Sensation - Appleloosa

==X===X===X===X===X==

Soarin’ wears a large saddlebag stuffed with materials. He trots up and rubs his face on Braeburn’s. “And I mean that.”

“I know you do, love.” Braeburn rubs back.

They stand there, moaning softly. They're both back in that moment, and it heartens me to see them like this.

Braeburn kisses Soarin's ear, the one with the stud. Soarin’ rests his chin on Braeburn’s head. “Remember how you made fun of me for taking so long with my story?”

“Okay, fine, you got me.”

“Seriously, you're just now at the part where I moved here?”

“There's a whole bunch to cover! And I already told him about the move itself, right at the start.”

“Seems like our mayor is…” His voice fades, and he hugs Braeburn all of a sudden. “Thanks for talking to somepony about it. You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah. Lots to get off my chest.”

Soarin’s tone darkens. “Even if Mac stops by? I… don't really know what his plans are after lunch.”

A pregnant pause. They speak more quietly, but not so much that I don't hear.

Braeburn mumbles, “Yeah. I… might ask him to stay, actually. I don't like hiding things from him.”

“You sure?”

“No. But… I need to process it all sometime, right?”

My neck feels hot.

Braeburn strokes Soarin’s face. “And how are you holdin’ up?” Soarin’ doesn’t answer. “I’m sorry this is all happening on Sky’s rebirthday.”

Soarin’s jaw trembles, and he holds Braeburn’s hoof against his face. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’m actually glad it all worked out. Gives me something else to think about today, and it’s gonna make September seventh a lot happier from now on.”

“Ha! You gonna celebrate the Foal Scout Jamboree every year now?”

“Something like that. Dad’s…” His head rolls side to side. “Dad’s gonna be really proud of me by the end of the day.”

“He already is.” Braeburn rocks onto the tips of his hooves and kisses away the tears from each of Soarin’s eyes. Soarin’ smiles and kisses Braeburn back before licking the salt from his lips.

Braeburn glances at me, and his ear flicks. He clears his throat. “How's the prep going?”

Soarin’ sucks in a breath, and his eyes go wide. “...Good!” He grimaces. “Really great! Not stressed at all!”

“Ha! I know you're lying.”

“It's called a cry for help, Applebutt.”

“So you're finally gonna let me step in?”

Soarin’ and I lock eyes, and my heart thumps so loud that I can't hear anything else. I stammer, “I'm sure he's got it, Braeburn.”

Braeburn sighs. “I know. It's just… I see how hard you're working, and it's tough not to be there for you and the town. You get it, right?”

“I do,” Soarin’ says. “And like, I actually do need your help on a couple things. I know it's short-notice, but do you think you can give a speech to everypony? Maybe around two-thirty?”

“Oh, you mean like this one?” Braeburn reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a small stack of notecards.

Soarin’ wrinkles his nose and tries to hide a smile. “Have you been carrying that around all day just to shove it in my face?”

“Maybe.” He puts the cards away. “How dressed up should I be?”

“I'll bring some clothes to the shed fifteen minutes ahead of time.”

“Shouldn't I shower at home?” When Soarin’ freezes, Braeburn calmly says, “It's okay if you've got a surprise. Gives me somethin’ to look forward to.”

“Dammit. I was hoping you wouldn't figure it out.”

“You're sly, Blue, but it's mighty hard not to be suspicious when you've got me busy all day. It's okay, though! I won't try to guess. So, what's in the bag?”

“Oh yeah! I've got a little present. And… it was going to be an excuse to keep you from downtown, but also I kiiinda need help, like, today.” He sets the bag down at his side and digs into it. He pauses a moment, and my heart jumps to my throat when I see a tiny flash of red. “No, not that.” He settles on a cardboard tube and a blanket. “So, you know how I wanted to go national with the buckball league?” He sets the blanket across the grass.

“Uh-huh. It's ambitious, to say the least.”

“Yeah, ambitious… so…” He offers the tube to Braeburn. “Maybe hold onto your butt.”

“That's your job,” Braeburn laughs. He opens the end of the tube and gasps as he unrolls the blue paper. “Blueprints?” On it are plans for a massive stadium. “Holy hell, here in Appleloosa!?”

“Yeah! Like, I know it's a lot, but… well…” He takes a step closer to Braeburn. “Remember what you said about investing myself in the community?”

“Soarin’, there's no way you can afford this.”

“I…” Soarin’ winces. “...might need a loan, yeah.”

“Figures, but… wow, this is something. Blue, it's a silly backyard game that we made up.”

“Correction: big backyard game. It's been huge on the east coast ever since that meet-and-greet, and it's getting bigger. Trust me, we really wanna jump on this train before somepony else does.”

“Yeah, but a whole stadium? You–” Braeburn’s voice catches in his throat.

Soarin’ makes an arc with a foreleg, like a terrible salespony. “It's aspirational!”

As Soarin’ sets his hoof down, Braeburn grabs it and shakes it weakly. A sad smile breaks on his face. “And it gives the Wonderbolts a place to perform.”

Soarin's ears flatten. “Yeah… B-but the team could practice here, too! Spitfire wants a place for spring training, and it would be good for tourism, right? Heh heh…”

“Soarin’, you can't build a whole stadium just to spend more time with me.”

“Braeburn, I would do anything to spend more time with you.”

“I know. That's what worries me.”

Soarin’ droops and hugs Braeburn tightly. “We'll figure it out, Applebutt. I promise I have a plan.”

“Heh. Wanna let me in on it?”

“Later. I've got, like, zero time right now.” In the distance, we hear a train whistle. Soarin’s jaw drops. “Uh, actually I have less than zero time.” He quickly leaps into the air and steals another quick peck. “Love you, talk to you later! No peeking! …Love you!”

“Love you, too! Twice!”

Soarin’ gives it a beat, smiles, and then zooms off back to town. Braeburn shakes his head and waves, the breeze tugging at his mane.

I come up and sit next to him. “He never stops, does he?”

“Naw, even if it means his plans ain't fully thought out.” He rolls his head towards me with a sly smile. “Keep a secret?”

“Of course.”

“He's giving me a big plaque to put in the town hall. Smooth obsidian. Says ‘First Mayor of Appleloosa’ and everything. I'm guessing he's got the whole town in on it.”

I pause and smile, but not for the reason Braeburn thinks.

Braeburn laughs. “I suppose that means I'm right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Blue stashed it in the shed with his buckball gear. I think it slipped his mind when he asked me to help set up the league game the other day. I tried not to notice, but it was hard to miss.”

I smile at Soarin’s choice of “hiding” spot. Subtle and believable. Sounds like Braeburn doesn't suspect anything yet. “I can neither confirm nor deny any details.”

“Ha! That means I'm right. Just hope it doesn't distract from the jamboree.” He stands up. “Break's over, though. Now, what were we talking about?”

“Soarin’ had suggested moving to Appleloosa. It sounded like you both liked the idea, even if you were nervous.”

“‘Liked’ is a hell of an understatement.”

==X===X===X===X===X==

I saw him again two weeks later. On Trail’s advice, I spent the whole weekend in Cloudsdale. It wasn't too far out of the way, since I had a short Thursday meeting in Canterlot. Soarin’ met me with a skycab. When I protested, he said he’d flown himself on the way there to save some bits, which put me at ease.

My fear of heights disappeared with his wings around me. We fell asleep wrapped up in the back seat, only to wake up as we descended to the security gate of the Sunrise Estates. But I got a chill as we walked up to his home. The memories were still raw.

As soon as the door closed, Soarin’ turned to me with a hungry gaze and said, “Okay, gonna be real: I know the rule is ‘business before pleasure,’ but I will be way too distracted to get anything done if we talk logistics right away.”

I snickered. “C’mere, you.”

I’d missed sleeping on a cloud mattress. They don’t have enough support, but the temperature regulation is perfect. I sometimes wonder how much it would cost to get one down here.

We woke up from our post-cuddle nap and spent an hour just talking about the last two weeks. Soarin’ had been busy: one of his physical therapists was from Dodge Junction, and she was looking for an excuse to get out of the city. “There’s this student loan forgiveness program. It’s for doctors in rural areas, and she’s super into it.”

Tired and sticky as we were, I grilled him hard while we snuggled on the bed. Years on the Founders’ Council had taught me the right questions to ask, and I put Soarin’ through the ringer. I'd ask, “What would you do for work?”

And he'd respond, “Part time at the launderer's pressing clothes, part time coaching foal sports. But it would take a few months to get stable, so I’d need to rely on my insurance for spending cash.”

“How would you pass the time?”

“Reading and therapy exercises, which is practically a full-time job. Plus learning more about cooking.”

“What about being a Wonderbolt?”

“Spring training is my first big chance to get back in the game.” He laid back and stared up at the ceiling, like he was following a map that I couldn’t see. “Until then, I keep up my therapy and go to weekend training sessions every once in a while. I’ll schedule them for the same weekends that I get checked out by the gay doctors.” He cast a glance my way. “You know, to make sure I’m still queer enough.”

I groaned. “Doctors Hope and Soul are professionals, Blue, and mighty fine folk besides.”

“Laughter’s the best medicine!”

I nudged his neck with my nose and gave his jaw a quick kiss. “Did Soul tell you that?”

“Nah. He said the best medicine was a good prostate milking.” I laughed, and Soarin’ continued. “But yeah, I’d have to come back every few weeks. Since I’m on medical leave, I can only fly with the team a set number of hours, which changes all the time. Here, lemme go grab the schedule that Streak and I worked out.”

By the end of the day, he'd convinced me to give it a shot. I was worried he'd have to move all his stuff again if it didn't work, but he said that moving wasn't a big deal.

We spent the rest of the weekend together. We didn't go anywhere, since spending time together cooking and working on a puzzle (to practice dexterity and spotting details) gave us plenty to do. I was proud of Blue: he'd gone shopping and gotten a lot of produce and some spices. It was a strange mix, but we made a nice stir fry for dinner.

We talked about the book, too. We figured out the rules of engagement for talking with a reporter, and we agreed Soarin’ would vet you before letting you know about our recent history. I'm happy that all worked out.

A couple weeks after that was the interview, but you know all about that.

We sent letters daily. We were like two adolescents going back and forth, even when we didn't have anything to talk about. Soarin’ got practice reading and writing, and I got a nice little meditation at the end of every day, where I could unwind and almost feel him getting closer and closer.

The letters weren’t all that interesting, really. They didn’t need to be. With how often I got them (sometimes two in a day if there’d been a delay), they were more like an acknowledgment. “I’m still here, and I’m thinking about you,” they’d seem to say.

I remember reading one of his letters glorifying Streak’s performance. I was at my kitchen table with coffee and an apple muffin, reading by the light of the sunrise. Mighty hard on the eyes, but once I was finished, I looked out at my orchard. The window was wide open, and the scent of fresh apples rolled in through the window. I closed my eyes and let it wash over me. It was a warm breeze that day, gentle on the face, caressing me like feathers. I moaned at the light touch.

The next time I saw him was a Tuesday, a week and a half after the interview, and Soarin’ had come out to Appleloosa for a very special occasion.

We were out in the dust by the schoolhouse, and I'd chalked up some boundary lines for a local sport we called buckball. Can't tell you who came up with the idea, but it’s our very own local sport (or at least it was in those days). Buckball had evolved a bunch over the prior couple years, but it’s still pretty straightforward. I explained to Soarin’, “Okay, so you've got the bucker, the fielder, and the goalkeeper. Now, you've–”

“Which one's the coolest?” Soarin’ interrupted with a big smile.

I chuckled. “Well, I like bein’ bucker, on account of how important ball control is.” I waited, and he gave me a wink. “I bet you'd like fielder best, but honestly, it'd probably be a bit rough on your forelegs, so–”

“I'll do that one!” I should’ve known better than to egg on a Wonderbolt.

I explained the backyard version of the game: there are three zones. The buckers stay in a half-circle at the middle, and they try to buck the ball to their fielders (either one or two, or more if you've got a playground full of foals). They run around the back half of the field and try to throw the ball onto a basket tied to their goalkeeper’s back. To do that, they gotta get through the opposing team's field zone. It's a no-contact sport, save for occasional crossed legs from the buckers. There's lots of nuance and strategy about offense versus defense, but basically, stay in your zone and get the ball into the basket.

I tried to be all suave and keep the ball up in the air with just one hindleg (to moderate success) as I finished my explanation. “And no flyin’. We're still figuring out the rules for non-earth ponies. Got all that?”

Soarin’ saluted. “You got it, captain! So, is Pride coming, or…”

The school bell rang, and we turned just in time to see a bunch of foals and their teacher, Mr. Shiny Apple (again, no relation), leap from the windows and doors, and dash outside like a stampede.

Soarin’ playfully glared at me. “This was a setup.”

I flashed a smile and cocked my head. “Think of it as exercise. See if you can keep up.” I turned to the onslaught. “Hey there, foals! Who wants to play buckball with a Wonderbolt!?”

Soarin’ leapt in. The foals did, too. Shiny, in his wisdom, helped us switch up the teams every few plays so that everypony got a chance to play with Blue. Soarin’ was on his game as much as I'd ever seen him. He scored a few points in style, but he passed to every single foal there so they could feel special. With all the fun we had, it didn't even matter what the score was.

My side won, though.

…

Cut me some slack! He's a professional athlete. I gotta take my wins where I can get ‘em.

We finally called it when the dinner bells rang, and as soon as the last foal was running home, Soarin’ flopped into the dirt. “How the hell do you keep up with them!?”

“Ropin’ in unsuspecting special guests, mostly.” I helped him up. “How are your legs?”

He shook them out. “Eh… I probably went too hard. Gonna be sore tomorrow, but that's a hell of a lot more moving than I'd do in therapy.” He bounced on his legs, like he was inspecting them. “Good work, Applebutt.” He kissed my ear.

My chest felt heavy as I thought about the pain he’d experience on my account. “Aw, I should have checked on you more.”

“You're fine. I'll be okay.” He leaned in and puffed up his chest. “Not to brag, but every time I go to the doctor, they tell me what a big, brave colt I've been.”

As I laughed, Pride stepped up to me. “Evenin’, colts. Looks like y'all had fun.”

“We did, Pride, and the foals did, too.” I tried bouncing the ball on my foreleg, and I did a little better this time.

Pride looked over to the town, where folks were bustling around everywhere. “Some folks might think you're trying to curry favor in the election. Bring in a ringer, have the kids tell their parents what a nice guy Braeburn is. They might get ruffled up.”

“Aw, let ‘em,” I said with a sigh. “This is who I am, Pride. I love this game, and I love my coltfriend. They don't have to vote for me if they don't want to.”

Soarin’ stepped beside me and gave me a hug. “Look at you, not caring what anypony thinks.”

I recoiled as if he’d touched an open wound. “Oh, I care, but something about a national scandal puts things in perspective. I really do hope I get plenty of votes.”

Pride asked, “Speaking of which, I don't see a sticker on that vest of yours. Haven't you voted yet?”

“Naw.”

Soarin’ leapt like a scared cat. “Wait, what!? Braeburn, the polls close in, like, twenty minutes!”

I felt like I hadn’t done my homework and was staring down detention. “I know, I just… feel weird voting for myself, right?”

Pride cocked his head. “Weirder than if you didn't do everything you could for the town, including vote?”

He had me there. “Yeah, can't put it off no longer.” I set the ball in a basket nearby. “Let's mosey.”

Soarin’ stayed close as we walked into town. The air buzzed, and I turned heads with every step. Some folks wished me luck. Some nodded. The ones standing around Sandstone looked smug.

Town Hall had a crowd. Handlebar had a bunch of tables out front and was serving free drinks for anypony that voted. I got a few cheers as we walked inside the building, but I just waved politely. See, Cree had once warned me not to do anything that could be construed as coercion, no matter how benign. A few folks asked if I'd join in for a celebratory drink if I won, to which I politely declined.

Inside was much quieter. Soarin’ waited on a bench, on account of how he wasn’t a citizen at the time, and I stepped up to the table where Merriweather was checking folks off the list. I was third in line.

Granny once said that you gotta take time and make memories before you zip through your whole life, especially when your heart is racing. Ten seconds, she says, is all it takes. Like usual, she was right.

I looked around and counted out the seconds. I noticed as much as I could.

‘One.’ The air was humid and a little rank. Town Hall rarely had this kind of hoof traffic, even on big meeting nights. It had the smell of paper and ink, too. I was familiar with both of them, but it was thick that evening. ‘Two.’ Somepony had put up a few banners with Appleloosa flags on them: a red apple on a green star and dark yellow background, representing how we thrive in the desert. ‘Three.’ There were five little booths in total, each with simple blankets thrown over basic frames. Nothing special, but enough for privacy.

The line kept moving, and I stepped up.

‘Four.’ The fading daylight cast the room in a golden glow. It was made all the more vibrant when Fertile Seed lit a few lamps. ‘Five.’ Next to the table at the front, somepony had gotten the podium out. It was freshly polished. ‘Six.’ Merriweather spoke softly as she passed the next voter their ballot.

‘Seven.’ Merriweather had mine all ready, and she gave it to me without me having to say anything.

‘Eight.’ The paper weighed nothing in my hoof. I kept thinking I had dropped it as I walked towards the ballot booth.

‘Nine.’ I took the closest open one, second from the left. It had a dark green blanket on one side and a heavy quilt on the other. I set my ballot down.

‘Ten.’ And there at the top of the page in clear, bold lettering, was my name: Braeburn Apple.

Amazing how a bunch of letters can have so much meaning, right? Arranged like that, in a way I’d seen so many times… But it was special. Everypony in town would see that name tonight. It was me. It was my ideals. It represented everything I’d done for the town, everything I hoped to do. The promise to work for the brightest future I could create. It was me taking my hat off and holding it to my heart and asking the town, “Will you have me? Am I good enough?”

I paused while I held the pen. I thought of the meeting with the buffalo. The locusts. The nights with Flint and all the others building the first houses. Even just the buckball game with the foals that afternoon. And I smiled. “Yeah,” I whispered. “I think I am.”

I marked a little check next to my own name, and whether or not I would win, I was proud of myself.

Once I’d slipped my ballot in the ballot box, I meandered out into the street, feeling like a puppet with strings on all my joints, like I was floating and going through the motions of it all. I think my brain was trying to keep itself from overthinking, and I’d glided through the crowd by the time Soarin’ caught up with me.

Sorry to report, but I don’t remember much of what folks said. I think it was encouraging, at least. Remembering Cree’s advice, I kept my responses to things like, “We’ll see how Appleloosa feels, and I’ll be proud to be here either way.”

We might have been out there an hour or just ten minutes. I honestly couldn’t tell you. Soarin’, though… Soarin’ was a hero. He managed most of the conversation and talked me up, and every once in a while, I would catch a look from him that read, ‘Don’t worry, Applebutt. I’ll work the crowds for you.’

My trance held until a bell rang and Slate announced, “Polls are closed! Get in here, y’all, because it’s a historic day.”

You didn’t have to tell the crowds twice. They slurped up the last of their drinks or took them inside with them, and they filled the seats very, very quickly.

Soarin’ bumped my flank with his. “You coming, Mister Candidate?”

“Huh? Uh, yeah!” I was still floating, but now my chest was pounding like I was on a Las Pegasus roller coaster: a mix of excitement and the one-in-a-million chance that things would end in absolute disaster.

I tried to relax as we took our seats. “Tried” is the operative word there. Sandstone and I had reserved chairs at the front. Heh. Wasn’t enough that we were being judged. The whole town had to watch it happen to us. Slate and a mare named Ribbon were the election judges, and while I knew Slate wouldn't try anything, Ribbon had been hoof-picked by Sandstone to keep things fair.

I squeezed Soarin's hoof as Slate cleared his throat. “Alright, folks, ballots are all in this here box.” He tapped a well-built wooden chest with the word “BALLOTS” in big, clear letters. “Let's get to it.” There was an awkward stomping of bated approval.

Slate reached into the box and pulled out a few piles, which he set on the table between them. He tilted the box towards Ribbon, who nodded when she saw that he’d gotten them all. Slate picked up the first ballot and read in a loud, clear voice, “Sandstone.”

I felt like the chair had been ripped out from under me. My skin felt cold. But Soarin’ was right there, and he squeezed my hoof to keep me from despairing.

Slate showed the first ballot to Ribbon, who made a tally as Slate returned the ballot to the box. “Sandstone,” he repeated as he read the second ballot.

I could feel everypony's glances. They were like dozens of needles, but I had to maintain composure, win or loss. My mind tumbled, but it didn’t have any time to spiral, because Soarin’ squeezed again.

“Braeburn.”

All the tension disappeared, and I tried to figure out the math and the likelihood that the first two were a fluke, but my thoughts only got so far before Soarin' squeezed yet again.

“Braeburn.”

Slate tallied the votes quickly, and after every single one, Soarin's hoof pressed mine. It became my heartbeat and my reminder to hang on. No matter which way each vote went, Big Blue was right there next to me, experiencing every moment and helping me pull through.

The gnarled knot turned to a mix of disbelief and excitement as Slate said my name more and more. Ribbon checked each ballot and kept the tally herself, which Slate double-checked. Ribbon tried to hide it, but it was as clear as day when we got down to the last few: I was going to win.

“...and last one: Braeburn. What does that give us, Ribbon?”

Ribbon triple-checked her tallies. “Twelve abstain, thirty-eight Sandstone, and seventy-one Braeburn.” The ponies (and my soul) were already swelling as she proclaimed, “Folks, Appleloosa’s got a new mayor!”

The sound washed over me. Town Hall was louder than a Sapphire Shores concert. Soarin’ was wrapped around me and kissing my cheek. Pride was already playing music. I felt taller, even as I sat in my seat. Hooves clapped me on the back, and the room felt bright.

Out of the corner of my eye, Sandstone nodded and stood, and I did the same. We met in the middle, and he offered a hoof. His voice sounded exhausted, but he managed. “You'll do great, Braeburn.”

“Don't go easy on me, Sandstone.”

“Oh, I won't,” he smirked. He nodded at the table up front, and folks were already chanting for a speech.

I took to the podium. As they fell silent, I straightened up and stated plainly, “Thank you.”

“That it?” came Trail's voice, and the whole room burst out laughing, myself included.

We settled down, and I continued, “Naw, I got plenty more, but I didn't want to say anything stupid for my first words as Appleloosa's first mayor.” I took a breath. “But I mean it sincerely: thank you. Appleloosa's been…”

My eyes fluttered and felt wet, and I tilted my head back to keep the tears from running down my face. Memories flooded my mind. As much as it felt like the start of something new, I couldn't shake the feeling that it was the end of something, too.

“Gosh, I've been out here for five years now, folks. Time has flown. The town has grown. Dammit, I didn't mean that to rhyme.” The audience chuckled. “I am proud beyond words of everything this town has done. Everything we do every single day. It ain't always easy, but we make it through. Together.” Soarin’ caught my eye. “Things change. Ponies grow. We learn from our past, keep it in mind as we move forward. Today, we're starting something new, and I promise you I'll give everything I have to Appleloosa.”

They roared with excitement. I felt big. Huge, even. It gave me the push to say more. I leaned forward on the podium. “And folks, I know it don’t bother most of you none, but I gotta say it: y’all did something historic tonight. I…” I shook my head and looked out at the crowd. “Growin’ up, I never thought I’d see the day that a gay stallion got elected to a position like this, least of all for the first ever mayor of a town. I’d bet that’s never happened in Equestrian history. It’s gonna be a footnote in all the books.” The crowd was silent, and I didn’t want to leave them hanging. “So thank you. You’ve made some queer little foal’s life a little brighter, because now he believes in himself just a little bit more.”

The crowd erupted in applause and loud whistles.

“But right now, what matters is the job I can do, and I sure as heck am gonna do my best by you. Appaloosa’s still got a lot of growin’ to do, and we’ve put down the roots we need to succeed.” They started cheering again, and I rode that swell of energy. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us, and many, many more successes besides. We’re going to expand the rails, increase our crop yields–” They were really hollering now. “–work with our friends, the buffalo, raise our families right, and establish ourselves as the heart and soul of the Equestrian southwest! Who’s with me!?”

The cheering was deafening, and everypony, even the ones that hadn’t voted for me, could feel it. My eyes, though, fell on the only pegasus out there, how he stood up and cheered louder than anypony else, hooves up in the air, like he was supporting me with his own forelegs. The sheer joy on his face was infectious, and it made my whole chest glow. With him beneath me, I felt like I was flying, utterly unstoppable. And I realized with a small gasp, ‘Oh. This is what Blue feels like during his shows.’ Somehow, I felt even closer to him in that moment, closer than I thought was possible.

Before the tears could get to me, I shouted, “Now, let’s celebrate with music and buckball!”

And for the first time—but certainly not the last—the entire town followed my lead.