Soarin' stared blankly at the pillow. It had been nearly three months since he had laid his head there. Only three months.
It felt like three lifetimes.
The bed, normally so warm and inviting, felt like a rock. There was no warmth to be found in the worm blue sheets. The mattress offered no invitation to slumber; rather, it held only a grim reminder of who had once lain there.
The blue pegasus tossed recklessly, hopelessly looking for a comfortable spot to slip into. He knew he wouldn't find one. There was a pony-sized hole that would not - neigh, could not be filled by anypony else but him. Eventually, he settled for kicking the sheets off and balling them up into a vaguely pony-shaped lump. It was a pathetic excuse for a snuggle partner, but for now it would have to do.
The Wonderbolt liked the dim hour of morning before Celestia raised the sun best. The darkened twilight and blanketing silence always helped him to clear his head and think.
But tonight all he could think about was him.
No. No no no. He would not bring him up again. His head turned again to the empty half of the king-sized bed. The whole reason he even bothered buying a bed that big was to accommodate two. Now all the extra space did was reaffirm his loneliness, his solitude.
Sighing, he lazily kicked the wadded-up covers off the mattress. Guess it was going to be another one of those nights. Still wiping the last irritating bits of sleep from his eyes he slunk out of the deathly still bedroom and into the main foyer of his apartment.
His house was by no means a simple affair - lavish living came with his occupation, after all. While "shopaholic" wasn't exactly his middle name, he didn't hesitate to dip into his savings for some nicer upholstery once in a while. It complimented the room - fancy furniture for a fancy living space.
He stumbled blindly through the shadowy rooms, not bothering to turn on any lights as he made his trek to the kitchen. The illuminated signs of those Cloudsdale businesses still open at such an early hour, shining in from a large glass door leading to a balcony outside, provided all the light he would need. In this dusk he made out a poorly-patched hole in the wall - evidence of last night's drunken break down.
With the task at hoof engraved in his memory from constant repetition, he shuffled his way to the top cabinet above his sleek, modern stove. A single stainless steel pot sat on its surface, the remnants of his dinner still stuck to the shiny metal. Grunting at the inconvenience of not having unicorn magic, he fumbled opening the cabinet and grabbing at its contents like a sugar-crazed child would a lollipop.
As he reached in, though, he hesitated for a moment, staring blankly at the back of the shelf. Shaking his head and swallowing the rock that began to form in his throat, he swiped up a bottle and ran a hoof gingerly over the tempered glass.
The bottle shone a deep amber in the pale light, reflecting the liquid inside. Soarin' scanned the label briefly. He didn't really read it, but rather looked for the signature crescent moon adorning the paper. Moonshine, distilled by the lunar princess's own hoof. A single bottle cost a hoof and a leg on a good day.
And he was chugging it down without a second thought. He didn't want to savor the taste - he just needed the sharp shroud of alcohol to cloud his mind, to make him stop trying to remember him. The harsh burn in the back of his throat and the dizzy feeling quickly falling over his brain were the only indicators that the booze was working at all.
But boy did it ever work.
He managed to down about half the bottle before he felt that all too familiar lurch in his belly. Slamming the bottle down onto the counter he turned and ran to the bathroom nearby, purging himself of all the expensive booze his system couldn't hold.
The excess alcohol may have been evacuated, but the damage had been done. Head swimming, knees buckling, he collapsed next to the toilet as the first of many tears welled up behind his clenched eyes.
He did his best to control himself, but in his inebriated state that was hardly possible. Finally, he submitted to his primordial instincts and curled up into himself, quiet sobs sending shivers through his body. He lay half-wrapped in a fetal position, drunk, and leaving an ever-increasing puddle of tears next to his head as he let out the first of many unconfined wails into the dead night air.
Yep, it was one of those nights.
Soarin' was the last to show up for practice the following day. Spitfire always prided herself on running a tight ship, and when one pony decided to mess up the entire schedule, she let them have it.
Trudging into practice he could only watch as the fiery mare trotted up to him, eyes ablaze with pent-up frustration. "Hey, Soarin'!” The poison in her voice was tangible. “I'd love to know why you’ve decided to show up twenty minutes late to practice and holy mellon baller on the moon you look like trash."
He didn't need any confirmation. Dark, deep bags dragged down bloodshot eyes. Crumpled civilian clothes ruffled against matted, filthy fur. His face hung in a perpetual frown. "Gee, so glad to hear I'm looking stellar as always." For a moment a zealous fire ignited in his eyes. "Y’know, I remember when I used to be handsome."
She scoffed. "Yeah, all the upstanding young colts out there are just swooning at your hooves. I want an excuse as to why you're late. Now."
Spitfire meant business, and he knew it. "I... couldn't sleep." He hated lying through his teeth to his captain, but anything seemed better than exposing in gross detail last night's drunken break-down.
"You couldn't sleep."
"Uh-huh."
"You sure it wasn't all the alcohol?" Casually flicking his creased outfit, she added snidely, "Because I could smell booze on your sorry flank from a mile away."
Wincing, he mentally berated himself for not remembering to cover his tracks better. "Look, it's none of your business. I just had a rough night-"
"You've been having nothing but 'rough nights' for darn near three months now!" Spitfire turned her voice up to maximum and stomped her hoof into the ground for emphasis. Being late meant getting a verbal beat down from the superior closest at hand, and Spitfire was more than happy to fill that role. "Ever since your little crush whatshisname dumped you for a fresh piece of meat, you've been drinking yourself to sleep on a nightly basis! You miss practice, you refuse to get help, you refuse to even talk about it, and it's starting to impact the team. As captain, I can't stand for that!"
Soarin' didn't even budge. "He has a name." There was no anger in his voice - only regret, sadness, self-pity.
"I couldn't care less what his name is! The point is, pal, that you need to get your act together, or there will be consequences. Understood?"
Training kicked in as his slumped shoulders rose slightly. Snapping off a half-hearted salute and a curt, "Yes ma'am," he yawned and started toward the training field.
"Oh no you don't." Spitfire's eyes were devoid of the fierce scowl they had held only a moment ago, the anger replaced by sympathy. "Listen, I'm giving you the day off. Go get another drink, go take a long walk, go soul searching - I don't care. Just come back here tomorrow with a fresh attitude and a clear head. Understood?"
This time his reply was a little more genuine. "You got it chief." Soarin' diddn’t like ducking out of training, but he also didn't disobey orders. Nodding gratefully at his superior, he unfurled his wings and hopped up shakily into the air.
A whole day to himself... the possibilities were endless. But deep in the back of his mind he knew what he had to do. He needed to do whatever he could to get him out of his head. And what better way to brainstorm than over a nice, refreshing cold one?
Touching down right on his balcony, he finagled his unwieldy ring of jingling keys out of his pocket. A brief moment of searching later and he shoved the correct key into the lock, pushing the door open in one smooth, practiced motion. The inside of his apartment, devoid of light and life, welcomed him in like an old friend.
He didn't hesitate to make a beeline for the fridge. Opening it up, he snagged a chilled bottle from the top shelf and opened it, greedily gulping down a quarter of the bottle before sputtering to a stop. Normally he would have worked up a buzz by now, but it dawned on him that he was building up a tolerance to the stuff.
His solution? More beer.
Grabbing another two unopened bottles he meandered over to his couch and flopped down with a satisfying plop. Instinctively he leaned over to his left, searching for his shoulder to lean on.
Instead, he got only air. He was not there. He would never be there again. Realizing his mistake, he bolted upright and tried to forget that the very thought of him had ever entered his mind in the first place. The alcohol helped, a little.
What to do now? The question sunk in as he moved on to his second bottle, tossing the empty one in a lazy arc into a nearby trashcan. He could always just sit here and get drunk again, but that didn't carry the same appeal that it had before. He was used to sitting on his flank and getting wasted. As much as he hated to admit it, alcohol wouldn't make all his problems go away.
So then what would? How could he possibly hope to forget him, the one pony that never wavered, never faltered, never-
Stop. You really want to start burning bridges? Sell the bracelet.
Soarin' wasn't even sure if that was his own thought or just the alcohol talking. Regardless, he glanced apprehensively up at the top shelf above the stove as if just thinking about the cerulean velvet box stashed among the bottles of top shelf booze within would make it come to life and try to strangle him.
But then, it made perfect sense. What better way to sever ties with him than by getting rid of it. The tiny box haunted each of his late night binges, only serving to justify his rampant alcoholism. It wouldn't fill the seething vortex in his chest, but it would be a start.
With reluctance, he set the half-finished bottle on the counter and approached the shelf like a supplicant would the royal throne. Opening the cabinet his eyes immediately darted to the blue box in the corner, hidden behind a few large bottles.
It was the perfect hiding spot. He didn't like alcohol much anyway, so he never would've checked up there.
No. Stop that. Having two different sides of his brain arguing with neither admitting to defeat was giving Soarin' a headache, but he soldiered on. With a reverence usually reserved for sacred books or priceless art, he picked up the tiny box and cradled it in his hooves. He wiped a tiny layer of dust from the top and, with a deep, steadying breath, he flipped the lid open.
The bracelet itself was made of gold - pure, 24 karat stuff. In the center a single diamond sat inlaid around the carving of an apple. Taking the band out of its velvet lining, Soarin' ran a hoof idly over the diamond, turning it over and letting it reflect the dim, ambient light. The darn thing cost him nearly a thousand bits.
He had planned on presenting it to him during his family's big annual get-together in a few weeks. It wouldn't have been public; he had planned to just take him aside and ask him quietly. That's the way he would want it to be. He knew he wouldn't wear the band itself much. Being out in the field working all day, it would be more of a hindrance than a help. But just knowing that he had it would have been good enough for the pegasus.
"Pal," he leaned in close and fogged the gold with his hot breath. "You better fetch me a pretty bit."
The walk to the jewelry store, marked only by a picture of very large diamond over the door, was uneventful enough. He wasted no time in marching right up to the sales counter and placing the box on the glass display. "I wanna sell this. Now."
The employee behind the counter, an aging earth pony with thin, grey locks of hair guffawed lightly. "Whoa, calm down there fella. Ya say ya wanna' sell, do ya?" With precise skill that rivaled any unicorn's magic he popped a magnifier over his eye and held the bracelet at arm's length.
"Well, how much can I get for it?" Soarin' was getting impatient at this point.
"Ease up, would ya? Gimme a sec to work." Scrutinizing the band (mainly the gem in the center) he scribbled down some notes with his free hoof. "24 karat, good condition-" He stopped when he noticed the engraved apple. "Custom engraving. Not good."
"Not good?"
"No, not good." The jeweler looked up, slightly annoyed at his customer. "Unless somepony happens to waltz in here and ask for a custom inlay of an apple in the next two minutes, I'm gonna need to melt the band down and remold it. Which will drive down the price." Great. "But," he continued, "it's not a total loss. This diamond here is top notch. That's very good for you."
All this just came across as one big pile of useless facts dumped on Soarin's shoulders. "That's great. Give me a number."
Scratching his chin in thought, the elder placed the bracelet back on the display. "For you? I'll give you a hundred bits."
"What." That was unacceptable. "How could that thing lose 90 percent of its value just by changing hooves?" He gestured disdainfully at the band like it had insulted his mother.
"I'm sorry sir, but ya gotta understand - I need to make a profit out of this too. Help me help you."
"I can't do any lower than four hundred."
"Two hundred."
"Three fifty."
"Seventy five."
"Oh come on!"
"Alright now, no need to shout." Apparently the negotiations were just one big laugh fest to the old jeweler, who slapped his belly jovially as he chuckled. "I'll give you three hundred and twenty five bits. Sound fair?"
Not nearly fair enough. But it was certainly a lot better than nothing. "Yeah, whatever."
"Oh, don't look so broken up about it now." The elder earth pony poured a sizable bundle of bits into a small burlap sack and tossed them to Soarin'. In a clearly stupid move he tried to catch to bulging bag with his teeth. This only served to weigh his head down and bring his forehead into painful contact with the glass display, drawing another round of chuckles from across the counter. "Whew, boy you are too rich." He smiled genuinely, grabbing the bracelet and tossing it unceremoniously into a cabinet behind the glass.
"Yeah," Soarin' strained as he struggled to lift his heavy bag of bits into his saddlebags. "Thanks a ton." He had never been happier to walk out of that store in his life.
Now, though, another problem loomed. He had a whole day to kill and a large sack of cash. I could always buy booze, he thought. The idea of alcohol brightened his spirits a little, but he shot down the notion just as quickly as it popped into his head. Nah, I have more than enough at home.
Just then the wafting scent of something absolutely heavenly hit his nostrils, along with a single word, deeply ingrained into his conscience. Pie.
He inhaled deeply, melting as the delicious smell turned his brain to mush. I need to go get pie. I need to go get pie right now.
Everything but the all-consuming thought of pie was shoved from his conscious as he trailed the intoxicating smell, nose up in the air sniffing out his route and tongue lolling out comically. To passers-by, it must have been quite the spectacle, a Wonderbolt being led around town by only his nose.
Soon enough he reached his destination and was rewarded by another blast of delightful confectionary smells. The store, all fading paint and homely charm, beckoned him in. As soon as he entered a sweet warmth from the white-hot ovens hit him, rustling his fur pleasantly. He sighed contentedly. This was even better than booze.
Sauntering up to the counter, he put on a genuine smile - a rare occurrence after he walked out of his life forever. "No... you're not allowed to think about him." He chuckled. "Captain's orders."
Turning his gaze to the display loaded with pie upon delicious pie, he staked out his options. Should he go with the classic apple cinnamon, the sugary tanginess of the cherry tart, or go for a wildcard and order a pastry? The options were endless. Finally, realizing with a start that a line had formed behind him, he spoke up. "I guess I'll just have one of the... Apple..."
Him.
His vision spun like he had just downed an entire barrel of whiskey, consumed by the majestic red color of his coat. That perfectly dishevelled sandy-blonde mane taunted him, silently jeered him with every move. Those glorious green eyes, shooting open in shock, told novels without ever saying a word.
He tried backing away, but a nearby wall halted his ill-planned escape. He tried to put on a nonchalant expression, but sheer panic tore right through his facade. A thin trickle of sweat beaded on his brow.
Soarin' wasn't faring any better. In fact, he felt like he was about to throw up. While his face remained neutral, his eyes shot poison-tipped daggers into him. Confronted by the pony who had hurt him so badly, Soarin’ was surprised he hadn't already tried to strangle him. "Mac." The word carried no tone, no emotion. It was just sounds with no meaning, a song without noise.
He gulped. "Soarin'." Big Macintosh wilted under the furiously calm stare his ex gave him. However, being an Apple, he dutifully initiated “pleasant” conversation with the frighteningly still pegasus. "How're the Wonderbolts doin'?"
"Oh, they're fine. Nopony got hurt so far this season."
"Good."
A moment of silence. Then, "How'd you get up here? You aren't secretly a pegasus, are you?" Nopony laughed at the clearly forced joke.
"No, one of mah sister's friends did some kinda cloud walkin' spell." He nodded over his shoulder to a large stack of crates. The creaky panels on the side of each one bore an Apple family brand, seared into the aged wood. "I'm just droppin' off some apples fer this here store."
"Ah." Another spell of awkward silence followed as the two fidgeted nervously under the other's fleeting glances. "So..." Soarin' finally broke the silence. "How's Miss Cheerilee?"
"Missus, actually." He held up a foreleg sheepishly, freshly gilded with a shining golden bracelet. It bore a striking resemblance to the one he had sold just a short while ago. "We're engaged." He cringed at his own words, waiting for some horrific anger-inspired reprisal.
The world imploded inside Soarin's head. His mind shattered like a dropped mirror as a supernova of anguish turned his face a bright red. He wanted to scream. Engaged? We haven’t been apart for three months and already you’ve found a bride? Instead, all that came out was a curt, "Oh."
Mac could feel the situation getting out of hoof quickly. "Uh - I'll get outta yer mane. H-have a good one." His voice, the pillar of smooth clarity, cracked. Lowering his eyes in shame he scooted right out the door. Soarin' wanted to beg him to stay. He also wanted to kick his sorry flank right off the cloud he walked on.
His conflicted thoughts were interrupted by a nervous employee eyeing him apprehensively. Obviously another one of his fans. "Uh - mister Soarin' sir? Y-your pie."
The Wonderbolt turned to the pastry - apple cinnamon, just like he inadvertently asked for. The sight of apples suddenly made him feel nauceous. He needed a beer. "Yeah, I... need to go. Here." Tossing far too many bits onto the counter in a clatter of coins, he stumbled blindly out of the shop.
He didn't feel like apples today.
Engaged. The word brought another surge of rage to his addled head. "Engaged. That's just great!" On the last word he turned and launched his empty bottle at the wall, where it exploded into a million satisfying pieces. "They’re together for three months, and they get engaged."
His apartment looked like an alcoholic war zone. Bottles of cheap beer flanked by gleaming crystal flasks of whiskey and tastefully shimmering kegs of scotch lay strewn about the room. Tiny shards of glass sat in broken piles where they had been thrown or dropped. The sun sliced through the grimy windows, tinting the room with a radiant, otherworldly glow.
He reached for another beer. "I guess the two years I gave him just weren't good enough. I wasn't good enough." Not even bothering with a bottle opener he just wrenched the top off with his hoof, opening a stinging gash on the outside of his leg. "Gah, great," he muttered as he took a long swig.
"What, was I not good enough?" he called out to nopony. "I could've changed. I would've changed!" Another sip. "Not that I needed to change."
His own words registered within his addled conscienceness. "Yeah... I didn't need to change!" A long pull from the bottle, and he continued. "Who does he think he is, trying to make me change?" His speech began to slur. "I'm just dandy the way I am! What kind of jerk tries to change their coltfriend?"
Ex-coltfriend, he reminded himself. He didn't even bother to contain his tears as they slipped down his matted fur, illuminated dimly in the dying sunlight. "Why did he leave me? Why?"
Of course, nopony answered. He was alone in his home, just like he would always be. "Why would he do something like that?" The half-empty bottle shattered on the floor, thrown with the righteous fury of a rampaging zealot. A dark stain of alcohol spread in a puddle around the broken shards of glass.
He growled like a wounded animal. "I loved him, and he left me... Why?" Drunkenly he reached for another bottle, only to realize he had run out. He stared at his empty hoof blankly, finally noticing the dark, inky blood that marred his coat.
"I'm bleeding," he muttered dumbly. "And I'm alone."
And you're obsessed.
"I'm not obsessed, I’m in love!" The booze was taking its toll, and he felt the soft tendrils of sleep latch onto his mind, lulling him into blissful sleep. But he wouldn't go that easily.
"No!" he stomped a hoof into the carpet. "That bastard left me, and I need to know why!"
He knew he would never get his answer. All the drinking and violence in the world wouldn't get him the answers he craved. Even as his face twisted in rage and his bloodied hooves carried him toward the drywall, even as his bloodshot eyes screwed shut and he reared up on his hind legs, he knew he would never know. No matter how many times he pounded the drywall, leaving gaping holes in the surface with each strike, the answers would always elude him.
His act of destruction complete, he let gravity painfully pull him to the ground. The dying sun laid several fleeting beams of light onto his form as he curled up and wept, tiny sobs escalating into wracking wails. Opening his eyes for a moment he saw a miraculously unscathed bottle of beer lying next to him. "Must've gotten knocked down," he muttered, silently thanking Celestia for small favors as he greedily grabbed at the glass.
But his aching muscles had other plans. He tried to pull the beer to him but his legs refused to comply. Begrudgingly he accepted his boozeless fate and let the bottle sit limply in his hoof. Sleep called to him again, whispering an unheard lullaby into his ear. He didn't want to go like this - curled up, bloodied and crying around a bottle. But he simply had no strength left o drag himself to his bed.
Whimpering softly, he let his eyes close and his breathing slow as a million tiny dots of light danced and faded behind his eyelids, dragging him into yet another night of restless sleep.
It was going to be another one of those nights.
Edited by Starfall.
