So perfection has its limits, mused Blueblood. He brushed the worn photograph lovingly, eyes fondling every detail of the snow-white unicorn that had so spurned his advances. Perhaps she wasn’t into stallions. Those fashion types were always tricky.
He had retired to his chambers with a bottle of cider and explicit instructions not to be disturbed. His straw blonde hair was messy and unkempt, tufts jutting out at odd angles. A tuxedo lay crumpled on the ground, sadly unaccompanied by a sequined gown.
Blueblood raised the bottle to his lips and took a hearty swig, grunting as the alcohol burned down his throat. Where there had previously been the ache of rejection was slowly replaced by warmness. A sense of well-being. He licked his lips with satisfaction, catching every drop. It was fine cider, from last season’s reserves. He had hoped to share it with somepony, though he could settle for having the bottle to himself.
His horn glowed for a moment and sent out a flash of golden magic. Dozen of lavender candles extinguished themselves, their wicks dribbling curls of smoke into the air. His bed was covered with rose petals that crumpled beneath his body, staining his sheets.
Another swig. He felt a sting in his eyes and blinked it back, vision becoming watery. He deftly removed his bow tie with a tug of magic, sending the fabric flying through the room.
He had experienced his fair share of rejection. And some had certainly been more extreme, he mused as he brushed a faint scar. But this had shaken his confidence, striking at something very soft and very deep within him. His face curled into a disgusted grimace and the cider went to his lips again.
He tongued the rim of the bottle, imagining for a moment that the glass was something else. The cool, sharp drink flooded his senses, sending him reeling in pleasure.
There would always be next time. It was law. And it was the thought of next time that kept him playing.
He glanced at the photograph one more time. It was a blurry shot and it was enough. Her purple ringlets were wrapped in a towel. Her body glistened with water. He admired her lithe form and shapely, feminine curves. She was facing away from him, eyes focused on something out of the picture, her face adorned by a faint, mysterious smile that beckoned..
That was it. The photograph burst, ripped into shreds by a pulse of magic. He had misjudged the energy needed and scraps were sent flying. They fell like little snowflakes and covered him in a silent flurry.
It was a game, he reminded himself. The ecstasy-filled nights always balance the harshest, most bitter of rejections.
With a sigh of finality, Blueblood polished off the bottle and snuggled deep into his covers. By the time his eyelids closed he was already dreaming of his next mark, his lips becoming a lopsided grin.
-
There was no limit to her perfection, reflected Spike. The photo was from Hearts and Hooves Day. It was embroidered with tacky red hearts that had once said TRUE ROMANCE, but they had been hastily scraped off. Rarity had written in her own elegant script- BEST FRIENDS.
One gets used to hours of solitude and quiet working in a small town library. Silence was Spike’s best friend, introspection his closest company. He could hear the hollow thrum of rain on the windows.
Two mugs of coffee cooled slowly on the table. An offering of cookies, pastries, and tiny sandwiches had been laid out in Twilight’s finest white china. Spike picked at a muffin idly but it dried his mouth and he spit out the bitter crumbs after every bite.
The hoot of a grandfather clock stirred him from his reverie. It was nearing ten at night, and he wondered if he should hold out for another hour. Maybe she was busy. An unexpected order. A delivery that had taken longer than usual. What was a single hour when he had already waited for three, five, seven.
He chewed on another pasty to soothe his growling stomach, washing it down with a gulp of cold coffee. Infused with pointless energy he worked his idle claws. He swept the table and cleaned the floors, abolishing every speck of dust in his mind. He straightened the silverware and brushed crumbs from the table and polished the china until he saw his face.
The reflection’s eyes were ringed by deep violet circles and betrayed something more. A tiredness he didn’t understand. Emotions he could not comprehend.
When the vanilla candles had began to sputter and dim, he was there with a fresh set, lighting them with a gentle gust of breath. Long ago Rarity had let slip they were her favorite scent and he ordered a box. They were cloying and sweet when they burned and made him dizzy. He stuck his head out a window, taking deep lungfuls of breath.
Maybe the invitation was tacky. He had come on too strong. He hadn’t made his intentions clear.
He tried to shy away, body shaking as if he could physically escape the idea. Maybe she didn’t love him.
But there were so many signs! The glances of indescribable happiness. The laughter that sent both of them to ground, howling and wiping tears from their eyes. The cool nights when they had snuggled together beneath a blanket, sipping from the same mug and sharing stories. The moments where they had sat, enjoying the easy silence.
The hoot of a wild owl jarred him and he returned. The moon gazed gently down at Spike, full and bright.
It was a sign. He knew it.
He warmed the pastries in the oven. A kettle of water boiled happily on the stove and he ground another cup of coffee beans. Another half-dozen candles made their way to the table, casting a full and beautiful light.
He placed a record on the turntable, something romantic and mood-setting with plenty of strings and a soaring vocalist that sang of a stallion that waited for his love.
