Rainbow over Trottingham

Featherweight’s gratitude for his dreamless slumber was immeasurable, even if he had to suffer sleeping on what amounted to an itchy sock stuffed full of cotton swabs and nails. The parting of his eyes was slow and deliberate, an irrational part of him feared punishment if he did it too quickly; exhaling when Pipsqueak’s sleeping form did not come into view. He turned onto his back, staring at the cracked paint of a firmament, trying to trace the long faded lines he postulated was once a great damascene, the inlays sold just to keep this shambles of a building afloat. They were, however, just conjurations of his mind, trying in futility to distract himself from the vociferous. His imagination failed to distract him for long, and he threw his eyes like a fishing lure to window, hoping to bait something to distract him from his own thoughts. Still falling, he remarked, the ceaseless torrent of rain still descending from the sky. A day here, and he already began to think it natural, like falling leaves in Autumn. Does it stop? he asked, but quickly forgot what he was referring to, the door creaking open.

“Still in bed? You mus’ really have a thing for being extremely uncomfortable,” Pipsqueak jested, leaving the door open as he walked in, a general mass of voices came from the hall. He wasn’t the only pony awake then.

“Yep. I love feeling of being poked in the flank,” Featherweight scoffed, rolling his eyes with sarcasm that only a teenager could perfect. Although there was an odd and distant howl in the air a far distance away that coincided with his comment, one of irony, derision, and farsighted mirth.“Did I oversleep?”

“That’d imply you’re missin’ anythin’,” Pipsqueak gave a gloomy kind of smirk, gesturing to the window with a nod, “I don’t think we’re going out in that.”

“Well, if that constitutes a bad start to the day, things can only be on the up, right?” Featherweight tried to inject optimism into his words, but only a few pathetic spurts came from his vocal syringe, his forced smile faltering.

“It’d have to anyway. I made a promise, remember?” Pipsqueak offered a reconciliatory reminder, wearing a smile Featherweight saw no flaw in. “Simplest way to start a day good is a good breakfast. Or so my mum sez.”

“Breakfast?” Featherweight repeated sceptically, getting out of bed, “here?”

Pipsqueak shrugged. “Can’t be worse than Sweetie Belle’s cooking. ‘Sides, the stallion at the counter said we ‘ad room an’ board when we got ‘ere. I’d expect some toast at the very least.”

Featherweight chortled, stopping before Pipsqueak.. “If it’s an improvement over Sweetie’s cooking, then at least we won’t be filling our stomach’s with ash.”

Pipsqueak chuckled. “Plus anything’s better than being cooped up in the room all day. Better than the… alternative,” he ended by looking to the window. Droplets fell lazily down the glass, and Featherweight grimaced.

“Yep.”

Cheerilee looked… not so cheery. Whilst the rest of the class were chatting amongst themselves in the entrance hall - complaining mostly - Featherweight’s eye was drawn to his despondent teacher. The receptionist-bellhop-whatever was chewing her ear off about Celestia knows what, and Featherweight could tell that the stallion’s yammering was an unneeded annoyance atop the mare’s shoulders. Featherweight was partially curious as to what the one-sided conversation consisted off, but his curiosity did not outweigh his desire to be a replacement for Cheerilee’s thoroughly chewed ears. He never considered himself an Atlas, and he wouldn’t start now.

“Has he been behind that counter all night?” Featherweight’s attention was grabbed from Cheerilee and to the question instead, partially because it wasn’t another complaint being forced into his ear, and because it was coming from Pipsqueak.

“I don’t know,” Featherweight answered honestly. Now that the question was put forth, his interest was admittedly piqued by the enigma was ‘hmm-mhh-uh.’ “I’m not being mean or anything, but there is something off about him.”

“’Off?’ The stallion’s ‘bout as ‘off’ as year old milk.”

“Now that you mention it, he looks as though he hasn’t slept for a year,” Featherweight concurred with Pipsqueak’s colloquial analysis.

“Speaking of years, how many do you reckon he’s got under his belt?” the splotched colt asked, nodding in the direction of the elderly bellhop.

Featherweight looked in the direction his friend nodded and saw the elderly stallion half-emerged from the ‘staff-only’ door, visibly struggling with the weight on his back. Featherweight was about to comment on the scene, the wrinkled stallion an almost eye-watering sight. The pegas- Wait? Pegasus? Featherweight saw, plastered to his sides, a pair of very tacky looking wings. “Did he always have wings?” Featherweight asked, brows furrowed.

“Uh, I don’t think so,” Pipsqueak answered, uncertain, throwing a raised brow to the photographer. “Why would he be wearing fake wings?”

Featherweight shrugged, his eyes lingering on the struggling stallion. “I don’t know. He does look like he’s having some trouble...”

Pipsqueak pursed his lips, eyes squinting somewhat. “Yeah... but it is ‘is job, he can’t be strug-”

In the midst of the earth colt’s sentence, one of Dilap’s hooves buckled on the first step of the stairs. Featherweight released a sigh from his throat. “I’m going to help him,” he asserted as he began to walk over to the aged stallion.

“Are you sure?” Pipsqueak asked, lagging behind a few steps.

“Yes,” he affirmed, glancing back at the colt. “I’ll be right back.”

Pipsqueak let out a chuckle. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

‘For you.’ That particular duo made Featherweight’s heart skip a beat, forcing him to look anywhere that wasn’t back lest the splotched colt would see the pink tinge on his cheeks. He trailed over to the gray stallion, who was resting on the second step of the red carpeted stairwell. The stallion behind the counter seemed oblivious to this, his loud yet indiscernible wailing towards Cheerilee likely the reason why. “Do you need any help?” the lithe pegasus asked him, earning the focus of the stallion’s yellow irises. “You look like you’re struggling here.”

The stallion released a tired sigh, his breath sounding like a foal’s rattle. “Ay. Ya cannae jus’ make’an ol’ buck like me do ev’rytin can yae?”

Featherweight blinked. He had only heard sparse snippets of the stallion’s voice the night before, and had no clue an accent so thick was laying in wait. Gulping, the colt reluctantly parted his lips, spewing out an answer. “N-no? No you cannot,” he tried to steady his voice’s shaking uncertainty.

The old stallion released an unusually high pitched chortle, the gaps between his stained teeth producing a slight whistle. “Ay, ya a gud wee barra, gud ‘ead on ta end of ye neck,” he complimented, Featherweight presumed, and the colt felt his body relax itself. The eldery stallion got to his hooves, seemingly undergoing a miraculous revitalisation, prompting the young pegasus to take a step back in surprise. “Ah’m no yun’ cuddy, barly walk a brae,” he spoke casually, removing the fez from his head and putting it upon the wide-eyed colt’s head, to which he released a thick chuckle. “A peedy me. Barry! Tek this up’ta twa, ‘cross frum wan. Jus’ a bitta scran,” he spoke, Featherweight seldom comprehending anything at all. Suddenly, the aged stallion manoeuvred the silver serving tray off his back and onto Featherweights, grinning sideways at the colt. “Ee’s a chookie, but ‘is eens are mist. Ee’s minted, so dinnae let ‘im kno’ yeez a cuddy, or ye panbread,” he instructed, incomprehensibly, before smacking the colt on the rump; walking off towards the staff door. “Ah’m sneak a bevvy un kip.”

“W-what?” the colt asked, long after Dilap dissapeared behind the door. Looking between the door and the stairs, he felt his lips bend into a frown, and he took an uncertain first step onto the stairs. Well, at least it’ll give me something to do, he mused, releasing a sigh soon after.

After climbing to the top, he went to the door he glanced at the night before. ‘Calvino,’ etched in with a smiley face substituting the dot above the ‘i.’ He rapt his hooves against it, sitting and awaiting a reply. A minute passed, and then two. I did wake up late. He might not even be in, he thought, believing the justification for leaving apt. He began to turn, resolving to leave the platter and fez by the staff door. However, before he could fully turn from the door, he heard a click, and then felt a tight grip wrap around his tail, yanking him backwards with inconsiderate force. He released a pained yelp, being dragged along his belly backwards into a dark room. He felt the grip come undone when the door slammed in front of him, taking an escape out of the equation.

“Eh, getting impatient are we, Dilap?” the voice sent shivers up Featherweight’s spine. He felt the weight of the platter be removed from his back. It was, however, replaced by a much more oppressive weight. He felt four knife-like points pressing into his back, making him quiver and shake. “I could very well tear out your spine, you impudent welp! You’re like a pony! Weak, petty, and most of all: good at getting on my nerves!” he exclaimed, the point on his back subtly applying more pressure, prompting Featherweight to squeal.

“W-wait, wait, I’m not Dilap!” he yelled, releasing a half-sobbing.

“Eh?” the faceless voice uttered, surprised. He felt the knives leave his back. One feeling was replaced with another, a sudden inclusion of a warm breath on the back of his neck. “You sound like a runt. Little more than a chick,” the voice mused aloud, the colt closing his eyes on reflex as the voice began to touch the back of his head; then to his sides, rolling a feather between two joints. “Dense feathers. Soft. Noble clutch? Someone fancy. Working in a hovel like this? Well, this place has an odd magnetism for the wealthy,” he commented idly, walking away. “I should know. How many years has it been? I can’t see the days go by anymore, but I can feel the age upon me; weighing me down, like bags of sand.”

Timidly, the colt turned climbed onto his hooves. He turned to see a decrepit room, so filled with junk and other assorted rubbish it seemed half the size of his shared abode in the hotel. He couldn’t discern how much of it was sentimental, practical or straight up trash. He noted a lot of empty soda bottles around the room – which likely gave the room its peculiar smell, but then again, that could be the result of general neglect - many of which were brushed and moved aside in almost an outline of the owner’s predetermined path. The room was scant of light, coming in only through a window largely covered in boxes. Not likely out of consideration for guests, Featherweight could tell. If he cared, truly, then he would have done something about the dense dust that was barely a notch below smoke in its thickness. Peculiarly, the colt noted a menagerie of twinkling jars. He didn’t dare move from the spot to go inspect them more closely, but he noticed that they were abundant; atop makeshift shelves and piles of other junk. He also noticed a cracked frame, by the mouldy bed; atop a splintery night stand.

His eyes finally landed upon the owner of the voice, who moved around with loud shambling steps. It was a griffon. Something the colt had only seen rarely, either on a train or the infrequent visitations of that one abrasive she-griffon. The griffon was a faded shade of dark blue, tall and indomitable. His large wings were held loosely to his sides, the tips of which dragged along the floor, perhaps acting to balance the large griffon or simply a product of his age. He came to stop near a set of shelves, next to where the bathroom door was. Turning, Feathweight finally got a look at this face. The low light didn’t help him discern anything about him. He recognised the hooked beak. He noticed the griffon’s eye upon him, and he seized up; believing the griffon was looking right at him. Yet, the passive, and unblinking eyeball, made his brow arch. He thought the Griffon was lookin They reminded him of cat’s eyes, giving a slight luminescent milky shine - looking like a miniature moon embedded within the eye socket of his skull.

Featherweight recalled a name the bellhop said the day before. “A-are you, Calvino?” he asked.

“Yes,” he answered, picking up a silver fork before putting it back, continuing to rummage.

“C-can I leave?” Featherweight asked, quietly, shaking on the spot.

“No,” he replied firmly, his voice clear but carrying a heavy accent firmly. His talons meanwhile continued feeling along the shelf before him. “I have need of you. You might be new, but so long as you have an ounce of competency within you, you’ll be far more serviceable than that fool, Dilap,” he bemoaned, tone flat. “ I thought they poured every piece of gold I give them into repairing this hovel. I thought I heard guests. Lots of them. Many young voices, I heard them through the walls – they’re thin here - as did I hear their heavy, clumsy steps. Hooves? Bah! They defile Griffon Stone by merely being here. All of them do. Never actually thought a pony would be stupid enough to bring a clutch of foals onto this island, but clearly I overestimated them. At the very least these beds finally have bodies in them, and it’s someone’s gold other than my own helping keep the place warm. It sounded like they were many. They hire you in anticipation?” he asked at the end of his grumpy ramble, turning to face him, pointlessly.

“U-uh, yeah. I-I’m just a temp...?” he grimaced, hoping the lie was adequate.

“Ah. Probably a younger griffon. You probably aren’t resentful of them as I. Well, I’ve grown tolerant in my old age, so I won’t hold it against you. It is, however, a shame that your employment is only temporary,” he replied, his tone devoid of emotion so the colt was unsure if it was genuine. “It would have been refreshing for a new voice to hear. I’ve been listening to Dilap’s voice for twenty-five years now. Still can’t make out a word he says, but he listens decent enough – I make sure of it...” he continued to talk, still fumbling around the packed shelf. “I keep this place afloat you know. I am its beating heart. As long as I live, so does the Regalia.”

As the griffon felt around, the colt felt his investigative sense stir. He took a quiet step forward, trying not to elicit to sound ‘clumsy’ or ‘heavy.’ “Why?” he asked the griffon.

His talon stopped atop one of his jars, tapping the metallic lid. “Preservation,” he said, simply taking the jar off the shelf.

“It means a lot to you then?” Featherweight asked.

Calvino, who carried the shiny jar close to his chest, trailed over to the bed and sat his rear upon it. “Heavens no,” Calvino scoffed, looking in the colt’s general direction. “I could never care for a place such as this. Its beds are uncomfortable, its doors are too narrow, and I never cared much for the food. No, no...” he trailed off, mumbling. Before Featherweight could inquire further, he unscrewed the jaw with an audible ‘pop,’ beckoning the colt with his other talons. “Come here, I need to give you something.”

Nodding, even if he couldn’t see it, the colt took deliberate and soft steps towards Calvino, until he was standing at the foot of the bed. He waited for a moment, awaiting the old griffon’s command... before he brought a hoof to his face. “I’m right here,” he informed Calvino, sporting an awkward grin.

“Good, good,” he trailed off, his talons reaching into the jar. Featherweight tried then to get a closer look, but he soon found that unnecessary, as the griffon pulled out a fistful of what was held inside. He keeps his bits in jars? Featherweight though with a perplexed expression, watching as some of the bits fell through the gaps in his talons. “Here,” Calvino said, reaching his arm out toward the colt, “take these and buy me some of that fizz from the soda shop down the street. Keep the rest for yourself.”

On that, Calvino opened his clenched fist, allowing the bounty of bits to fall onto the bed. Featherweight’s eyes parted wide. He had never seen so much money just... dropped, so haphazardly. He tried to count. Ten, to twenty, even thirty! But he soon gave up, looking between Calvino and the small pile with a parted jaw and widened eyes. “A-are you sure, t-that’s a lot of-”

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted, audibly tired, popping the lid back onto the bit-filled-jar. “Just make sure to bring back six bottles. I’m parched.”

“Yes, sir!” Featherweight replied, immediately set on scooping up all the bits on the faded green bed cover. Whilst he did, he found his eye wander over to the photo frame he had seen earlier. He saw behind the cracked glass an old sepia photo, and from that particular distance in the dark he could make out the vague shapes of two griffons, quite close together in proximity. He saw a large, heavyset griffon to the left of a more lither and small one. It didn’t take a detective to discern that the larger griffon must have been Calvino. So who was the smaller one? Featherweight parted his lips to ask, but quickly closed his trap. There was something off about Calvino’s expression. He didn’t notice it before, but it must have been present all the while. He couldn’t place his hoof on it, but there was something of a profound sadness within the griffon’s features...

When he piled the small mound of bits up, he was immediately faced with the task of carrying all of them all. He was unsure of how accomplish this task, and began chewing his bottom lip decisively...

“Nice fez,” Pipsqueak complimented with a chortle, turning to face the pegasus, who was both audibly – and visibly – excited, his little wings doing slight flaps.

Featherweight released a falsetto hum of his acknowledgement, reciprocating the earth colt’s grin – albeit weakly – and stood adjacent to him with a jittery frame. “I need you to come back to the room,” he requested, his body rumbling with excitement. “I’ve got something to show you.”

Pipsqueak’s brow raised, his interest piqued. He shrugged, smiling. “Lead the way.”

Featherweight released an exhale upon the colt’s reply, holding his breath in his demure excitement. “Come on then.”

Featherweight went off with Pipsqueak in tow, attracting a few passive eyes from other students but otherwise not arousing too much attention with their obvious skulking. They reached their room rather quickly, the pegasus glancing from side to side to ensure no prying eyes before he made his way in, Pipsqueak’s unsure gaze and humouring smile encouraging him on.

“What is it you wanted to shoooo’my gosh!” Pipsqueak exclaimed with palpable shock at the sight.

“Ta-da,” Featherweight grinned beside the shiny pile, the mound of coins glittering in the more bountiful light of his room; finding enjoyment at the sight of his friend’s bewildered and joyous expression.

“Where did you get so many bits?” Pipsqueak asked, somewhat loudly, still in the throes of disbelief. He marked his question with a few curious steps, coming to stand over the pile near Featherweight.

“After I helped, Dilap, Calvino gave them to me,” he informed.

“Pretty big tip? No wonder that old codger is still working here, he’s probably saved up a pretty hefty retirement fund by now.”

“Eh, it’s not a tip. Not technically,” he replied, earning a brief flicker of disappointment in Pipsqueak’s features. “I have to use some of it to buy soda, apparently. I could have whatever’s left.”

“Well, unless they charge ten bits a bottle, I still see a lot of bits left over,” Pipsqueak reasoned.

“Yeah...” Featherweight nodded. “I’m gonna use my spare satchel to carry some of them,” he told him, before looking with a grimace towards the window. “Shame I have to go out in that.”

“Shame we ‘ave to go out in that,” Pipsqueak corrected, wearing a cheery grin, coming close to wrap a hoof around his friend’s neck. “What kinda of pony would I be if let m’ best friend go out alone in such a storm?”

Pipsqueak was close. He was warm. The fluttering in Featherweight’s gut emerged, as did the quickening of his heartbeat. Amongst the trivial thoughts, of wondering how much soda he’d have to get to satisfy the griffon, when to return the fez and how to bear such torrential rain, there was a distant one; a meagre whisper. One which prompted the teen pegasi’s cheeks to brighten red. Don’t let go. He squirmed free of his friend’s grasp, looking at him with an anxious eye. “H-hey, you don’t have to come.”

“Posh,” Pipsqueak replied, waving his hoof dismissively. “You might need help carryin’ the soda. ‘Sides, I was born ‘ere. I want to see how much its changed since I was little.”

Featherweight felt his lip pull at the corner at the innocuous answer. “Alright. It’s not like I could stop you anyway,” he replied, giving a roll of his shoulders. “Could be fun.”

“Yeah!” Pipsqueak replied, enthused. He then cast an eye to the twinkling golden pile, a slight waver to his smile. “Should I carry all that or should you?”