Encounter at North Park

Dusk Midnight Melody was fine. He was fine. Absolutely fine. Totally, one hundred per cent, completely, fine. He was fine when he left Stripes’ Cup of Java coffee shop. He was fine when the noonday sun hit his midnight blue fur. He was fine when the slight sea breeze coming from the Manehatten shoreline ruffled his feathers. He was fine when he turned north and began to walk.

He was fine. Dusk Melody was fine.

The Prince was also a liar. ‘I’m fine…’ he told himself again, knowing that even as he thought this, it was a lie. “I’m fine…I’m fine…” he said aloud to himself as he walked along the sidewalk. He alone seemed oblivious to the fact that with each step, his shoulders slumped and his head dropped lower. Every step he took, his powerful wings drooped. Wings that were capable of propelling him to over the speed of sound now hung loose and limp at his sides.

“I’m fine…” His charcoal grey mane and tail wilted with every step. He didn’t really know where he was going, except that he was going north. He had told Caffeinated he would explore the North Park. He figured walk north until he hit grass. Really though, he didn’t much care where he went.

“I’m fine.” Every couple of steps, he repeated what was fast becoming a mantra. A not-very-convincing mantra. He walked, slouched, along the sidewalk past all manner of ponies. The young royal stumbled by stallions, mares, colts, fillies, families, old and young. Some recognised him, most did not. Some stopped and stared, others ignored him completely. He didn’t really care.

Dusk walked past a young couple who immediately pulled out their phones for photographs. He walked on past a couple of stallions who called out a greeting. To a pony he ignored them all. Not because he wasn’t fine, because he totally was. The tears that brimmed his pink eyes didn’t mean a thing. He was fine. As he walked along, completely not looking where he was going, he ran and re-ran the last conversation he’d had through his head.

“Hey, hey babe!” The joy and happiness in Dusk’s voice was almost palpable to the zebra, even across the coffee shop. “I’m sorry I woke you up, sweetie, how was the show?” Caffeinated sincerely wished his machine was louder, about a million decibels louder. “It was a sold out performance?”

Thankfully, the tea machine was slightly louder when it boiled, the zebra just heard Dusk ask, “You have a tour deal? Fifty dates? Oh babe that’s awesome!” Figuring the phone call was going well, and that it was almost over, the large orange stallion placed Dusk’s cup on a tray and started to walk over when he heard…

“Yeah, I'm still in Manehatten. I'll see you when I ge...what!?” The very tone of Dusk’s voice made Caffeinated want to pause and turn around, but he was in the no-pony’s land between thee table and the counter with nowhere to go. So reluctantly he carried on. “You won’t be there, why?” Dusk demanded.

“You’re leaving tonight.” Caffeinated’s ears drooped with the Prince’s as he saw the pegasus visually deflate in front of his eyes. “Right I see. No, Vocal, no I understand.” There were tears brimming in Dusk’s pink eyes. “Y-Yeah...” he sniffled, “I…I love you too, yeah…”

In a bit of a daze, Dusk put his phone away as the zebra carefully laid his tea in front of him. “He…he isn’t coming tonight.”

“He’s going on tour right away?” Caffeinated asked gently.

“He signed a multi-million bit contract last night for him and the band.” Dusk uttered, staring deeply at the full teacup. “They’re leaving for Las Pegasus tonight and then on to Vanhoover.” Now Dusk’s voice almost broke as the tears in his eyes leaked down his cheeks. “He hopes I understand.”

“The world won't end if you want to skip a coffee shop mic night and go on tour.”

“Y-Yeah...no…” Dusk sniffled, letting the tears leave tracks on his fur, “He hopes I understand he's far too busy with this tour, record deal, autobiographies or whatever else to have a coltfriend.”

“Ah, so that's the rub then.” Caffeinated smiled sadly as he got it. “You've been traded for a star of glory. Sorry, I have nothing stronger here than my coffee.”

“Yeah...” Dusk wiped his hoof across his cheeks. “I'm happy for him, really.” He hitched up a wide fake smile. “See? I'm all happy.”

Dusk Midnight Melody let out a sigh as yet more tears splashed down his midnight blue furred cheeks, the hot salty tears leaving tracks of matted fur in their wake. “I’m happy for him, really…” Dusk had given up trying to convince himself he was fine. He wasn’t. So, now, he tried to convince himself he was happy, instead.

“Hey! You wanna look where ya goin’ plothole?” A mare yelled out just as the royal stallion walked into her.

“I’m fine!” Dusk shouted back. He was crying so hard he didn’t actually see the mare he had walked into on the sidewalk. “I’m happy! Can’t you see I’m happy‽”

“Damn Canterlot weirdo!” The mare spat back when, with no sign of apologising, Dusk walked on his way to wherever it was he was going.

Not that Dusk cared very much. He didn’t care whom was looking, or whom recognised him or didn’t. “Yeah...” Dusk wiped his hoof across his cheeks, matting his fur all the more than it already was. “I'm happy for him, really.” He hitched up a wide fake smile for nopony’s benefit other than his own. “See? I'm all happy.”

‘I'm happy for him, really…’

Except, except well, he wasn’t. Not really. Dusk Melody wasn’t happy. Not in the slightest. The truth of the matter was he had endured one of the most stressful Thursdays of his young life yesterday and right now, he needed a hug and a cuddle from his coltfriend. He needed a loving caress and a tender kiss, and a strong hoof around his shoulder telling him it would all be alright.

“I need you, Vocal!” Dusk blurted out, the effeminate stallion not caring who shot him puzzled looks due to his sudden outburst. He needed his lover, he needed that soft pale grey muzzle to nuzzle away his fears and worries, to tell him that no matter what, he was a good stallion. “Bu-But yo-you won’t now, will you?” Dusk asked nopony in particular, tears dripping onto the pavement beneath his hooves.

Caffeinated, to his credit, had tried in the coffee shop to offer his help, as much as he could. Sadly, earl grey tea only helped so much. Dusk scuffed his hoof on the sidewalk as he walked along. Was he going the right way? He didn’t give a flying feather if he was or not. The orange zebra’s words of comfort wafted back to him.

“So, are you back to the pond to see who you can catch next?” Caffeinated asked with a smile, “I can send you to a seedy bar in Soho.”

“Nah it’s alright I guess.” Dusk shrugged, that pit of melancholy opening up in his gut again, “I am happy for him, and I hope he gets what he wants. It’s just, last week we were talking marriage and now...I dunno…”

“Just last week when I mentioned marriage you both freaked when I asked who would wear the dress.” The orange zebra teased, “Though I guess it doesn't seem so funny now.”

“No...” Dusk again stared at his teacup. “I would've worn a dress for him mate, I really would.”

That did not help. If anything, that just made Dusk cry all the more. He walked into at least four more ponies on his way. A car horn honked twice, or was it two cars honking once each? Dusk didn’t much care. He didn’t notice or care that in crossing the road he had almost been ran over by two taxis. He didn’t hear what they shouted at him, which was probably for the best, really.

~ ~ ~

Brush Stroke lay snoring in his large Princess sized bed, green eyes closed and drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. The comforter lay strewn on the lacquered floorboards and the sheets were tightly would around his mid-blue body. He lay in the same aspect as he had for the past nine hours. He would’ve laid like he was for another nine, had his alarm clock not buzzed loudly, rudely awakening him from his slumber.

Groggily, through bleary eyes that screamed of the aftereffects of a night of excess, the thirty two year old earth pony stallion swept his red and yellow mane from his eyes and attempted to cancel his alarm. The plan was to go back to sleep. That plan was negated somewhat when he fumbled and instead of shutting it off, he knocked the clock off his nightstand, where it lay buzzing on the floor.

“Oh…horseapples…” he grunted after a further ten minutes of trying to ignore it, he admitted defeat and got out of bed. This was easier said than done, as he was rather hung over and a teeny bit sore. It took a further quarter of an hour to extricate himself from the cocoon of his blankets and bedsheets. At last, with the sun on his face, he was able to silence the alarm.

In a fuggy haze, he staggered from his bedroom and out into the hallway of his apartment. He was barely able to make out the white doors and tell them apart from the bare exposed brick of his walls. Groaning, the earth pony staggered past his second bedroom that he had converted to a studio in search of his bathroom. Once inside he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Mid blue fur was matted, his mane looked like it had been styled by a hurricane – ‘bed head’ was not the word – his head felt like workponies were jackhammering his skull and his mouth was as dry as Saddle Arabia.

“You my son, will need a lot of work before you can hold a paintbrush…” the pep-talk didn’t help. “Still,” he said to himself as he ran a bath, “That’s what I get for going to Old Cinch’s Bawdy House…” That thought in his head, Brush Stroke sank into a very hot bath full of rose and lavender scented oils.

“Oils…heh!” That thought alone made him chuckle, for it was his nickname. As the hot water worked its way into his tired and aching muscles, more and more of the night before came flooding back to him. Hours spent with cheap beer, cheap wine, cheap salt lick and even cheaper whores. Still, the stallions that Old Cinch provided were good, so in the absence of anything else, he kept going back.

Taking a very deep breath, Brush Stroke plunged beneath the surface of the water, at once soaking his face and mane through. While he was under, holding his breath, he reflected that was why he was sore. They didn’t call Red Velvet ‘Big Red’ for nothing. Finally, feeling better, he resurfaced and gulped in a much-needed lungful of air. “Can’t keep going back there, Oils,” he reprimanded himself. “You’re gonna catch something itchy, or worse, you’re gonna get a reputation…”

Getting out of the shower, he toweled himself off, laughing as he did so at how much like his daddy, Dandelion, he sounded right then. Brushing his teeth, at last getting rid of the taste of death from his mouth, he could almost hear his daddy’s voice in his head, telling him how disappointed he was in his son.

“Yeah well,” he told a much better looking reflection, “Not like I have anypony to wake up to, is it?” With a snort, he spat the toothpaste out and rinsed his mouth. Suddenly he felt a lot more equine than before. Now, all he needed was tea.

Thankfully, in his kitchen, now he was fully awake, he had some of his favourite tea to hoof. Oolong, a Zebrian import he found better than the Neighinese, was just what he needed to start the day. While it came in many varieties and flavours, he liked the sweet and fruity blend he always bought. It had that honey aroma that was just the thing to cure an Old Cinch induced hangover.

‘Hmmm, that hits every spot,’ he thought once he was sat in his favourite recliner overlooking Manehatten’s North Park from his pent house apartment. He didn’t even like Cinch or the Bawdy House, all that much. He didn’t really like getting drunk, either really. That was just a means to an end. As he sipped his stupidly expensive tea, the artist knew the drinking was just to forget about his other adoptive parent.

His dad, Starbright, was sixty, old, crippled and with a grumpy streak as wide as Equestria itself. He was an earth pony, an ex-Captain in the Equestrian Army. A natural healer, he had served in the medical corps. He had lost both his hind legs fighting in the Changeling War of 2001, when Queen Chrysalis and her army had invaded the nation’s capital city, Canterlot. As a result of his wounds and internal injuries, the old Captain’s health was failing recently, and in the absence of a coltfriend, drinking took the edge off knowing his dad didn’t have long left.

“Here’s to you, dad.” Brush Stroke smiled grimly and finished his oolong tea. With a sigh, he heaved himself from his recliner with the intention of fixing breakfast. That intention however was quickly and mercilessly squashed by a glance at the clock. 10:45a.m. “Ugh…I hate time…” he groused, knowing he’d already lost almost all the morning, he instead bypassed his kitchen in favour of his studio.

He had work to do, commissions to finish, money to make.

In his studio, the only room in his apartment to have white walls, he sighed. This was more than just his work space, it was his refuge from the world, from the universe as a whole. Nothing got in here, no phones, no TV, no radio, nothing except light from the full-length windows. Brush Stroke looked at his ‘in-progress’ stack ad sighed once more. There was at least seven half-finished canvasses leant against his wall. Landscapes all, he had one for Coco Pommel for her clothing shop, one for City Hall, one for the mayor of Manehatten’s private collection, as well as four others for his wealthy patrons.

Patrons and fame were not the problem. Inspiration, or rather, lack of it, was. As of late, Brush Stroke was finding he enjoyed his calling in life less and less. Painting was becoming less of a love and more of a labour. Still, he persevered because his dad needed money for the vast array of medication he was on. Twenty different pills and medicine per day wasn’t cheap.

“I need air…” he thought. Air, being outside, in the landscape he was painting, would clear his head. Hopefully, it would return his mojo, too, because he had zero skill in anything besides his art. ‘Still,’ he mused to himself as he picked up his collapsible easel, canvas for the mayor – a landscape of the North Park marble fountain – and his box of oil paints, ‘It keeps me in this lush apartment and my dad alive, who am I to complain?’

Fueled by imported tea and a desire to do right by his dad, Brush Stroke rode the elevator down to the ground level. At least it was sunny at the moment. He was hoping, as he crossed the road to the park, to get some solid hours in and get a wriggle on with his commission. ‘Then,’ he sighed despondently, ‘There’s all the others to do too…’ They all were promised to their respective owners by the end of the month, which was just a couple of weeks away.

Idly, as he entered the park, he wondered if Old Cinch would give him a job. With a laugh though, he squashed that idea. He did truly love his craft, even if he fell out with it from time to time. Brush Stroke laughed to himself at the frankly absurd notion of getting a ‘regular’ job as he carried his equipment through the park. He knew where he was going. The Trottingham native had walked these parks many times, and his destination was off the beaten track.

Quite why the city council had placed a marble fountain out here, where not very many ponies went, was beyond him. He didn’t really care, if he was honest. He was getting paid to paint it, not critique its placement. It really was a fine fountain. All marble, it consisted of a rearing pegasus mare stood on what looked to be the moon’s surface. Water shot out of little balls held on hollow pipes, made them look like shooting stars around the rearing mare.

Without looking up, Brush Stroke arrived at his spot, the same spot he always used when he came here, roughly a hundred feet from the fountain, the overhanging trees formed a quite pleasing natural frame. The artist got busy setting up his easel and canvas. That done he sorted through his paints and brushes.

~ ~ ~

“Five years…” Dusk muttered as his hooves suddenly touched grass. He assumed he was at the park, seeing as it was grass. And there were trees, and flowers and a bench, and fountains and other ‘park’ things going on. Those two words alone made the Prince want to further break down in tears. He’d been with Vocal Chord for five years. Five years, since he had been nineteen, since he had met him at the fun fair in Canterlot.

“Five bucking years!” Dusk screamed his anguish, though it did precious little to make him feel better. If anything, as he shut his eyes and cried louder, he felt worse, because when he closed his eyes, he saw her. He saw her, and what he had done.

Unable to fight it any longer, he slumped on the grass, ‘somewhere’ in Manehatten’s North Park. He guessed, wherever it was, it was off the beaten track, as the grass here was rather long and it came up his haunches, going a little way to obscuring his cutie mark. Not that he cared.

He wanted to be alone.

“N-No I d-don’t…” he cried, his tears falling here now too, “I want V-Vocal!” As much as he wanted his coltfriend – or, ex-coltfriend now, the more he cried. He wanted to tell him what he had done, to be told afterwards he was a good stallion, not a monster.

He did not see the mid-blue earth pony stallion set up an artist’s easel some distance behind him. As Dusk cried, he shut his eyes. He was completely oblivious to the quite spectacular marble fountain twenty or so feet in front of him, and the overhanging trees that gave it a natural frame.

Pink eyes clenched shut, he cried. Unbidden, thoughts of earlier the before day crept into his head. He could see them, the Wardens all thirteen of them, lined up on their knees in the care home’s dining hall, some were begging for their lives, some were weeping, while some had silently accepted their fate. He could see his mother walking up and down the line, or the thing that shared his mother’s body anyway, coldly pronouncing judgement and announcing their sentence. Try as he might he could see the Nightmare’s slit green eyes alive with vengeance as her long horn lit up and one by one the Wardens fell, their hearts magically crushed to ruin in their chests.

Dusk didn’t want to remember what came next. He knew well enough. Still the memory came. Last of the Wardens to fall was Amethyst Glory. Not once did she flinch or quail, not once did she try and run like the others. As the Nightmare fitted the blades to his wings she just knelt and bared her neck, not once looking away nor showing any remorse. Dusk blinked, those emerald eyes fixed upon him were full of hate, the mouse daring the eagle to strike. That look burned into his mind.

“I say!” Behind him, the blue earth pony artist, finally set up with all his equipment, saw the mare in the way of his painting. He had just squeezed out some oil paint onto his palette only to discover his view of the fountain obscured. “I say, you there, can you hop it, missus?”

‘Amethyst Glory, I pronounce you guilty of the willful neglect, false imprisonment, grievous bodily harm and torture of one hundred and forty seven ponies placed under your care over the space of fifteen years.’ Dusk Melody didn’t hear the earth pony. He heard his voice in his head, reading out just a few of the unicorn’s crimes. ‘Do you have anything to say before I carry out your sentence?’

Brush Stroke had everything in place to get started. He took a pencil in mouth and looked up, only this time, he saw he wasn’t alone. There was a midnight blue pegasus blocking his view, sat right in front of the fountain. He put the pencil back in its holder. “I say!” He called out, getting no response from the pony, “I say, you there, can you hop it, missus?”

Snorting out a breath of frustration, the artist stomped a little closer to the pony blocking his view. He wasn’t annoyed with the mare as such, more that he was a day or two behind with his commission for the Mayor’s private collection. His own fault, really. “I said, ma’am, can you please shift?”

Dusk shivered – he heard the stallion’s irate voice, but he didn’t think it was directed at him. He kept shouting ‘missus’ and ‘ma’am’, after all – he just wished with all his soul that his mind’s eye would show him something else. ‘Ha! Don’t make me laugh, colt. You don’t have it in you like she does…’ He heard Amethyst Glory’s taunting words like she was right there, on her knees.

“For the last time, love, can you please move your ass?” The stallion was now by Dusk’s side, not that the Prince noticed him any more than he noticed the wonderful scenery all around him.

‘You don’t have it in you like she does…’ were the last words to come from Amethyst Glory’s mouth as Dusk flexed his wings. He could still see the flash of the impossibly sharp wing blades, hear the swish of metal cut through the air, smell the sudden overwhelming coppery tang of blood that filled his nostrils as it fountained from the awful wound.

“Alright love,” the artist grumped, taking out a paintbrush from behind his ear and jabbing it sharply into the pony’s shoulder, hard, “I’ve asked nicely. Now, hop it quick smart, guvnor! You’re in my way!”

"Gah!” Dusk exclaimed, the effeminate stallion suddenly and abruptly bought back to the here and now by the incessant jabbing in his left shoulder. “What the hay! Ow!”

‘It’s not a mare…that voice…she’s a he…’ the artist attempted to process this, still jabbing the midnight blue pegasus in the shoulder with the pointy end of his paintbrush. Slowly, as he poked him, he glanced downwards with emerald green eyes and saw his sheath. Lovely, cute, and perfectly formed, it was there. ‘Oh…he’s cute!’

Dusk went back to studying the ground. He mumbled, “I'm fine...” through a very loud sniff that did nothing to hide his tears.

“Ah, yes, of course.” Brush Stroke shifted a little uncomfortably. He rather regretted jabbing the pony with his paintbrush now. “You may not have noticed, but I'm painting a landscape and it should be pony free.”

“I didn't notice. I'm sorry. Do you need me to move?” Dusk asked, wiping at his pink eyes with the primary feathers of his right wing.

“Well, it would be nice if you could be fine over there where I'm painting instead of being fine here.”

“Oh. Okay then.” With what seemed like a huge effort, the sobbing pegasus hauled himself up and he walked over to where the easel was set up. “My name's Dusk, by the way.” He didn’t know why he even did that, introducing himself, except the cute rugged earth pony was cute in a rugged earth pony way.

As they walked together, side by side, Brush Stroke was struck by just how much the stallion looked so much like a mare. “Brush Stroke, but only my dad’s call me that. I prefer Oils.” As he spoke, the mid blue artist returned to preparing his pallet, selecting the few colours he’d need for today and squeezing them from the tubes.

“Oils...” Dusk blinked away another sniff and looked at the easel as well as the pallet cutie mark on his well-toned flank – stop it Dusk! – “You're an artist?” ‘Oh well played, you idiot!’ he wanted to yell at himself, but he argued that it was probably a rebound thing.

Casually, Brush Stroke glanced down at Dusk's flank, his shapely, rounded flank and saw the cello in the moon cutie mark. “Takes one to know one. I'll hazard a guess that you don't paint.”

“No, no I don't. I play violin.”

“A good instrument.” Brush Stroke commented, he pulled his favourite pencil from its holder. “So, what has you in such a ‘fine’ mood today?” he asked, taking said pencil in his mouth and sketching out a rough outline of the main features of the fountain and the surrounding trees.

“My coltfriend in Canterlot left me.” Dusk answered simply, though he wondered why he told this stranger that so candidly. Then, he reasoned, he did ask. “I was with him five years. Told me over the phone just now that he didn’t want to be with me anymore.”

Brush Stroke said nothing until the preliminary sketch was done and he had put down the pencil. “Oh, I see. You’re that kind of fine, huh?” he picked up his large paintbrush to block in the general image of the fountain.

“Yeah. That kind of fine.” Curiously, in spite of his extremely maudlin mood, Dusk shifted where he was sat so that he could watch the artist work. With a few deft strokes of the brush, he had turned a blank canvas and some pencil lines into what was undeniably the fountain. “You're pretty good, by the way.”

A few more strokes of the large brush later, and the basic fountain was in place, ready for a smaller brush and the details that would make it truly pop. “It's a living,” Brush Stroke commented with a sigh. ‘Living’ was what it was. He was quickly losing his love for it. “Your accent says out of town.”

“Canterlot.” Dusk replied, watching with rapt attention now as the earth pony blocked in the different shades of green for the foliage of the overhanging trees that framed the fountain. “Yours says you're north of Trottingham.”

As soon as the foliage was blocked in to his liking, he turned to Dusk with a raised eyebrow, “Are you a detective for the Canterlot symphony?” he asked, now with a different brush he began skillfully working on the tree trunks and branches.

“N-No, I um, I meant it's a nice accent, that's all.”

Brush Stroke couldn’t quite hide the smile on his muzzle as he painted. ‘So, the cute pony thinks my accent is nice, does he? Hmmm…I wonder…’ “I rather enjoy it too. What brings you all the way out to Manehatten?” he asked, wondering what he was doing if his coltfriend – ex - was back in Canterlot as he started work on the shrubs and grass.

“Oh, well I'm visiting some friends that live out here,” Dusk answered vaguely. While he liked the look of the earth pony, he didn't feel the need to go into the whole royalty thing just yet. “I'm staying over with them on Stallion Island for a few days…” he trailed off when he looked at the painting. “That's incredible. It was blank, and a few strokes, and that tree looks like an actual tree!”

“Your coltfriend lives here.” He said, not really one hundred per cent listening while he was busy working in some basic detail on the grass.

Dusk Melody shook his head. “No, my coltfriend...ex, coltfriend, lives in Canterlot. He's a singer, in a band.” He blinked a few times as what the artist had said began to sink into his brain. “Did you mean, ah,” he blushed very hard indeed, “you?”

Brush Stroke almost dropped his brush, but he recovered enough just in time to finish the grass. “No competition then. Now to bring this to life!” Taking up a smaller, flat headed brush, he returned to work some shading and highlighting into the foliage.

“You know,” As Dusk decided to be a teeny bit brave, he scooted a little closer so that his charcoal grey tail flicked over Brush Stroke’s red and yellow one. He had just that moment remembered what Tempest had said back at Caffeinated’s ranch about scheduled rain. “We um...we should really be going, somewhere, inside ah, soon.”

“Yes, later.” Brush Stroke, entirely focused on what he was doing – namely adding details the fountain – didn’t pay his spectator the attention he deserved.

Dusk groaned internally. “No, ah...Oils, I mean going as in now, going.” As he spoke, he glanced up at the gathering clouds. Clouds that were getting steadily darker and darker by the second.

“Very good, you have a nice day.” Brush Stroke mumbled, brush held in his mouth and his green eyes zeroed in on his subject material. A few moments later, however, and the rain started. Slow at first, the droplets got bigger and bigger, splashing all around, a few hit the canvas.

“Wh-What the…” those two words had barely left the earth pony’s mouth when the sky opened up into a deluge. “What? What's this? No!” Frantically, Brush Stroke tried to protect the canvas with his forelegs only to smear it all the more. “This cannot be! The weather ponies should stop this!” After a few seconds of hard pounding rain though, he realised all was lost, and he sat on the grass. “It is now my turn to be fine!”

When Dusk saw the pout on Brush Stroke’s face, the green eyes on the verge of tears themselves, he very tentatively placed his foreleg around the earth pony’s shoulder. He didn’t care that the thundering rainwater was drenching his mane slick wet, he didn’t care his fur was already soaked in the first few seconds of the downpour. He saw and recognised a fellow artist in distress. “I'm sorry. I thought it was a fine painting.”

Brush Stroke was very glad of the foreleg draped around his shoulder, even if the stallion providing it knew nothing of why he painted, just why he was so upset. It wasn’t because his art was ruined – though that had a part in it – it was because he wanted the money from his art to provide for his dad’s expensive medication. “It now looks like one of those dreaded modern art pieces…oh well…” he slowly began putting away his supplies in his battered old case.

“You can do over, right?” Dusk asked uncertainly, looking from the pony to the canvas and back again. “Um, can I help?”

“Yeah, sure, though there’s not much to do unless you think you can collapse the collapsible easel.” Dusk did indeed tackle the easel, though having never encountered one before in his life – since junior school anyway – his attempts in the pouring rain was rather funny, taking him longer than it should. It was a funny moment, and any other time, Brush Stroke would’ve laughed. But his heart wasn’t in it. “Care for some tea? There’s one of those zebran shops on the west edge of the park.”

“Yes! Ponyfeathers, yes!” Dusk fluffed out his wet feathers, “I could really use some tea!” What he wanted to follow up with was, ‘Some tea with you,’ but he stopped himself at the last moment. While the earth pony carried his ruined canvas and his art case, the pegasus hefted up the collapsed easel onto his back for the walk across the now empty North Park.

Dusk Melody, a very wet and soggy Dusk Melody, sat at his table in the Laughing Pony Coffee & Tea bar quietly nursing his cup of earl grey while the rain pounded down outside. Across from him, sat opposite at the same table, an equally damp and soggy Brush Stroke sipped his oolong tea. The walk here from North Park, while not long at all, had been conducted mostly in silence.

The young Prince wanted desperately to say something, anything, to break the silence that had been like an all-encompassing entity since they had left the park moments before. The stallion with him was very, very attractive. Sadly, there was not a copy of ‘Romance 101: A Beginner’s Guide to Dating’ anywhere to hoof. “Ahem…” he coughed politely, “So um, you have two dads?”

It wasn’t much, but it was something, at least.

Brush Stroke sipped his warming tea, savouring the honey aroma almost as much as he savoured looking at the blushing stallion sat with him. He ignored the steady drip of rainwater from their fur that was making a puddle under their seats. The artist smiled, “Yes I do. Both earth ponies. My daddy, Dandelion has a flower shop in Trottingham. My dad, Starbright, is ex-military, Equestrian Army.”

“I have two mothers.” Dusk felt the need to reply, “My mum is a cellist in the Canterlot Philharmonic Orchestra and my mom…my mom…” he froze a little at that. He didn’t really want to divulge just whom his parents were just yet, in case this sexy, rugged stallion think he could use him. “My mom…works nights, doing a job.”

“Doing a job, huh?” Brush Stroke snickered, for that sounded like somepony who worked at a place like Old Cinch’s Bawdy House. “Gotta love a job. In answer to a future question, I’m adopted. From the Trottingham Orphanage at age four, or five, one of the two.” He cast a look around the zebra-owned café, fishing for a way to continue the conversation, now it was started. It was odd that he’d talk to a stallion, usually he paid bits and engaged in some unfulfilling sex. Unfortunately, the waitresses in their vintage frilly dresses, paper hats and roller skates didn’t offer any help. “You too, I assume?”

"Hmm?" Dusk made the questioning sound just as he took a mouthful of his tea. Quickly, he swallowed. “Oh ah, no, no I’m not adopted. My mum invited a gu-ah, friend, to join them one night. The result was me. I still see him, the stallion I mean, he’s in my life.”

“Lucky you,” Brush Stroke commented coolly, almost instantly regretting his rather icy tone.

“Oh um…I didn’t mean, ah…I’m sorry…”

“It’s fine,” Brush Stroke felt a little wretched. He’d made the cute stallion have an upset frowny face. It didn’t suit him, at all, especially when he had that sexy ‘wet mane’ look going on, combine that with the ‘stallion next door unremarkable but pretty’ prettiness about him, the artist thought this was a pony he could have some fun with. He reached over the table and laid his wet hoof upon an equally wet foreleg. “You weren’t to know.”

“Still,” Dusk blushed, the red tinge at his cheeks showing through his wet midnight blue fur. Around him, waiters and waitresses roller-skated to and from tables, carrying orders of food and drinks like they’d done this all their lives. Everypony was oblivious to the sparks and fireworks cascading inside him just as much as they were oblivious to the butterflies in his tummy. The hoof squeezing his foreleg was as hot as his tea. “I’m sorry.”

When Brush Stroke merely snickered at his predicament, Dusk mumbled, “I'm ah...rubbish at this, sorry.” Quickly he decided to change the subject. “You come here often, then?” Instantly, he wanted to take the foreleg that was being squeezed and facehoof with it. That was so lame! Even without a book to guide him!

“I do,” Brush Stroke nodded, his wet red and yellow mane looking more like a wrung out mop head rather than the sexy wet look he was going for. Oh well. “To enjoy the eye candy, and the drinks here aren't too expensive.” As he said that, a waiter skated past in a tight outfit as dated and frilly as the waitresses.

“You are a cute looking stallion.” Dusk Melody said, instantly his pink eyes went wide. He didn’t know where in Equestria that came from. Possibly the part of him nearest the hoof that was gently caressing his leg. Wait, caressing? When did stroking turn into caressing? Not that he minded.

“No.” Brush Stroke playfully shook his head, again sending his wet mane over his eyes and ever more water dripping onto the floor. “I'm handsome, you are cute.”

Dusk Melody set his teacup down and lifted his free hoof to his muzzle, hiding an extremely mare-like giggle before he took a very big brave pill and he tentatively brushed that cute wet mop of a mane from those sexy green eyes. “Oh, yes you are…” For some reason, Vocal Chord was very far from his mind as he gazed across the café table into those eyes.

The mid blue earth pony leant forward, extending the caress of his hoof further up Dusk’s foreleg all the way up to his shoulder. “So…Dusk, who’s feeling fine, were you just checking out the scenery in the park or looking for a bit of action?” He asked seductively, his eyes half lidded.

“Action.” Dusk couldn’t believe he had said that! That was so unlike him! ‘But…why shouldn’t I?’ he thought to himself as that hoof slowly slid up and down his leg. ‘Why shouldn’t I have some fun? I’m a free agent, besides I bet Vocal’s not worrying about me…’ Taking an even bigger brave pill than the one before, he raised a shaky hoof and awkwardly he caressed Brush Stroke’s foreleg. “Action. Definitely. With you.”

“Good choice.” Brush Stroke breathed an inward sigh of relief. This midnight blue pegasus pony was rather cute, after all. “You like art?”

Dusk took a long sip of his earl grey tea. Purely for nerve. “I like your art.”

“Ah,” Brush Stroke smiled. ‘Another groupie fan…’ was his first thought, but then he banished it quickly. This cute pony didn’t seem like the typical simpering fan. “So you know of my art?”

“I um, I don’t, much.” Dusk admitted with an even fiercer blush on his face than he had before. He wanted to combust and hide, run away or die somewhere far, far away. Celestia he was bad at this flirting! “And I love you...Ugh...it, I mean it!”

Brush Stroke simply laughed. “You can love my art, but it is far too early to love me.” Again he caressed the pegasus’s wet foreleg. “After all you don't even know me outside my art, and you don’t know that very well.” At that, he gave Dusk a wink. Besides, it was a bit hypocritical, wasn’t it? He didn’t know Red Velvet very well, but he still slept with him. “Still, I think I'll give you a chance.”

Dusk Melody was about to say something incredibly witty and no doubt spectacularly sexy and alluring. Sadly, before he could open his mouth – to no doubt insert his hoof in it – a caramel coloured zebra mare walked over to their table. A rather angry looking zebra mare. With a Laughing Pony paper hat on her head. “Oils!”

“Aaah…Geneve, how nice to see you!” Brush Stroke smiled at his friend, or, as near to a friend as he got. More, she ran the café, and was more or less friendly when he spent his bits in there. “She owns this fine establishment,” he explained for Dusk’s benefit.

“Cut the gumph, Oils.” Geneve, friendly as she might be, wasn’t looking too friendly at that moment. She let out a deep sigh. “I’m gonna have to ask you two to leave.”

“I say, why?” Brush Stroke grinned, “Is it because I’m here with this really sexy stallion, expressing our feelings openly?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, blowing a kiss to poor Dusk, who looked set to burst into flames. Their hooves were still touching each other’s forelegs.

“No, you dipstick!” Geneve facehooved, hard, then she clipped Brush Stroke’s ear, equally as hard. “You know full well I don’t care who you sit with. It’s because of that…” she emphasised ‘that’ and pointed her hoof down to the floor. Both Dusk and Brush Stroke followed her gaze and became aware of the ever growing puddle of rainwater underneath them. “You’re as wet as a seapony’s bathing costume, both of you. You’re a health and safety hazard, so, nicely, sling your hooks. Please. Besides, it’s stopped raining and you're both sopping wet. You need to dry off before you catch a death of a cold.”

Brush Stroke really couldn’t argue with that. Mercifully too, he noticed the torrential downpour outside had mostly abated by now, too. “Fine, Geneve,” he exclaimed dramatically as he got to his hooves and collected his painting supplies together. “Come, Dusk, we’ll depart for now. But,” he seized the café owner’s hoof and kissed it. “We shall return!”

“Go on, get out!” Geneve rolled her eyes, but nonetheless had a smile on her face at the artist’s antics. She liked him, and not because he spent bits in her shop. “Hey, Oils,” she said as Dusk once more picked up the collapsed easel, “The colt there looks sweet. Why not take my advice for once and try settling down with this one, huh?”

“Yes, mom!” Brush Stroke snickered and, ducking a well-aimed swipe from a caramel coloured hoof, led Dusk back outside into what was left of the rain, now just a slight drizzle in the early afternoon. Still, he had to admit Geneve had a point. Dusk was cute. He just didn’t know if he was ready for commitment, what with his work, and his dad’s health.

“This one?” Dusk asked, eyebrow raised, “What did she mean, ‘this one’?”

“Oh…ah, well, that’s just Geneve being Geneve, you know how these zebras are…” Brush Stroke waved his free hoof in the air as casually as he could. “They no speak the Equestrian very well…” Thankfully, Dusk seemed to buy that. Thankfully, because the artist didn’t really feel like going into his nocturnal habits at Cinch’s place. “I live in the building over there.”

Following where Brush Stroke’s hoof was pointing, to the multi-storey apartment block that overlooked North Park, Dusk noticed that the neighbourhood was old but very well to do with the landscaping and maintenance, it was clearly well kept. It reminded him of the middle noble’s quarters in Canterlot. “It looks nice. Old but a well-kept kind of old. I like it.” He walked along by the earth pony’s side. “So...this one?”

“Yes,” as Brush Stroke approached the main entrance, the door buzzed open.

The earth pony guard inside nodded politely when the two stallions entered the main lobby foyer of the apartment building. “Greetings, Mr. Stroke.” Brush Stroke simply returned the nod and, without a word, walked over to the wide elevator and pushed the PH button.

“Top floor, huh?” Dusk smiled when he noticed which button his – hopefully – potential date pressed. Unfortunately, as the elevator doors closed, he remembered just how claustrophobic he was. While all pegasi were affected by what was affectionately called ‘the pegasi’s fear’, some were affected more than others. Dusk Melody, as it happened, was very affected. “You go to the Laughing Pony a lot I take it?” he asked in an attempt to distract himself.

“I actually prefer their tea over the neighanise shops.” Brush Stroke replied casually as the elevator lurched into motion.

“Since being in Manehatten,” Dusk commented, staring dead ahead and trying to control his breathing, “I've grown rather fond of Stripes’ Cup of Java in the Times building.” It was no good. The walls were closing in closer and closer, about to crush him! He scooted closer to Brush Stroke, his hoof on his foreleg.

“The Times building near city hall?” Brush Stroke asked, his eyebrow raised at the sudden contact. While a little unexpected, it was certainly not unwelcome. “I've been there for an interview…” he trailed off, eyes wide. ‘Well, if that didn't sound pretentious, what does?’ “They didn't have a good selection of teas, but the zebra there told me about The Laughing Pony.”

Unmoving, Dusk squeezed the mid blue foreleg and nuzzled the earth pony stallion’s strong muscular shoulder. “Caffeinated's alright like that.” It was then that he realised just how intimate he had been. “I'm ah...ah...sorry, I hate elevators…”

“This one is perfectly safe.” said the artist in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, tapping a sign near the floor select buttons. “Inspected regularly.”

Unconvinced, Dusk didn’t let go. “I'll hold your hoof, if you don't mind, Oils.” Strangely, the handsome stallion’s presence was going a long way to keeping the walls at bay.

“On no, not at all. Not at all.” Brush Stroke had no qualms or objections to the very, very cute stallion next to him holding his hoof. His only objection was that the elevator ride was over way too quickly. He wished it was slower so as to prolong the moment. All too soon though, the doors opened to reveal the penthouse floor foyer. “Let's get you dry, shall we?” In the foyer, opposite each other, were two doors. On the left was labelled Brush Stroke, and on the right the door read Blue Quill. “It’s just through here.” Using his keycard, Brush Stroke unlocked the door and opened it, standing aside to let the pegasus enter first.

"Oh wow I like this!” Dusk exclaimed having not taken more than a few steps into the apartment. He was immediately taken by the bare brick walls of the expansive apartment and the nice pricey upmarket furnishings that were draped everywhere, from the faux leather couch to the seventy two inch flat screen TV hanging on the wall. “Reminds me of the green room in the Canterlot Royal Theatre…” Dusk’s pink eyes went wide. ‘Oh you arse! Up my own shaft or what?’

Behind him, Brush Stroke's eyes widened a bit. His first thought, scandalous though it was, was that here was a cash cow he could exploit – not for himself, but for his dad’s medical bills. Alright, and for himself. “You've been, oh, sorry, you did say your mom played for the symphony.” He blushed, while he didn’t know much about music, he knew not everypony just played at the Royal Canterlot Theatre. “I have a full bath in here,” he opened a door. “You can get cleaned up and dry.”

Poor Dusk had a monumental blush on his face as he murmured, “I first performed there when I was seventeen...I'll ah, thank you, for the bath, I won't be long.” He was happy to jump into the bathroom, if only to hide his blushing face. Brush Stroke however chose to use the master bathroom that was adjacent to the pit he called a bedroom to do the same and he was quick about it so he could make tea.

When Dusk Melody – eventually - reappeared from the bathroom (Brush Stroke had the time to not only shower but tidy up his bedroom, the apartment and make the tea in the time it took Dusk to have a bath) he had his charcoal grey mane styled and dried, his midnight blue fur cleaned and brushed, and he was straightening the feathers out on his right wing. “Thank you, for that.”

As the earth pony was pouring the hot water, he had to be careful as he almost scalded his hoof. Dusk was no longer a bedraggled soggy sobbing mess. He was a very, very beautiful stallion. “I’ll ah, I think I'll show you about while that steeps.”

Dusk noticed Brush Stroke as well. Red and yellow mane slightly damp and unruly. The sight momentarily took his breath. “Oh...oh you are handsome indeed, Oils.”

“Th-thank you, you, ah, look divine.”

“One tries,” casually, Dusk flicked his mane, folding his wings away and he walked over to his host. Thankfully, that brave pill he took in the café was still working, because from nowhere he kissed the artist’s cheek. “That was for the bath, it was most kind.”

Brush Stroke could feel his cheeks burn bright red, no matter how much he told himself he did not blush. “Ah, um, um…right, the tour!”

“I'm all yours, Oils. Lead on.” As it turned out, there was a lot of space in the loft apartment. The whole floor was U shaped in which he had half and Blue Quill the other. There was a master bathroom adjacent to his bedroom, plus store rooms and supply cupboards off of the studio area, and even a dining room across from the kitchen. The tour took in all the rooms, and the studio was last so Brush Stroke could gather the art supplies just inside the front door.

Inside the large white walled studio, Brush Stroke showed off the couple of complete personal works, which were rather old, but he didn’t admit that, and several incomplete commission works that were waiting to be finished. Dusk was taken immediately by one landscape in particular. One of the Celestial Sea painted from a hill overlooking the Horseshoe Bay and the Equestrian east coast. “Oh my...Oils, these are magnificent!”

‘If you only knew that was four years ago,’ Brush Stroke thought sadly, ‘when I still had my spark to paint. All he said though was, “Thank you.”

“I mean it!” The more Dusk looked at the painting, he fancied he could see Griffonstone on the shore across the Celestial Sea, as well as the crew on the sailing ships on the water. “It's like being there, looking at these!” The one in question was of a cityscape as viewed from across the river in Gernsy. “Are these the ones you're working on?”

Brush Stroke nodded. “That is another one for Manehatten City Hall.” Or it would be for City Hall, if he could be bothered to finish it.

“Another?” asked Dusk, an impressed look on his face, “You mean your art is there now?”

“Oh, yes in the lobby.” Brush Stroke replied, no trace of ego in his voice. “That one is to go across from the elevators on the main floor.”

“Well, colour me impressed!”

“Okay, I’ll maybe use a soft red for that.”

Dusk giggled, rather unused to this flirting business without a dating guidebook to help him. Still, as Rainbow Dash sometimes told him, go with the flow. “Perhaps my feathers, hmm?”

“Wouldn't that make it hard to fly?”

“If you coated all of the primaries, yes…” Dusk had a think, as he really did fancy this earth pony a lot, so much of a lot and to the burning depths of Tartarus with Vocal Chord. Why shouldn’t he be happy? Didn’t he deserve to be happy as well as the next pony? “So, what part of me would you paint?” he asked through lidded eyes.

Brush Stroke’s shoulders slumped and he sighed, “That's the problem. I just, I don't know, I'm in a rut!” he waved his hoof over the unfinished works waiting to be completed, “I have lots of work to do, but no motivation. I was trying to work on the mayor's piece, and then it…” he waved out of the window, “rained.”

“It was scheduled, I thought you knew,” Dusk scooted over to the despondent artist and he cuddled him, wrapping his forelegs around his neck. He took a deep breath as the brave pills were wearing off. “Would you um, ah, would you like to um, go out, with me?”

Pointedly, Brush Stroke did not push away from the cuddle, nor did he return it, but he did lean into the effeminate pegasus. “Where?”

Dusk held him tight, adding his strong powerful wings to the hug. “I'm going to an open mic night at Stripes’ coffee shop later. I'll be playing my violin, and I’d like you to come, as my date.”

“Isn't that like karaoke?”

“It is,” Dusk responded, straightaway picking up on the distaste in the other pony’s voice and loving him all the more for it. “But there'll be poetry readings, musicians playing, that sort of thing.”

“I'm not any good at that, but I'd...I'd love to hear you play.” Brush Stroke smiled a rare genuine smile, a smile that reached his green eyes rather than one that he plastered on his face. “Maybe you'll be my inspiration.”

“It's a date then?” Dusk asked, with a hopeful look on his face.

“What time?”

“Starts at four, till whenever, I think.”

“Seems a little early,” Brush Stroke commented, though he wasn’t trying to be awkward. “Will there be food?”

“There will be, yes,” Dusk replied with some surety, for he remembered Caffeinated and Mapper talking about the catering at the open mic night the day before at the zebra’s ranch. “There’ll be a buffet selection of things.”

“That does sound nice,” Brush Stroke agreed, “Do you need to get your instrument?”

Dusk shook his head, still unable to quite believe he had secured himself a date, all on his own! “No, somepony is bringing it for me later,” he responded, playfully kissing his nose.

“We have plenty of time, then, don’t we?” Brush Stroke assumed, rather naturally, that the friend that Dusk was staying with in Manehatten would be bringing it along. “I say, would you care to model for me?”

“I'd love to!”

Brush Stroke grinned, it was a grin that grew into a smirk when he glanced down at Dusk’s shapely feminine flanks. “I think I feel my inspiration returning!” Strange though, how his ‘inspiration’ happened to be down near his sheath area. As it happened, in his studio, he had purple chaise with gold trim. Still grinning, he moved his new model over to it and he proceeded to position and pose him upon it. Once he was satisfied, the artist painted the stallion just like he was a maid from Prance.

“I think I like being your model, Oils…” Dusk almost purred as he laid back in an extremely provocative manner, his left wing just covering his sheath while his hind legs were spread apart.

The painting, as it happened, either by chance or design, took up the rest of the day till they both left the penthouse apartment. The poses Brush Stroke requested of Dusk grew ever more provocative as the afternoon wore on, partly as he was trying to establish how far he could go. It turned out he could go pretty far. As things progressed, through the occasional tea and viewing breaks, Brush Stroke was getting more and more ‘hooves on’ in posing his model.

Dusk Melody, for his part, loved the very hooves on approach. It was just a shame he wasn’t more so.