"Vinyl?"
She's hunched over her turntable, working on some of that new "plunderphonics" stuff she's so into. Her back is to you, and most of the living room. This whole place can finally be her studio now.
You are Octavia Philharmonica, resident cellist of Ponyville. In a few minutes, ex-resident. You're going to miss your old roomie. However ponies might have thought of you, she really kept your head screwed on right for all these years. Not to mention that she was always the "tidy" one of the two of you.
"I'm leaving in a moment, Vinyl. Anonymous is waiting at the station with my bags. I just wanted to say goodbye before I went."
She gives no reply.
"I don't know when I'll be coming back, but... I'll visit you, alright? I'll send you a letter once we get settled in."
Nothing.
You contain a sigh. "Alright, then. Goodbye, Vinyl."
You turn, regarding the rest of your ex-apartment. The fridge that held your takeout so faithfully, covered in magnets Vinyl grabbed from visits to her parents and scraps of schedules that were months out of date. The pile of promotional pictures you'd never bothered to frame...
If you were alone, you would forgo your decision and stay here. You're lucky your muse has agreed to go, too. Now it would be selfish to stay, and stupid.
You push open the door, and head out.
But something halts you in the doorway, pulling you backwards a little. You feel the familiar tug of those white fetlocks around your neck, and the scratchy mane against the side of your face.
There's a long, exhaustive squeeze.
And then, just as quickly, they're gone, and you hear hooves trotting back toward the corner. You take a deep breath, and continue out the door.
* * *
The train ride is quiet. Anonymous knows how glum you are, and hasn't said anything to you. The uncomfortable glances from around your car aren't getting to him, at least not on the outside. You've promised him it's better in Canterlot.
You're laid out across his lap, looking out the window at the flitting trees and declining ground. The apartment has been prepaid for, rent taken out of your funds and Anon's royal stipend.
He's never met the princesses, but they give him a small allowance as a nonthreatening interloper. Without flight, unicorn magic, or the basic strength to move the earth, most jobs are beyond him. He never let it get him down, though. Before he caught your eye, he did as many odd jobs as he could.
Ever the friendly one, your Nonny.
The glass is smudged a little from your breathing. In the distance, Ponyville is getting harder and harder to make out. You stare at it, morosely unblinking.
This is your mourning period. Get it out of your system now, before you show up.
You feel Anonymous' fingers behind your ear, rubbing up and down softly. Those magic fingers… Little flashes of warmth travel up and down your body, like whiskey into coffee.
You can see him in the reflection, and only his hand's moving. The other one stays firmly on your withers.He's staring into the middle distance.
You adjust yourself a little so your body's leaning against his chest, and he stops. You can mostly see the Everfree now, and not the town. Just as you're about to look up and ask, he starts rubbing again.
Ahh.
Canterlot will be better for both of you. It'll be the place where you can make your dreams come true.
* * *
Now, you’re Anonymous, caretaker to Equestria's cutest bohemian. You and the impeccable postal service made quick work of the move, though it helped that a lot of the furniture was already provided. Tavi's looking around the studio area while you fish through your bags.
This is the third floor, mostly hardwood with a couch, a few big windows that could use a little insulation. Kitchen's big enough that nothing'll get stuck in the cabinets, and the walls are soundproofed enough that you can't hear the neighbors right now.
It's nice to have a change of scenery, but mostly you came here for Tavi's sake. She put her heart into making it to Canterlot, man, and she's finally doing it.
Feels good.
You produce your toothbrush, your meager book collection, and your silverware, and put them in rough patches of the place. Organization can come once you see exactly what you're working with.
In the middle of your work, you find her cello case, given its own box and nestled amid a trillion packing peanuts. You retrieve it gingerly and stand it by the front door.
...There. You sit on the couch and survey your new living-space. Only a minute later, Tavi comes out, looking grave.
"Something wrong?"
"Yes, the bedroom."
You follow her into the last room you haven't seen yet. The bed's pony-sized.
"Well, we'll get a bigger bed as soon as we can, and I'll sleep on the couch in the meantime."
For a moment, she just stares at it. "Alright."
Oh, no, no melancholy in Anon's house. You rub her cheek and kiss her between the eyes to break the spell. "Come on, let's see where all the ingredients are and I'll make us some dinner."
* * *
You're Octavia, stewing in your studio. You've got some spaghetti in you now, and the sun's set. Anonymous is dozing on the couch with an unzipped sleeping bag for a blanket. Your cello is here with you, your stand, your sheet music, your ink and quill and favorite music theory texts.
But... composition won't happen.
You readjust the stand and pace the room a few times, but nothing changes. It seems so... absurd, to make music right now. Your range of expression seems so finite, only a few dozen individual sounds. Even as one voice in a choir of instruments, what can you meaningfully say?
You kept a stiff upper lip about it around her, but you were always jealous of Vinyl for how effortless music could be for her. No painstaking notation, no sturm und drang...
If you can't make something before two months are up, you'll have to go back to her, and drag your muse back with you.
You're undergoing the harsh lurch of every artist, the realization that the actual work has so very little to do with creativity, or cleverness, or anything elegant and beautiful. You feel like a pony who pulls a shaped stick against strings and expects to be paid for it.
Your problem is a lack of audience. You need to audition somewhere and get accepted, then you'll be able to play something worthy.
...Except you won't get praised and paid anywhere until you can prove yourself. You have a couple of ideas of places to cold-call, but you can't hold out hope for them. You just wrote them down to feel like you had a reason to come out this far.
You felt like... it'd just work itself out once you stepped into your new home. Miserable, you retire to your bed, cello still in its case.
...And, another trifle for the pile, this isn't your bed. It's cold, too hard, the wrong shape. Minutes pass, staring at the too-bright glow at the base of the far window and wondering what it might be.
Eventually, you head into the main room. Anon hasn't moved, but it's a tiny couch. You lean over the back and insinuate yourself on top of the sleeping bag.
This is... lumpier than you were hoping. Anonymous stirs without opening his eyes, and rolls. You're caught up in his wake, sandwiched between him and the couch. Unconsciously, he spoons you under the cover, and you close your eyes.
This is more like it.
* * *
You’re Anon again. Tavi climbed into your makeshift bed last night, and this morning she was chipper. On the other hand, she hasn't been able to do any work, and your back's pretty sore.
You're out and about now on the streets of Canterlot, bed-shopping.
It takes a lot of effort to even find a vendor, actually. In Ponyville, you'd just go to the sofa-quill store. You miss hanging out there.
But once you find mattresses, it's pretty easy to find the one. (Because it's the only one in three stores that your feet don't fall off of.) Springs, no stains, not too expensive, you throw down some bits and have it shipped off to your apartment.
Your real destination is a little closer to the center of the city.
* * *
"Here?"
"Come on, for me?"
"But there are so many people--"
"Just ignore them. They don't matter. Besides, it's been a long time and I really want to see it again." You hold her hooves and look into her eyes.
She stares back with those violet beauties. Then she straightens, closes her eyes, and stands on her hind legs.
And in the middle of the park, on the grass by the stream with the little cobblestone path by it, faint music begins to play.
It's not true that earth ponies don't have magic; like unicorns, they sometimes have magic based on their talents. Unlike unicorns, their magic is much fainter without a focus to channel it. (Which is why musicians still use instruments and Pinkie Pie keeps a party-themed armory on-hoof.) But even without an instrument, your mare can still play the air.
It's the most ethereal sight you've ever seen. Eyes closed, black hair flowing in a light wind, maintaining her stance and massaging the air with her hoof. The thrumming starts at the edge of your hearing, and then distinguishes itself among the livelihood and chirruping. It's pieces she's played before in Ponyville, chopped and stitched together by rambling improvisation. Long, slow notes, all perfectly corresponding to the strings she isn't pulling.
A child would call it a sad song, but really it's just thoughtful. She doesn't know what she's doing right now. Whether any of this will work out.
You sit in the grass and watch her say all this. And in the background, other ponies start to pay attention.
* * *
You are Octavia, staring into nothing and playing the wind. Anonymous never asks you to stop playing, so you indulge him for a full ten minutes. It's easier to keep going than to quit, anyway.
But as your magic fades, your hooves tingling with the sudden absence, you bow on reflex and open your eyes. And you're startled by a sudden round of applause.
Gathered around are dozens of ponies, most of them unicorns with a couple of earth ponies in the mix. At the foot of the group is Anonymous, unmoving, but smiling at you. The surrounding cheers don't make that smile any less private.
You relax a little, and smile back. "Thank you, everyone."
"Do you have any events coming up?"
"Didn't you play at the Gala a few years ago?"
"Could you play at my friend's birthday party?"
You leave that park with a handful of fans, two gigs and your muse by your side. Into the afternoon streets you trot.
Things are going to be alright, you think. Things are going to be alright.
