This Is What It Is

   This is what it is.

   Practically a mantra by this point – she could slap it on a banner or a t-shirt or something and say “It’s how I live my life”, devil-may-care like. It wasn’t healthy, was it? But it was what it was, and it shot through her head every time she tried to walk up the stairs or swiped uselessly at the air trying to pick up a glass or Celestia forbid let her mind wander to the polished wood case sitting unmoved and unmovable in the back of the upstairs closet and she cursed under her breath when it happened.

   Enough of the teasing. Her hoof was a worthless mess because of a stupid accident. Vinyl had pushed her and pushed her to follow her onto the roof one night after her show in Canterlot and the fence rimming the roof gave way when she leaned on it. Vinyl was out of the house now. Maybe permanently. She’d only really needed to room with somepony else when she was still a starving artist, and she’d passed that point long, long ago; now that the legal case had settled, she didn’t need to work much anymore, and certainly didn’t need to split rent with…

   Just the one hoof, the left one. Luck was a whore, giving itself away to anything whether it was fit or not. Luck made her hopeful in recovery those first few weeks, perhaps that something could be done for her joint and she could refit her hoof with some kind of prosthetic. It was shattered, though, and the death of that hope was very nearly too much for her. Luck gave her her right hoof, and it gave her some hope, too, and she knew in the back of her mind that that hope was empty, but it was there, and it hurt. Maybe if the joint would set itself again eventually, she could learn to play again with the handicap. After all, it wasn’t both hooves. That was the hope, and it hurt.

   She certainly didn’t need to split rent with her. She told herself often those first few weeks that she wouldn’t scapegoat, that she was better than that. But she was mortal, fallible, and her thoughts travelled in those directions eventually. That wasn’t the reason Vinyl was out of the house, though, no, that would be unfair. She just needed… some alone time. A lot of alone time.

   That was where she was now, alone time. The minibar on the island in the tiny kitchen in the cushy apartment held its fair share of whatever she craved, or needed, and she had a glass of black and tan at the moment helping her think. It was grasped limply in her right hoof, as her left had recently been only useful for staring at, which she did often, which wasn’t healthy, was it? It looked wrinkled, like sun-dried fruit, like something drained of blood. Certainly not healthy.

   Then came a thick knock on the door. It dulled against the carpet and against the tepid atmosphere and against her dim brain. “What,” she managed, though her voice didn’t sound like – well, like a voice at all.

   There was no response except, in a moment, another knock.

   She cursed again, under her breath, and swept off the seat and to the nearby door, opening it as far as the chain would allow, letting in the fresher air of the hallway and the rosy smell of a familiar shampoo.

   There she was, standing a bit nervously in the doorway. Of course. “Hey,” she said quietly, almost reluctantly. The fry of her voice was dulled, again, by her brain. She wished she was shocked, but knew that she’d been expecting this almost presciently for the last few days.

   Behind her was the little rusted cart she took with her every time she played somewhere, painted and re-painted to whatever theme the gig was, perhaps to impress, perhaps because it was fun. It was filled with a pile of boxes, all lacquered wood and black plastic. If Vinyl noticed her eyes wandering, she made no mention of it. In fact, she didn’t say anything for what felt like far too long.

   After a second of eye contact – perhaps less – she promptly shut the door again, and stared at the chain lock. It glimmered back at her in the yellow light from the kitchen. She pressed her aching head firmly against the door, thought not quite flowing in her mind. Everything seemed dreamlike.

   “… Tavi?”

   She opened her eyes, and stared at her hooves on the carpet, her left one still shooting angry little barbs of pain through her whenever it wanted to. She sluggishly took the chain down and opened the door fully.

   She didn’t have her glasses on, and her mane was ever so slightly hanging over her eyes. “Can I…” she began momentarily, her head angling downwards as she spoke.

   “Of course,” she replied, and felt herself croak. She stood aside as Vinyl wheeled the cart into the room, much more delicately than she would have in any other circumstance. Now there was another living thing inside her small, dark, cushy apartment, like there used to be, and she wasn’t liking the change.

   “You, um… you’ve kept up the place really well,” Vinyl commented, looking up and around at the dustless, stainless, carefully-maintained room. It was very nearly like it was when she’d left – in fact, there were a few places in which there were just empty spaces where her things used to be, like on the left side of the sink or on the left side of the upstairs closet and she cursed under her breath.

   Cleaning was what she had. “Yes,” she intoned simply, and looked away as Vinyl turned her head back towards her.

   Sound died away in the carpet and atmosphere once more. “I, um, I brought something,” Vinyl began with a stammer. “All this stuff. These are my synthesizers and my sequencers and stuff. They’re – they’re how I make my music. How I do what, you know, what I do.”

   The implication dragged against her tired mind like a – like a bow against taut string no she pushed the metaphor from her forcefully. “Yes, I’m aware you still have a way to make music.”

   “N –“ Vinyl shook her head violently. “No, that’s not what I meant. Of course that’s not what I meant. You need to get back out there, start making those insane classical things that you used to make, that everypony loved so much.”

   “Well, I’d love to, Vinyl, but most ponies like hearing cello compositions on the cello. That’s not an option for me anymore.” Her eyes remained in a calm half-lidded state, and her body had barely moved at all, but some kind of vitriol, some kind of poison was welling up inside her at the sheer gall of somepony who was once a good friend. “But if you’d like, you can take your toys and boxes and go entertain a couple dozen drunken teenagers as long as you leave me and my work out of it.”

   She expected something from Vinyl. Vinyl was a headstrong, brash pony, somepony easy to rile up and easy to be riled up by. Loud, vivacious, and not one to take anything lying down. But that was what she did. She inhaled, long, and closed her eyes. As though nothing had happened, she began speaking again. “I’ve… I recorded some of what you used to play. I got a good range of notes down to sample sizes – little bits you can rearrange and stuff – and I, you know, I just think you should get your hooves on music again. I mean, not… I mean,” she stammered again, twice in a minute now.

   She sighed, and finally shifted her weight a bit. “… It isn’t the same.”

   “It won’t be the same. It’ll never be the same, and you know that.” Her voice had dropped into the lower register, the serious register. Now, perhaps, she would be treated to loud, vivacious Vinyl. “Do you want to try?” Apparently not.

   “Frankly, I don’t. I’ve never appreciated your… music, and you know that,” she returned snidely. That was surprise, hearing the bit of snide in her voice. Saying what she did.

   She could hear her inhale again. “You don’t mean that.”

   “I…” She winced as that bit of pain echoed again, and bit her lip, hoping that she didn’t notice. “… I don’t. I’m – I apologize.”

   Maybe she did notice. In a second, she stepped forwards and brought her into a short embrace. It felt rather off-kilter, rather awkward, but she could at the very least tell it was heartfelt. And now that she was on the topic, she noted suddenly that she hadn’t come into contact, physical contact, with anypony in weeks. She rather missed it – but of course she wasn’t going to show it.

   Vinyl stepped back, her eyes darting back and forth between her own. “This… this reclusive stuff? It’s not healthy, Tavi.”

   They didn’t speak to one another all that much for the next hour or so. She remembered she may have offered her a drink, but that was about it. She set all her boxes on and around the coffee table, putting some on top of others and connecting some to others, and then stood, nodded at the setup, and sat her down to teach her to use it. It was a mess of words she didn’t understand spoken quietly, dulled, and she felt herself slowly become more accustomed to the presence of somepony else. It was starting to feel natural, even in the midst of things in another academic sphere than her own.

   Her heart finally did a little leap at the new prospects when Vinyl turned one of the knobs and revealed a loop of her cello, a C2, its charming guttural self, humming alluringly at her, drawing her into the little black knob. She clenched her teeth as reality came rushing back. “It’s not fair,” she whispered to it.

   Vinyl didn’t say anything for a moment. “… I know.”

   And they went on. Each time a note played, a needle found its way into her lungs. It wasn’t making her feel any better at all. Just pulled up memories she knew she could never recreate. It wasn’t fair, and that was true, and that’s why luck is a whore.

   “You know,” Vinyl said in the middle of explaining what all the knobs do on one of the synthesizers, “I do have something else that I wanted to show you, but I don’t know what you’re gonna do when I show you, so…”

   “What is it?” she asked lazily, still staring at the little alien knobs.

   “Well, I have something already loaded on one of these,” Vinyl replied. “I’m just gonna say it – I have a recording of your improvisation last year at Destiny Hall, and… I wanted to play it.”

   She was still staring dumbly at the knobs, and remembered suddenly, vividly, the orange glow of that night, the sound of the orchestra, the massive crystal chandelier, and – and what she played, a gorgeous, flowing masterwork that blended keys together like paint on water, like dust swirling on the wind, like molten metal rushing angrily from the mouth of a red volcano. That was her masterwork. She knew Vinyl had recorded some things, but it hadn’t really come to mind to ask her about it.

   “So… do you want to hear it?”

   Her breath grew shallow for a moment. “I would.”

   Vinyl gingerly tapped one of the knobs on a far-away box, and the hush of an audience suddenly filled the room. Then, when there was almost total silence, the divine bass of her instrument shuddered through her, and her melody, her melody, pranced its way up a scale and into the minor key, delicately falling down back into major like a falling feather finally reaching the surface of the lake. It made her shiver. She put her good hoof to her mouth and very nearly gasped.

   “Are you – do you – is that okay?”

   She felt an odd emotion now. It felt extreme: it felt like tears of happiness. It wasn’t anything to be so happy about, but she felt it nonetheless. Music doesn’t bow to logic like everything else, and in this situation, logic may just as well be a mouse to a mammoth. She let the tears out, smiling against her hoof. It played on, and her smile did nothing but grow.

   Vinyl noticed again, and reached a hoof around her for another quick embrace. “You can do anything you’d like with it now. You can make new ones, and find new things to do with this one…” She stood, and stepped over the various wires to walk to the doorway. “I’ll let you explore.”

   With that, the door closed with a creak, and she was alone again. Her and the music, and the music was alive in its own right, wasn’t it. Perhaps she wasn’t alone at all.

   It was true, that those memories couldn’t be recreated. She wouldn’t ever competently hold it in her hooves again, would never feel the comforting solidity of its neck resting against her shoulder or its hollow body held tightly against her own. And she’d thought those thoughts daily or worse for weeks now, reducing herself to tears, reducing herself to drinking. She told herself, to dull the pain, that this is what it is.

   “This is what it is” went the mantra, closing the doors as it passed, stopping it all from coming in, stopping her from going out. Compressive, constrictive, and all-encompassing.

   Well, if this is what it is, she was going to make the most of it.