Scald

by Casca

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Romance, Slice of Life, Drama, Original Character
Length: 13923

Lilac believes she is happy. But a small spark in her life makes her think otherwise. A drama in Sydneigh about coffee, appearances and pain.

Lilac is a successful pony who has everything she wants, and is exactly the pony she wishes to be. But a small spark in her life makes her think otherwise.

A drama in Sydneigh about Equestrian life, coffee, appearances and pain.

***

Pony vector template from here.

Very special thanks to Pascoite for editing and conceptual advice! Also featured on EqD. Also featured on TRG!
Recommended by PaulAsaran.

Published 2015-11-23 08:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2015-12-20 13:13:12 UTC

Act 1

The clink of china on mahogany awoke her from her journey into the inked deep. And like the curl at the end of a smoke trail, the affirmation:

“One flat white with sugar syrup.” The smile, the small tilt of his head.

“Miss Lilac,” he added.

“Thank you,” said Lilac, looking up from but not altering her position — a half-slouch, half-cuddle with her handbag in her lap and her book on top of that, cradled in the plush armchair of cafe norm.

She resumed reading. Too many times she had hastened to give the coffee a stir, only to lose the page of her book. She could never find a bookmark when she needed one, and it was not as if she could make folds in the pages — they belonged to the library, public property, which essentially meant property of Celestia. Populace or monarch, either way, it would not do.

And it’s not as if stirring it really does anything, she added as she glanced at the steaming mug. The trouser-covered leg of her barista cum waiter lingered in the periphery of her sight. Just when she was about to address it, it turned, fled in its careful stride to behind the bar.

Cafe Seratti was, unlike its many competitors in Sydneigh’s coffee strip, old. The young, brown-maned stallion who had just served her was its fourth owner, the fourth generation of Serattis, originally growers but now purveyors of the drink of the elite.

When the coffee trend had started, Lilac did not know nor cared for; while she knew many ponies drank it either for the buzz or for the image, she was in that cafe because she liked coffee. Not just the buzz and the image, but the aroma, the bitterness, those inexplicable notes of fruit, smoke, and other odd comparisons behind the facade of it. Not just the taste either, but neither excluding — it was all of it.

She was aware of the increase in disdain for lonely coffee drinkers. They made their way in mainstream tabloids, sporting candid photos of scarf-inclined but otherwise normal denziens of the city. They had a term... Hipsters, was it?

Cafe Seratti was sturdy and decidedly rustic. The floorboards were glossed dark wood, and the walls were dirty plastered brick —here and there, behind the many photos of old customers and coffee plantations, cracks like hairs sat and would crumble upon touch. The tables and chairs in the centre of the shop were solid, dull affairs, polished wood — boring, but preferable to the flimsy glass-and-plastic frames in the other bars. Glass displays provided street views, both to the customers and to the outside mob. We are inside and you are not. We are drinking expensive, classy coffee and you are not. That was what a lot of Sydneigh was these days. Who said money couldn’t buy happiness?

She had never been in Cafe Seratti after dark, but the coned lights dangling above looked functional and suitably dim for a lowlight latte. Nothing much else to see up there besides the fans, which were an equally plain tinted copper.

She finished her chapter, committed the page number of the next to memory, and drank, taking sips as she stared vacantly into her cup.

She thanked the barista and left.

***

“Glad to see you’re doing well, sonny.”

“Just what I was about to say to you, sir.”

“You whippersnapper.” A painful, strangled wheeze of a laugh. “I think I’ve had one too many. Mind giving the old pony some water?”

The fizz of a faucet, then the clink of glass. Lilac looked up, not for the first time, and held back a frown. The old pony, trundled in thick red-and-yellow striped fleece, had been chatting with the barista for over twenty minutes now. The rest of the customers were too engrossed in themselves or each other to pay attention, despite the hacks and thuds he let out every so often. He was just another one of those ponies.

“Much obliged.” The old pony drank heartily, and the glass joined its brethren, a grimy shot glass and a soiled white mug. “But it really is good to see that you’re well. Grown so much from back then when you couldn’t even make the froth right. Are you still having those little accidents of yours?”

“No,” said the barista.

“Heh. That’s for the best then. Wouldn’t do at all for you to be like that now that this place is yours. Especially how you used to bawl your eyes out and your mum would pat your head, just there.”

A family friend, Lilac surmised, taking a sip of her own drink. She had never liked the froth, but anything other than flat whites were... just not right. Perhaps lattes, too, not much difference there...

She supposed that she could ask for milk without the froth, though with baristas you never knew. Crying sacrilege and demanding she leave and never return, or just meeting her with patronizing, pitying stares. You never knew with high-end professionals. Poser. Child. Plebeian!

“Of course it wouldn’t, sir. And I remember.”

There was a sigh. “Well, I think it’s time to head on back. I’m sure your parents would be proud if they could see you now.” The old pony dug into his pocket and placed a few bills on the counter. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the barista, same as always.

By now she would have returned to her book, but today her eyes lingered longer on him, and he did something she had never seen him do before.

His lips curled, very briefly, as his eyes flashed anger, before turning away to do dishes behind the cover of the tips jar.

Oh? she thought to herself briefly, before taking another sip. She licked the froth off her upper lip and played with the spoon. Was it rude to skim off the froth, leave it on the platter? She looked at it, tried stirring to see if this time, the layers would meld. They didn’t. They never did.

If I wanted to be subtle, I could always fold it into a napkin. But there had been stories about certain chefs in certain restaurants who made their commis look through those, to see what the esteemed guests had been spitting out while nopony was watching.

Maybe the barista had been angry because the old pony had neglected to drink his froth.

She looked at the barista again, and then her napkin. Would you betray me? she mused, dabbing the tip of her spoon on the square. The drop of brown spread to the size of a pearl.

Nopony was watching her — she had checked — but she drank the froth anyways.

***

It had been about four months since Lilac had committed herself to the cafe for her weekly, bi-weekly ritual. She did not come often enough to confirm her suspicion, but it seemed that there were not many regulars.

“Oh, honey bunny...”

More like smalls, she thought. Ha ha.

There was the Thursday couple, who always took the couch at the back. They were both university students, judging from the snippets of actual conversation they had, dredged and dried from the soppy sea of “You’re cute; no, you’re cute” and “I love you. No, I love you. No, I love you” — they were doing some kind of science degree, because the mare had mentioned dissection and the stallion had made a joke about giving her his heart, which she found adorable and Lilac found abominable. Or abdomen-able. Ha ha.

If there was ever an act that was here all week, it was the lovey-dovey act. She had tried sitting in a direction that would let her watch them, but she found herself ducking her head and biting her lip more often than not. She could hear them, and that was enough — stupid rhetoric, vapid back-and-forths, and a lot of kissing. For whatever reason, it was apparently necessary to say “Mmm-wah” as one performed the action — onomatopoeia is discouraged in fiction, isn’t it? And it’s redundant in real life; where do they get these ideas — and make squeeing noises as one hugged.

She had watched them long enough to concede that it was, at least, not a matter of having no shame. All the embracing and mutual absorbing created a world for only them, a bubble of happy ignorance. It was like that in the dramas too, wasn’t it? Not to mention the streets, which had its share of couples. She looked outside the window, and immediately spotted two within six seconds of searching.

It was youth. She almost sighed as she sipped her coffee.

Is it me, or is this a bit more bitter than usual?

She looked to the barista, who was wiping cups with a detached expression. She had watched him pour the sugar syrup with the coffee, pulling back a second quicker than usual. The couple hadn’t noticed, but he had spilt almost half the foam as he made their order. He had wiped the evidence away with the cloth he kept around his waist, leaving the cup clean as before.

Chefs did that too, polishing the plate even as it left the station. Perhaps there was something profound to be gleaned from that last humble step towards perfection. “Even the worst of spills are just a hip’s wipe worth of work” — yes, that could go into a poster, or a box in the corner of the daily paper. Or the front page of a teen magazine.

But all she could think of was how the barista had made a rookie mistake like that, and the realization that she didn’t even know his name — and that he, despite her initial belief that he was younger than her, actually looked to be about her age, in the suddenly heavy steps of his and the bags beneath his eyes.

***

Brown mane. Olive coat, and eyes the same shade, dressed in a smooth black-and-white uniform hidden by the off-white apron bearing Seratti’s logo across the chest. Earth pony, of course. Lilac’s eyes trailed him as he made the occasional trip from the counter, almost hearing the silk of his pants swish at the ankles.

Some ponies were born with elegance, and by elegance Lilac meant white coats. Pure white coats were a sign and, early genetic research suggested, product of high breeding. It meant nothing in modern Sydneigh — perish the thought of colourism in her socially mobile generation, down with castes, and so forth — but she was certain that it took certain ponies further than they deserved.

Fleur Delish or something, for one, whose only evident merit was aesthetic, had her face splashed all over the rag mags. Nopony seemed to know what exactly it was she did, but everypony agreed that she was the epitome of noble grace, and definitely, certainly, white, and that was enough to warrant celebration.

Having suffered three months at etiquette school when she was six, Lilac knew that grace was half talent and half vanity. You either had it from the start or craved it enough to learn it, with the cultish obsession required to master the art. Lilac was fortunate enough to find inner peace with the way she carried herself in life, but she understood how a pony could desire grace to the point of envy.

She spun around to see if the couple was there. They were not. The mare was the faintest shade of butter, if memory served, and the lad was a navy blue. Normal foals.

She looked outside of the window. The streets were not busy, but even if they were, the chance of seeing a white pony wasn’t high, and that was including the spray-coat ones. She opted to stare at a mare tinged pale blue window shopping with two other decidedly duller (drab green and dark yellow, respectively) friends, if the noun “friends” still held valid after whatever biased injustice they had suffered because of her unbalancing reception.

“Your ice water?” asked the barista, the clink of glass on table causing her to spin around. She caught the stallion jolting back an inch and looked at the glass.

“Er, yes. Thanks.”

The watched him leave. Apart from his tail and ankles, all of his hindquarters were covered. Pinstripe, the fabric was, not thick enough to completely hide the shape of his legs and rear as he walked —

She felt her hooves burn as she clenched tightly on the glass, and a bit of heat shot up her cheeks.

He wasn’t exactly striking — handsome was an archaic measure that she personally did not use — but he wasn’t too bad to look at. Comfortable on the eyes from all angles. Charming smile and certainly deft with his skills. Professionally distant from his patrons, but the bar was always open to a pony looking for a chat, or so the unwritten rules of etiquette went...

She looked into her glass of water. A generous serving of ice cubes jostled each other like politicians on the front page, with equal depth. Why was it in movies that you could see your reflection in a glass of water? It wasn’t true at all.

Half empty or half full? she asked, looking at the untouched glass. She took a long draw and felt the cold bite into her gums. Such a difference from the double-shot mocha she had finished not five minutes ago. The water was almost sweet.

Idly, she picked up the spoon from the mocha mug lying quietly — he hadn’t taken it away, she noted with mild curiousity — and transferred a block of ice, giving it a push to make it skate along the inside of the mug, melting the dark crusts that had formed from the dregs.

He was handling the bill of a pair of female customers now. That twinkling smile of his as he secured the bits, the more-than-pleased tone of the mares’ responses. One of them even looked back as she stepped out of the door. Whatever lack of advantage he had in colour was made up by experienced service. Which was what it was, really. Service.

Did they actually care enough to mean “Have a nice day?” Did they genuinely hope for rendezvous with their “See you soon”s? They had no reason to, but she found herself defending him. Maybe he does actually care.

This was Equestria, after all. Ponies were still nice in the distant, non-urbanized regions. Upper Hillings, maybe, or the Highlands, where bumpkins grew tea of the highest exquisitry. Or Ponyville, even. Where service wasn’t faked, because everypony had enough bits (where everything had a low enough cost, rather) to live and work how they wanted to. Nopony would stand in a checkout eight to five unless they, Luna forbid, wanted to, if you were in Upper Hillings or the Highlands or Ponyville, and that was a revolutionary thought — but then again they probably didn’t have malls or Louie Mutton, and if you didn’t have malls (which had everything) the logic went on that you really didn’t have anything.

Lilac watched the barista clean cups. He really wasn’t too bad to look at at all.

Lilac was healthily self-aware. She had a stable job, lived on her own, was purple fringed with white like her namesake, fairly refined and culinarily adequate. Decent on all accounts as a mare, and that, she felt, was a fair assessment. Recently, her workmate had gotten herself a coltfriend, and the honeymoon lunacy was in full swing. Millard-this, Millard-that, all day long around the water cooler. Most of it she tuned out anyways, but when she started teasing Lilac about her apathy towards the matter, she had inadvertently raised... questions. Her parents, too, had gently suggested she consider partnership during her visit back a couple of weeks ago, even though she was perfectly happy as she was.

I mean, I know I’m nothing too special. But neither is he. Which makes it okay, right?

She stopped herself there. Thinking about the barista, when they had virtually no conversation, let alone relationship between them was bordering on psychotic. She shook her head firmly, feeling it spin a little. That was not sensible. Even if he was good-looking and probably a decent suitor, she did not need one of those at this point of her life.

She gave him a stiff nod of acknowledgment as she left, turning away quickly before she could see his smile in full.

***

Lilac was grumpy. Very grumpy. Her mane was an unbrushed mess, she was fuming, her eyelids were sore. She could feel her retinas wrinkling. The dull pressure in her nostrils from congestion irritated her to no end. She almost couldn’t smell the coffee; the long black in front of her, sourly bitter as it was, was one of the few things she could taste at all.

She held the cup, shaking slightly as she held back the impulse to dump its contents over the folder of spreadsheets filling up the area of the table.

Last night had been one of those nights when her brain refused to shut down, leaving her unnerved and helpless as hours meant for rest were spent on recalling the most mundane of events. That one time she wet the bed when she was four, and her brother teased her all day, calling her “Loolac”. When the group of boys from her junior high class joined the fad of spitting ice pellets through straws, and one had landed in her ear. When she had forgotten her speech on soy milk for show-and-tell, and ended up spilling it all over her crush. At least that last one had been helpful, a sudden explanation of her current-day aversion to the stuff.

Even those events, completely irrelevant as they were, had been exceptions. The rest was boredom — boredom in class, boredom at home, flashbacks of her doing inconsequential little actions on inconsequential little objects to pass by inconsequential moments, behind a desk or on a bed or on the swing in the park near her old place, like she used to before her brother ran away from home. It was infuriating. She needed to wake up at seven the next morning, dammit!

It was around three when she caved in. At the back of her cupboard she kept her last resort, a little box of herbs — every independent Earth pony had one of her own — in hers sat a small block of dried eucalyptus. She pulled away two teaspoons of strands, shook off the dust, and boiled them in hot water. She hated the taste, but it was no longer her concern ten minutes later.

...or so she thought, when she woke up to stomach cramps, with fifteen minutes left to get to the bus for work. Which was no good, either, because, not an hour after barging through the shiny glass doors of Tacksy Fay-Djon & Co., there had been a misfiling of tax rates on every income register except one, and so she had to go through every single entry and recalculate the values.

She had ransacked the office pantry, gorging on B-grade fruit as she began work, only to have her manager drop by for a lecture on focusing. Lilac had tuned out all of it.

Normally Lilac would have refrained from coarseness, having been taught that profanities were the week-old nacho chips in the living room that was the mind — but today was a shitty, shitty day.

“Brought your work today, Miss Lilac?” asked a pleasant voice, bringing on its dulcet tones bluebirds that she wanted to strangle, just as she took another gulp of the long black.

Of all the days for the barista to start talking to her...

“Yes,” she said curtly, only to feel a strange warm shudder shoot up her insides as he shifted from the side of her view to her front. She made the mistake of looking up at him. His clean face positively shone, reminding her of how crappy she looked.

“There’s quite a bit of it,” he noted, tilting his head. “Accounts?”

“That’s what an accountant does, after all,” Lilac found herself saying, hating the nasally quality of her voice. She realized what the shudder was — she was feeling cold and weak from the pit in her stomach. A hoof was trembling underneath the table. That... and he was talking to her.

“Ah.” The barista nodded sagely. “You have my respect. I’ve been doing my own accounts for the past, what, seven years, and my accountant always manages to find a slip-up without exception.”

“Haha. Yeah.” What was she supposed to say? She could feel her pulse accelerate. She wanted desperately for him to leave, because this wasn’t the time. This was not the time! Any other time, when she wasn’t so... so undesirable...

“Are you comfortable there?” asked the barista, seemingly oblivious. “I can always move you to a table that’s more your height, or you could come over to the bar.”

Play it cool. Play it cool. “Sure,” Lilac replied sweetly. She pointed to the corner furthest away from the bar. “Maybe the table at the back?”

She could smell earthy tones as he turned his head and his mane swished. Those round eyes of his returned to her all too soon. “I’m sorry, but that one’s actually reserved for somepony in an hour.”

There was a small creak, followed by the widening of the sound of babble from outside. Already the barista was gone; Lilac watched as he ushered, with that unfading welcome, a group of eight or nine mares with various degrees of accessories through that heavy swinging door. Teenagers. They pointed to the the same table she had wanted. He shook his head and pointed to the surrounding ones instead. Chairs were moved and there was a brief groan of metal legs scraping floor as he joined three tables to form a line, which the gaggle took to like robins to fresh seeds. With a sweep and a few steps the barista brought menus and glasses and two crystal green bottles of water, and returned to the bar — but not before giving Lilac an apologetic smile. Pinched, with complementary shrug.

From the orders to the farewell greeting for the group, not once did he return to her side, though he did glance her way a couple of times. She pretended not to notice.

See. You’re nothing special. Just another customer. Just another order to fill. It’s the same with everypony and every thing.

She quickly finished her drink, packed up her work, and left, drowning out with her hoofsteps what was surely her imagination — the barista’s voice, asking her to wait — she was busy, busy, busy, and the moisture in her eyes wasn’t going to wipe itself.

Act 2

Why? hissed the voice in her head. It had decided to masquerade as Common Sense, today, painting itself the victim of Impulse, crying foul and doom and woe, even though — Lilac was still in two minds about accepting it — it was very much a decision.

Why?

　　Of course she knew why: it was the rough night. It was the stress of the pile of work that would take at least two weeks to finish. Heck, it could have even been the coffee setting her nerves into overdrive. Whatever the reason was for the — the sickness she was drowning in.

　　She could never face him again. She had embarrassed herself in front of him. She couldn’t take it if this happened again.

　　Not scared. Not disappointed. Not angry, jealous, nothing. It’s nothing! It’s nothing! It’s nothing!

　　It wasn’t for lack of trying that she stood in front of the heavy door once more. No, times were hard, yes, and if she was going to pay six bits for a coffee then it would very damn well be the kind of coffee she wanted. Putting up with percolated facades was not how she was going to spend her precious Lilac-time. As if the labels “single origin”, “sustainably farmed” justified poor quality, mean-spirited tasting stuff. She had tried, yes, gone out of her way to taste the wares of the other stores, tried to see the attraction in the insipid, albeit pretty-packaged bean juice.

　　She had even tried a frappe. That hadn’t been the camel back-breaking straw, but she had almost cried at first sip.

　　But Cafe Seratti’s coffee, ultimately, was what worked best for her. Be it the brewing skills of that barista, or the source of their beans, whatever the case — and this hurt her pride as a self-decided connoisseur — she couldn’t bring herself to like anything else.

　　Not that personal preference mattered. It couldn’t for a mare as herself. It was just economics. Get what you’re paying for, settle for no less, all that. Viva le consommateur.

　　She was overcome with sickness at the thought of the barista — it was in the gut, a sour sensation that spread to her heart. She missed him.

　　The same thing every night in that damn apartment in the sheets that would never warm—

Though that had certainly not factored into it.

Armed with this logic, Lilac shivered as she took another step closer to Cafe Seratti’s front door.

　　It had always been heavy: a wide, solid oak affair with glass panels and a doorknob that shone, a grandfather along its automatic-sliding, ever-open fold-to-the-sizes, even open-air neighbours. One had to really commit to pushing it open. There was even a tinkling bell overhead.

　　 But what was the alternative to committing? “Oh, I’m just looking.” A poisonous phrase if any. It came too often with the untrue implication that one did not have enough money to do anything but that. Doubly so for Lilac to the barista, if he caught her frozen on his doorsteps. How had she strolled in so effortlessly week by week not even a month ago?

This door really needs an oiling, thought Lilac, laying a quivering hoof on the doorknob. Calm down. It’s just coffee. It’s just the money. We’ve talked about this before. We have.

　　Go on.

　　The metal was cold. You’ve thought about it every night and day. Spread those wings (metaphorical). Soar! You can see yourself through that open door. I believe—

　　The bell behind it jingled, and the door swung open with tremendous force, almost dragging Lilac into a face-first fall. She quickly scrambled back, only to bump into a stallion, who shot her a dirty look and a muttered string under his breath.

　　But behind the stallion he was there. Looked the same as always, but somehow, better — holding a broom and dustpan, and looking surprised.

　　“Miss Lilac!” he said, smiling. “I haven’t seen you in a while! Are you coming in for a drink?”

　　“Ah, no, I’m just looking,” gabbled Lilac, dropping her gaze immediately to his hooves. “I mean, no, I am. Yes! Yes, I am. Going. For a drink.”

　　“So, that’s a...”

　　“A yes. Yes, mister barista.”

　　He positively shone. “Well, come on in, then. I’ll just put these here” — he emptied his hooves and placed a hoof on the door— “after you.”

　　And then she was there, in her usual spot. Somehow her heart hadn’t exploded. She was sure it would have with each next step. She felt sick, even, and suddenly not hungry at all. In fact, she might even vomit if she drank too much coffee — oh, Celestia, the thought of the thick bitter dark stuff sliding down her throat was simply dreadful...

Calm down, Lilac! Don’t screw this up! Just get a chocolate, or—

　　“Will that be the usual?”

　　“Oh, yes,” said Lilac quickly, feigning a search through her bag to evade his gaze.

　　Damn!

　　The cafe was not busy. A couple of patrons, distant and silent, were around, but it was otherwise all the same. Her chair, her table — it even smelled the same. Nothing had been moved. Her legs fit under the table exactly the same way it used to, but all she could feel was nausea. The chair that had once comforted her was now swallowing her, and the table that had once snugly housed her hooves was now a cage.

　　There was the hissing of frothing milk, the rattle of beans emptied from the large copper jar he kept them in. She yearned to stare, watching him perform the routine that she had etched into her memory. The swift movement of his limbs, operating that gleaming machine. But what if he caught her — no, but she had come all this way to see him—

　　The clink of china on mahogany awoke her from the dread deep, and without fail, the affirmation:

　　“One flat white with sugar syrup.” Delivered with silver spoon and golden smile.

　　Lilac sat and waited, listening to the thumping of her heart and the receding tension in her skull. Still the trousered leg remained in her peripheral vision, yet to swish away to leave her in lonely peace.

　　He was waiting for her to drink it.

　　She wondered then just how had she come to even touch the stuff. Pointless froth that would only add to the bloat in her belly, and bitterness that did nothing for her condition. But he had made it — he was still there — and there was really no other option but to drink the coffee in a coffee bar, was there?

　　She reached out. A shudder across the shoulders threatened to spill the cup in her grasp, and she lifted the plate along with it. She blew across it, breathed in the scent, and drank.

　　And the most wonderful warm, soothing feeling filled her. Rich but not overpowering, solidly in the middle of the taste spectrum. Creamy but not sticky on the throat. And warm but not scalding — he had even served it to her ready to drink, not piping hot! She felt her eyes brighten, her belly calm, as she swallowed.

　　It was... it was like life—

　　“Do you like it?” asked the barista.

　　“Yes!” said Lilac, looking up in awe. “This...”

　　“Thank goodness,” he said, shifting a hoof. “In the time you were away, I finished a little project of mine, and I thought that after a long absence, you might want something lighter than your usual, so I have to apologize: I made a presumption and served you a lighter blend, and used a different percolator.”

　　“Lighter blend? Different percolator?” Lilac could only repeat the phrases back. She was rusty on her terminology, and the buzz was not helping. Not to mention she was looking at him now — speaking with him now — we are having a conversation! Even if he was talking awfully quickly.

　　“Yes. Let me just show you...” He walked back to the counter and returned with a plastic cylinder in his grasp. She could not miss the beaming smile on his face as he laid it on her table. The faltering twitches in it only cemented her burgeoning relief. “This is the aeropress: something I’ve been tinkering with a fellow barista on weekends.”

　　Said aeropress looked somewhat like a syringe, in that it had a plunger with a rubber end on one side. It was as wide as a large mug and had no tapered end for the needle. Instead on the other end was some kind of cap that fit into the cylinder, perforated like a colander, which was coloured blue.

　　“Would you like a demonstration?” he asked happily, before adding: “If you want to. I’m sorry if I’m coming off too strong here — it’s just that I’m quite proud of this, and you’re a very pleasant surprise, so I thought...”

　　Lilac flew. I’m a pleasant surprise.

　　She nodded numbly, pointed to the chair opposite her, and remembered to add words. “Yes, I’d love to. Take a seat.”

　　“Thank you.” The barista slid into the couch and leaned forward. He removed the plunger with a squelch, motioning as he spoke. “Now, the beans go in with the hot water. Usually for percolators, as you know, the beans have to cook for a few minutes. Modern machines use pressure to quicken it up at the cost of inflexibility with the blends. This is something in between.” He replaced the plunger. “While the house blend takes five minutes to cook, with the aeropress, it only takes about a minute and forty seconds. Then I just gently press down” — he pressed down — “and the pressure does the work. The result? Faster, and also cleaner-tasting coffee. Much less mud characteristics, and more of that middle-toned flavour.”

　　Lilac nodded. She wanted to touch his hooves, if they were magical enough to mold that contraption before her. Feel his fur on hers. But she could not even bring herself to look directly at him.

　　“Is something wrong, Miss Lilac?” The concern in his voice shook her out of it.

　　“No, nothing’s wrong...” She felt a glow spread from her belly as she said, sincerely: “It’s good to be back.”

　　“Well, it’s good to have you back too, Miss Lilac. I missed you. Y’know, it’s funny; somehow the other customers would leave your seat empty, even the ones that probably hadn’t seen you before.”

　　“I missed you too.” She looked up to see him looking intently at her, and she stammered, “Your coffee, I mean. Nopony really does coffee like you do.”

　　“Almost as if it was my cutie mark, am I right?” laughed the barista, shaking his head. “Thank you for that. That means a lot to me coming from you.”

　　“Why... why would you say that?”

　　“Well, if you’d pardon the presumption, you seem to be a mare of class.” The words came out slowly, as if he were piecing them together before letting them go. “Trained palate and all, so for you to say that of my work...” The smile shriveled into a curl. “I have trained so long to make coffee, to the extent that it’s my life. It’s nice that somepony else likes it, enough to come by as often as you do, y’know?”

　　He blinked, and his eyes flashed with life that had seemed to fade for just that one moment. “But I’m rambling now. Point is, I’m glad. Thank you, truly.”

　　A couple of beats passed before he got up. “I think I should get back to work. I don’t pay myself to chit-chat with customers, am I right?” He delivered it with a shrug and a short laugh. “Enjoy your drink, miss Lilac, and I hope to see you again.”

***

Lilac’s apartment was a small studio done modern — trademark of the up-and-coming of Sydneigh. Induction stoves and a well-cleaned oven, spotless white walls, mottled pseudo-marble flooring; a couch and a couple of ergonomic chairs, dormant bandy-legged things of contradicting feathery plush and cold chrome; a bathroom connected to her bedroom that would not be out of place in a four-star hotel; a view, six stories high, of hundreds of windows belonging to other small studios that, give or take a family heirloom or pet, looked exactly the same as hers.

　　She tried to picture the barista — no, Percy — there. Sitting on the couch, because she couldn’t imagine him lounging — didn’t want to, because the hot flush was absolutely unwarranted here. Maybe in the kitchen, cooking a simple stir-fry. Or maybe in the bedroom...

　　She bit her lip. Her sinful heart was pounding with glee as she followed Percy’s movements.

　　Percy. Percy.

　　She had finally dared to ask his name. It had been a milestone, which she had celebrated by treating herself to a side of silver sallies with dinner that night. Fattening, yes, but so damn delicious.

　　“Say... I just—”

　　Lilac’s arm waved briefly as she stopped the barista from leaving post-delivery. It had been a Thursday.

　　“I never got your name,” said Lilac.

　　“Really? Allow me to rectify that,” grinned the barista. He did a short bow. “Percy Seratti, at your service. Just Percy’s fine.”

　　“Percy,” repeated Lilac, feeling the sparks dance across her tongue. Then she frowned. “Percy, as in percolator?”

　　“I was hoping you wouldn’t pick up on that.” The barista shrugged, but was otherwise unperturbed. “My father knew who he wanted me to be. On paper, my full name is ‘Seratti Perco Lattier’, which, well, speaks for itself. Thankfully, said paper is locked away indefinitely, never to see the light of day again.” He sighed, gave the rest of the shop a sweeping glance, and took his increasingly usual seat opposite her. “I had a few friends in the same predicament. Coffee families, you know. Capoo Chino, that was a fairly bad one, Golden Roast wasn’t that bad... sucked to be Milk Froth, though. The irony was that he had been a dark-coated stallion, so when we were teenagers he was the butt of all the jokes. We’d tease him — ah.” Percy turned away, and for the first time she had ever seen, looked embarrassed. “I digress. Don’t know what came over me.”

　　It was so cute.

　　“No, no,” said Lilac, only remembering to dim her smile when the edges of her lips turned dry. “It’s interesting. I’ve never thought of it that way. Isn’t it one of life’s greatest mysteries, how parents just know what to name their children... the whole hippomorphic principle aside. You know, ‘the universe molds to fit our thoughts, beliefs and decisions’. Hippomorphic. Thing. You know.”

　　“So the coffee would taste better if you wish it so?” said Percy with a wink and a nod towards the cup. A slender hoof reached out and caressed the side of the cup. “Or warmer...”

***

And now here they were, there he was, vibrant and alive and perfectly at home behind the counter.

　　She tried to see if he would glance over. No such luck. It was the old stallion again.

　　Recently he had been showing up — the geezer of garish fleecers — harroumphing and laughing and snorting loudly as he made strange reminiscential conversation with Percy. He had the habit of slamming the mug down on the counter every time he drained the last drop; the barista knowingly gave him a silver tureen and a thick coaster that dulled the otherwise painful thuds. And whenever he was around, Percy’s eyes were... unfocused. Everywhere except on the stallion, and nowhere but him. Eye contact was fleeting, his hooves were always, always busy, and she knew from long observation that this wasn’t how he normally served the counter. Never so fidgety.

　　She sipped her coffee and glanced at the Daily Express on her table. Summer was winding down, which meant incrementally increasing cloud cover, more wind, more chill. She watched as the first scarves of the season fluttered weakly, more by the momentum of its owner’s pace than the wind. Fresh clean white on amber and pale blue coats. Lilac rifled through the memory inventory to see if she still had that old maroon rag and enough bleach to revive it for the new season’s look.

　　Another bout of hacking coughs from the counter sapped her concentration. Then, the quiet, concerned inquiry, and the subsequent “Pah” and slamming of mug on table. Lilac frowned. The conversation was animated, and — Lilac burned inside as her mind ran loose — like married sex, with all the energy supplied by one party. And as much as it didn’t, it seemed to involved Percy a lot. And it was no fault of hers if she had good hearing, auditory functions unable to block out a too loud voice...

　　“Anyways, Green Bean and Roselia are arriving tomorrow midnight.” There was a sheen as a flask made its way across the counter. “Gonna need some of your darkest stuff to power me for the trip.”

　　Percy nodded, took it and said: “You could just as easily call a cab.”

　　“No, no. I haven’t seen them in forever. And they don’t write... I don’t want to wait to see how they’re doing again. You remember them, right? Are you in touch?”

　　“Sadly, no. And I do remember. We played together a lot. How could I not?”

　　“Aye. You had your rough-housing, that was for sure... Remember when you broke our vase? When you were playing chase? To be honest I never liked the damn thing. Almost wanted to thank you. But Aunt Saffron, you know how she was about her decor... But you were there, you saw the flowers. Even the coffin, with all the damn engravings. And gilt on every corner. I got home that day, I tell you, and it was almost as if she was still there because of all the stuff she hung around the house.” The old stallion drank deeply from his cup and slammed it. Lilac jumped.

　　“How times fly. How long ago was it since Louie—”

　　“Almost four years.” The flask was returned. “Will be four years in... twenty-seven days.”

　　The stallion exhaled. His voice quieted, and Lilac could hear no more.

　　She mulled on it, finished her coffee, and paid. Percy smiled as they exchanged thank-yous. The stallion did not look up, instead staring into his cup, and Lilac wondered for how much longer would he stay.

***

Lilac had never seen the morning crowd before. They dissipated quickly, for the working class had jobs to rush off to and the poets, artists and et cetera family-funded layabouts who would have stayed had no reason to be up at this time. Lilac felt a little uncomfortable. She had been on the receiving end of more than one hasty glance, the beady ocular sweep of the repressed on-the-dot punctuals whose productivities demanded that somepony else do the brewing for them. She had not known Percy did pre-made — two large pots that ticked ready as the first customer strolled in — though calling it that was probably rather harsh. The aroma was fresh, at least.

　　Not to mention her usual spot was warming up in the sun streaming through the window. By four o’clock the sun would have crossed the other side of the Centroplex, but now...

　　Lilac gazed at the lovers’ corner. It looked dim — everything else did, after her careless squint to the left — isn’t it supposed to be the cool season? Why is it so warm here?

　　She flipped through her binder. The day’s tasks, listed in clean typeset, were on the first page, fresh off the manager’s desk. She nodded slightly as she looked through them: a continuation of the Junebug Messrs. account from last week, a peer review of the new intern’s figures for the corn plantation, an advice request for a small business on the outskirts of town. Nothing out of the ordinary, but she would have to look up the company library for references. While the prospect of being out of office at this time was new — almost exciting, to be part of that rare morning shopper crowd — the work didn’t do itself.

　　“So, Miss Lilac — are you going to let me know the reason for this pleasant surprise?” asked Percy as he sidled up to his seat, placing a glass of water next to her half-full mug.

　　Lilac smiled grimly. “Manager kicked us all out. Last night somepony left the cookie jar open. Rats came, and when we got in this morning... Feces on the tables, the carpet, and the smell, too. So she freaked and sent us out while the janitors do their thing.”

　　“Huh. All right. I’m sorry to hear that. It sounds terrible,” said Percy, blinking twice. “It was everywhere, you say?”

　　“It probably wasn’t. More like a small but, ah, not insignificant corner. But the manager’s something of a germophobe, and between you and me I’m happy to be out of there.” Lilac finished the coffee and took care to dab her lips with the serviette instead of licking them. “They’re supposed to be poisonous. The feces, I mean.”

　　“Definitely. And it’s not like you’d be able to focus with the stench.”

　　“Exactly.” Lilac reminded herself to relax and lean back from the drawn-forward tilt she was in, and ended up with a very straight back. She grasped for a continuation and found none, but Percy saved her:

　　“And so you’ve graced my humble halls for the time being.” He winked, and her breath caught in her lungs.

　　“I’ll only be — I mean, I’ll be another half hour, hopefully. If you don’t mind,” said Lilac, picking up the cup again. She wished it were larger, that she could somehow hide behind it.

　　Since when had I finished it? She had planned to make it last as long as possible, but her excuse had, metaphorically, gone down the drain. Damn. This always happens.

　　She was about to ask very naturally for another coffee, or maybe something easier on the stomach/wallet like a babycino, but Percy spoke first. “Oh, stay as long as you like. The company is appreciated, and as you can see, you’re not exactly taking up room.” Percy gestured to the empty seats. “I normally work on my accounts at this time... I mean, you’ve got your folder there, so I was thinking if you’d like to maybe work with me. I mean, not on my accounts, no, because I know you’re professional — and — you are on break — I mean" — and he actually looked worried — “if you’d like to, you could join me at the counter. Work or none regardless.”

　　“Of... of course,” said Lilac. “Yes, I’d love to.” She got up and withheld herself as she packed up her papers into the folder, into her bag. She ignored the way her pinstripe jacket (the nice Eeltalian one) creased as she slung it on, off a few steps later, reassembling the workspace. Then she sat down, took out her pen, and began marking down certain numbers on her sheets as Percy took out his own — a yellowed hardcover thing with the year and the number “4” printed on it. And all the while her blood was pumping and her heart was soaring and a chill transcending mere draft was climbing her spine —

　　What she wanted to do was lunge over the counter and taste him. It would be so easy, and would play out just as she had dreamed it for the past hundreds of times. He’d look stunned, shocked, break the contact — but only to whisper: “I feel the same way.” And — and...

　　Lilac had a brick in her petite crique a la moderne. Recently — proportionally, with the fantasies — she had considered hitting herself with it. She would dangle it in her hoofs as she lay on her bed, staring at the rough edges. She couldn’t remember for the life of her where it had come from. But it was heavy, gritty, and she felt that getting hit by it would be rightful compensation for her filthy desires. She would have been disgusted if her co-workers thought that way about her. And Percy would no doubt feel disgusted if he could read her mind. Wasn’t that proof enough that it was time for the fuzzies to die?

　　It felt good. But it was bad. It didn’t feel as cut-and-dry as that — nothing had been since she had left home — but the feeling was the problem anyways.

***

It was just... the air, somehow, changed with him around. He was witty and there was a — a pride in being able to call him a friend, a possessive trait in the dynamic that when they were talking he was hers and when they were just together in general he was hers. He never ran out of interesting topics to explore and she to her relief could keep up, getting better with each round; he was at his best when he made his coffee. Cans, funnels, machinery flowed like books in a unicorn’s private library, and it was entrancing. It hurt to feel her heart swell whenever he did so, and this, she thought to herself, is happiness!

***

“Are you all right, Percy?”

　　“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Other than the very occasional visit up to the counter, nothing much had changed for Lilac — she still went to Cafe Seratti after leaving the office in the late noon, still saw the young couple in their corner while she read her book and drank her coffee and dreamt of her barista. But something had changed for him, and she knew because he was refusing to tell her what it was.

　　And they had stopped talking, because she had one day asked him: “Are you all right, Percy?” and never getting an answer. The first time. she had caught him glaring into space, and tried to do what a friend would have done. But the question had come out of the blue, there had been no planning, and after Percy brushed the question away she was left stumped.

　　“Um, yeah. You’re right. I mean, yeah, you’re all right, ah ha ha...”

　　 “If you say so, Lilac.”

　　The second time, her coffee was late by several minutes. She had feigned reading while she half-peeked, half-listened to him fumbling up the order. The milk frother had hissed far too many times. The can of beans had rattled vehemently, and the cups of apparent failures had tumbled into the sink of shame with unceremonious clanks. When Percy finally shuffled to her side, Lilac tried to put on her best sympathetic look and asked:

　　“Are you all right, Percy?”

　　Slight pause. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?” Smile. No eye contact.

　　And she couldn’t very well say why he might be. Because for some reason you can’t make coffee anymore. Seriously?

　　But her mind would always fixate on the issue, and whatever tidbits of conversation starters she had collected from the office or the radio — those had never been in bountiful supply — shriveled into worthless husks. It was so, so hard, Lilac came to realize, to keep up chat with somepony you didn’t have much in common with. The conflicts of the distant towns on the borders of Equestria were too obscure, too removed. The economy didn’t change fast enough to supply topics. Not even what his work was like, because she had explored that already and there was only so much you could say about running a quiet cafe, and Lilac was, well, an accountant. And the weather was completely out of the question.

　　So Lilac found herself unable to chat with Percy, and Percy had never been the initiator, seeing as there was always something he had to do, and dead space grew.

　　She hated it. It choked her. If she had just ignored it earlier and stuck to the plan, quickly diverted the direction into a different topic, it wouldn’t have grown into the inertia it was now. It was even worse than before she had first talked with him, because she now knew what she wanted — that she now wanted at all. Perhaps it was time to move on. It was only coffee, right? Just as she was only another customer.

　　She trembled as she turned another page of her book. Today was another day. Maybe, maybe... So far Percy seemed to be his old self, though he was taking his time with the order. In a way, she welcomed the delay. More time before she had to face him, and the consequence of her inability. And more time that she could stay before she invariably finished her drink and, for courtesy’s sake, kicked herself out of the establishment, even if it was bitterly cold outside.

　No, no, not the time to think about that. Talk about... stuff, hissed Lilac to herself. I saw a homeless pony on the streets today. I gave him a few bits. I hope he doesn’t spend it on glue — no, that’s horrible and insensitive. I gave him a few bits, poor soul, what is our government doing — no, too political!

Hey, Percy. So, how have you been?

“I’ve been okay. You?”

Same, same. Hey, I saw a homeless pony — no, that won’t work!

　　The barista hadn’t arrived yet. She looked up but couldn’t see him. Outside, the wind roared; inside, the heating unit clankered and muffled claps grumbled from the roof; she couldn’t hear him, either. She swallowed, and tried to rub out the numbness in her hooves. The heating unit was an ancient bolted gas burner on the far end of the cafe, but something fundamental as her seat couldn’t be changed so easily.

　　But some things can be changed. They gotta be.

　　And it’s not like I’m asking for very much. The hiss of the milk frother, final touch to the cuppa and omen of Percy’s impeding arrival, pulled at the fraying sides of her thoughts. All I want is to be friends with him again! Just no more of this silence...

　　Percy still walked as silently as ever. Without looking first, Lilac turned to face him, lifting her head up a bit too early. A manic smile tore at her cheeks. Even before she spoke she knew her voice would be too shrill, too strained.

　　“Hey, Percy, so—”

　　Percy’s shout of panic drowned out the rest as he tripped, falling forward. The coffee flew, the cup shattered, and her lap burned.

　　“Are you all right, Lilac?!”

Truth

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I’ll get your jacket to the drycleaner’s right away, if you want to clean up come upstairs, by Celeste, I’m so sorry...”

　　Somehow she found herself sitting in a plush chair, dressed in thick woolen slacks and draped in a fluffy towel. She remembered soap and nearly slipping on a tiled floor, lots of yellow light, but it was a blur — though not as much a blur as her heart was with all the palpitating it was doing.

　　The scent — it was overwhelming. Warm, earthy, black wood. Even his smell was elegant, and here, in his living quarters, it was a felt blanket that embraced her. There wasn’t much room here. That only served to amplify the effect.

　　It was starkly different from the crisp bright walkways of Sydneigh just a door away. Decor was sparse; the only things that distinguished it from the inside of a crate were a dirty carpet; a cramped-looking bed; a small desk, on which was a fluorescent lamp (on), a flask of water, a few books; a large trunk. She could see a stained sleeve quivering ashamedly from a crack in the lid. She looked up — yes, there was some kind of ventilation.

　　Ah — he caught her staring —

　　“You remember the heating unit on the ceiling downstairs?” said Percy, pointing to the strange metal box that sat inexplicably next to the desk. “The heat tends to leak upwards, so I ran a few tubes with water inside to, kinda, store the excess. Doesn’t warm the nights up much, but it’s better than nothing.” There was something stringy about how he talked.

　　“Oh. Okay.” Lilac nodded and huddled deeper into her cape. The towel was quite dry, and the feeling of the fabric was soothing. If this is his, then doesn’t that mean he wipes his body with this? She felt her cheeks burn briefly at the thought. So did her thighs, and she winced.

　　Her memory was clear, at least, about how much the shower had stung. Lilac had thin skin in the literal sense, and couldn’t imagine what it would’ve been like if she had not been in business attire, or if she had trimmed her fur — she suddenly felt self-conscious — it really did sting, and she hated pain...

　　She was cold. Shivering. Her chest hurt.

　　She looked at Percy, who seemed to be suffering from the trembles in his hind legs. His expression was — no, she didn’t want to look him in the face, but it wasn’t anything she had seen on him before.

　　Seeing him like this — this wasn’t him. She could feel the air thicken as she breathed it in.

　　She didn’t want him like this.

　　“Hey,” she said.

　　She felt him face her fully.

　　“Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.” She effected a smile, too toothy. She felt an eyelid twitch as her leg stung. “See?”

　　Percy’s voice was raspy. “I... I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.” She chanced a look at his eyes: they were wide, darting, and what she had taken for subduement in his voice morphed into panic. “I—”

　　“Percy. Stop.”

　　Her voice tasted like iron. She stood up, felt the chair bump into something as she pushed it back. Her suit was probably ruined, and under any other circumstances this would have filled her with indignation, but the weeks that had led up to this, and finally she had tried to break the silence — today was supposed to be the day they got out of this damn rut —

　　“You don’t have to say anything. I’ll just take my clothes and go.”

　　She felt so tired.

　　“Lilac — please, I’d do anything...”

　　“Anything for what?”

　　“To keep you here. So that you don’t walk away and never return.”

　　He was crying now. It wasn’t an elegant sight like it was in the TV dramas. His lips curled in an ugly way, and his nostrils flared as he sniffled.

　　“You’ve been asking so much if I’m okay... I’ll tell you what’s been going on.”

***

This was it.

　　“You may or may not remember an old pony who’s been around a few times,” said Percy softly. He was much calmer now, though his nose remained sniffly. Every so often he would reach for the box of tissues and dab, gently. “Ghastly sweater, drinks too much coffee in every sitting?”

　　Lilac tried to sound nondescript for what was essentially a confession to eavesdropping. “Mhm, I think so.”

　　“Yeah, he tends to be... loud. Anyways, his name is Fine Ground. He’s the supplier of all the coffee we — I — serve. Some from contacts, but most of it from his family’s own plantation. He is, I suppose, what you might call a ‘family friend’, what with our families having traded for two generations.” Percy smiled dryly. “Though my father hated him to his dying breath.”

　　“Why?” asked Lilac. “But you said—”

　　Percy held up a hoof. “I’ll explain. Actually, would you like some water? I would.”

　　He left. He returned. He took a sip.

　　She waited. His eyes had not left the edge of the table.

　　“I’m sorry,” said Percy. “I just don’t know how to start.”

　　“With the old pony. Fine Ground.”

　　“Ah. Yes.”

　　“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” said Lilac, unintentionally croaking. She cleared her throat quickly. “Sorry.”

　　“No, I’m the one that should be apologizing. I mean... you’re my — I —”

　　“I?”

　　“I value you highly,” Percy said. “More than... anypony else. You’re a valuable friend. And — I think I have to be honest with you. It’s not fair to keep it from you. After you’ve been asking about it, even.

　　“Anyways... his kids were bullies, back when we were all young and expected to be playmates. They would string me up against a tree and leave me hanging, under pretense of us playing Cowponies and Buffaloes. One time they tossed me into a muddy pond when I cussed at them.”

　　Percy stared grimly.

　　“But, more often than not, they were not so creative, and we played Ogre. Which meant that I was the ogre, so I was only allowed to lumber while they pelted me with stones and twigs. If I ran at them, they’d hit me even harder, and I could never hit back, because I’d have ‘died’.

　　“I wasn’t allowed to go to school, you see; my father kept me in the cafe to learn the trade and to do simple chores. When he tired of that he sent me out to play, which was very often, given that he trusted nopony else with the cashier.” Percy shrugged.

　　Lilac nodded. What could she say, other than “I understand”? She did understand. Saying that she did was just trite.

　　“He wouldn’t believe me when I told him. Or showed him the cuts. Actually I think he didn’t want to do anything, even if he did believe, because Fine Ground was a big player in the Oatstralia distribution.” Percy paused. “Do you want some water? I can get you some water.”

　　Lilac shook her head dumbly. Right as soon as he got up, her throat itched.

　　He returned, lips glistening. The tumbler, half-drained, made a low, solid thump on the table.

　　“I was fed up with it, so I told Fine Ground himself. He just brushed it off, and when my father heard about it, he threw a fit. Broke my leg. Although it wasn’t that different from what he usually did.” Percy stretched back. “So there you have it. Fine Ground, asshole parent, returns to my damn cafe to whine about how his kids turned out exactly as he raised them.” His lips contorted into a bastardization of a smile, yet his tone was still light — impassionate. “And I am angry. Angry at him. Angry at myself, for not being able to tell him to never set hoof in here again.”

　　“I’m so sorry to hear that,” croaked Lilac. Yet, there was still a missing piece in the puzzle...

　　As if he read her mind, he continued: “My mother — well, nothing much to mention about her. She would hug me and cry with me after the more horrible nights. Sometimes she slipped chocolate into my lunchbox. But that... how was that compensation? She didn’t love me enough to ran up to him. So I thought. She did try to take me away, though she had nowhere to go. You know... I’ll never forget the look on her face.”

　　Percy got up and turned to look outside the window. “They called the cops on us, and she was sent to jail. I was crying, and I thought she would be too, but she actually looked relieved. She wasn’t laughing or anything, but it was the first time she didn’t look sad.”

　　Lilac bit her lip. Percy looked over, waiting for her to say something, but when she had made it clear that she was out of lines he sighed and sat back down.

　　“I did freak out a lot when I burned you. Not just because you were a customer, but, well...” He shuffled his hooves. “I mean, we’re friends, right?”

　　“I think so,” Lilac said.

　　Percy smiled thinly. “I’m sorry. I know it’s pathetic, and probably weird, but you’re the only friend I’ve had in a long while. You’re... important to me. Which was why I, uh, lost it. I don’t like burns.”

　　He lifted the leg of his pants gently. Lilac couldn’t help but gasp at what she saw: it revealed an ugly, welted patch of dry flesh. The fur had fallen out, leaving only rough, reddened skin.

　　“My dad decided that I wasn’t learning the trade fast enough. You see, the Serattis and the Grounds had this feud. Rivalry, maybe. We used to both be proud, coffee-growing families that would compete to supply Sydneigh with coffee. But two generations ago, somepony's cutie mark went awry."

The thin smile resurfaced. "That was my grandfather. He had no talent whatsoever in growing or running the plantation. He could brew amazingly, but that wasn't good enough. Couldn't beat the Grounds if you had to buy produce from them. Unfortunately, he was the only son, and so within five years, the Seratti farms failed.

"My mother told me about this, that my dad had it rough. He was the son of a failure, and my grandfather took a lot of his frustration out on him. He was the one who founded Cafe Seratti — the dying connections to a once-proud legacy — my father didn't want anything to do with it, but he was locked in by both his family and his cutie mark.

"But it's not like we could break ties with the Grounds. They had basically monopoly over the supply, and to convince them to keep selling to us, they had to grovel. My father was so angry, all the time... he probably snapped because of it all."

He pointed to himself. "And so you have me. The victim of perpetuated circumstance — sounds so dramatic when really, all it is is that I'm descended from scum." He sneered. There was a tremble in his voice. "This cafe, and coffee brewing, is all that our family had. My father was obsessed with it, and pushed it on me so that I could keep it alive. Whenever I messed up — and it was usually with the froth cap — he thought it motivational to scald me with the can.” He rolled the fabric back down. “I learned quickly, all right. Even won an award for it when I was thirteen.”

　　Percy sighed. “Anyhow, long story short: I’ve been on edge lately. It’s no excuse, I know. I just...” He hung his head.

“I guess I’m begging you to not be mad. Because you’re my friend. My only friend in a long, long while. Everything's just falling apart, and I'm so afraid that I'm going to crack like they did, and...”

He made another attempt at a smile. It was the most miserable thing Lilac had ever seen.

“I’m not really all right. Thanks for asking.”

　　The air was so heavy. It was snaking around her throat. Whatever words she had — no, she didn’t have anything to say.

　　This was every college presentation, every reading in front of the class, every music recital she had to do for her family. Even if it was just one pair of eyes, they were Percy’s, and that weighed more than all of the others combined.

　　The room was so, so small. How could Percy stand to live in it? No air, no light — just the spilling orange from the setting sun outside, as Thursday retired to put on its evening dress.

　　Her hooves were clenching hard on the towel. It was her only comfort, soon becoming her only sensation. She used to hug it to sleep, until her mother had taken it away, when she had grown too old for it. The look in her eyes — no, she couldn’t remember any of that. Not even her mother’s face, even.

　　But this was different. Unlike all those other times, she had the freedom to do one thing — and that was run.

　　Lilac got up, almost choking as she said: “Sorry. I need some time to think.” And before she could get a response, she left.

***

You idiot. You yammering stupid idiot.

　　Lilac couldn’t sleep. She was drained, but her body refused to give in. Her mind hammered away at her, with memories she had thought she had lost, memories she had wanted to lose, and nothing but the sad truth. It was like a burst dam, and now everything was destroyed.

You worthless creature.

　　When she turned thirteen, the year she had to leave her friends for the inner-city high school, the wish she had made on her birthday cake was to be kind — to be the best that she could be.

When she turned fourteen, it was to be able to make friends with these trendy mares, with their drama discussions and their makeup, who always looked at her in this different way, even when she was being one of them. When she had bought the same makeup, watched the same idiotic shows, laughed at the same dumb jokes Pepper Presto and Sammy Seville did.

　　When she turned fifteen, she had wished for Pepper Presto to get pregnant with the senior stallion she flaunted all the time. It was only fair. It was only biology. Why couldn’t that happen? So that she would be shamed — ground into the dirt like the filth she was.

　　Lilac had ran out of eucalyptus. There were pharmacies open at this time, but they were all so far away.

　　She couldn’t remember the last time she had celebrated her birthday with a cake, or with anyone else for that matter. A postcard in the mail without fail from her mother — that was the closest it got.

　　It was such a worthless thing to think about. Fitting for a worthless mare. Just a birthday — a stupid tradition that Lilac had thought she had gotten over. Just one day of a year, no more special than the rest, just because it was her first. So there was no point in feeling down for not being able to enjoy it, right? Lilac was a grown mare. She was supposed to move past that. See it for what it really was — just commercialization, a scheme to sell frosting and cream...

　　But she hadn’t.

　　And that was the truth: her whole life was her birthday, day after day of fooling herself into thinking she was over things that she wasn’t. Just following the routine. Pin the tail on the donkey; finish your homework. Sing the birthday song; choose the Bachelor’s of least resistance. Cut the cake and divide it amongst whoever had bothered to respond to the invitations; smile and wave to the co-workers, and still keep talking about the most useless things—

　　Idle conversation. After all these years, Lilac hadn’t managed to escape from even that.

　　Style over substance. This was the summary of her life: the books she read, her alicorn-damned apartment, every single “choice” she had made to re-make herself into the pony she wished she could be. It just wasn’t her, but now that she had made the decisions it was all she had left — some vapid character sheet. She wasn’t interested in anything she did — maybe not even her bloody coffee habit. She liked coffee, but if that was all she liked what good was that?

　　What was there really? Who was she, even?

　　And that was the truth: she wasn’t anypony special. If she wasn’t even anything, she couldn’t expect to love, let alone have a relationship with somepony — even somepony as broken and perfect as Percy.

　　Maybe that was why she was so drawn to him. It was fate, surely, the only small sparkle in her life, that after all these years she had found somepony who could relate to her, with whom she could share pain and just be herself...

　　But that was just another lie. Percy just happened to be there. And that had been good enough to fill the void. Maybe her feelings for him were real and substantiated, but the risk of her being wrong was much too much. Not when the both of them were like this.

　　Yet beneath even that layer, she knew that she needed him, and he needed her. He had been honest to her. That had never happened. From the sound of it, she was the only pony he had told this to... and she had just walked out on him.

　　Lilac had tried so hard to be independent, to not need anypony. She had thought she had succeeded. But maybe — maybe opening up wasn’t such a bad idea. Not if that pony was a friend like Percy.

In that moment, Lilac saw, for the first time, a choice, and took it.

***

After a series of pathetic tapping on the door, Lilac called out his name, hissing it like a spectral cat until she could hear him shuffling down the stairs to open the door. While the rest of the coffee strip was open for business, Cafe Seratti had always closed at six o’clock. It was embarrassing, knocking on the door of a closed shop while the night-time wanderers shuffled along, but also exhilarating. It was purposeful.

　　“Lilac?”

　　Percy looked like he hadn’t slept either. His eyes were swollen, and there was a dry quality in his voice.

　　Lilac took a deep breath. She wished she had put on at least some foundation before running over, but that was how things were. “Can I come in?”

　　Percy nodded and stepped aside. The smell of soup wafted around her nostrils.

　　“Something smells good,” said Lilac. “You both brew and cook?”

　　“It’s takeaway from down the road,” said Percy.

　　“Oh.”

　　“Would you like some? There’s also the pastries from the day, though I understand if you’d rather not.”

　　“I’ve always wanted to try those, actually.” Lilac faked a smile and moved to the counter; she hadn’t noticed when he had shifted to his usual side of the counter, too.

　　“The pecan slice is my favourite,” said Percy.

　　“I’ll take that, then,” replied Lilac.

　　The platter landed gently in front of her. The glaze on the pecan slice had set in after a full day of display, giving it a clammy look — yet it also promised delicious sugar, and Lilac was more than happy to take a delicate bite out of it.

　　Buttery pastry. Cinnamon and pecan filling. She remembered that she hadn’t eaten much, either. The next bite was swift, and considerably less gracious.

　　“Want some coffee?”

　　“No, just water. Percy, I need to tell you something. Do you mind coming over here?”

　　Percy turned to her, expression blank, and took a seat beside her. The two feet of lacquered wood separating them was no more. They both faced forward — Lilac wanted it that way. Not having to look at him made things a little easier.

　　Lilac closed her eyes. He had come clean. If they were to stand on equal ground once more, she had to tell him everything.

***

She had missed a few points, and couldn’t help but think over them when instead she had to figure out what was next. She simply hadn’t thought that far.

　　“Uh. Thanks for the pecan slice, by the way,” she added.

　　“It’s all right,” said Percy. He exhaled, and his shoulders fell a little — how long had they been tensed? Lilac’s eyes were peeled now. It was like those old detective shows, where the lead was always just that more observant than the rest, hunting for clues in impossible places. Even the most insignificant wobble of his eyebrows could speak volumes, even if the voluminousness was relative to the blank draws of now.

　　And yet nothing was showing. Either Percy was truly nonchalant, or he was playing the silent game, one honed from years and years of neglect.

　　Oh. Right.

　　And it stung her pride, but she realized that she was going to have to do the heavy lifting this time. It had always been Percy who initiated, who always had some little firestarter to get their conversations going. She had no practice and possibly, even, no skills, but if she could just dig a bit deeper...

　　“I,” stammered Lilac.

　　Percy tilted his head towards her.

　　“I... I’ve always been afraid. I managed to see it last night. After you told me your problems, it helped me figure out that I was hiding mine. It explains the anxiety, the headaches...” Lilac clenched her hooves together on the counter. “I’ve always been insecure. I did things that would hide it away, hide myself away, so that nopony could see and make fun of me. And bit by bit, it took over my life. Who I am. Just like how your hurts took over you.

　　“But when I met you, even before yesterday, you were different. I actually liked being with you! I — I like you.”

　　Percy’s ears flickered.

　　“You mean... You mean like-like?” he asked.

　　Lilac nodded and bit her lip.

　　“But that’s not important. That’s not the important bit.”

　　“But I want to say that I also—”

　　“No! We can’t!” Lilac looked up desperately. Hurdle number one was coming up, and she had to make a perfect leap. “Because... we’re not ready.”

　　Percy frowned. It suddenly occurred to her that he hadn’t done that often — not even when discussing his hatred for his father.

　　“I need you,” said Percy plainly.

　　“I know,” said Lilac, her heart soaring at a million miles an hour. “But what we really need is help.”

　　“You mean... help-help?”

　　“I mean counselling help. But gosh — just let me finish. I was saying — you!”

　　“You mean, me-me?” said Percy, grinning.

　　“Cut it out,” said Lilac, though she could not control her laugh. It would have been a gloriously short turn to end on, but she had to get it out into the air. “No. You. Us... it was real. It was the first real thing I’ve had in a long while. You were somepony I was really interested in. Not fashion, or public opinions, or... or even coffee. At least... I believe. I want to believe.”

　　She stared into his eyes. They weren’t particularly translucent in the dreamy way some were. She wasn’t sure if she’d use the word “pools” to describe them. Probably not even “exotic”.

　　That is the point, though, isn’t it? she thought to herself: I don’t need these words any more. It is what it is, and I can call them like that.

　　She faltered briefly, but braved her way back up his chin to the two: beautiful, simply because they were his.

　　She swallowed and continued. “I may have fallen for you because of my issues. Because I was lonely. But I gave it a lot of thought, and I’m certain that at the very least I want you as my friend. Too. Like you do... right?”

　　Percy nodded encouragingly.

　　“And I know I can make this decision because I gave it a lot of thought. Me wanting to be friends with you isn’t just because of my emotions, or because that’s how the flow goes.” Lilac felt her throat go sore, and tears welled up in her eyes. “It’s because... we talked. Because we did something real. And I can’t imagine not having you in my life — friend, or more.”

　　She took a jagged breath and hid her head. “But I can’t even be one hundred percent sure about that. I’m not ready to... to live the way I want to. Which is why I’m going to make an appointment with a psychologist tomorrow morning. And — and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way — but are you interested in coming with me?” Lilac wiped away the trickle from her eyes and tried to flash a smile, raising her head like a gasping swimmer. “We could probably get discount rates.”

　　Percy’s gaze flickered, in that small way whenever he was thinking hard about something. It wasn’t more than three seconds before he said: “Yes, please.”

　　“Really? That was pretty fast.”

　　“I’ve been thinking about it for ages.” Percy shook his head and passed a tissue to Lilac from the far end of the table, which she graciously accepted. “But I could never find the time... or perhaps it was something else. And look how that turned out. Going with you sounds like a great idea.”

　　Lilac sniffled. “Yeah. I read about it in a magazine. It’s easier to follow through things if you have a friend to keep you accountable. But, you know...”

　　“The whole no friends thing,” finished Percy.

　　“Yeah,” replied Lilac.

　　“You know, I was going to tell you that I like you too,” added Percy.

　　She wanted to reach out and grab his hooves.

　　“Maybe after we’re both sorted out, we could see how it goes,” said Lilac.

　　Percy laughed and sighed. “Agreed.”

　　And now they were past the home stretch. That was it. Finito, fertig, terminado — the feeling of elation washed over Lilac, and she suddenly felt like a thousand pounds.

　　Percy must have noticed — he raised a hoof and patted Lilac gently on the head. A surge of warmth and shivers rippled from her heart to her hooves.

　　“You wanna stay the night? Not like — you know — I’ll sleep downstairs, I mean.”

　　“No, no. I’ll be fine. My place isn’t too far.”

　　No, not the end, the small voice whispered. This is the beginning.

And not in the sappy way, either, hissed another voice. You're still broken. He's still broken. There are still loose ends—

But those don't matter. And this, Lilac realized, was herself. We made a step forward. And... that's good enough for tonight.

　　“Then I’ll make you something for the road. Just enough to keep you awake for the trip.” said Percy, getting up and winking at her. “I think a flat white with sugar syrup sounds about right.”

　　“I’d love that,,” said Lilac, slumping on the counter with her legs for pillows. “I do have one last confession to make.”

　　There was the rumble of the coffee machine coming to life, and the whizz of bean-grinding blades. “Go right ahead.”

　　“I don’t really like the milk foam in coffee.”

　　Lilac looked up at him and bit her lip. Percy returned a cheeky grin of his own, and waved his scalded leg.

　　“What a coincidence. Neither do I.”

Author's Note

Post-production blog is in the link: check it out for some behind-the-scenes stuff.

Another note of appreciation for Pascoite, whose editing advice made this much, much cleaner than its original state.

Thank you, dear reader, for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments.