kiddin. Yeah, I'd love to.”

She takes my hoof. “Awesome!”

“I am totally fuckin knackered, mind,” I tell her. “Just so you know.”

Which is totally true. I was up at a good time this mornin and worked most of the day.

Unsaid is that I don't wanna let this little thing to dissolve into the night. Not just yet.

“Me too,” she says, smilin.

So we crowd out into the night with the other patrons, and she leads my down a broad brick street, across a stone walkway where you can catch a glimpse of Equestria from between the castle towers, and then onto another street, round the back of a pub called The Unicorn's Wing, and up some stairs to her apartment.

And bloody hell, there's gear EVERYWHERE. Cables and keyboards and speakers and other stuff I don't recognise. And even, “Fuckinell, is that an ONDES? Like, authentic?”

“Yeah,” Scratch says. She switches it on and does a quick melody in the ribbon.

I kiss her. “That was amazin.”

She smiles.

I slide up beside her and play a little bit of the piece I've been workin on. It's weird hearin it in the singsong ondes timbre.

Now she kisses me. “No, THAT was amazing. What's that from?”

“Just somethin I've been doin.” I frown. “You really think so?”

“Of course!”

I can't think of anythin to say, so I just nuzzle her.

“Drink?” she asks

“Ehhh. Bit fuckin late, int it? Just water, please, or I'll be feelin it tomorrow.”

“Ha! Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”

So we cuddle together on her settee, her head restin in the crook of my neek, with a pint of water each and and old prog record playin. Not sayin much cus I really am tired and so is she, so we just mumble and shift and cuddle more.

…

…

…

Ow. Ow. FuuuUUUUuck. Bright light, sunlight, right on my face and a tummyache and a headache too, and urgh fuckinell. But warmth next to me, and yes, it's her, it's Scratch, still asleep, head restin on my chest and droolin a bit on my coat, which is actually kinda sweet.

I got her, didn't I? Bloody hell, I actually met her, and she was even more cool than I expected from seein her onstage. Fuck yeah, am I lucky or what?

But there's somethin else, int there? A bit of worry to fuck things up and make sure no joy is unalloyed. I have another performance tonight, and Blueblood is gonna be there, and he'll be judgin me on the piece I'm writin, and …

I feel Scratch shift. “Hey, Tavi.”

“Mornin”

“Something on your mind?”

I smile down at her. “Nah, I'm fine.”

“You're cute when you're pensive.” She nips at my coat, then moves forward so we can kiss. “You were so garrulous last night. It's an interesting change.”

“Er, mornin breath?”

I wrinkle my nose, and she smirks in response.

“You're one to talk.”

“Fuck off!”

I laugh and pull her into a longer kiss.

So we get up, and Scratch goes to the fridge, and I finish the glass of water from last night and have a little stretch to soften up all the little aches that come with sleepin in a weird position, and she brings back some apples, and that serves as a nice little breakfast, and then we nuzzle a little more.

“I gotta go back soon,” I say. “Work to do. But … you wanna meet up again?”

“Of course! Tonight?”

“I … got a performance on tonight.”

“Really?” And she's in front of me. “You never told me what you play.”

“A couple things.”

“But tonight?”

“Contrabass.”

Yeah, that took her off guard. I can see from her expression.

“Huh,” she says. “Talk about layers.”

“So tomorrow, yeah? We can hit some bars.”

“Can I come?”

“To the bars I just invited you to?”

“Can I come to see your performance? Are there still tickets? Or whatever they're using instead of tickets.”

I stare at her. “You know it's gonna be posh, right?”

“So?”

“It ain't your scene, y'know?”

“My scene?” she says. She's lookin kinda pissed off now. “Tavi, I like you, but that's really fucking presumptuous.”

“I didn't mean it like that.”

“Are you … ashamed of having me there?”

“Fuck no! Never!”

“Then what?”

I shrug and shake my head. “I don't know,” I admit. “Would you really be interested?”

“I remember what you said last night. About performance, and being a musician. It's important to you, so yes, I am. If you're asking whether classical music is something I'd enjoy, I can't promise anything, but if you're playing it …”

Scratch, lovely fuckin thing that she is, strokes my cheek with her hoof.

And you know what? I've never met anypony in a club who really wanted to know about that side of my life. If she wants to come along, why not? More than that, actually. I want her to be there. Fuck it, let's do this thing!

I take her hoof. “Yeah, you can come. It's not ticketed. Just come to Haylliol College at Seven, and you can come in with me.”

“Haylliol College, sure.”

I grin at her. “This is gonna be fuckin awesome!”

This gets me a kiss. “I'm sure it will be,” says Scratch.

“I still have to get goin. Work to do. Oh, there's somethin else I gotta tell you, just so you're not surprised when we meet.”

“What?”

“I'll be wearin a bow tie.”

Monday Night

The night is filled with some ineffable quality, clean and pure, that imbues the college facade with serenity. Rags of cloud above; chips in the centuries-old stonework: each serve to add character to and hold off a sense of cliché from the scene.

Scratch is here. She's wearing her glasses, which make her look wonderfully ill-suited to the environment.

She waves at me, and I walk over to her.

“Hey Tavi!”

“Hello, Scratch. How are you?”

Her eyes widen; I imagine her jaw is a hair's breadth away from dropping. “Woah, Tavi? Is that you?”

“Yes, it's me: Octavia.”

I'm struggling to hold in my grin. She isn't.

“Fucking … wow,” she says. “With the accent and all!” She strokes my cheek. “Just as I was getting used to your louche charm, you turn up like this. You look so …”

I incline my head.

“ … cool!”

“I'm glad you think so,” I tell her, now smiling broadly. “Shall we go inside?”

“Sure,” she says. “Miss Octavia.”

I lead her through into the quad. There are a few ponies milling about here, but we're early, and most of the audience is yet to arrive. As we're walking towards the hall something catches her eye.

“I love that building!”

I raise an eyebrow in a suitably bemused way. “That building?”

“Yeah. It looks awesome.”

“You can't be serious?”

“Ooh-er, look at miss architecture critic!” she says, and nuzzles my cheek.

I nuzzle back; then I see Prince Blueblood on the far side of the quad and pull back.

“What is it?” Scratch follows my gaze. “Who's that?”

I look over at him again. Thankfully he hasn't seen us. “A bloody prat is who.”

“Huh?” She frowns. “Ex-boyfriend?”

“Ha! Fuck no!” I clear my throat and turn my accent back. “That's Prince Blueblood. Immensely prestigious, immensely rich, and immensely boorish. And,” I continue with a sigh, “potentially a patron.”

“Okay?”

We've got time to spare, so I take her over to one of the benches, sit with her, and recount the conversation I had with Blueblood two nights ago. I tell her about the casual use of power that comes with patronage. I tell her about the compromises, starting with the accent and the bow tie, culminating with the situation with which I'm now entangled. I tell her about the nagging guilt, and the unparalleled joy of the bow, and all the states between the two.

And I tell her, “Honestly, if I hadn't spoken to you last night, I don't where I'd be right now.”

Scratch is silent throughout my effusions. When I have finished, she looks briefly around the quad, takes her glasses off, then puts a hoof on my shoulder and kisses me on the nose.

Only now do I realise how short my breath is. I'm almost panting; there's a tightness in my throat and a sting behind my eyes.

“What do you lose,” she says, “if you piss him off?”

“The patronage.”

“And along with that?”

I pause, trying to collect my thoughts so I can explain to her what that would mean.

“Will you still be able to play the bass? And the cello? Will you still be allowed to perform in places like this?” she persists.

“Yes,” I say. “Of course. I just wouldn't have some invites, some money …”

She gives me a look: Then you know what the point is. And I do.

I sit back, look out across the quad. My breathing is steadier now.

“Just something to consider,” Scratch says. “On the other hoof, I still love the accent and the bow tie.”

I've no reply but to put my hoof over hers and look into her eyes. That says all it needs to.

We sit together in silence until it is time to prepare. “I'm really looking forward to it,” she tells me with a big, childlike grin.

“Me too.”

I take a kiss and my leave, then head into the hall.

My contrabass is there, standing magnificent and beautiful. I bow out a few notes, give it a little tune, bow again. Then I walk around to the front and put my head against the dark, cool maple. “I've brought someone to see you,” I tell it. “You're going to love her.”

I am foolish and sentimental; for that I make no apologies.

And then it is time to perform. Standing on stage, looking out through the crowds, I see Blueblood at the front again, and I see Scratch, three rows back on one of the hard wooden benches. Scruff surrounded my the meticulous. Honesty surrounded by affectation.

I smile at them all, at her specifically, ready my bow, and lose myself in the music. It is an extended moment of transcendence, beyond the myriad failures of being a pony, beyond the messy, grimy reality of ordinary life. It is an extended moment of perspective, know I see my worries for what the are, where I know the import of passion and companionship.

I see her again as I perform. She looks transfixed. She looks how I imagine myself to have when I first saw her in The Cellar.

Tavi. Octavia. Clubber. Musician. Profane. Aesthete. Pompous. Humble. Et cetera. Et cetera.

I am contradictory and indulgent, brimming with self doubt, uncertain and unclassifiable; for that I make no apology.

The things that concern me have not gone away. I am not “solved” by love or anything else, and I doubt I ever will be. And I know whatever I have with Scratch may not last. I know how easily things can fall apart. But as I play this piece, as I look at her, I feel understood in way I never have before.

I don't have perfection, but I have hope. And that's enough.

It is with that thought that I draw the final melody to a close. I bow. A moment of a silence envelops the room, then falls victim to applause. Would I be out of line to call it thunderous? I silently thank my instrument. I silently thank the movers and all the other ponies whose labour made my music possible. And I silently thank Scratch.

Leaving the hall I see Prince Blueblood, who all but dives upon the path in front of me. “Miss Octavia! I must –”

“Excuse me,” I tell him. “I have things to attend to and no time for idle chat.”

I slide around him while he's befuddled and canter over to Scratch.

“What's the verdict with Blueblood?” she asks as we're walking through the college's great archway.

I smile at her. “Y'know what? I honestly do not give a toss.”

Author's Note

This is what happens when I get story ideas while reading Irvine Welsh.

I can't wait to see what the EQD rejection letter says.