Rainbow over Trottingham

Featherweight, cautiously, walked up the idle mare. She sat on the floor, back physically pressed against the counter, looking as though she had aged fifty years yet retained all her colour. The enigmatic stallion was nowhere to be seen, and the rest of the students were up to their own devices, chatting and idly sitting, likely waiting for it to all be over.

“Miss Cheerilee?” Featherweight probed, timid.

“Yes, Featherweight?” the mare responded with a veiled glumness, already rubbing her eyes with fatigue despite the clock’s recent strike of noon. As she turned to him, her head tilted somewhat, brow raised. She pointed to his side. “Are you going somewhere?”

“I was actually. With Pipsqueak,” he answered. “You did say were gonna get to explore the place. And you said we could leave the hotel so long as we were back by six o’clock at the latest.”

Cheerilee’s eyes widened a little, astonished. “You really want to go out? In that?” her questions were blatant in their scepticism, the mare’s eyes drawn to the entrance door, fat droplets of rain still falling from darkened skies. “Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh,” he replied, cheeks pulling back into a smile, showing off his slight buck teeth.

She sighed. “Go on then. It’s not like you needed my permission anyway. But thanks for telling me,” she intoned her appreciation, before releasing a tired sigh and standing on her hooves. “He promised a full breakfast. Said, ‘Dilap was on it.’ And then some nonsense about him being a master chef,” she divulged, exasperated.

“Are you okay, Miss Cheerilee?” Featherweight asked. His concern for his teacher was genuine. He didn’t like seeing her frown, it wasn’t natural.

Her cheek tugged back to form a tired half-smile. “I’ll be alright. Just need to lie down for a spell. Clear up my head. Go have fun,” she ended with a fondly toned firmness. “Teacher’s orders.”

“Will do, Miss,” he replied, giving her a warm smile and nod before departing for the entrance, where Pipsqueak stood – wearing Featherweight’s spare, bulging satchel.

“Ready to go?” Pipsqueak asked.

“Yeah,” he answered, before glancing to the bag. “I’m surprised you’re able to carry that.”

“I know, right?” he replied tartly. “Maybe it’s adren’lin. I’ve never carri’d this much money before. It’s kind of exciting.”

“Or maybe you’re just strong?” the compliment, while flowing effortlessly from Featherweight’s mouth, came something as a surprise to him. He thought to respond with a joke, or some other quip, yet the remark on the earth colt’s physique came out on instinct. Did I just say that? he asked himself, trying to prevent the smile he wore from wavering.

Pipsqueak’s face reddened slightly at the compliment, scratching the back of his neck. “W-well, I have been carryin’ a lot of campaign posters recen’ly whilst runnin’ for student council president,” he reasoned with a slight stammer. “Those things can be deceptively ‘eavy. You should know, you’ve helped put a few up.”

“Y-yeah,” Featherweight confirmed, going along with Pipsqueak’s assessment. So long as Pipsqueak was talking, he wasn’t. And he was assuredly fine with that. The silence remained for a few moments, like an unwanted guest, although as far as Featherweight could tell the awkwardness had only chosen him as the primary host to it.

Pipsqueak simply grinned and nodded toward the door, unperturbed. “Shall we?”

Featherweight gave a single, flaccid nod. “Y-yeah...”

The meek pegasus didn’t check to see if anypony watched their leave, only recoiling slightly at the sudden intrusion of rainfall sounding in his ears; the doors providing a surprising level of soundproofing for flimsy looking things. Outside, it barely looked day. The skies so thick with blackened clouds that only daylight squeaked in from the city’s edges, giving precious visibility to those walking the streets. As soon as Featherweight walked out into the downpour, he frowned. It was in his head, but he already felt the rain make him feel physically heavy; soaking into his coat and wings, beginning to mat his mane to the sides of his head. He sighed, expecting the same sort of reaction from Pipsqueak, but he bore witness to something else entirely.

The pinto patterned pony had his head angled upward, mouth open and tongue lolled far out to catch raindrops. It was a… foalish sight. But Featherweight felt his lips curve on reflex, endeared to his friend’s carefree demeanour. It made his heart thump and flutter. Cute... he thought, ironically, without thinking. It wasn’t just his body reacting in weird ways now, but even his own mind had fallen pray to his mysterious ailment. At least this time, it had the decency to remain just a thought. Maybe I should have insisted he stayed, he concluded, gulping.“W-whats it taste like?” he asked casually, trying to distract himself.

Pipsqueak closed his maw, smacking his lips before casting a sideways glance at the colt. “Rain,” he answered, giving a meek grin. “It’s pourin’ down. Which way did you say this place was?”

“Just down the street...” Featherweight answered, trailing off before puckering his lips, a realisation dawning on him. “I… I-I don’t know which one.”

Pipsqueak scoffed, looking out at the roads before them. They went off in three directions. There was occasional stallion or mare walking out under the rain, better equipped then either of them – sporting an umbrella or wide brimmed hat – and looking just as dull as the skies. “Well, I think I would’ve remembered seeing one up the street we came,” he put forth, raising his hoof off down the centre of the two roads, writing an invisible cross in the air with the tip of his hoof. “So… left or right?”

“You want me to decide?” Featherweight replied with an air of surprise, before shaking his head. “Besides, what if I chose the wrong street? Neither of us know the city – not well, anyway. We’ll get lost.”

“You’ve got wings,” Pipsqueak retorted.

“Have you ever flown in a rainstorm?” he asked rhetorically, shaking his head.

“Let’s just wing it then,” Pipsqueak propositioned, oddly cheery. “Just go to the end of the street and back. We don’t have to wander off like a couple of idiots.”

Featherweight sighed, shaking his head with a humouring smile. “Alright then. I just wanna get out of the rain. And quickly,” he replied, before looking between the two streets, settling on one. “Right. Lets go right.”

“Right-ho!” Pipsqueak agreed enthusiastically, taking off with a light canter.

“Right behind you,” Featherweight followed, trying to match the colt’s chipper pace. Whilst he followed behind, his eyes were naturally drawn to Pipsqueak. Not just in his peripherals, like the passive eye one would throw to somepony who they were accompanying. Featherweight, somewhat consciously, began to linger his oculars upon the colt. A few moments after he caught himself, forcibly tearing his eyes away with warm cheeks; trying to ignore the flapping sensation in his gut…

This was a terrible idea.

“Is this it?” Pipsqueak asked, coming to a sudden halt, the bag of bits jostling.

“Maybe?” was Featherweight’s reply, coming to stop next to Pipsqueak’s side – consciously maintaining a distance.

They stood before a rather quiet building. Like much of the architecture, it was attached to the buildings on either side of it – both of them businesses as well. The windows were tinted black, giving something of a secretive or elusive aura to the place. Glancing above the door, there was no name, just two letters with red outlines and gold filling. D and B, Featherweight read them in his head, which filled him with a journalistic curiosity that enticed his hoof forward.

“Woah, hey,” Pipsqueak’s words accompanied the outstretching of his hoof. “What are you doin’?”

“I’m going to look inside? If it’s not the place we go back,” Featherweight explained. “No harm in that, is there?”

“Eh?” Pipsqueak replied, unsure. “Looks kinda shady, don’t it?”

“I don’t think ‘shady’ is the right word. I’d say… subdued,” Featherweight remarked, half-smiling. “C’mon lets see what its like.”

Pipsqueak sighed, letting his hoof fall. “Sure. Just, uh… watch your back,” he advised with an uncertain grin, patting the pegasus on the haunches assuredly before striding forwards toward the closed door of the nondescript store.

Nodding, Featherweight walked alongside Pipsqueak, eyes dead set upon the door. His head become overactive, soon regarding it as foreboding rather than plain. A simple push was all that was needed, a little bell chimed from above upon their entry. Featherweight recoiled at the sudden smell that filled his nostrils. Fruit, flowers… caramel… is that root beer? Sarsaparilla? Featherweight was more so confused by the concoction than outright disgusted. Glancing to Pipsqueak he saw his bottom lip curl, nodding his head in quiet approving. The inside of the abode was didn’t really match the outside aesthetic.

Featherweight, almost, in a way, was disappointed.

The floor was black and white tile. The walls were covered in a freshly pasted wallpaper – the pattern not particularly memorable, just a mishmash of daffodils and sunflowers. There was a single table and two chairs placed in the middle, despite there being plenty of room for a few more. Naturally, Featherweight’s eyes were drawn to the back, where there was a display and adjoined counter. The display case was empty, devoid of any goods or items for sale. A mare was at the counter, resting her head upon her hoof with a bored expression.

Despite the unflattering look she wore, Featherweight couldn’t deny the fact she was beautiful – almost suspiciously so. If one could find suspicion at the fact such an attractive looking mare was in such a drab place. Her coat was a deep rich brown – almost caramel - her mane was a medallion hue of yellow, styled in myriad braids and knots. Her eyes were a deep crimson; devoid of any energy or ambition. When the duo began to walk towards her, there was a raise of the brow, but other than that she yielded no visible reaction to their presence.

“She’s kind of creepy,” Pipsqueak remarked in mutter to Featherweight. “Pretty though.”

When the two reached the counter, Featherweight took a slight step forward. Her continued non-reaction unnerved him,. “H-hello?” Featherweight greeted, her still making him unsure he’d even get a reply back.

“Hey...” she replied, almost surprising the colt. She kept her head on her hoof, punctuating her utter disinterest.

Featherweight shared a momentary look with Pipsqueak. He shrugged. “Do you sell soda here?” he asked her, almost unsure in his tone. Her expression remained blank. “For Calvino? The weir- the griffon who lives at the Regalia. Down the street?”

She, at first, did nothing. Just stared at Featherweight. A moment passed, and suddenly, she inhaled a long breath – as is starved for air. She held it in for a moment, until she made a long exhale, bordering on a sigh. “Yeah, yeah. Give me a moment,” she drawled, leaving the counter and turning without a second glance. Pipsqueak and Featherweight went onto the tips of their hooves, looking over the counter to see where she was going. As they watched her leave, Featherweight glanced at the mark on her rear: a flowering dandelion.

“Where is she going?” Pipsqueak asked.

All Featherweight could do is shrug.”Maybe she has some soda in back?”

They watched as she disappeared behind a corner. A few a minute passed, and the mare’s continued silence combined with her lack of a reappearance wasn’t exactly reassuring. “Why is she taking so long? Did she go out the back door or something?”

“That’s not very good customer service...” Featherweight remarked with a frown.

*click*

“Huh?” the colts said in unison, their sights shooting to the source of the noise.

By the door, with their back to them, was the mare from before. Or, at least, it looked like her. Her mane was tied into an assortment of pigtails, her coat didn’t possess the same amount of sheen, and curiously - when she turned to face the pair - Featherweight spotted her cutie mark. An odd looking flower he recognised as burdock. Jutting out from her head was a horn - if there existed the idea that this mare was just the other in disguise, it was just a distant forgotten thought by now. Upon her face were a pair of glasses, with blue frames and shoddily repaired in the middle with a piece of white tape; her large, almost creepy smile revealed her braces.

“Uh, hey?” Pipsqueak greeted her with a wary tone, shooting Featherweight a slight grimace.

“Customers!” she squealed, her voice betraying a lisp, as her horn became imbued with a shimmering red aura as she began taking steps towards the two.

Featherweight leaned slightly to his right, at the door. “D-did you lock us i-” The colt was interrupted by suddenly being held aloft in the air - dangling by one of his hind legs, his wings flapping uselessly as he gently rocked back and forth. “H-hey!”

“Get off ‘im!” Pipsqueak commanded before recklessly charging at her, before he too found his hooves no longer touching the floor - held aloft by his tail. The bulging satchel on his side poured out the entirety of its contents onto the floor, bits rolling on all directions; the majority clinking against the floor.

“It’s been so long since we’ve had actual customers,” the mare continued, seemingly ignoring the vast sum of wealth on the floor; giddily hopping towards the counter. The two colts, now held firmly within her shimmering red grasp, were moved over to the singular table and chairs. “I can’t wait to show you our selection,” she said in an overly jovial voice, but the ominous air that surrounded it was still very much prevalent - not at all aided by the fact she had them trapped in her magical grasp. “Just take a seat and I’ll be with you momentarily!” she informed, the two colts vaulted in the air - free of her magic momentarily - before she grabbed them again, forcibly sitting them in each chair. “Whoopsie daisy!”

Featherweight’s fore hooves were held together via magic behind the backrest of the seat. He found trying to force them apart a tiring endeavour, if not impossible to begin with. He very quickly resigned himself to whatever was held in store for them, but he couldn’t say the same for Pipsqueak.

“What are you doing, crazy lady!” Pipsqueak insulted, definitely trying to free himself from the red bonds around his hooves. “Let us go. N-now!” he, again, tried to order her with a firm and intimidating tone. However, being either the blame of puberty, or fear, it cracked like a worn vinyl record.

“Pipsqueak…” Featherweight murmured at the colt, shooting him a firm glare; trying to reign the colt in.

“I’ve got a wonderful selection for you!” she exclaimed from the otherside of the counter, her horn still shimmering. “Just wait right there,” she, rather pointlessly, requested, before disappearing under the counter.

“What is she gonna do to us? Dammit. No wonder my parents moved. Everypony in this city is insane!” Pipsqueak griped, kicking his hooves in frustration. “Sorry.”

“For what?” Featherweight asked, staring at him incredulously.

“I don’t know. I just feel like I should be,” he said rather vaguely, frowning.

Before Featherweight could retort, a large white bowl was slammed upon the table between them. “Ta-da!” the mare exclaimed enthusiastically.

Featherweight looked at the bowl on reflex; his top lip receding and his muzzle wrinkling at the sight. To him it looked like a bowl of black mush, with a pointless inclusion of a cherry on top. An attempt to force out some degree of appetite, but failing completely. “W-what is that?”

“Looks gross,” Pipsqueak commented, unabashed, still rebellious tone.

“Aww, c’mon guys. You won’t know until you tried it. It’s like my sister says: ‘Burdock, you’re beautiful on the inside,’” she ended on a flatter cadance, imitating her sibling. On finishing, she picked up a stainless steel spoon from the bowl, scooping up a spoonful of the black goop, presenting it to Featherweight whilst some of it dripped onto the table. “Open wide. Blaaaah,” she lolled out her tongue, an infantile gesture.

Featherweight pursed his lips tight and skewed his head away, shaking his head in adamant refusal. At that, she released a sigh, before the colt felt a pressure be applied to his jaw and cheeks, forcing his mouth apart before the utensil was shoved in into his gob and forced shut around it. Immediately, his taste buds were figuratively attacked by the unpleasant taste. Tart, bitter, a combination of unvapoured cough syrup and milk. Whatsmore, his mouth was kept forcibly closed, so he had no choice but to swallow the foul substance. When he did, she finally released the grip around his muzzle, allowing him to vocalise his disgust.

“Bleh!” he spat with a grimace, parting his mouth.

“Hmm? So I’m reading a soft three to a hard four on that one. Alright, gotcha. Probably too much melon,” she replied to his disgust, with what he perceived as nonsense, before looking pensively at the black mushy mess.

“What did you give him? Was it poison?” Pipsqueak inquired, visibly angry, casting glances between Burdock and Featherweight; looking worried for the latter.

“No you silly billy!” she replied, careless of the young colt’s anger, lifting the bowl up with an expression of exaggerated pride. “It’s ice cream!”

“Ice cream!?” Featherweight exclaimed, brows furrowed in a mixture of disbelief and ire. “It’s lukewarm, for one! And mushy!”

“Well, it has been under the counter for a few days. Dandelion always tells me to stick to soda, but I like to branch out, ya know?” she told them with undeserved level of confidence, leaning on the table. “Soda’s good and all. Fizzy, poppy, tasty. All that jazz. But you’d be surprised at how few folks like the taste of fermented dandelions and burdocks. Not everypony is like you or I.”

“Yeah…” Featherweight confirmed slowly, sharing a look of incredulity with Pipsqueak. “Can we just some soda and leave?”

Burdock eyed the pegasus with a raised brow, before releasing a giggle. “Of course not! I have some more things for you to try. I can see the ice cream is a bust - have to work some more on the correct recipe,” she spoke in aside, before glancing to Pipsqueak, “and then after I can send both of you on your merry way - ways,” she ended innocently, before making her back to the counter. “I won’t be a few minutes!” she reassured, not that it put Featherweight - and he guessed - Pipsqueak at any ease.

While she disappeared under the counter, Featherweight looked to Pipsqueak, wearing a frown. “I’m the one who needs to say sorry. I was the one who insisted we come in here anyway.”

“You’re right,” Pipsqueak affirmed, making Featherweight wince, although he only felt confusion when the colt began to laugh.

“W-what?”

“I thought she was gonna kill us,” he replied, still chortling.

“She’s still got us trapped,” Featherweight pointed out, brow raised.

“Yeah, but she’s crazy,” Pipsqueak said, and Featherweight could not perceive how that was supposed to reassure him. “I mean, all she wants to do is force feed us some bad… whatever this stuff is. It’s certainly better than dying.”

“Huh, yeah,” Featherweight concurred. He’d hate to die. “There’s still the chance that whatever she gives us might kill us - poisoned, unintentionally or otherwise. Either that, or she has a psychotic break and tries to then.”

“Not exactly helping keep me calm, Featherweight,” “If she did, I’d stop her before she could hurt you,” Pipsqueak said, rather confidently, but gentle in tone. “You’re my friend, right? I’d protect you.”

“Erm...” Featherweight responded, gormless. Even in a situation in which he could potentially meet his end at the hooves of a crazy pop maker, the feeling that had burrowed into his gut returned upon Pipsqueak’s resolute remarks, making him blush. Even though the earth pony colt was bound, no chance of escape, Featherweight felt genuinely safer in his presence. The colt smiled. “Hey, I-”

SLAM

The colts flinched, eyeing an aura covered glass with two bendy straws, throwing surprised eyes to Burdock. “Messieurs, le smoothie,” she said in a faux Prench accent, bringing a hoof to her lips and kissing it before she tossed it away. “Bon appétit.”

“Uh, what is it?” Pipsqueak asked, looking at it.

Featherweight, too, was confused by what exactly he was looking at. It looked like some sort of goopy syrup, with visible blackened chunks within. He looked at Burdock with an unsure gaze. “Is this… a smoothie?”

“Yes! I made it myself,” she bragged.

“I think we guessed that,” Pipsqueak replied, sighing with a grimace.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked, forcing each straw to their lips. “Dig in! And don’t think you’ll get any closer to leaving here if you don’t drink. Every.Single. Drop,” she said with a sudden firmness, eyeing both with a wild smile.

With a crease between his brows, Featherweight took the straw past his lips. He formed a seal around it, seeing Burdock nod in approval, her smile as disconcerting as ever. Her eyes bore into him, and he looked ahead, trying to forget her; only to filled with equally troubling sight. Pipsqueak’s eyes were a rich shade of deep reddish brown, the sort of fine colour he’d expect to see on a prolific artist’s palette. He became lost in them, even as the pinto colt’s face contorted into an expression of disgust as he slurped down the disgusting concoction.

Featherweight barely tasted a thing.

After a while, Pipsqueak released his mouth from around the straw, smacking his lips together with a grimace. “Gross,” he remarked simply, giving Burdock a look with squinted eyes; his lips downturned in frown.

“Aww, that’s too bad,” Burdock said, disappointed, before directing her sights at Featherweight. “It looks like your friend enjoyed it though!”

“Huh? Featherweight?” Pipsqueak probed, arching an eyebrow. “There’s none left. You can stop sucking now.”

Featherweight blinked, before his eyes widened as he pulled away from the straw, giving a shy smile. “Y-yeah. Sorry, my bad.”

Pipsqueak tilted his head slightly. “Uh… are you okay? You’re not allergic to anything are you? You’ve been acting a bit stran-”

“Hee!” Burdock squealed, triumphant, hoping her forehooves upon the table - the glass falling over. “You liked it? You liked it? You liked it right? Tell me you liked it?” she gushed, looking Featherweight squarely in the eye with a large toothy smile.

“Uh…” Featherweight began, nervous, finding her far too close for comfort. In truth, he barely registered the bitter taste on his tongue. “Yeah, it was g-great. Nice job…” he forced a smile.

“Yes!” she squealed - so high, in fact, both colts flinched - before she began to hop around the pair of them like a rabbit on a sugar rush. “Yes, yes, yes, yes!” she cheered, both the colts pulling their cheeks back in awkward half-smiles. She eventually stopped, panting. “I-I’ll get more. I have so many different recipes for you to try!”

“Burdock!” a mare’s voice boomed from behind the counter.

Burdock jumped, startled before she threw her eyes to the counter. “D-Dandelion?” Burdock exclaimed in surprise, before she resumed her normal expression of joviality.

“Help us!” Pipsqueak pleaded. “This mare is crazy!”

“She’s not crazy!” Dandelion chastised. As she came into view, Featherweight saw she was balancing a six-pack of sodas on her back, each of them clicking with every step she took. He saw an expression of woe and exasperation on her face, giving Featherweight a worried glance before looking back to Burdock. “Let them go, sis.”

“Aww,” the mare said, the magic that had enveloped her horn dissipated, releasing both colts their magic cuffs.

“Ah,” both colts sighed with relief, rubbing their sore fetlocks.

“Put the bits back into his satchel, Burdock,” Dandelion ordered, in a tone that was reminiscent of a parent scolding their foal.

“Okay…” she acquiesced, her horn sparkled with light as she scooped up the pile - even picking up individual coins that had rolled to the edges of the room. Featherweight wasn’t a unicorn, nor had a deep understanding of magic, but the passiveness and ease she was able pick up every individual piece seemed something only a unicorn with great finesse was able to undertake. Pipsqueak rattled in place when the full weight of the collective sum was dropped into the satchel, Burdock clipping the bag closed.

“Now apologise.”

At that, Burdock looked between the two, a crease formed between her brows. She then gave her sister a passive expression, head tilted. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked, clueless.

“You… you made them sad,” Dandelion answered.

“How?” she asked.

Featherweight shared a sad frown with Pipsqueak as Dandelion grimaced. “Just… just apologise, Burdock,” she requested, gently.

Burdock blinked, before looking between the two colts, brows furrowed. “I’m sorry.”

Dandelion gave a heavy breath. She craned her neck to grab the pack off her back, before placing it upon the table before Featherweight. “Here. Your soda,” she said, flat.

“We can pay-”

She waved her hoof dismissively, shaking her head. “No, no. Just take it,” she insisted, before looking to her sister. “Do you want to go restock the fridge, Burdock?”

Burdock smiled. “Anything for you, sis,” she complied, happy, cantering away.

Featherweight shared a sympathetic look with Dandelion after her sibling departed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m sorry I called her crazy,” Pipsqueak offered, hopping down from the seat. “She’s not… all there, is she?”

The mare retained her stoicism, looking between the two colts, sighing. “Is there anything else I can get for you, gentlecolts?”

“Er… no?” Featherweight replied.

“Then show yourselves out,” she stated bluntly, looking between the two. Even if she tried to keep her face blank, Featherweight perceived an air of sadness about her.

He gripped the handle of the pack with his teeth, jumping down from the chair, and followed Pipsqueak out, back under the blanketing rain.

He felt impotent.

The incident had left the colt’s head empty right up until he was outside the griffon’s door once more, Pipsqueak besides him.

“Are you okay?” Pipsqueak asked, concerned.

“Yeah, it’s just, at the end there, things got kinda… heavy,” Featherweight replied, his answer reminding him of the weight on his back.

“It wasn’t great,” Pipsqueak concurred. “Is there anything I can do?”

Featherweight released a heavy sigh. “No. At least I don’t think. I just hope Calvino appreciates the soda,” he said, nudging his shoulder against the six pack, “and all his bits being returned to him.”

Pipsqueak scrunched up his face, looking at the satchel - now being worn by Featherweight. “Are you sure we can’t take a few off the top? I mean, he wouldn’t know, would he?”

Featherweight half-smiled, looking at the colt coyly. “He said we could have whatever was left from the soda we bought. We didn’t technically buy any soda, so...”

Pipsqueak rolled his eyes. “Tch, fine,” he tutted, before releasing a smirk.

“I’m sure if you ever became a career politician you could happily ‘take a few off the top,’ whenever you want,” Featherweight jested with a chuckle.

“Ha!” Pipsqueak scoffed. “You’re a better colt than me. Hopefully you’ll be there in the future to reign me in, eh?”

Future. The word reverberated in his skull. Pipsqueak saw him in his future, and that elated him, but much like rain sodden wings, he didn’t find it uplifting. He should’ve been happy at the prospect of being the colt’s friend, even far into the future. Perhaps a part of him wanted to end the friendship, but detested the idea of never seeing him again... This was all beginning to get annoying. “Ugh…” the colt grumbled to himself.

“Huh? Somethin’ the matter?” Pipsqueak asked, taking a concerned step towards the colt.

“Uh, no, I just…” his sentence fell off as he took a reactive step away, forcing a grin. “I just remembered how unpleasant it was in his apartment. I don’t like the prospect of going back in there again.”

“I could come in if you want? Keep you company,” he offered.

As much as Featherweight loathed the idea of turning him down, he shook his head. “He’s blind, and hates ponies. You being in there when he wasn’t expecting you would… complicate things. To say the least,” he explained.

Pipsqueak gave a disappointed sigh. “Okay, okay. I’ll be waiting in our room,” he told him, pivoting away from the pegasus; flashing him a smile as he walked away. “Be quick, eh?”

“Sure,” Featherweight smiled, watching his friend leave.

Sighing, Featherweight straightened his posture. He gave the door a few firm knocks, before putting his hoof back on the floor. This time, he remained stock still, not wanting to repeat the same mistake as last time. After a few minutes of waiting, and audible bangs on the other side of the door, it was slammed open - the griffon’s decrepit form hanging over him, his milky eyes looking around pointlessly, his talons reaching out. Before Featherweight could speak up, the griffon’s digits landed atop his head. “Who’er you?”

Shoot. He forgot the fez. “I-it’s me. I got those sodas you ordered,” he revealed, giving the slender cat a timid grin.

“Ah…” he nodded, before turning around, his hands feeling against the walls. “Come in, come in.”

“R-right,” Featherweight complied, keeping his steps light as to not produce clops.

“Close the door,” Calvino commanded, his voice husky, dry.

“Alright…?” Featherweight acquiesced, if only on the merit that Calvino didn’t seem to have harmful intentions towards him. A few more steps him, and the colt removed the soda from his back and the satchel from his side - both audible and obvious.

“What’s that? Coin? I said you could keep the rest,” he chastised, kicking a discarded bottle out of the way of his pathing, sitting upon the bed with a wheeze.

“They were free.”

“Free!” the griffon exclaimed, growling, before descending into a coughing fit.

“Are you okay?” Featherweight took a step forwards, concern in his voice.

Calvino waved in his direction dismissively. “Yes, yes. Just pass me one of those glasses already,” he requested, gesturing a come hither motion with his hand.

“Oh, right away!” Featherweight was quick to comply, picking up one of them out of the pack - the glass wet with rainwater and condensation, cold between his hooves. “Here,” he said, holding it out towards the blind griffon, “it’s right here.”

Calvino snatched it from out the colt’s grip, making him flinch. He brought the top of the glass to his beak, prying off the cap effortlessly and spitting it out uncouthly onto the floor. Next, Featherweight watched with widened eyes as the griffon threw his head back and allowed the entire bottle to pour effortlessly unto his gullet, the dark caramel liquid disappearing into his beaked maw. After it was empty, the griffon released a belch - at which Featherweight grimaced in disgust - before allowing the bottle to roll out of his fingers and fall onto the floor; rolling away from the bed to join the rest. “Ah…” Calvino sighed, satisfied, breathing. “Soothes my throat. The rest are by the door, yes?”

“Yes…” Featherweight replied, looking by the door, the five remaining bottles resting in their pack.

“Good…” Calvion affirmed, breathing, before gesturing toward the door. “You can go now.”

“Oh, right,” Featherweight nodded, turning his back on the griffon. However, as he did, something began to gnaw at him. He glanced back behind him, to the faded picture. He had been curious about it, and by extension, the enigmatic Calviono, ever since he saw it. It’s why, mid step, he turned back to the griffon, unsure in his standing. “Um, Calvino,” he verbally prod, earning the griffon’s white eye.

“Yes? What? What do you want?” he grunted.

If he was going to inquire about something personal, he’d need to earn a degree of trust from Calvino. He had an idea about how to earn it, but he felt apprehensive about doing it. “I... “ he began, nervous. “I… I’m a pony,” he revealed. “My… my name is Featherweight.”

Calvino aimed his white eyes at the colt, wearing a blank expression. The colt didn’t know what to expect from the griffon. Perhaps a biting remark of some sort, a lion-like roar of anger. He waited with bated breath, flinching… and then the griffon began to laugh. “Haha, ha, ha, haha,” his grumbly laugh was sporadic, his taloned hand going to his belly as it burst, a tear leaking from one of his eyes. “Do you think I am an idiot?” he asked, wiping away one of the salty drops.

“...What?” Featherweight asked, confused and perplexed by the griffon’s reaction.

“I grabbed you by the tail. I heard your steps outside my door. I even heard your voice the night before,” he explained, smirking. “That’s not mentioning those pidly wings of yours.

Featherweight scrunched his brows for a second, before resuming his look of confusion. “So... you don’t hate ponies?” he asked, hopeful.

“Oh, I hate your kind with a passion, but like I said, I’ve grown soft in my old age,” Calvino responded with a casual shrug.

“Ah,” Featherweight replied with a nervous chuckle, before his brows raised. “Wait, does that mean-”

“Yes, I know that fool Dilap still believes I think he’s a griffon,” he interrupted. “He keeps quiet enough, keeps his distance. But never have I, in all my years alive, heard a griffon that spoke in his putrid accent.”

“Okay?” Featherweight said, still confused by something. “Wait, if you knew I was a pony from the very start, why did you go on the whole spiel about hating ponies?”

“Spiel?” the griffon scoffed. “I told no glibs. I simply thought it’d get you out of my feathers as soon as you returned. But evidently, you’re a lot more brave than I initially perceived, young Featherweight,” he complimented, audibly reluctant in doing so; his talons going to his beak, rolling it on the tip of the bill. “My beak has blunted with age. Tch. The shame of it,” he commented, before directing his sights in the colt’s general direction once more. “You have a reason for staying. Tell me. I prefer my privacy.”

“O-oh, well, I…” Featherweight stammered. He wondered how to articulate the question, glancing to the photograph by Calvino’s bedside.

“Spit it out already,” Calvino carped, impatient.

“By your bed. The photograph-”

Calvino suddenly rose from the bed, wearing a scowl. He must have got disorientated as he did, looking around aimlessly. “Why? Have you been looking at it?” Calvino demanded as answer as he balanced against one of the walls, voice quivering with anger. Even in his sickly state, he still looked intimidating to the comparatively smaller pegasus.

“No, I just glanced it at most,” Featherweight recoil as he answered, his voice threatening to waver with fear. “I just thought… I just thought you looked sad, and… and...” he trailed off, shrinking in place, the griffon’s shadow over him.

The griffon stayed standing for a while, before he fell back onto the bed, a talon lightly clutching at his chest. He grumbled, before exhaling. The room was silent thereafter, Featherweight feeling too nervous to shatter it. After a while, the griffon reached behind him, his talons fumbling around on the nightstand until he gripped the edge of the frame. Featherweight saw the delicacy in which he handled it, deliberately securing a greater grip on it before it was lifted from the table, bringing it to near his chest. He couldn’t see what was upon it, but he rubbed his thumb over the glass, sighing. “Come here,” he patted the bed, speaking softly.

“Sure,” Featherweight complied, the griffon’s sudden shift in demeanor left him wary, but he still hopped onto the bed regardless - the mattress feeling lumpy and uncomfortable, even through the blankets. “I’m here,” he informed Calvino.

“Tell me, what do you see?” Calvino asked.

Featherweight felt a lot of weight hang upon the question. He looked from the griffon’s empty eyes, to the photograph that was presented to him. “I see you,” he told him, looking at the familiar figure in the picture. The photo was a sepia brown, so could not see original colours of Calvino’s feathers, but the griffon was dressed in some sort of finery - top hat, suit jacket, even wearing a monocle and pocket watch - but most striking thing about the picture, was that he wasn’t alone in it. “I see a lady,” he told him, “a griffoness. You’ve got an arm around her.”

“Yes...” his voice quivered, a breath escaping from the blind griffon’s lungs. “What else. Describe her,” Calvino requested, leaning in closer to the colt.

“Um, she’s wearing a dress. It looks pretty. Frilly... she has a stripe across the width of her beak. And she’s wearing a hat,” he told him bits and pieces of what he saw as it came into his head. “She’s holding the arm you’ve got around her. And she’s… she’s smiling.”

The griffon released a breathless chuckle, seemingly on the verge of a sob. “I can’t look upon her anymore, but I can still see her.”

“Matilda,” the name was uttered softly, as if was being presented to the colt on a fine pillow, it was said with such an understated amount of love that Featherweight could barely process it. “My wife. She passed away here, in this damnable city.”

“I’m sorry,” Featherweight consoled, frowning.

“Your condolences are thirty years too late. But… but you have my thanks,” he nodded, bringing the photo to his chest, holding it tight.

“You’ve been here for that long? If you hated this place so much, why did you never leave? Go home?” he asked, trying not to provoke offence, his voice filled with a genuine curiosity.

“When she died here, I knew that I was never going to see home again. Home no longer existed. Not while she wasn’t there,” he said somberly, sniffing. “And she won’t be anywhere. Not anymore...”

“The hotel? You said the hotel would remain, so long as your heart kept beating? Why?” the question carried with it much curiosity, the colt couldn’t help but lean in eager to listen.

The griffon blinked, although his expression betrayed no pensiveness. He kept his eyes on nothing. “It was funny. I hate ponies. I loathe everything about them. Their cities. Their food. Their stink,” he finished, directing his eyes pointlessly at the colt, before aiming them forwards again. “But Matilda. My Matilda. She loved everything,” he gave a chuckle, his cheek tugging a little, betraying the glimmer of a nostalgic smile. “You was fascinated by your kind. But she loved this city most of all. And this hotel. This relic, this... destitute hovel. Admittedly, it wasn’t always like this. But such refined lodgings fell out of favour. When? I couldn’t say. They gradually got replaced, all of them one by one. But this hotel? I kept it alive. I keep it alive for her…”

“You must have loved her a lot,” Featherweight remarked, feeling admiration for the griffon.

“I still love her, young Featherweight,” he replied, his milken eyes pointed at him, as if you punctuate his point. “I still feel it. Here,” he marked his sentence by clutching his chest. “In my heart. I get pains everyday. Everyday I don’t hear her voice. Everyday I don’t feel her body against my own. I long for her, everyday. I sometimes sob to sleep, and wish for death, just to look upon her again in the flesh.”

“It sounds almost like a curse,” the young colt commented, feeling a tad uncomfortable, familiar with some of the things he described. “Like, something you’d want to get rid off.”

The griffon, for the first time, smiled. “That’s where you’re wrong. It is a blessing. It’s the greatest feeling in the world. It lets me know I am still alive. I would never get rid of the pains, or my sorrow. Not even for my sight back...” he paused, his eyes going to the floor, a wistful expression on his face. “It lets me know my love was real. That it meant something. Love shared is the most precious feeling the world has to offer us, and should be kept close, and never loosened. As long as I feel this, I know that she feels it too, and that she awaits me, someplace.”

When the griffon finished, Featherweight aimed his eyes at the floor, his mind in a state of reflection. The symptoms of his illness. The queasiness, the pains. All triggering whenever he came into the presence of a particular colt. Could that be it, truly? He couldn’t. Not for another colt, surely? But if he then had to ask himself why he tugged so vehemently towards refusal. What kept him from acceptance? He turned a slight eye towards Calvino, timid. “I… I think I’m in love,” he revealed, swallowing.

It felt almost liberating.

Calvino chuckled through his nostrils. “So the young colt is in love, eh? You feel it too? In your chest?”

“Yes, but-”

“But what?” Calvino cut him off with the curt question, his brows furrowed.

“I… I think I’m scared,” Featherweight answered, truthfully.

“Bah!” the griffon scoffed, waving dismissively. “Let your fear borrow those little wings of yours and let it fly off. You don’t need such a foolish feeling at your side.”

“Fear? I-I’d say it’s quite useful. It stops you from making stupid and risky decisions,” he tried to rationalise, articulating with the pointing of his hoof.

“You are an idiot,” Calvino stated rather blunty, rubbing his hand down his face. “Good grief. You ponies are all the same. Always fumbling and unsure of everything.”

“H-hey, at least I admitted I love someone,” the colt retorted.

“Yes, but how long did you put that off for? If you keep acting like a pony, you’ll never admit your true feelings to the one you love,” the griffon chastised, poking the pony playfully in his cheek.

“Fine!” the colt exclaimed, standing on the bed. “I’ll right there, right now and admit-”

“Woah, woah, calm down young buck,” Calvino avised, forcing the colt to sit again with his free hand. “You have to choose the right moment. It’s no good to plant a garden in autumn, when you best wait for spring.”

“Then… then when do I tell them?” the colt needed an answer, regarding the griffon as a wise sage.

Calvino smiled. “Ah,” he began, his beak cracking into a nostalgic smile. “When I declared my love for Matilda, it was beautiful. When we were high upon the sky, we fell onto a cloud together after a bout of laughing. It was then, when the sun was at its zenith - the stars of dusk twinkling overhead - I told her that I loved her. Oh, I remember it clearly. We kissed, and then our cloaca-”

“What’s a cloaca?” Featherweight asked, naively.

“Oh, uh, um…” the griffon’s voice became that of audible panic, pointing his eyes sporadically around as he stammered. This confused Featherweight for two reasons.

“What?”

“You can leave now,” the griffon shooed, lightly nudging the colt.

“But-”

“If you leave, you can take that satchel of bits with you,” Calvino encouraged.

“Oh, uh… okay?” the colt agreed with a slight scoff, hopping down from the bed. He trailed to the otherside of the room, throwing the strap of the bag over his head, looking back to the aged griffon. “Thanks for the advice, sir.”

Calvino let out a sparse laugh. “No problem. But remember. Pick the right moment, when love is most potent. That’s when you declare for her.”

As the griffon spoke, Featherweight opened the door, glancing back to him as he left. “It’s a colt, actually.”

“Wha-”

Slam!

I love you...

I love you!

I… love… you?

Iloveyou!

The words played over and over in his head. The mantra of his feelings. He imagined himself saying them in a variety of different ways, none sounding right. Admittedly, he had no clue how to do it correctly anyway… maybe Calvino would let him practice with him?

“Miss Cheerilee?”

The tone of worry that came across in the voice down the hall took Featherweight out from his thoughts. Outside a door there was a small gathering of students, whispering amongst each other, eyes on the door to the teacher’s room. Featherweight felt a compulsion to go investigate, even if a part of him was tethered to Pipsqueak – even if he had no clue on how he’d act around him now, knowing now of what ailed him. It’d also be inconsiderate of him to simply pass by without some manner of looking into it. He approached the small crowd apprehensively, only earning a few cursory glances before those same eyes fixed onto the door again.

“What happened?” he asked, earning the disinterested eye of Silver Spoon.

“Miss Cheerilee ran from the lobby crying about twenty minutes ago. She’s been locked in her room ever since” she informed, frowning.

Featherweight now wore a similar expression of concern, eyeing the door with pursed lips. “Has she said anything? Opened the door for anypony?” he asked.

“No. We’ve been trying to get to come out but nothing so far,” she replied. “It’s kinda scary.”

Featherweight felt worried. He tried to think quickly of what to do. He doubted his voice alone would prompt her to open up, and from how this establishment was ran, he doubted he’d be able to procure a second key. Not that forcing himself and the rest of the class into the room was likely to solve things. He contemplated, pensively combing over everything, until his eyes widened, an idea made fruition in his head. He squeezed past the small crowd to get to his room, his pace hurried.

“Hey, how was-”

“One minute!” he interrupted his friend, momentarily forgetting his feelings; closing the door behind him. He dropped the bag beside him on the floor, the bulging piece of apparel earning Pipsqueak’s full attention – the colt leaping from the bed.

“Wait a minute. Is that-”

“One minute,” Featherweight, again, interrupted, going to the half-open closed closet.

“Why are you getting into the closet?” Pipsqueak asked.

“I’ve already come out of it...” Featherweight muttered drily under his breath, looking back at his friend. “I just need to test something.”

“Okay...?” Pipsqueak responded with uncertainty, sitting down.

Now that there was quiet from his friend, Featherweight pressed his ear against the wall. His sense of hearing piqued for any kind of sound. A minute passed, and it may have been a trick of the mind, but he thought he heard a muffled sob. “M-Miss Cheerilee?” Featherweight called softly at the wall, tapping his hoof against it, trying to get his teacher’s attention. A minute passed, and then two. The sobbing had stopped, but silence reigned thereafter.

“Featherweight…?” he heard a muffled voice call back through the wall. The sudden voice startled the colt a little, but his lip twitched with an accomplished smile.

“It’s me, Miss Cheerilee,” he confirmed, speaking gently yet loud enough to be heard through the thin wall.

“I can hear you...” she remarked.

“Yeah, I know,” he replied, “the walls are thin.”

At this, the mare groaned, the colt startled by a sudden bang against the wall – a slight depression appearing on the wall. “Uh, are you leaning against the wall?” he asked.

The wall smoothed out again, followed by a loud sigh from his teacher. “No...”

“Uh...” Featherweight wasn’t convinced, but she nor he was in any state to be called out on it. Featherweight glanced to Pipsqueak, who was watching earnestly. “Are you… okay, Miss?” he asked, directing it towards the wall, concerned.

There was a period of silence after the question was asked. Featherweight simply waited for reply, not drawing his eyes from the wall; even as Pipsqueak sat next to him, waiting. “I’m fine, really,” she replied with a pathetic forced tone of sincerity. He couldn’t see her, but he was sure she was nodding and smiling on the other side. “You don’t have to worry about me, Featherweight.”

“I don’t have to, but I want to,” he retorted, a crease forming between his brows.

He could hear her sigh on the other side. “Featherweight… you’re old enough by now to understand that when somepony makes a mistake it doesn’t feel… good. It feels like your heart is in a vice,” she paused to sigh. “And each mistake I made just made it tighter. I can’t imagine how much you all hate me-”

“What?” Featherweight interrupted, “We don’t hate you. We could never hate you. I mean, sometimes, I get annoyed by surprise homework or pop quiz, but I’m sure everypony gets annoyed by stuff… except maybe Sweetie Belle,” he said as an aside, before resuming his sights on the wall. “It’s not your fault , Miss. You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have. I didn’t know but I should’ve. This is your last year with me, and this’ll be what you remember. The terrible hotel, your missing belonging and the stupid rain!” she countered. She spoke in a voice that was foreign to Featherweight. It almost made him recoil. It wasn’t the voice of a teacher to her student. It was that of a mare, tired and upset with life at the moment.

It was enough to threaten the welling of tears from his eyes.

“What are you talking about!” he exclaimed, cross. “A couple bad nights isn’t almost enough to erase all the good we’ll remember you for, Miss! You’re like a third parent to every student under you, don’t you know that? All you wanted was the best for us, and that’s all that matters. Sure, in the moment things are bad, but one day we’ll look back on this day and laugh. It’s not going to frame the years under you negatively, Miss. There will be a day when we want to come back to this time in our lives. Not just because we’re younger, or because we’re in school, but because of you Miss Cheerilee!” he spoke with a trembling passion. He felt a bit foolish directed such a display at a wall, but he hoped at the very least Cheerilee heeded his words on the other side.

A minute passed and then… nothing. No words, sniffles or movement. None that he could hear anyway. With furrowed brows he turned to Pipsqueak, who was frowning in silence concurrence. “Are you okay?” the earth colt asked; his body looked indecisive on whether to take a step towards the pegasus or to remain seated.

“Yeah...” Featherweight replied, dejected in tone as well as spirit.

“Do you think she’s gonna be okay?” he asked, this question considerably harder to answer.

“I don’t know...” Featherweight replied meekly, continuing to look at the wall, hoping a voice would come from the other side.

“Miss Cheerilee!”

The name was exclaimed pleasantly, loud, and from the hall. Featherweight scrambled out the closet.

“Hey!” Pipsqueak yelped as Featherweight clipped him.

The pegasus colt shot towards the door, his haste made him clumsy, tripping over the bag of bits before even reaching the knob, which his hooves constantly glanced off of as he tried to get a grip. When he finally made unlocked the door he fell out face first, which was followed by a frantic climb to his hooves, eyes being thrown to his immediate right; his cheek tugging slightly into a smile. His teacher was surrounded by his fellow classmates, all speaking over one another so loudly that Featherweight couldn’t discern what was being said.

“Now, now, I’m okay, I’m okay,” the mare reassured them, releasing a jovial spurt of laughter. Her reassurances didn’t silence them however, but Featherweight supposed that she didn’t care that much.

“I think that answers our question,” Pipsqueak commented, joining Featherweight in looking at the reinvigorated mare, half-smiling. He stood close by the colt, the narrow hallway not generous in room. “i didn’t know you were even capable.”

“Of what?” Featherweight inquired, wearing a confused grin.

“Being that loud,” Pipsqueak jested, giving a short laugh, marking the end of his sentence with a light jab into the pegasi’s shoulder.

“Yeah...” Featherweight concurred weakly, reciprocated the colt’s grin with forced smile. “I don’t know where it came from...”

Pipsqueak gave a smirk, the expression of soft joy was frame-captured in the mind of Featherweight, whose heart now pumped in crescendo to the three syllable phrase that was repeated over in his head. He didn’t know if the colt truly continued to look in him in the eye or if his mind was racing so fast it appeared as though time itself had stopped. It was possible that the revelation of his feelings as exacerbated his condition, his chest tightening uncomfortably as a result of breathlessness. The mantra continued.

I love you

I love you

“I lo-”

“Woah,” Pipsqueak said suddenly, his brows lowering as his eyes widened slightly.

“W-what? I didn’t say anything!” Featherweight panicked.

“What?” Pipsqueak replied, confused, before shaking his head. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” he asked, although he came to the answer all by himself immediately after.

The students around Cheerilee had quietened down, all seemingly arriving at the same conclusion as he had. Featherweight noticed a sound absent from his hearing. It had been going on constantly so it just faded into the background of his subconscious, like breathing. He glanced to his classmates, and then to Pipsqueak, both had directed their eyes in a particular direction and thus Featherweight followed suite. He looked past the rows of opening doors, past the tacky carpet, the shabbily painted walls to the window at the far end of the hall. On the surface of the glass, new speckles of rainwater stopped appearing, and dim rays of sunshine shone through the window, revealing the dust particles that floated in the air.

The rain had stopped.