Anytime

by Super Trampoline

Rating: everyone
Tags: Tragedy, Slice of Life, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Second Person
Length: 1649

The war's over and your fiancé is back. Your once dead town is showing signs of life again. But you feel more muted than ever. Only one thing is there for you, anytime at all.

The war's over and your fiancé is back. Your once dead town is showing signs of life again. But you feel more muted than ever. Only one thing is there for you, anytime at all.

"Feeling That Way"/"Anytime" are two popular Journey songs from their breakout album Infinity, often played back to back on the radio.

Preread by Yamgoth the Moth and the Dobermans
Recommended by Present Perfect

Pony: source
Background: source

Published 2017-04-15 06:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2017-04-15 06:10:01 UTC

I Hope That You Need Me Too

*Crunch*

A mossy-green pegasus glides slowly above the lake, languid wing strokes propelling her in calm circles.

A pegasus flies above the lake, and the war is over.

*Crunch*

Somehow, you thought this would put you in a more celebratory mood, but you're not feeling that way.

.

.

.

*Crunch*

Here, the war doesn't feel particularly over, because it never particularly felt like it had begun. That's not to say its effects weren't felt. Your memory isn't too good, but you remember a time when the population was 4,000, not 1,400, and when the anguished horn of the locomotive sounded regularly. You remember when it rained every two weeks. Karaca Bay wasn't always a scathole. You remember when you didn't have constant headaches, when you didn't have constant debt, when you didn't have constant doubt.

You remember when you actually loved your fiancé.

*Crunch*

No, no, you don't mean it like that. You banish the thought. You try at least, but it lingers.

It's not that you don't love her. She's amazing still. Still! You barely believed she would make it back, but she did, in one piece! She's alive and, all things considered, perhaps the closest this town knows to healthy. Certainly healthier than you.

*Crunch*

Even you can see that. With both eyes, unlike her.

Your love for her, like everything in this town, made no abrupt departure. Your love--*Crunch*--simply followed the flow like everything else. Your love, like everything in this town, just sort of diminished.

Here, the war doesn't feel particularly over, because it never particularly felt like it had begun. There was no draft. There were no air raid sirens. The rationing was no sudden proclamation rolling in from above. The closest thing to a beginning of life during wartime was that one day when the provincial government came in and threw a bunch of gaudy posters up everywhere. Those posters are mostly gone now, a few tattered remains still flapping languishly in the wind or clinging lifelessly to the walls. Those posters, like everything else in this town, just sort of fell apart.

Misty Drizzler pulls out of another loop and glides down. her hooves impact the grass, and somehow she still radiates that same light you first saw in her six years ago. Somehow her good eye still is beaming. You smile, but what used to brighten your day, now only sort of glances across it, like the wind brushing against the wheat, only to move on a moment later. Or poppies. Those grow here now, too.

The mental image lingers. You're surprised that hasn't happened. You're surprised she hasn't moved on. You suppose that's just one of the many ways she's wonderful.

The fake smile fades.

*Crunch*

"Lovely weather, eh, Lead Belly?" she asks. It's true the weather is certainly more temperate as of late, on account of actually having pegasi to guide it once more. Well, that and it's wintertime. But you suspect this factoid is not what occupies your beloved's mind. She wouldn't know what the weather used to be like, because she was gone.

Your fiancé is back, and the pleasant weather is back, and many old faces are back, but life still feels the same. The only thing that feels new are the poppies. You pop another dried poppy head into your mouth. *Crunch*. Poppers, they're called. You're not sure why. They don't pop. They crunch.

"Lelly?" you hear Misty repeat to the distant stallion in front of her, and you remember that you're the stallion in front of her and that she's talking to you.

"Yes, it is. I'm glad to see you practicing so well," you offer up, and hope it's a good enough reply to fend her off.

No! Not like that. It's not that you dislike her presence, but, it's just... you want to feel muted right now, and she somehow isn't feeling that way.

Three and a half years of war, a missing--well, wrecked anyway--eye, and a constant barrage of migraines, and she still feels far more alive than you've ever felt. No that's not true. You remember those feelings on occasion, the way it felt discovering each other's worlds, minds and bodies, they way it felt just being with her, alive. That was a long time ago. You snap another poppy head off its stalk and throw it in your mouth. *Crunch* Better to stay in the present.

"Are you bored," she asks, the ever present look of concern in her eye. Perhaps it's not ever present: perhaps she only adopts it when looking at you. She's seen pony's heads get blown up. She's seen limbs bend in ways not even Pinkie Pie's should ever bend. From what you've heard--what she's been willing to talk about--She's called in artillery salvos that have killed hundreds of ghouls. She fought the Verge in ways you don't even want to imagine, and yet she still cares about a little trifle like you. You wish you could muster a fraction of that love, but you can't. Everything is muted, and so you reach for another dried poppy.

"Hon?"

You jerk to attention, repeating the constant pattern: she draws you to the present, you slide back into sickly nostalgia, and she pulls you forward again, until one of you snaps or gives up. Usually she snaps, but you can hardly fault her for losing her patience with an undisciplined, unmotivated loser like you.

*Crunch*

You are bored, but that's the thing about poppies: they make everything better. So you shake your head "no," and force another smile, and she takes off again.

Here, the war doesn't feel particularly over, because it doesn't particularly feel like anything.

The mines boomed, then busted; the residents flowed, then ebbed; the trains rolled, then rusted. It all happened so slowly that no one really bothered to notice. One day Button Willow left; another day, Sleepy Mallow. One day your own Misty Drizzler enlisted, moved by posters or patriotism or perhaps just restlessness. Some ponies can't stand ennui. You did always love her drive to explore, to fly, to never settle for the usual. Strange she settled for you, then. You love ennui. But the point is, once this was a bustling town, now it's not, and nopony really has the energy to figure out where to draw the line.

That's okay, because the wiser folks will tell you there never was a line. Theseus had his airship, and you have your cruddy little decaying town.

Winds blow down from the mountains east of town, and you see a rare natural storm gathering above their weathered peaks. It never snows here, but winter turns the usual torrid malaise to more bearable temperate discontent. The late afternoon sun does it's best to fight the hints of chill, and for now wins out; but you note the coolness on your coat. Misty flies in the distance, loop-de-looping in earnest pleasure. You wish you could feel that. Maybe it's the painkillers and spells they've got her on. Medical grade, manufactured right here in town!

*Crunch*

The poppies aren't as strong. No euphoria: they just numb everything. Cheaper than alcohol, and they don't rot your liver.

Here, the war doesn't feel particularly over, because you don't feel much of anything. The war didn't get to her, but the wait got to you. Years of emptiness hollowed you out. When the war was over, things really did change. Food became affordable, veterans came back, and they even held a little victory parade. Drizzler was the guest of honor. You felt left out, like you do now. The weather and the economy stabilized, but it doesn't feel different, because you don't feel much of anything. That's the rub with depression: it's an all-weather friend.

You reach for another poppy, but your hoof fumbles around seeking what's not there. You've been going through those fast but who's to blame you for self-medicating? That's the one good thing this war brought: Papaver somniferum. Opium Poppy. The Verge used it as a painkiller. Captured ghouls revealed their secrets, and captured land revealed their source. There used to be a lot of wheat in Karaca Bay. Now there are a lot of poppies.

Your fiance, the mare you hope to marry, she's spinning above the lake right in front of you! But you're too worn down to care. One day you figure you'll have a big enough argument and she'll call it off. You should feel bad, but you don't. Maybe it's the poppies, maybe it's the depression. You wish cared. But morphine's the only thing you care much about these days. Sooner or later she's going to realize how quickly her pill jar needs refilling as of late. Maybe that will be the poppy straw that breaks the camel's back. Hopefully she at least renews her prescription first.

Look, you rationalize, it's not like you're abusing the stuff. It's just a here and there thing. Usually it's just poppies. You only medicate when you're depressed. And with how well she's healing, it's not like she needs a ton of the stuff. She's doing better than you!

You glance back across the lake; she's near the other side. You slip a hoof into her saddleback sitting beside you, and rifle around until you find your prize. Good old opium, your best friend as of late. A lot stronger than poppers, and more discreet too. No matter how bad a day you're having, it always makes things better. You pop the small capsule in your mouth and swallow. Soon you'll be swimming in the gentle ecstasy of tranquility. Maybe this war wasn't so bad, if it brought you this amazing balm. Your fillyfriend might not stick around much longer, but that's okay. Drugs are there for you, anytime.

Author's Note