What Comes Before a Rainbow

by Generaresity

Rating: everyone
Tags: Equestria Girls, Slice of Life
Length: 3376

The homely, ungainly worm grows up and goes through metamorphosis, becoming a fully-matured butterfly, a common token of beauty. The devastating rain floods the world, but soon comes a breathtaking rainbow and everything is suddenly rectified.

The homely, ungainly worm grows up and goes through metamorphosis, becoming a fully-matured butterfly, a common token of beauty. The devastating rain floods the world, but soon comes a breathtaking rainbow and everything is suddenly rectified.

If I were to ask you what those two cases had in common, you would likely say something to the extent of a linear progression from negative to positive. But that is simply fanciful stereotyping.

Nay, the only thing that stayed the same was change. Nothing more yet nothing less.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2015-11-22 18:50:01 UTC

The Answer is Rain

The world was rather beautiful drenched.

This I thought to myself as I wended my way— carefree and insouciant— through the inundated park. And I wasn’t wrong in my opinion when I look back on it. There was nary an express word to be heard in such incantation to spur what enthralled me in that quiescent hour of the afternoon. They fascinated me, the contrapuntal pattering of raindrops as they released their futile green hopes. So verdant and full of life. It had to be let go. The sublime wonderment induced by the windswept trees preceding me like victorious soldiers after a hard-fought battle and presented to me the captured enemy king. Somehow even the furry arboreal creatures squirrelling about in the dewy grass refreshed me like water evaporating off skin. Quite a pleasant sport, watching them, as opposed to dryly regarding my teachers kicking up a fuss over my sketching in class.

It was as if runoff could pick up every diabolical abomination of the world along with the soil, draining it out into the ocean. Or the clouds soaked up a miasma of abhorrence and toted it along in their sure march to the sea. I permitted my curving lips— usually spuriously straight and enigmatic— a small victory.

Is this how life is going to feel from now on?

I looked down to my wrist over the voluminous muslin sleeve, clasped by a string bedizened with orange and red beads, alternating intermittently with the cursory attention—though love nonetheless apparent— encapsulating the unattentive idiosyncrasies of their maker in the faux gemstones’ amber-like translucence. The first friendship bracelet I ever did receive. A successive chain of nine spelled out her name with miniscule white letters stuck to the many faces of… polyhedrons. Yes, that was it.

I couldn’t help but internally beam at my recollection of anything math-related. School felt so much brighter and luminous today, grinning my whole way through even as the rain pitter-pattered on the window. It felt like having a parade march through a cemetery, newly-forged rapports twirling and tossing around their ritzy batons anterior to the sequential fanfare. At the mere thought (ashamed may I be to admit) I hopped in a nearby puddle, engendering a minor splash to soak my pristine footwear with muddy rainwater.

But I didn’t care. I had a friend. I didn't have another dashing semblance of what I purposely misconstrued as The One to see on the side solely there to kiss on. I didn’t have some footnote sycophant groveling at my feet so boys would date them to get closer to me (though, obviously, I never vocalize such calumny). And thankfully, it wasn't a new family member, biologically obligated to put up with all my highbrow quiddities.

I had a friend. An authentic, genuine friend. And it felt like my clouds had finally left.

Passing beneath the faint shadow of a looming willow, I stretched my hand out in order to glance the beading percolation at the tip of one of its sagging leaves before giving a carefree spin in the smoky post-rain sky. I spun for days and those days were equivalent to these seconds in accumulated joy. I felt I was falling. I felt like for once, instead of rain falling to the earth, I dropped to the heavens in some divine gravity reversal. I screamed in unbidden exultation and twirled faster, higher until I slipped on the rain-slicked ground. Then I laughed.

After the world ceased its nauseating distortion, I finally sat up and looked around at the yellow-stippled flora. The radiant beams tickled my nose and heat suffused my whole face with the balmy nostrum, though I couldn’t before imagine feeling better than I did before this. My bright eyes ranged over the park until I glimpsed a bench, burnished a lustrous mahogany from the rain. Other than its pleasant coloration, the bench was rather nondescript, only catching my eye when I noticed a head peeking out. Vacuous yet inquisitive teal eyes essaying to pick apart my bizarre celebration. My eyes met hers for a mortifying moment before they popped back down with alarming abruptness.

My cheeks burned with embarrassment at my infelicitous display. I stared down at the ground in disgrace. That was a rather inauspicious turn of events. How could I have allowed myself such a terrible slip? Perhaps it was due to being cooped up inside the house for so long. I had to admit, looking back on it, it was rather aberrant of my usual bearing I was renowned to carry myself with, though I never before had seen that girl at school. She should not know how I talked and postured and all together... affected my behavior. It felt… rather liberating to break out of my prim demeanor and do something unpredictable for once. But that’s not how it was supposed to be. Predictably predictable. Grounded and decorous. That was what defined me to the ones who knew me.

No, not knew me. They knew an illusion, something so insubstantial. Applejack knew me. Applejack understood what it was like to have an annoying little sister, she knew how it was growing up in this backwater, and— probably what made her so valuable— she knew what made me tick after numerous trial and error. But what did this arbitrary girl know about me? Was the port that ostentatiously behooved me already implanted into her mind at one look? Was my carriage already defined at one snapshot of a superficial once-over?

Groaning, I flopped onto my back and stared at the sky, bemoaning my instability and turned my head to the side at the whickering willow branch beating rhythmically with the soft crooning of the wind. The cleansing rain blew away with the spring breeze falling to the ground obliquely.

I pondered this as I tilted my head back up. I thought about how strikingly the peeking sunlight counterpoints the luminaries of the insulated world when it’s raining and how you can tell when you’re seeing the sun. I thought about how lovely the evanescent buds of flowers that composed the park were. And above all, I thought about how this beauty was all interconnected somehow but I was too blind to notice it and settled for something simpler.

I just knew how everybody likes flowers in the summer and how the sun shining over everything was nice because everything was bright. The true kernel was as hard to grasp as the veritable pulchritude it overlaid with its longer duration.

But I forgot this beauty, right here, could still be held on to... even though it’ll be lost again.

So that’s why I brought myself to sit back up and used my balled-up fists to push myself up off the ground. That’s why I strided up to the bench with a sole intention and direction. It’s also why I kept reprising the words how dare she judge me, how dare she. As if she told me that I was not me-- that is, beautiful-- because I could change, like a faux diamond could easily be discerned after being scratched. The change was particularly blemishing.

As I got around to the other side of the bench to look into the eyes of the perpetrator who dared even think I changed, I found myself frozen in some introspection-induced tableau.

Her large aquamarine eyes were puffy and flooded with tears. Water streamed down her eyes in multitudes of rivulets as if the rain had still not ended and an invisible cloud had perpetuated her own personal downpour. Pink tresses of hair dragged themselves along the bench as her body convulsed in hysterics. The girl’s whole face was erubescent and still heaving, leaving no doubt about her ongoing, heart-shattering catharsis. That’s when all her perceived transgressions against me seemed to evaporate in the crisp afternoon air. Looking back on that day, I couldn’t think of any other time when she was any more beautiful.

I felt my fingers loosen against my sides and my posture go limp as I let go of my retributive rage, just as time seemed to let go of its hold on that contrite moment and carried on with its natural flow. She looked up at me and, in the hoarsest of whispers, said, “I’m sorry for watching you. I—I was just curious how someone could be so energetic despite everything being soaked. Please don’t pay me any—” she took a deep breath and released it, “—don’t pay me any mind.” The girl looked down again.

I wondered how she could not be happy with the very thing she talked of as if universally aversive. Thinking in her perspective, my heart went out for that girl in that moment and she could run away with it for all I cared. I took in a puff of the cool air myself and let it fill my stomach as I postured to make myself look more presentable. I racked my brain for something to say until I finally let out, in the most elegant accent I could muster, “You know, that bench is wet. You’ll get your skirt drenched.” And, to my greatest relief, she actually looked up and smiled at my poor attempt at a jest. I smiled back and walked over, taking a seat beside her. I fidgeted to sit up straight so as not to give her the wrong second impression.

I sat there looking at the girl as best I could in the eye as her sodden hair obscured her face. Swaying my dangling legs and kicking a random pebble, I decided she wasn’t going to open up if I didn’t ask to come inside. I scooted closer and draped my purple coat across her shivering, demure form. She was slight and shorter than most but by no means any less pretty. The girl didn’t show any signs of quaking or flinching, simply tossing her hair back in order to look up at me, giving an abashed yet gracious simper. “Th-thank you”— she blushed —”I forgot my jacket before, um…” I tilted my head, waiting for her to finish but she simply sniffed and held out her hand. “I’m Fluttershy.”

“Rarity.” I didn’t give the proffered handshake a second look and brought her into a comforting hug. She embraced back even harder and shook against my chest. The floodgates didn’t break again, only gracing my already-wet coiffure with a small trickle, and I gently stroked the newly-named Fluttershy’s hair with slow, condensing breaths and incoherent mutters of comfort. “You looked like you really needed a hug.”

“Thank you.” Her quivering voice came back muffled by the hanks of my hair and we stayed like that for a minute before I pulled back, piercing her eyes with mine and spoke in a soft, conciliatory tone.

“So what school do you go to, darling?”

“Cloudsdale Junior High.” The amplitude of her voice trailed off like she had said something wrong: my expression, to any bystanders, would have denoted she did.

I finally was able to articulate through my gaping mouth. “What?” All my previous finesse left me as I fretted. “Darling, I never would have guessed you had come from a school of such ruffians. You’re so frangible and gentle, unlike those boorish philistines. How did you even get into that school? I know it has some of the best teachers but the physical exam to get in, I have heard, is by no means light."

She shrunk back and mumbled something abstruse. I asked her to recite what she had just said and scooted closer to her, inclining my ear in order to hear with better perspicuity. She tried again with the same result. “One more time?” I had beseeched, “This wind is simply dreadful.”

“Mymotheristhesoccercoachthere.”

“Oh. Is that it? That is—” I paused. “Wait, isn’t that— Your mother is— Sp-Spitfire?” I finally managed to breathe out the name. Spitfire was a bit of a celebrity around here and lionized by the other middle schools seeing as her team had never lost a game since she began her coaching career at eighteen as a side project while she waited for our town’s professional soccer team, the best in the country, to offer her a contract. “I heard the Wonderbolts are scouting her. You’re really related to her? I never would’ve guessed.”

“Yeah…” Fluttershy’s discourse was mollified by a few notches and she remarked almost regretfully. “She… actually was offered a multi-million dollar contract on the team and is going to quit her job after this year. But I guess it doesn’t matter awfully much since I’m going to highschool next year.”

I muttered softly to myself. “So you’re my age, then? Still, never would have guessed you two were related.”

“Most of the kids would agree with you. That’s the principal reason for the other kids bullying me. They tease me and say I might be adopted… or switched at birth. Because I could neeever be athletic and confident like her.” Tears started to again line her eyes as she suddenly divulged all this information to me. I squirmed uncomfortably and tried to console her before she lost it.

“Well, you don’t need to be any of those things to be desirable. I think you’re—”

“And you know what?” She countered, her tone growing more and more volatile word by word. “I almost believed them. I never broached the topic with my mother seriously because somewhere in my mind, I sort of believed it. That day, when she got that huge contract, I realized I could never compare to her. I could never make a million dollars in half a year like her with my—” She sniffed, her eyes welling up, “—my awkwardness of movement and frailty. So today when I tripped myself trying to kick a soccer ball…” she paused to swipe at her sniffling nose. “As I lied there on the grass with my clothes stained and slightly torn and a-as I lied on my back in the shadows of the towering bullies throwing barbs at me, I… I seriously contemplated running away, maybe find my real family if I had one. But they're probably losers like me, living in a cardboard box in some alleyway.”

So some bullies were bothering her at school and that's why she was crying. That was the end of her tenuous forbearance as she suddenly began to wail uncontrollably. I could see tears roll down her cheeks where her hair strands parted in front of her face. So I did the only thing I could think of at the moment: I enveloped her in another tight embrace while she sobbed into my shoulder. “There, there, darling. Don’t believe anything those churls say. You are more—”

She pulled back and cut me off once more, strained a wan smile to grace her countenance. “But then, Rarity, you wouldn’t believe it! This girl stood up for me and told those mean bullies to leave me alone. I learned her name was Rainbow Dash in their exchange and you should’ve been there to see it. Those boys got so flustered and challenged Rainbow to a soccer game, 3 on 1. I thought that was pretty unfair but she actually won. After the game, I went to talk to her and thank her for helping me out back there. I thought I had finally found someone who got me but…” She tensed up and her eyes became downcast. “But she apparently forgot why she challenged those boys and was confused. She then proceeded leave with the crowd cheering behind her.”

I suppose I was wrong. Being forgotten by everyone, even the person she believed would take a risk on her behalf, was the true cause of her woe. I felt a new rush of sympathy pass over me. It seemed life had some cruel point to prove with this poor, pathetic girl. But that was the first thing I realized: I was just like her. She looked up at me and I could see dark blue liquid eyes staring up. We were one in the same. Forgotten. I, because everyone forgot about the person beneath the figure that everyone was in awe of. And her because no one even accepted she could exist considering her lineage. I knew it wasn’t like that for me anymore and it didn’t have to be like that for her either. We could all find someone to see us differently, if only she’d let me in. “You know Fluttershy, I feel some sort of, uh— connection between us. In this brief conversation, even now I can assure you I would never forget you. And that’s what a true companion does. So, from the pit of my heart, know that I’m being genuine when I ask, OOOF!” My grand soliloquy was short-lived as an errant breeze blew my thick wet hair to smack me in the face. “Sorry,” I said sheepishly as I brought my hand up to train it back to its previous, perfected state.

She stopped me, though, and fixed me with a steely, determined stare. “Don’t fix it. Please? I-I think you look beautiful with your hair like that. And umm…” She hesitated for some reason, “Of course I’ll be your friend.”

I was shocked. Shocked and flattered. How could such a graceful being think of me so highly? How could the sun think at all of the picayune moon that relies on it for light? I was too starstruck to say anything until I finally let out, “Thank you. You look really beautiful too.” In that moment, I didn’t care I was remised. I simply smiled, and looked around at the park. The vibrant, cleansed leaves swaying with the slight draft, trees that stood stilted, disinterested at the rest of the world, and overly-energetic squirrels unafraid of the rain anymore scurrying with such foolhardy abandon.

The second thing I realized that day was that it wasn’t as beautiful as before.

I cherished that moment then in reverence for what the world had lost. The furbishing and refreshing rain now gone. I was ruminating if Fluttershy would ever see me more fabulous than when I was disheveled naturally. Would I look better after I had cleaned myself off from the change, free from any residual dross of my past self to what she had glimpsed peeking from behind a bench? More unrestrained and unpredictable? Perhaps I could try to hold on to how I looked before-- pretty and dainty-- because I couldn’t maintain this impromptu windswept hair. At least the quality of it being impromptu.

But did the park get any say as to when it rained? In the same way, can I control when I change? Besides, even what we’ve known the longest could never compare to the change; holding onto what I know would be like stagnating. So what else was there then if I could not indeterminately perpetuate perfection, but keep on changing to momentarily be happy every so often? Could the course of fate keep that up before even the deliberate anomalies I create as a gambit to escape the monotony became banal?

But above that all, I wondered if I would view my new friend in that same flattering light after the rain and her tears had dried up. Honestly, she was rather breathtaking when she cried, in more than one way. Would my feelings for her persist when the outside world could not? Isn’t that how you are assured of your unfeigned feelings for someone? To trust it’ll stay the same and have it so? I’d had enough factitious flings to know the antipodal to not be true. Few things stay the same, but true universalisms never falter. I smiled with the total conviction I felt in that sentiment and my non-tentative acceptance of the tacit challenge.

But, at the moment, I just wanted to cherish it. How beautiful she is. How beautiful it was. How beautiful it will be the next downpour. I looked at my new-found friend and she smiled back at me. Looking back on it, I wasn’t incorrect in my opinion and she likely acquiesced.

The world was rather beautiful drenched.