Those Cold Nights

by DaWhirlhoof

Rating: mature
Tags: Romance, Original Character, Octavia, Violence, Gore, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Death
Length: 1958

It's not exactly a new idea to find true love, but...who can blame me? I'm smitten, with a little musician. Take a guess.

I used to believe that nothing besides my work mattered. Wake up, work, get a payment, sleep. Day in, day out.

But then a certain mare brightened up my life, funny enough colored gray. But that's the most beautiful gray I've ever seen.

She is my sunshine, and I'll do anything to have her.

(Art drawn by the smexy Spittfireart!)

(Btw, try to figure out what's wrong with the story before it actually happens. Spoiler warning: It involves murder.)

Published 2019-08-05 23:20:01 UTC
Last updated 2019-08-05 23:20:01 UTC

The Meeting

I kick the door closed after shuffling into the dreary house. In my little house, with my little hoof, on the little door.

Mouse door.

Today was a busy day. Every day is busy when you do nothing else.

Busy.

Busy busy.

Busy bee.

I drop my case on the sofa, not really caring if the tools inside are broken. I can afford more. I could afford all of them really. I could buy all of Canterlot at this point.

I just might. Maybe nobles will arrive at my door to complain and I can bite their snouts off.

They'd be tasty, I bet.

I ooze out of my tie and shirt, the outfit being much larger than my size. Why? I don't know, ask the suit. I'm sure it has valuable opinions. I pick them up and toss them vaguely over to Mr. Sofa. Or Mrs. I haven't decided yet. Depends on if they have kids soon.

Just take one look at my house, and tell me it's not the worst torture for Discord. Gray absolutely everywhere. I don't mean colorwise. There are soft and bright reds and pinks and yellows and all sorts. It's chaotic. For somepony else.

For me? It's bland. Dull. Dreary. There's a table, a sofa, a phonograph, the usual things somepony of middle class would have. I say "usual" because I don't use any of it. The only reason I don't sell or throw it out is because I have to keep up an "image" for the few ponies who aren't so snotty that they can't see me from above their nose. I'd call them friends, but that's like saying the grass is my "savior" because I can eat it. It exists, so do I. But one must consume the other.

In many ways.

A zip of the coat, a tug of the sleeve, a flip of the hat. Whatever signals the end of the day. I know mine is over when the room becomes a darker shade of gray than normal. Never so much as black, but bleaker. Neither the sun nor moon can illuminate it. It stays the same for all day, all week, all year, all eternity.

I'm not unhappy. Not happy either. They'd call me apathetic. I wouldn't say that. I am very pathetic, actually.

That's what that means, right? Eh. If someone corrects me on it, I'll just kill them. Easier than listening to the nags.

Makes me wonder why I haven't done it already. Not because I'll get in trouble. Creator knows that won't stop me. I'd welcome a dungeon, actually. Would be a nice change of pace. Might actually see some color.

Too much effort, though. I'd have to leave my house for something besides work, and that's a chore. Then I have to talk to ponies. And that never ends well.
NEVER
Knock at the door. It's probably the mailmare. Or a "friend." I'm not sure. Not many would willingly knock on my door, and fewer would willingly enter my home. They must be crazier than me.
IMPOSSIBLE
I slump over and pull it open slowly, seeing if I can recognize the silhouette. I do. That's good.

It's Mr. Blue Mane. Or as others know him, "Fancy Pants." That's a lie, though. He is neither fancy nor does he wear pants. It's misleading.
LIES ARE FOR PREY
He waits there, seeming not to notice me waiting at the door. That's understandable. Sometimes I don't see myself. I'm not very visible. But after he looks at me, he starts apologizing. Not sure why. Does he pity my invisibility?

I don't think so. He doesn't pity. Especially not me. He knows better. He has to. They all have to.

He's started talking. I guess I'm meant to listen. Just to be polite. As if that means anything. But better to avoid the anger and just listen. Less yelling that way. I can go back inside sooner and go back to Mrs. Sofa. Yes, it's Mrs. now.

His mouth starts flapping. "Hello and good day, chap. I happened to gain hold of a pair of tickets to the Gran Galloping Gala recently, and I have no use for them. I could just buy more or go with Miss De Leis. I was thinking you would gain much more use and enjoyment out of these than I." He plastered that plastic smile, and holds the tickets in his aura. In front of my muzzle. He's lucky it's not his own snout, or he'd be an amputee now.
MAKE IT REALITY
Should I? He might want something. I'll ask if he wants something.

"Any payment you'd like? I can provide bits, or service, or-"

He dares to shake his head. "Oh, no no no, chap. I cannot demand payment for something I hold no value in. No, you may take these free of any debt. An opportunity for you, and less waste for me." That smile is driving me nuts.

An opportunity, he calls it? Oh joy, to be around dozens of other gray ponies, listening to their gray conversations, and drinking gray beverages. Blegh. But I suppose it's better than waiting around in my house for something to not happen. Maybe.
HE DARES PITY US. TEAR HIS THROAT OUT.
I grab the tickets briskly and manage to get a whole "thanks" out. I then go back in and shut the door. That's dealt with. Fancy isn't the worst of the nobles, but he certainly isn't the best. Instead of bragging about how much money he has directly, he brags about how much he's donated to charity. He's still bragging. Just indirectly. It's almost bad enough to get mad over, but mad makes colors, and I don't have colors.
WE SHOULD SEE HIS RED.
I think about tossing the tickets out of laziness, but then I stop. There's no harm in attending, is there? Well, I actually hope there is, since if I bleed then I might see color again. And the pain would be a nice feeling. I'd do it to myself, but I'm always conveniently interrupted.
WEAKLING

------------- a sufficient time later -------------

Ponies dress like mannequins when attending a fancy party, right? Or as they call it, "formal." I'd much rather show up normally, but I really don't need others to judge me when I can't physically respond in kind. I do have suits. It's satisfactory.

Doesn't really matter what I pick. They're all gray. Accents and compliments don't matter. It's just drawing the eye away from your natural look, and revealing your insecurity. The only clothes you need are for warmth. Formal wear is useless and makes you look like you're compensating.
THEY ARE COMPENSATING FOR WEAKNESS
They all are.

But because of some needless social construct, I throw on the first random suit I find. It'll do. They don't care about colors or design or some other nonsense. You just need to be "formal."
WORTHLESS
Rubbish.

I look at myself in the mirror. Thick black mane that's more annoying to shower with than anything else. Soft grey coat that other ponies won't shut up about being "remarkable." Grey eyes. Those grey, lifeless, dead eyes.
OUR EYES. BE PROUD.
Ugly.

UGLY

UGLYUGLYUGLYUGLYUGLYUGLYUGLYUGLY
The clock ticks.

A second passes.

I turn from the mirror. I can't stand that much grey. It hurts my eyes.
WE HURT OURSELVES
I take a look at the tickets. I know full well that only one is needed. Me taking a date? That's beyond fiction. Insane.

I'll go alone. I always have, always will.
YOU ARE NEVER ALONE. THERE ARE THREE. YOU, ME, AND THE ONE WHO WATCHES US.
THEY KNOW WHO THEY ARE.
Suit is worn. Face sufficiently prepped. My plastic smile is equipped. I'm ready. Ready for whatever greyness awaits me. It should be boring. It will be.

I open the door. I walk out the door. I close the door. I start walking to the Gala.

----------------- time passes TIME ENOUGH FOR HUNGER -----------------

I'm here now. Nothing happened on the way. As expected. Perfectly organized. Perfectly on time. Perfect.
WE ARE ANYTHING BUT PERFECT
It was a mess. Celestia at the head of the stairs, greeting ponies with another plastic smile. She likely holds the record for the most fake expressions I've ever seen. They're even more forced than mine. Achievement. Not a nice one.
ALL TROPHIES ARE FAKE. ALL AWARDS ARE WORTHLESS.
Ponies, ponies, ponies. There's more ponies than air. I don't know how they don't suffocate. Maybe they subsist on their own egos. Probable. They huddle around Celestia, around the refreshments table, quiet corners, anywhere they can talk without others overhearing. Business? Shady deals? The same. Always.
THEY COWER IN FEAR OF CHALLENGE
They're everywhere. In their grey suits and grey manes and grey jewelry. They babble nonsense and hear nonsense. Blah blah blah. It seems this was a complete waste of time. Might as-

I hear happiness. Energy. The sound of joy. It's... strange. I don't know how to react. I'm unprepared. I've never sensed joy before. At least, I don't remember it.
WE... WE DO NOT REMEMBER. BUT IT IS ATTRACTIVE.
Where is the source? It cannot be one of the groups; they are all plastic. It cannot be Celestia, for she is too focused on composure.

Composure. Composing. Music. The music of joy. Tunes of passion. That is the source. A musician is filled with life and attempting to spread it to this desolate land. I must find them.
FIND AND DESTROY THEM. WE WILL SPARE THEM THE PAIN OF FAILURE.
I search. I search the tables, the halls, the corners, the gardens, the gates. I cannot find the music there. Strings play and hearts explode, yet I am not aware of where.

There is one place I have not yet checked. The musician's desk. Perhaps the most obvious, but I am not used to obvious.

My eyes search. They look for color. They land.

One mare. One mare is the source. Colors explode outward from her. Reds and blues and yellows and greens and purples and wondrous colors. I cannot imagine how many. It is beautiful. She plays with the ferocity of a timberwolf, yet the elegance of a sea serpent. She radiates her emotion to all around, in hopes they will join in her melody. She holds energy and enthusiasm and joy and ecstasy. But the most impressive is that they are genuine. She is not plastic. She is real.
SHE... SHe... She... She is wondrous. She is incredible. We cannot deny.
And her form in body is no less impressive. Perhaps more. She is sleek. The structure of a swan, without wings. No, she has wings. Musical ones. She soars high. Her eyes are depths of violet, drawing in the soul and mind. She calls to others, without a voice. She wears a bowtie, clinging to her skin. It contains her emotion and amplifies it. But most striking is her coat. In a twist, it is the most generic shade of gray I have ever seen. At first glance, it is nothing special. But her gray is special. She takes the blandness of such a color, and creates herself into an angel. She is the goddess of wonder and song, and her coat is her mask.
She is everything we desire. Everything we need. She calls to us. We must talk to her. We must have her.
I walk over.

Author's Note

And so it begins. Something besides a frickin one-shot.

If you are reading on light mode: here's a hint. Try reading between the lines. ;)

If you are reading on dark mode: well, there are no lines to read between, are there?