“...Starshine drew towards Barleybrew, lip parting ever so slightly, eagerly awaiting his–”
I sighed and rubbed my head before dashing a quill through the last line. Last paragraph, actually... The whole thing felt wrong, exploitative and cheap, like something you’d find in a magazine for young stags, and not the quality of work belonging in a high-minded romance. Of course, the publishers and the public didn’t want high-minded romance, did they? It didn’t sell, and if I didn’t write what sold, I couldn’t pay rent. Still, I had standards. Plus – I frowned and reread the last line – two adverbs right next to each other? I’d burn in writer hell if that ever saw the light of day. I crumpled up the paper and threw it in my overflowing wastebasket. At least I had a few more hours before Roseluck got back from–
The front door slammed open with a wham, and a cream-and-red force of nature stormed into the room, her amber eyes burning as the dying summer heat flooded in behind her. “Well, you’ll never guess what happened tonight,” she said, kicking the door shut with a back hoof and turning her attention to me.
Nothing good, obviously, which meant my best friend/roommate duties were trumping authorial responsibilities tonight. Not like I was making progress on that front, anyways. “Nothing good, I imagine,” I said, getting to my hooves and heading to the wine rack. Wait, no, she didn’t like wine when she was angry. Whiskey? Made her angrier. Beer? Didn’t have any. Something weak enough that she could slam it back in a few pulls, but… I turned towards the kitchen. Cider. That’d work.
“Yeah, no kidding,” she said as I trotted over to the fridge. “What gave it away? Come on, guess, Love.”
Love: short for Lovestruck, which, if you’re trying to make a living as a romance writer, is about the best name you could possibly have. If a pony’s browsing the romance section and sees a novel by Lovestruck, well, I like to think it gives me the tiniest advantage. Of course, most romance writers have similar names, and the few who don’t use pseudonyms – but still, mine’s better. Tender Heart doesn’t scream romance the same way Lovestruck does.
And it’s a wonderful name; I wouldn’t change it for all the bits in Equestria, but having it shortened down to just Love? Not only did it sound far too familiar, but if I spent any time around the worst sort of couple – ones constantly spouting pet names – it got confusing. For Rose, though? I lit my horn up and floated her bottle out of the fridge. After almost two years of living together, she got a pass on it. Just as long as she kept it to when we were alone. “Fine,” I said, using my magic to pop the cap off. “She showed up completely fall-down drunk.”
I rolled my eyes as laughter rang from the living room. Rose was still giggling when I returned from the kitchen and floated the cider bottle over to the coffee table. “Thanks, Lovey,” she said, grabbing the bottle with her hooves and taking a long pull before I could finish setting it down. “You always know how to cheer me up. Nah, I would’ve been fine if she showed up drunk, that’d just give me an excuse to drink more so I could catch up with her.”
“You need an excuse?” I asked, raising an eyebrow as I sat on my floor pillow opposite the couch Roseluck would be splaying herself over just as soon as she finished her drink.
She laughed and I half-smiled. “No, but, you know, it doesn’t hurt. You drinking anything tonight?”
“Probably,” I said, shrugging. “Now, are you going to tell me what happened or are we going to keep talking about your borderline alcoholism?”
“First, borderline?” she said, holding up a hoof before downing the rest of her drink. I glanced at the wall clock. Had thirty seconds even passed since she got her hooves on the bottle? “Lovey, you should know by now that there’s nothing borderline about me. It’s all-in, all the time.”
“Believe me, I’m acutely aware of that fact,” I said, grabbing a bottle from the wine rack behind me and floating it over. How many first dates had she been on since I moved in? And no matter how successful they were, the stories the next day were always… volatile.
She snorted, punctuating an otherwise dignified laugh. “Yeah, I bet you are. Anyways, that’s the thing: nothing happened. She didn’t show up.”
“And?” I asked, looking over my shoulder so I could see the wine glasses I wanted. “You’ve been on worse dates and didn’t come home anywhere near as upset.” Not entirely true. She’d come home livid sometimes; but at least then, she had reason to be upset.
“Because tonight’s didn’t show up, and those did,” she said, repeating her point like that was enough of an explanation. “Look, you don’t… you don’t just say you’ll do something and then not do it, you know? If I say I’m going to be somewhere, I’m going to be there, and if I absolutely can’t make it, I let them know. Just bailing is a huge ‘screw you’ to the other pony.”
“Alright,” I said, floating the glasses over to us and setting them down. “I’ve never really thought about it like that, but I can see your point.”
“Yeah,” she said, front half hanging off the edge of the couch, “Of course you never thought about it, how many times has somepony flaked on you?”
I tapped a hoof as I poured. “Never, to my knowledge, but I could be forgetting something.” I froze as recollection struck. “Wait, one time, I was supposed to meet with my publisher at a cafe to talk about some changes to Before the Dawn, but there was an emergency with another author that they had to take care of first, and I wound up waiting at my table for three hours.”
“And I bet you were pretty ticked when they finally showed up, right? They wasted your entire day,” she said, grabbing the glass of wine as I floated it over to her.
“Not really,” I said, shaking my head and pouring my glass. “I brought my pen and manuscript with me, so I spent the time looking over the story and making some changes. I think I used the extra time really productively.” Two adverbs? Again? “Productive… I think I used the extra time well.”
“That’s it?” she asked, looking at me like I’d started speaking Prench. “Not angry or upset or sobbing or huddled up on the ground shouting ‘the horror, the horror’?” I raised an eyebrow. “Don’t ask. What if a date stood you up?”
“I don’t know,” I said, tilting my head as I set the bottle down. “I suppose I’d be upset, although I like to think I’d reserve judgment until after I spoke with them again.”
“Geeze, well aren’t you a saint?” she asked, sitting up from her splay so she could lean forward and sip on her wine. I joined her in sipping, and quickly swallowed. It was closer to two-bit swill than Nectar des Étoiles, but it was good enough. I took another sip. “So, what does get you mad? There’ve got to be some things that tick you off in a relationship.”
“Oh,” I shook my head. “I’d really prefer not to get into that, I just–” I winced when I caught the glint in her eyes, like a cat seeing a closed door for the first time.
“You know what I just realized,” she said, setting down her glass of wine. “Every time I’ve come home in a bad mood, you’ve been there to cheer me up and listen to me talk all about it, but I haven’t returned the favor, have I?”
“It’s fine,” I said, lips spasming in grotesque parody of a grin. “Friendship isn’t a competition, and I’m sure if I ever did need you, you’d be there.”
“Come on,” she said. “You’re so closed off, you know you can open up with me, right? Let me hear those juicy stories that inspired your novels, and get some stuff off your chest.”
“I open up to you plenty,” I said. “I tell you my thoughts on everything, so I really don’t know what else I can do.”
She scoffed. “First, giving me a lecture on the writer’s role in society and how you need to capture truths in prose doesn’t count as opening up to me. That’s soapboxing. Second, you’ve heard all my relationship horror stories, so I think the friendship code legally requires you to share. Come on, just spill the beans. You know I won’t tell anypony else.”
I did. I knew her character, and I knew I had several volumes of blackmail material on her. Both were wonderful reasons to trust her. Plus… “Because I don’t have any relationship horror stories.” My horror story was the complete lack of horror stories.
There was a pause and a gasp. “Wait... you mean you, Miss Romance Novelist, have never been in a–”
“I’ve been in a relationship,” I said, cutting her off before I could finish the thought. “And she was a very nice mare, but we just didn’t work out.”
“Why not?” she asked, not missing a beat. I sighed and took another sip of wine. She wouldn’t rest until she had all her answers. “Kinky sex stuff? Please say kinky sex stuff.”
“No, we just wanted different things.” My eyes flitted away to admire an empty spot on the wall that could absolutely use some decorating. “Had different ideas of what a relationship should be.”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” she said, grabbing the bottle and pouring another glass for herself. “What do you want in a relationship?”
Well, she wanted me to open up, and we were friends. I might as well give her what she wanted. “Nothing.” I paused, rephrasing in my head for clarity. “I don’t want a relationship. I have my writing, I have books, and when I absolutely need somepony to talk to, I have you and your friends.”
She put the glass and bottle down and rubbed her forehead. “Just so I have this right in my head: the romance writer doesn’t actually like relationships. Is this a joke? Am I taking crazy pills? Are you taking crazy pills? Because that just…” She laughed. “Somepony’s taking crazy pills.”
“It’s not that crazy,” I said, pursing my lips as she picked up her glass and sank back into the couch in what seemed like one smooth motion. “I love the idea of relationships. The meeting of two ponies, the gradual unveiling of their partner, the growing attraction as they draw into each other’s orbits, and the final consummation when two ponies link their lives together. It’s grand and wonderful. In the abstract. In practice, it’s all so… messy.”
“And?” she asked. “That’s it? You’re just so in love with ideas that you don’t want something that’s real? So, what, your novels are just mental bangs?”
I blinked, staring at her. “What?”
“You know, like, you’ve got all this energy in your head, but because reality is soooo messy, you turn it all into love stories? Do you write about the ponies you wish would sweep into your life and whisk you away from all this everydayness?”
“Mundanity,” I offered. She just waved a hoof, shrugging me off. “And no, of course I don’t. I just… I like the idea of it, and the one real relationship I had… it wasn’t fun.”
“So you had a bad relationship,” she said. “It happens. I’ve had plenty of bad relationships, but that doesn’t stop me.”
“No, I don’t think anything could stop you,” I said, finishing my own glass with a gulp. I’d need the courage. “You just… you want something, so you do it. Consequences are for other ponies, right?”
“Hey, I deal with the consequences,” she said, sitting up. “But yeah, I go out and do stuff. I don’t just sit around all day with a bunch of books dreaming about stuff and writing wish-fulfillment instead of actually living my life.”
“But I like writing,” I said, frowning and pouring another glass for me. “It’s what I’m good at.”
She sighed and leaned back into the couch, but not splaying herself all over it. “And that’s fine. It’s your talent and I get that. I’d go crazy if I couldn’t tend to my flowers and dig around in the dirt, but that’s not all there is to me. I’m a gardener, sure, but I’m also a fantastic friend, the best lover in Equestria, and a whole bunch of other stuff. I love gardening, but it’s not all I love. Does that make sense?”
“It does, but–” I stopped, a sudden stiffness seizing my back. “Sorry, I’ve been hunched over the desk all day, do you mind if I...?” I pointed at the couch.
“Sure,” she said, nodding and scooting over. “It’s your couch as much as mine.” I got to my hooves and trotted towards the couch. Not true, she’d had the couch since I’d moved in. Said it was from the ex who’d left it when he’d left her. I sighed as I sank into the overstuffed goodness. Not a bad consolation prize.
“Thank you,” I said, resting my head back and looking towards the ceiling.
“Like I said, you don’t need to ask me permission.” There was a little lull in the conversation as we both made ourselves comfortable and did our best to finish off our bottle of wine. I floated over an extra bottle for us. “Look, I know I’m kind of impulsive... okay, really impulsive when it comes to most things, and I’m a thousand times worse when it comes to relationships, but it’s better to keep swinging than sitting out the game, right?”
“I’ve been meaning to ask about that,” I said, as the wine’s warmth started to diffuse through my body. I had another sip. “How come all your relationships last for…” I licked a few droplets off my upper lip. “I think the record since I moved in was two weeks.”
There was a little laugh from her as she readjusted in her seat. Honestly, how much did she need to move to get comfortable? “Yeah, they’re kind of short aren’t they? And you know, I spent a lot of time in a bad relationship, right, and after he left, I figured what the hell? If I’m in a relationship that has a problem, why waste my time?”
“And you say I’m the idealist,” I said. “You’re just as bad as I am. Chasing all these relationships and ending them the second they have a problem? I don’t think that’s healthy. It certainly doesn’t make for lasting relationships. If my protagonists acted like you, each story would last for a single chapter.”
“Maybe you’re right,” she said after a pause and another sip. I opened the second bottle. “But what am I supposed to do? Just… deal with it? Stay in a stupid bad relationship? Tried it, and I’ll pass.”
“You're asking a mare who's been in exactly one relationship,” I said, shaking my head. “But I have read a lot of romance novels, and some of them made sense. Quite a few are pure fantasy that clumsily ape our own reality, but a few… I remember there was this one with a speech about how love wasn’t about finding somepony flawless, but about loving somepony in spite of their flaws.”
No. I frowned. That wasn’t quite right. How did it go? “I mean… obviously, you shouldn’t just love somepony and ignore their flaws, but…” The metaphor clicked into place. “It’s like there’s a gap between you and the other pony, and sometimes it’s this massive yawning chasm and others, it’s just a little hop away, but it’s going to take both ponies working together to fully bridge that gap, and it’s up to you to decide if it's worth the effort, and I’m just completely butchering this beautiful passage, and how am I still talking?”
“It’s fine,” she said, laughing and giving a soft smile. “You’re fine, and it’s really nice just hearing you talk about book stuff without being all pretentious about it.”
“I’m not pretentious,” I huffed. “Just… a little passionate.”
The smile vanished, and I mourned its passing. “Lovey, I love you, but you can be sooo pretentious about that stuff sometimes. Like, ‘I will forge in the smithy of my soul the conscience of Equestria’ levels of pretentious.” I blinked and stared at her. “What? I can read books too, and not all of them are pulpy fun. Sometimes, they’re serious.”
“Still, I wasn’t expecting it, and I’m not that bad, am I?” I asked.
“Lovey, you’ve spent hours telling me all about how you write fiction because facts just get in the way of the truth, which… How mean would it be for me to say that your ‘truth’ is kind of found in every other romance book out there,” she said.
“That would…” I sighed. It wasn’t a foreign thought; the few critics who’d bothered to read my work had given… not bad reviews, exactly, but certainly not good ones. “That’s not entirely true. I know my books aren’t enlightened tomes offering up grand truths, but I think they’re at least a bit above average. They’re not just romantic fluff.”
“Just mostly romantic fluff. Like, it’s pretty solid fluff; it’s entertaining to read, but it’s not…” She shook her head. “It just feels kind of generic, you know? Maybe even a bit confused at times. Don’t get me wrong, the words are good, the sentences flow together and it’s got a nice rhythm, I’m just talking about the message and the tone.”
“Oh, is that all?” I asked, stopping myself from glaring. Don’t get defensive, she’s just offering constructive criticism. “The body’s fine, it’s just the soul that’s sick.” A little snarky was okay, though.
“Look, do you want my thoughts or not? I thought we were doing real talk, not just blowing smoke up each other’s plots,” she said, not holding back her own glare.
I sighed. “You’re right, you’re right,” I said, waving a hoof in a circle, “but you know what it’s like. How would you feel if somepony criticized your skills as a florist?”
She rolled her eyes. I’d apparently said the wrong thing. “First, I’m a gardener, not a florist.” That would explain it. I reined in my desire to ask what the difference between the two was. It probably wouldn’t help things at all. “Second, if they were coming from a place of love, I’d listen to what they had to say. And how can you not know what I do?”
“Well, I knew it involved flowers–"
“Of course, it involves flowers,” she said, raising her voice. “Anypony looking at me could see my job involves flowers. I read through all your books, and you haven’t even bothered to figure out what I do beyond ‘works with flowers’?” I gulped. That was... as accurate as it was brutal.
“I'm sorry,” I said, mumbling out an apology. "I didn't know I was supposed to." I caught her look and tacked on an addendum. “Well, I didn’t know you were reading my books until just a few seconds ago, and I don’t exactly interact with ponies much; it’s basically you and my publisher.”
“And that’s my point,” she said. It was? I thought she was talking about how my stories felt flat. Also, does it go without saying that we were well into our second bottle of wine at this point? It really should. “You write stories about love, stories that thrive on all this interpersonal nuance, and you don’t like going out and meeting people. You actively avoid real relationships, so where do your romance ideas even come from?”
“Mostly other books,” I said, looking away and finishing my… I want to say third? glass of wine. On to number four, then… or five. Definitely not six.
“So, you’re rehashing what sounded good from other books,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Gee, it sure is a mystery why your stories feel so hollow. Real headscratcher.”
“You don’t need to experience something to understand it,” I said, mounting my defence. “I think I’ve read enough to know what makes for a compelling relationship, and it’s not like my books are awful.” I looked back at her, and when did she get so close? Was she scooting over or… No, she was still laid over the armrest, she hadn’t moved it all. Maybe I was misremembering how far away I’d sat?
“No, but they’re hollow,” she said. “Like, still entertaining, it just feels like it’s lacking sincerity. Like you’re just giving readers what works.”
“Of course, I’m giving them what works,” I said, raising my voice. “That’s how I get to keep writing books. Straight ponies having sex sells better. It’s what the readers want, and it’s what my publisher wants. Who cares that I’d rather write about two mares being in these great intellectual relationships?” Had I just said that all out loud? Laid it all out on our coffee table? That was my “grand” truth. Writing what worked. I sank into the couch and downed another glass. I deserved the hangover I’d get in the morning. “I’m a fraud.”
A hoof rested on my shoulder. “No, you’re not,” Rose said, lying through her teeth. A writer claiming to write truth while pandering to the masses? That made me either a fraud or a hypocrite. Or both. I looked at her. “Okay, maybe it’s a little hypocritical–” See? “–but that doesn’t make you a fraud. You just need to write what you want to write and get some more experiences in your head. Go out, live your life, get out of your book bubble.”
“What am I even supposed to do? Just go out to bars and proposition cute mares? Is that what you do?” I asked, dampness building in my eyes as I tried pouring another glass. Rose snatched it away from me.
“Kind of, but I’m charming and outgoing as hell. You’re more like a cute librarian. You don’t go out and find ponies, ponies go out to find you. Go to a filly bar, bring a book, sit in a corner, and I can guarantee you you’ll have a line of mares tripping over themselves to say hello.”
I laughed at the image and made a half-hearted attempt to reach over her and get my bottle back, but it just ended with me collapsing on top of her. “You really think so?”
“Oh yeah,” she said, nodding her head. “Super cute. I’d definitely go on at least, like, three dates with you before breaking it off over something stupid.” She somehow managed to put the cork back in the wine bottle without spilling a drop despite the fact she was prone on her back and half hanging off the edge after I’d conspired with the sofa to turn her into a sandwich. “Who knows, maybe even four, depending on how you are in bed.”
“And what makes you think we’d be… we’d be…” Think of something that sounds better than ‘having sex.’ “Doing it by our third date?” Well done. “I might like to take things slow.” Going just by my track record, I didn’t, but then, everything about that first relationship had been a mistake in at least one way, usually two.
She gave a half-laugh. “Okay, definitely a fourth date. But seriously, Lovey, you’re great. I’m sure if you put yourself out there, you’ll find some mare that’s gonna be completely crazy about you.”
“What about you?” I asked, words slipping out of my mouth.
“Uhmm… what?” Rose asked, looking up at me. It's fine, Lovestruck, just say something smart to play it off as a slip of the tongue and you'll be fine.
“I don’t know, why go out and meet somepony I barely know and hope I get along well with them, when I know I get along well with you? It doesn’t make sense,” I said. You know, something like the exact opposite of what you just said.
Roseluck sighed and pushed me up off her. “If you really want to talk about that, we can, but not when you’re drunk.”
“Why not?” I asked. “And you’re just as drunk as me.”
“First, no, I’m not. You’ve had twice as much as me tonight, and you have way less tolerance since you’re not a borderline alcoholic,” she said. I rolled my eyes. I hadn’t drunk twice as much as her. Maybe an extra glass or two, but that was it. “And second, because you’re drunk, and this kind of isn’t the kind of thing we should just jump into.”
“You jump into it with everypony else,” I muttered. Was I not good enough? She said she’d at least fourth date me, and what was I thinking? I was a sober-minded professional pony. I wasn’t just going to jump in bed with a mare because I realized I was a complete fraud after having a few drinks. Even if she was an admittedly cute mare, who I might or might not have modeled Barleybrew after. What? Characters don’t just spring fully-formed from the ether. It didn't mean anything.
“Yeah, because I barely know them. It’s like, some rando in a bar asks me out, and sure, whatever. If it doesn’t go well, I’ll never see them again, but we’re roommates. We’re friends. If I screw it up, boom, friendship gone, you’re probably moving out, and then who’ll comfort me after I have an awful date? Because the next roommate probably won’t be as good as you,” she said.
“But that’s why it will work with us,” I said. Why? Why keep selling this? Friendship was fine, but my mouth kept making words. “We already know each other. We live together, we tell each other everything, we’ve heard each other’s worst secrets. We’re about as close to a couple as we can be without actually dating.”
She paused, and the silence ticked on. “Maybe,” she finally said. “But where’s all this coming from? Up until tonight, we’ve been nothing but friendly, and… sure, I had thoughts, I have thoughts about everypony, but up until, like, two minutes ago, I thought you wanted to keep things cool.”
“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging. Good, keep it at that, don’t go and say– “Maybe I wrote a character that resembled you, and maybe I had him fall in love with a mare who had a tiny resemblance to me.” That.
Rose stared at me. “Okay…” She held up a hoof for a few seconds. “First, why did you make me a stallion?”
“I just told you, it sells better,” I said. Had the wine been spiked with a truth serum? No, she’d been drinking it too, and I was the pony that opened it. “A mare with a stallion has more 'universal appeal' than two mares or two stallions, which means I get more money for making a character a 'he' instead of a 'she.'"
“But you’re not into st–”
I shook my head. “No, I’m strictly attracted to mares,” I said. “I tried dating a stallion once after my first relationship, thinking I might’ve just been confused, but I couldn’t even make it through the evening.”
She laughed and raised her empty glass up into the air. “Welcome to the speed dating club, Love. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Not an experience I’d recommend,” I said. “He was very nice, and I thought it wouldn’t be an awful idea if we kissed, but then he leaned in, and I felt my skin crawl.”
“Right, okay,” she said. “Now, back to you basing a character on me? Got a good reason for it?”
“It wasn’t… fully intentional, I think,” I said. “It was more like I had the idea for a romance between a quiet reserved unicorn and this outgoing earth pony, and… well, when I was thinking about outgoing earth ponies, you were the one who came to mind, so I borrowed from you.” Not helping my case at all. “But I wasn’t trying to pair fictional versions of us off together, it just happened. You know, I get interesting ideas in my head and I explore them in my books. All my thoughts end up in them sooner or later.”
“But not really,” she said. “Because you’ve always got to translate them into whatever works. Straighten them up, add in some sex, make it all commercial.”
“Yes, thank you for reminding me,” I said, drawing out ‘thank’ and making a sweeping gesture that almost knocked over the empty bottle before I caught it with my magic. See, if I was drunk, I couldn’t have caught the bottle. “I’d almost forgotten how much of a hypocrite I was.”
“That’s not…” She sighed and shook her head. “Just saying, maybe your books would feel a little more real if you weren’t always muting and filtering your voice. Add some authenticity to it.” She shrugged. “But, what do I know? I’m not a writer.”
“No, you're fine,” I said. Better than fine. “But it’s not what my publishers want, it’s not what the readers want, and–”
“Screw that,” she said. “Don’t write it for them. Write it for you. Write it for your friends. Maybe it’ll be good, maybe it won’t. I think it’ll be good, but either way, it’ll be out there, and maybe your publishers will like it. Or better yet, instead of daydreaming about things, put yourself out there.” I stared at her and she sighed. “Right, if it’s something you’re really interested in, I promise we’ll talk about it later. Okay?”
“When?” I asked. Why was this so important to me? It was fine, friendship was fine. This whole thing was silly.
“Maybe when you’re not getting all hoofsy with yourself or trying to reach out and grab me,” Roseluck said. I blinked and looked down to see a hoof frozen where it was rubbing my stomach. Another reason I didn’t drink much, alcohol gave my hooves minds of their own.
“Fine,” I said, pulling the hoof that had been drifting towards her back. “So… what are we going to do, then? Just sit around drinking for the rest of the night and pretending I didn’t say something incredibly stupid?”
“It wasn’t stupid,” she said. “And you’re not drinking any more tonight. Don’t need you to try drunkenly feeling me up anymore.”
“It’s not that bad,” I muttered under my breath. “Just a little tipsy.”
Rose laughed. “Nopony thinks they’re that drunk when they’re drinking. If you say you’re sober, you’re tipsy; if you say you’re tipsy, you’re drunk; and if you say you’re drunk, you’re seconds from passing out in a pool of your own vomit. The only exception is if it’s your first time drinking, in which case, you’re drunk the second you take a sip of watered-down margarita.” That was… the last part was true for me, at least. “And based on how much you drank and your total lack of tolerance, I think you’re right about to bump tipsy up to drunk.”
~~“Come on,” I said, “Can’t we talk about~~
~~“That’s not how I~~
~~We stared at each other as I tried to mask my dis~~
***
I sighed and rubbed just below the base of my horn before putting my quill down. The rest of that night was a blur. Impressionistic flashes and little else. Not that there was much to remember. She sent me to bed, made sure I made it in safely, and I went to sleep. Not the most climactic ending to a world-changing evening.
My quill dashed lines through the last few pages. Maybe I’d been too factual? Letting the little details sap away the truth of that hour, take away all the things it represented by showing what it was? Or maybe I was missing something. A key moment I’d overlooked or forgotten about in my intoxication?
The fire crackled behind me, and I drew the blanket tighter around me to keep out the winter chill. Rose might know, but her version of the night was… substantially different from my own. Less philosophical discussion and more me alternating between sobbing into a glass and trying to grope her. I got to my hooves, trotted up to our shared room, and tried to open the door as quietly as possible. “Hey,” Rose said after a yawn. “Late night?”
“Sorry,” I whispered, navigating around the darkened room and finding my side of the bed, using only memory to guide me. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Was already up,” she said as I pulled the covers back and slipped into bed. “Bed feels wrong without your big flanks to grab onto.”
“Yours are bigger,” I said, pulling the covers back up and feeling her hooves wrap around me.
“Maybe,” she said, laughing, “but it doesn’t matter, since I’m the one who cuddles and you’re the mare who gets cuddled. Tell me you couldn’t sleep without my big strong arms wrapped all tight around you.”
“I slept just fine for years without your big strong arms,” I said, doing my best to hold my head up high while lying down. There was a pause and I could feel her eyes boring into the back of my head. “Although… I admit, it’s hard to imagine going back to that.”
Warm wet lips pressed against my cheek and a strand of hair traced across my neck. “Aww, I love you, too, Lovey. So, what's keeping my marefriend chained to her desk when she could be getting cuddled by me? Anything juicy?”
“Everything I write is ‘juicy.’ At least, it should be. Juiciness is a prerequisite for romance novels,” I said, turning around in her grip to return the kiss and ignoring the residue of saliva on my cheek. The sacrifices for love. It made her happy, and the touch did send a thrill down my spine, even if the residue was rather… Not many ponies wrote about the filth love left behind, and for good reason. Talk of fluids tended to muddle grand romance down in the basest level of sexuality.
“Not really,” Rose said. “Like, there are juicy bits for sure, but most of it is just ponies talking. Long pony talky bits is kind of your thing.”
“Alright, point taken,” I said, rolling back onto my proper side. “But some parts are juicy?”
“For sure,” she said, settling back down on her pillow, her head resting on strands of my mane. “But seriously, what’re you working on? You don’t usually stay up this late.”
“It’s… I’m trying to capture the magic of our night on paper, but the ending’s not coming to me,” I said, sighing. “I’m hoping you’ll be able to take a look at it in the morning.”
“Sure,” she said, and I could feel her nodding her head. “But which night? ‘Cause we’ve had a whole lot of ‘em. We got the first date, our night in Canterlot, the first time we–”
“The night you were stood up,” I said before she could list off our entire relationship history.
Rose laughed. “Really? That? You mean the night that ended with you shouting about how sexy you were and asking why I didn’t love you? That’s the one you want to write about?”
“I remember it differently,” I said, rolling my eyes. Every time she retold the story, she added some new embellishment. At least my memory of the night was somewhat consistent, excluding the parts I couldn’t recall.
“Yeah, of course you do,” she said. “But why that night? We’ve had so many awesome nights, but that’s the one you want to write about? The one where we just drank and talk…” She sighed. “Of course, it is, because we just talked, and that’s, like, the height of romance to you. ‘Intellectual discourse.’”
“But the other parts are growing on me,” I said. “Slowly, perhaps, but that’s still progress. Anyways, I want to write about that night, because it’s the night the world kind of shifted.”
“Really? I thought the night Equestria moved was when we–” I twisted around and put a hoof on her lips before she could finish.
“Honestly, Rose, you can be absolutely incorrigible.” Thank Luna she couldn’t see the way my cheeks reddened in the dark. “And that’s not what I mean, it’s like it was a dividing line. The world before that night and the world after it are just so… it’s like I woke up the next morning, and everything looked the same as before, but it had all shifted slightly, and that makes absolutely no sense, doesn’t it?”
“No, I think I get it, but I don’t think dating me is that important. Like, it’s not world changing,” she said as I moved back to my usual position, warm breath hitting the back of my neck. Another relationship sensation I didn’t completely detest.
“We didn’t start dating until several days after that, though,” I said, smiling.
“Sure, but that was the night where things changed and–”
“Exactly, it’s the night things changed. A lot of things changed for me that night, and I’m just trying to capture that feeling. Record it for posterity,” I said.
“And publish it to make some money?” Rose asked.
“It’s only a short story, and I haven’t submitted any of my new work to my publisher yet,” I said. “I think I’m just writing for an audience of one.”
“Well, I like the new stuff way more than your old stuff,” Rose said, hoof stroking my side. “So, that just doubled your audience. If you show it to a few of my bookier friends, we might even triple or quadruple it.”
“Thank you,” I said, stifling a yawn. How late had I stayed up writing? “I’m sorry you couldn’t sleep without me.”
Roseluck laughed. “Don’t worry about it, if I had a problem, I would’ve marched downstairs and dragged you to bed with me. So, this story you want me to look at, what’s the problem? Worried it’s not conveying how completely drunk you got?”
“No, no,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s… not a problem for me, I just can’t think of the right note to end it on. I’ve gotten to the point right after you tell me how drunk ponies don’t realize they’re drunk, but after that…” I sighed. “I don’t know, maybe you saw something I didn’t notice.”
“Because of how drunk you were?”
I sighed. “Yes, because of how drunk I was.” If she was going to keep reminding me of that, I was going to start holding all the times she got drunk over her head. Of course, she’d just laugh it off.
“Happy to help,” she said. “But we can do that in the morning, right? Because right now, it’s the middle of the night, we’re both awake, and I don’t feel like going to sleep quite yet.” She paused, thinking. “Or going downstairs to look at your story, either.”
That was… I pursed my lips and nodded, lighting my horn to close the curtains. The ending could wait.
Author's Note
Hey, everyone, sorry for making you wait so long for the online copy of my BronyCon story. The upside is this version's gone through several rounds of extra editing, and is hopefully a bit stronger because of it. Or maybe I ruined the whole thing. Either way, thanks for reading.
