A Lapse of Reason

by Freglz

Rating: mature
Tags: Romance, Original Character, Fleetfoot, Slice of Life, Sex, Human, Drama, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 259831

Fleetfoot has never been the romantic type. She's never felt that deep longing for a special somepony in her life — never had time for it either. Then why does she have a crush, and why is she waking up in bed with him?

Fleetfoot has never been the romantic type. She's never felt that deep longing for a special somepony in her life — never had time for it either.

Then why does she have a crush, and why is she waking up in bed with him?

Takes place before Damage Control; reading previous story not required.
Edited by PeerImagination, Marcibel, ROBCakeran53, Flutterpriest, Shakespearicles, horizon and Flammenwerfer.
Original art by Blitzpony.

Published 2019-02-14 22:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2019-12-19 01:57:41 UTC

2 | Back in the Good Old Days

Some time ago

Serenity.

Wind in my wings. Blowing through my mane and tail. Across my snout. Catching in the nooks of my goggles. Cool, refreshing. Pure. Smells like dew on grass. Tastes like filtered water. Feels like swimming in a sea of runny honey.

With every change in the air, through speed or through temperature, my feathers adjust, twitching constantly as I sail towards the setting sun. An endless ocean of clouds stretches out beneath me, smooth and fluffy like an untouched tub of ice-cream, painted in spectacular shades of gold, orange, blue and purple. High above, the sky gives way to night; tiny, flickering specks of light shine through the shrinking veil of day, and only grow in number the further it shrinks.

It’s a sight I’ve seen so, so, so many times before, and yet I’ve never grown tired of it.

I could spend hours up here. And I have, in fact — training with partners or by myself, or simply gliding and letting the air currents and gravity guide me wherever they please. By tuning out on a flight from home, I once found myself as far south as Las Pegasus, which really shouldn’t have been possible in a single afternoon. But that just goes to show the power of a good workout song.

Here, there’s no music — we’re not allowed it — just the sound of air racing past my ears and the faint, distant, somewhat distorted cries of a stadium packed to the brink.

I look down.

The Griffon Kingdoms have had their ups and downs, most notably their decline almost a full century ago, but they’ve since bounced back and finally stabilised, and it shows: Griffonstone looks incredible.

The giant tree upon which the city is based — Gydrasil, I think it’s called — is in bloom at long last, and casts a massive and lengthy shadow across the vast, misty expanse. Though too small to pick out from so high up, the building and hollows are nothing short of remarkable; carved from the wood and smoothed with plaster, doors and windows framed with runes and swirling patterns. Greenery sprouts every which way, and the streets are lined with streamers and banners, and the bowl-shaped amphitheatre overlooking the clouds is no different.

I never thought we’d be coming here, honestly, considering Rainbow’s report after she came back from that ‘friendship quest’, or whatever we’re supposed to call it. But I’m happy to be proven wrong, even if I get the feeling the royal treasury had more to do with the restoration than a simple act of random kindness. There’s still some gruffness around, but griffons have always been known for that, and it’s nothing I can’t handle, or the other Bolts, for that matter.

Now, though, over half the city is sitting in a few dozen aisles, staring high into the sky and waving and applauding, eager for the next act to begin. Soarin and Spitfire have already taken their squadrons through the motions, so now it’s my time to shine.

Glancing further down to make sure my teammates are keeping pace, following my lead on a slight delay, I confirm that we’re all in position. We’ve practiced this enough that’s it’s basically instinctual — most routines are, as a matter of fact; I can still feel my first few shows guide me here and there. Including the reservist tryouts and special events, this’ll be number two hundred and fifty-six, borrowing elements from sixty-eight, one-fifty-one, and two-twenty-seven.

That last one was one heck of a Gala.

But ruminating on the past can wait — that’s what the afterparty’s for. Right now, there’s an audience hanging on my every action, anticipating a drop, desperate for the wave that signifies the finale is about to commence.

I smirk. It would be a shame to disappoint.

With a single flap of my wings, I gain speed and pull ahead from the single-file group below me. With a second, I send myself into a flip and let gravity take over. When my nose points downwards, I flap for a third and final time and dive, neck low, forelegs folded tight, wings pulled in but not closed — already so fast I can barely hear anything; I may as well be rubbing my hooves against my ears.

I shoot past Rainbow Dash, who’ll pull the same manoeuvre, and Silver Zoom will do the same when she passes him, and so on and so forth with Misty Fly and Wave Chill; a high-speed game of follow the leader. The trick, though, is to keep an even distance; they’re flying in my wake, which means less resistance, and progressively less the further down the chain. Any flier worth their bits can dive, but to do so in strict formation is hard, and especially single-file.

Thankfully, we are worth our bits, and I don’t need to take another glance to know we’re doing just fine. A week of practice never goes to waste on my watch.

The dive becomes steeper, faster, and my wings and legs wobble as I keep them all in place. Reaching the sound barrier, I bet — could go for a rainboom, if I felt like it. But I’d better not; as much as it’d wow the audience, the team’s not expecting it, and Rainbow’s the only one who’d be able to keep up, or even appreciate a little spontaneity.

Further down we go, straight towards the clouds, and I feel the briefest flicker of anxiety. It’s silly, I know, considering how many routines I’ve done, all without a hitch on my part, but you never lose that deep, dark dread that maybe, this time, things won’t go to plan. Once upon a time, if Rainbow and her friends had anything to do with it, that tended to happen quite a lot.

Now, though, years later, that’s all settled down. And I need to focus.

I spread my wings and strain to pull up, feeling the g-force push me down like a giant hoof. But I’ve timed it just right: my turn is sharp and I catch a little of the vapours in my feathers, forming contrails and creating a long, wispy line of white. And if the others have done the same — which they definitely have — a curved spire will have formed, practically glowing in the light of the sun, like a stone had skipped across the surface of a pond.

We continue the arc and fly in a slow, exaggerated roll, still at speed, but dragging out the motion as I turn and head for the stadium. Any second now, Rainbow and Silver will sweep right, and Misty and Wave will sweep left, forming a standard V; a tricky arrangement to fall into while performing a stunt, which is partly reason why this segment is rather featureless. That, and I honestly couldn’t think of anything, much to my shame.

We stop rotating at the two-seventy degree mark, just in time to reach the southern end of the amphitheatre. The crowd waves their flags and cups their beaks and cheer and shout and whoop and warble, and the air is filled with praise and excitement as we circle the ring, so close I could lower my hoof and touch the railing, or clap claws with a few excited fans. Perhaps that’s just me projecting, but the feeling’s there, and I relish it.

Just like anxiety, pride never goes away either.

Already we’ve cleared the stadium — just shy of two seconds, by my count — leaving thunderous applause and exhilaration in our wake, and probably more than a few ruffled feathers. Any hats would have blown off too, but if anypony wears loose-fitting clothing to a Wonderbolts derby, it’s kind of their fault. Skirts especially. Sisters know how many times that’s happened in Canterlot; some greenhorn noble dressing for looks and none of their friends tipping them off.

But there’s still a routine to do, and we continue the rotation at a quicker pace; three-sixty, four-fifty, five-forty, and a sudden drop as we go from upside down to right side up. In this small dive, we build speed, and then immediately climb, higher and higher, spinning through the air in a never-ending helix, our circles becoming smaller and more concentrated.

At some point, the rest of the squadron will have started adjusting their course, forming helixes of their own until they’re once again in single-file. That took us a whole month to perfect, exacerbated by Silver’s parental leave and Rainbow’s duties to the School of Friendship.

Her commitments, I can understand, since she’s an Element Bearer, and Princess Twilight can’t afford to not show off how good she is at making friends, but as for Silver…

Nothing against him, really, but why couldn’t he have waited until after his tenure to be a father? It’s not that hard to keep it between your legs.

I blink myself out of autopilot, realising that I’m spinning on a dime; we’ve reached the next segment. So, with another powerful flap, I launch myself further into the air, and then let my limbs go limp and the momentum wane. As I fall, the team twists and yanks themselves out if the way, hovering with their bellies to the sky before joining me in my descent, one on each cardinal direction. The contrails have faded by this point, but that’s okay — they probably would look the best in the next part anyway.

After I’ve fallen far enough, I open my wings again, forelegs aimed at the air in front, and level off, heading for the stadium once more. At the same time, the squadron begins to roll around me in a double helix; Silver and Rainbow going clockwise, and Misty and Wave running counter, all missing each other by a mere hoofspan when they cross paths.

I in turn weave up and down, left and right, in and out and all about, each manoeuvre timed to be the closest, safest shave possible, topped with a few extra spins and flips here and there.

Twenty-three. That’s where this segment’s from. Show twenty-three: my first stint at Trottingham. There were a lot of griffons there too, as well as ponies, which only made sense, what with the Griffish Isles being halfway between Equestria and the Kingdoms.

Faster and faster they swirl, and I match their dizzying pace — in the sense that any raw recruit would have trouble keeping up, but for veterans like us, it’s easy as a breeze.

That being said, there was that newbie a while back who broke the record on the Dizzitron. She’d probably do pretty well, recklessness and Spitfire’s initial misjudgement notwithstanding. Even now, years later, her record remains unbeaten, which just goes to show how much potential she had, and wasted.

But it won’t stay that way forever. I’ve been training day and night whenever I can, always squeezing in that extra little bit of practice before and after breakfast. I can now comfortably outlast any Bolt on the wing-press, and beat quite a few even when they use their legs instead. I’ve tried diets I’d never heard of before that day; even had fish for the first time in my life, which didn’t taste completely horrible, much to my disturbed surprise.

Anything to improve my chances, I’ll take it. Nopony outdoes me and gets away with it.

And it’s showing. Or so my colleagues say; I’m swifter and more agile than ever before — rivalling Rainbow in those regards, and, by extension, my actual rival. My fans also say I look a little slimmer, but I’m pretty sure they’re just seeing what they want to see; pegasi have never been known for any kind of thickness, except for a few rare and often unhealthy instances, so if there were a change, it’d be barely noticeable.

Honestly, all I can do is sit back and roll my eyes with a smile. So long as it means a more enjoyable show, and so long as they don’t catch wind of how petty I actually am, the public can speculate to their hearts’ content.

Eventually, the window for our stunt draws to a close as we approach the airspace at the centre of the amphitheatre — which is for the better, because if my solitary glance at Misty’s anything to go by, she’s starting to look a little queasy. So, I fly straight ahead, then loop up and over, and thread myself through the eye of the needle. And as soon as I do, the circle breaks apart and forms another V, and we all shoot straight up once more, just before the balustrade.

The crowd goes wild.

I soar on their praise, chest warm, back tingling, a grin tugging at my cheeks, and I resist the urge to simply close my eyes, let my mind wander, and freestyle. The team is still here and they’re counting on me, and I don’t want to let them down. And it’s that duty — that camaraderie — that keeps me from shedding my uniform in front of thousands of onlookers and prancing through the air like I’d earned my cutie mark again. There’s a sight the paparazzi would love to see.

We continue arcing, flying upside down, then twist upright and, as one, launch ourselves into another flip and dive once again, fast as we can, spinning in formation like a drill aimed for the clouds. Misty never liked this routine, but I can’t fault her for giving it her all. To be honest, this isn’t the flashiest composition I’ve ever come up with either. Who knows? Maybe I’m finally losing my touch. It’s been a nice, long run; sixteen years isn’t half bad for a Wonderbolt, what with all the physical stress, but there have been longer careers, and I’m not at the end of my rope just yet.

Let’s see how I feel when I make it to thirty.

Just before the fog, we pull up and fly straight, skimming along the surface, contrails forming for a second time. The image of me speeding over a lake comes to mind, kicking up the water through sheer velocity alone; a fantasy I’ve played out too many times to count.

I’m a simple mare of simple pleasures. If that makes me boring and repetitive, so be it — I’m doing what I love and I’m not hurting anypony. As far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters. Because nothing compares to this; the rushing air, the unstoppable momentum, the thrill of ten thousand pairs of eyes watching my every move, mesmerised to see me in my element.

How some ponies don’t enjoy the spotlight, I’ll never understand.

As we approach the central airspace again, the furthest two airponies break off and spiral upwards. Three wingbeats later, the next pair follow suit. Another three and it’s my turn, and I do so with an extra, improvised flourish: an ascending backflip. Not every performance gets to me in the same way, but this occasion, for some reason, has got me in a particularly bubbly mood, so I may as well return the favour.

For a full second, we climb high, and I hear the shrill whistling of fireworks from below. We’re the finale — the closing act of a four-hour show, marking the end of our tour this season, which itself is a special event: an entire year outside Equestria. The Bolts have done plenty of international shows before, but never something this big. Why the sudden interest in the world at large, I don’t care; so long as it means more derbies and aerobatics, I couldn’t be happier.

At the peak of our ascension, fireworks go off in the sky above, popping and sizzling, casting flashes of purple, yellow, green, red, blue, and orange upon our backs, and we spread our wings and forelegs and let the momentum fade.

The audience roars and applauds, louder than the explosions above.

Canons boom and shower the stadium in glittering confetti and flowing streamers, so abundant that it’s like we’re floating in a shapeless dream, full of nothing but colour and sound.

Waves of ecstasy sweep over me, and I close my eyes and beam as I lean back and fall headfirst into its comforting abyss. Twelve long months of briefings, planning, training, travelling, sightseeing, press events, autographs, pictures, performances, dedications, party invitations, and so many other, smaller, nice little moments, and I’ve enjoyed it all — revelled in it.

This is why I became a Wonderbolt. There hasn’t been a single second I’ve regretted it. Ever since Junior Flight Camp ended, I knew where my place was. Joined the reserves with Spitfire and Soarin, exercised day and night, sometimes a full twenty-four hours, or longer, and all that hard work has led to where I am now: blissfully lost in time and space, fuzzy and weightless.

No food, no drink, no worldly pleasure compares to the sweet, warm, sumptuous embrace of the limelight. To hear your name chanted by millions. To see your face on the billboards of Manehattan. To know you’ve stoked the fire in so many aspirant young hearts — that you’ve made an impact. That you will be remembered. Cherished. Loved.

All my life, I’ve wanted this. And I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

3 | With Friends Like These

Noise.

Music, voices, laughter, dancing, drinking, chirping, chatting, singing, chugging, cheering, tripping, spilling, jeering, and more laughter. All of it blends into one, singular, indescribably perfect word in summary.

Noise.

It’s bearable. There’ve been worse parties to find myself in, dragged by idle curiosity, a lost bet, or some moral obligation as a friend and member of the team. In this case, it was practically mandatory; another year on the metaphorical road’s nothing new, but when that road held not a single grain of Equestrian soil, an invitation becomes an order.

Well, technically speaking, the Bolts are the ones hosting the event, so my presence was pretty much required anyway. I could’ve called in sick and stayed in my apartment, rereading flight manuals and a few favourite novels, browsing my magazine, rubbing a few out because there’s nothing better to do, but I guilted myself out of it. This has been a long journey through distant lands, and I feel I’d be doing the team a disservice if I wasted the night away by myself.

Besides, I kind of enjoy being the big sister from time to time.

So, here I am, sitting on a barstool at the back of the penthouse of the only modern hotel in all of Griffonstone. Electronica blares through the speakers, mixed with a few traditional griffon instruments and melodies — the resident DJ being a Pon3 fanatic, of course, of all things. The guests tonight are the local nobility, as they usually are, both the sponsors and the cheapskates, all of whom seem to be rowdier than the standard breed; less boisterous than a yak, but no stick up the bum like a Canterlotian.

A few commoners are attending the event as well — winners of a lottery we hold at every venue. Some are standing or sitting by themselves, and others are hovering by or talking with their favourite Bolt. Some are giddy, others uncomfortable. All look out of place, being the only unclothed creatures here besides a scarf, cap or piece of jewellery.

As for us, we wear standard-issue casual attire. Merchandise, essentially. The cynic in me could see this whole pomp and ceremony as a giant advertisement, and by extension, the tour itself. Sleezy? Possibly. But we have to keep this organisation afloat somehow, ignoring our funds from the crown itself for a second.

“You know we’re just tools, right?”

It takes a moment for the words to register — to realise I can actually hear them over the cacophony of activity before me — but when I do, I blink and shake my head and look to the left. “I’m sorry, what?”

Soarin sits on another stool with his his forelegs on resting the bar, one hoof holding a whiskey glass, the other lying flat on the polished surface. He wears a black polo underneath the newer style of jacket; ocean blue with a golden right sleeve and two stripes of yellow and white below the collar. He also wears a knowing smile — the kind he usually makes when he’s about to say something dumb and play it up as genius. “Us. The Wonderbolts.” He shares that smile with me. “We’re all tools.”

I stare at him for a moment, the roll my eyes and smirk. “You’re the tool,” I quip, looking out to the party again.

“No no no, wait just a second — hear me out, hear me out.” He chuckles as he turns in his seat to face me, smile widening to a grin. “You’re hearing me out, right?”

I spy two griffon nobles cackling as they slap each other on the back, drinks in hoof. Claw. Whatever. “Sure.”

“Right, so…” He clears his throat. “You remember there was that invasion a couple years ago? The one with the Storm King.”

“You say that like we’ve had more since then.”

“…Well, you can’t exactly say Equestria’s known for her security.”

I slowly nod, moving on to Lightning Streak on a couch with an adoring fan, talking her ear off. Well, ear-hole, I suppose. And with neon red and purple neon lights illuminating the whole flat, it’s hard to tell if she’s into it or not. “Anyway, what about the invasion?”

“Right, yeah.” He sits up and leans on the bar. “Well, think about it: the Storm King attacks Canterlot — somehow without warning, and without anypony knowing there’s some conquest-obsessed lunatic marauding about in the south with a fleet of magic-resistant airships, but that’s beside the point.”

“Which is…?”

“I’m getting to that.” He takes a sip from his glass. “Anyway, he attacks Canterlot, captures three of the princesses, and the kingdom’s in peril; not the world, just the kingdom. Surprise-surprise, Twilight saves the day again. But something’s different: this was a foreign, largely nonmagical threat they had to deal with, and they still couldn’t handle it.”

Rainbow’s getting swarmed by plebe and patrician alike, eager for an autograph, and she’s all too happy to oblige. I don’t think she’s had anything to drink yet. Not that she’d be complaining; the only thing she’d more addicted to than cider is her ego, even if it’s less of an issue nowadays. “Still waiting for that point, Soarin.”

“I know, I know, and I’m nearly there.” He clears his throat again. “So, after all that’s over, what do they do? They open up the School of Friendship, and they invite a bunch of kids from all the other countries to join. What’re they going to do when they go back home? Spread the word of friendship, courtesy of our very own Twilight Sparkle. I mean, who’d ever disagree with the teachings of the one pony who’s saved the world a dozen times already?”

I crease my brows and look at him. “What’re you saying?”

“Nothing, really.” He shrugs. “Just a point of interest; soon, the whole world’s going to owe us a favour, and they won’t even know it. And not that long after the school opens, Spitfire gets the idea to spend a whole season touring the other nations. Thing is, she doesn’t own the Wonderbolts; Celestia does, and nothing ever happens without her permission. Or instruction.”

I don’t reply, raising a bemused eyebrow instead.

“Now, either I’ve cottoned-on to a decades-long conspiracy to get the whole world in Equestria’s pocket, and we’re just a circus act to keep our future vassals happy…” he peers down at the glass in his hoof on the counter, “or this is the best damn brandy I’ve ever had.”

I stare a little while longer. “Yeah, let’s put it down to that.”

This time, he raises an eyebrow, and looks back to me. “What, you’re not even going to consider it?”

“Remember when you thought changelings were just kidnapped ponies corrupted in slime pods, or whatever you called them?”

“Hey, nopony knew where they came from at the time. I was allowed to speculate.”

“Still.” I shrug. “Besides, the Big Four don’t strike me as the scheming type.”

“And they probably aren’t.” He takes another sip. “But you can’t deny it seems pretty convenient for them. Perhaps a little too convenient.”

“So?” I shrug again and look out to the party once more. “It’s convenient for me too; the more shows, the merrier.”

“Oh, oh, so you’re complicit in this, are you?”

“If it means doing more of what I love, sure.”

Soarin smirks, rolls his eyes and shakes his head, then downs what remains of his drink. “You are a simple mare,” he recites, sharing his smirk with me. “Quite possibly the simplest mare I’ve ever met.”

Fire Streak’s now joined his brother on the couch, bringing two martinis with him. Lighting cheers emphatically, and together they clink glasses and drink. The griffon glances around and pats her knees idly; not uncomfortable, just bored. I feel a little more at ease. “Am I supposed to be offended?”

“What? No.” He gives a playful, dismissive wave. “It just means you’re easy to please. Again, not that it’s a bad thing or anything. You’re you. There are some things you just can’t change about yourself.”

My ear twitches and I cock another eyebrow. “What’s with the analysis?”

He lingers on me, then shrugs for a second time. “Alcohol makes me philosophical,” he says, turning in his seat to copy my pose; back against the bar, elbows on the edge and hindlegs crossed. “That’s something I can’t change.”

When the griffon stands up and walks away, I look back to him.

He notices, but looks away, finding interest in Sun Chaser and Thunderlane having a friendly chat with a noble. He keeps his face straight, but pulls on his lips like he usually does when he’s thinking and doesn’t want to talk about it; it’s his tell, and I’ve won more than my fair share of games with him because of it.

I glance off to the right, searching for something to catch my eye — to stoke some kind of protective fire in me — but nothing seems out of the ordinary. More drinks, more laughs, more music, more dancing, talking, singing, whatever, but no signs of danger. So, I sigh and turn back. “Okay, what’s up?”

His ears perk up — a subtle motion, but noticeable to somepony who’s looking for it — and after a moment, he breathes out through his nose. But I’m offered no response.

“Don’t want to talk? Fine.” I flick my forehooves up in mock surrender and look behind me for the bartender. “Brood in stoic silence.”

“It’s not that,” he says with a gentle shake of the head, but still doesn’t meet my eyes. “It’s just… I don’t think you’re the right pony to be talking it over with.”

I wince and snap back to him. “Why? Aren’t we friends?”

“That’s kind of it.” He turns to me, brows raised and lips pressed together; playful avoidance, but his tone is still serious. “That, and you’re not exactly the most comfortable with private stuff.”

“I am when I need to be.”

He shakes his head again. “Not with this.”

I stare at him, reading, examining, but see no other tell. Either that single glass of wine from before is making things difficult or there’s simply nothing to see. “Suit yourself.” I shrug. “Want me to flag down Spits instead?”

His face falls. “That’s… not necessary.”

“Yo, Spitty!” I call out, turning to our captain in the corner, talking with our main Griffonstone benefactors. “Hey! Hey, Spitfire!”

She looks over her shoulder and lowers her shades with a wingtip — dark purple aviators, as her role and style demand.

I wave her closer.

She returns to the nobles and offers a few pleasantries, and they nod and offer their own in response, which she accepts. And then she turns and trots toward us.

“Fleet, really, I’m fine.”

“If you were, you wouldn’t be making such a big deal out of it.”

“But I wasn’t; you’re just forcing the—”

“Sup, Fleet?” she greets with a smile. True to her secretly rebellious side, the only branded item she wears is a black, flat-visored cap with the Wonderbolts logo emblazoned on the front. The brown bomber jacket with fleece lining has become a recent favourite of hers. “What’s crackalackin’?”

It’ll never cease to amaze me how she can slip between professional and casual so easily. I guess that comes with experience, being leader of the team and everything. But still, there’s some teasing to be had, so I angle my head and pout mischievously. “Soarin’s feeling neglected.”

Her eyes widen behind her shades, then turn to him, and then she gives a look of mock adoration. “Is little old Clipper feeling blue?”

Unimpressed, he huffs and looks away.

“Aw, don’t be like that.” She strolls forward and hops up onto the stool between us. “What’s got you down? Sad we’re going home?”

“No. Just a little peeved that Fleet’s dumped her problems on somepony else again.”

I baulk. “My problems?”

“Yeah, yours.” He peers around Spitfire to me. “Soon as the going gets tough…”

“Hey, you’re the one who didn’t want to talk to me about it, so what was I supposed to do?”

“Try harder?”

“…You’re blaming me for respecting your privacy?”

“I’m not blaming you for anything; I’m simply stating that—”

“Guys, guys, please.” Spitfire raises two consolatory hooves. “Not here, not now. This is a team event — everyone’s happy, and you should be too. We can talk about our stonewalling and societal angst later.”

After a short pause, Soarin raises an eyebrow. “But isn’t it team policy to sort out our differences in the here and now?”

“Not when the public’s around.” She gives a little nod to the nobles she was just talking with. “Don’t want people getting the wrong impressions.”

“People?” I query, switching from the griffons to her. “We’re switching dialects now?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

Sorain turns to her as well, and together we look expectantly.

“Got a message from Celestia after the show,” she calmly explains. “Apparently, with an international audience, we ought to use more inclusive language. Normal talk’s reserved for when we’re off the clock.”

“This doesn’t count as off the clock?”

“Yes, Soarin, but it’s good to get some practice in. I actually think the whole team should do the same, you two included.”

I roll my eyes, and I guess Soarin does the same.

“Look, I know it’s a hassle, but think about it. How would it look if we went all over the place calling people ponies when they’re clearly not?”

“We just did. For a whole year.”

“That’s not the point, Fleet. They don’t do it to us, so we shouldn’t do it to them either — it’s fair. Besides, Equestria preaches friendship, and part of friendship is compromise. I’m not about to tell Celestia that we’re too lazy to change for something so minor.”

“Minor,” I scoff. “Do you realise how often we use those words? We can’t exactly wave a magic wand when it comes to this.”

“I don’t expect you to, and neither do the Big Four. But it’s their decision and we have to live with it.”

“In other words, suck it up.”

Spitfire flinches, narrowing her eyes at Soarin, then returns to me. “Bluntly speaking, yes.”

My brows knit into a displeased frown.

“Guys, please, don’t shoot the messenger.”

“I’m not angry at you. It’s just… an inconvenience.”

“It is. But if I can do it, so can you. We ought to lead by example, after all.”

I look away.

It’s not all that easy to remember my rank when I’ve no extra responsibilities compared to the average Bolt; the most I have to do is listen in on future plans in case Spitfire and Soarin are both sick or injured, which never happens. Usually, I’m just a veteran, and I choose to believe the others respect me more for that than my position or closeness with the captain.

I guess that’s why, when I have to actually do something, it bothers me.

“Alright, so… did she say anything else?” I turn back to her, careful to not look too annoyed. “Are there other concessions we need to make?”

“Just that for now, but she did mention some unusual weather patterns back home.”

“Unusual?” Soarin raises an eyebrow at her. “Like, a bad unusual or a strange unusual?”

“Let’s go with strange. If they were bad, she’d have given more details.”

“Well then, what details has she given?”

Spitfire shrugs. “Apparently there was this artefact that broke, and now magical storms are cropping up all over the place. No damage yet, but Cloudsdale’s on standby to provide support. Who knows? We might be called upon when we get back.”

“As a weather team?”

“And search and rescue, if things get bad.”

My brows crease again. Not in annoyance, this time, but concern. Aerobatics isn’t the same as relief work, and with actual lives at stake… “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” I murmur, looking again for the bartender, or a half-finished drink to wash down my words with.

“Hear-hear,” Soarin agrees, raising his empty glass in an unceremonious toast.

“Yeah.” Spitfire nods. “But if they need us, we’ll be ready, won’t we?”

“Absolutely.”

“Yep.”

She gives me a glance — too sudden and slight to judge her expression, and the shades don’t do me any favours either. But after a while, she leans toward me. “You should smile more.”

I smell alcohol on her breath, but nothing overpowering; she’s not drunk, and she’s not one to overdo it either. “Why’s that?”

“Take a look around.” She gestures to the party with a sweep of the wing. “Do you see anyone else looking so serious?”

“I’m on watch.”

“And so am I, and so is Soarin.”

“Soarin’s just here for the booze.”

“I am not!” he retorts in mock indignation.

“And you’re off making small talk with the upper crust.”

“True.” Spitfire nods again. “But I’ve also spent the night going up and down, checking on everyone. I bet you didn’t know Wave thinks he’s found a new pen pal.”

“A what?”

Her smile falls. The air around her grows disappointed, despite the vibrant lights of the penthouse. “Wave’s been taking names on this trip — people he can write to when we head back home.”

I raise a quizzical eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because he likes the idea of having friends in distant lands,” Soarin interjects, peering around Spitfire once more. “If my theory about a conspiracy held any water, I’d peg him down as a royal spy.”

Spitfire rolls her eyes and shakes her head, smile returning. “Point is, you can be responsible and mingle at the same time. You don’t have to sit on the sidelines ‘til the game’s over.”

I sigh and droop my head. “Spitty…”

“I’m not saying you need to step out of your comfort zone or anything.” She puts up her hooves defensively. “I’m just saying you should relax. Mellow. Chill out. You know us and we know our limits, and… it’s honestly a little sad to know my friend doesn’t trust my judgement.”

“Spits, I trust you.”

“Well, obviously not enough, or why else would you be sitting all the way over here, away from everyone, avoiding any kind of social interaction besides me, Soarin, and some lazy bartender who’s buggered off to Celestia knows where?”

“The bathroom.”

Spitfire blinks and turns to Soarin. “I’m sorry, what?”

“He’s gone to the bathroom.” He turns to her with an unreadable, if not slightly cheeky look. “Along with a certain noble who was making eyes at him.”

She stares, she blinks, and then she cringes and shakes her head. “Oh, for the love of…” she begins, buts cuts herself off as she hops down from the stool. “Why does there always have to be something?”

“Wait, you’re not actually going to—”

“He’s supposed to be doing a job, Fleet, not receiving one. And if not me, who else? You?”

I draw back my head and blink, stunned.

“Didn’t think so.” Spitfire pauses for a moment, then sighs and starts marching off. “Look, just… stay there, keep an eye on everything. I’ll be back.”

“Unless what you see takes your fancy!” Soarin calls out.

Her ears fold, her neck sags, and without looking or even a second’s hesitation, she gives him the feather.

I glance about as Soarin chuckles and settles back down, wary of any curious looks who may’ve heard the exchange, or seen the gesture she made. None, thankfully, or so it seems, and as I allow myself to return to my calm, watchful state, I start mulling over what exactly happened. And I’m unsure what to make of it.

Her question wasn’t really a question; it was bait — twisting the issue into something it’s not so I’d either admit the truth or come off as a terrible friend. The thing is, she’s never had a problem with it before, so why start now? Why draw attention to me? What’s changed between us in the last decade and a half we’ve known each other?

…Or am I reading too much into it?

“Hey. Hey, Fleet. Want to hear a secret?”

Slowly, the realisation that I’m being talked to dawns on me, and I turn to Soarin and give him a blank, unfocussed stare.

“I lied.”

I blink as the words are processed. And then I angle my head and narrow my eyes. “You—”

“Mm-hmm.” He nods emphatically with a tight-lipped, childish grin. “He’s really just constipated — apparently some bad fish he ate earlier coming back to haunt him.”

“…And you sent Spitfire in thinking she was dealing with—”

“I know, right?” He opens his mouth in a silent, exaggerated laugh and bows forward and slaps his knee.

I continue to stare, completely bewildered; partly because I’m still figuring out where Spitfire was coming from, partly because I’m still getting over my disgust for the situation she went to remedy, and partly because I’m still processing what Soarin’s said. Mostly, though, it’s because the reason for his sudden bubbly attitude is finally clear to me. “You’re a sadistic drunk, Soarin, you know that?”

“Eh.” He shrugs, leaning back. “She’ll take care of him, one way or another.”

“Oh my stars, you are such a hypocrite.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You complain about me dumping my obligations on Spitfire, but then you turn around and do the exact same thing.”

“Hey, what can I say? I do what I please.” He deepens his voice and gives me a sultry look. “And I please what I do.”

“Oh, shut up.” I return his look with an offended one. “The last thing I need on my mind right now is more of that hot garbage, and especially from you.”

“Hot, you say?”

“Soarin, I swear, you’re literally this bloody close to getting slapped.”

He surrenders with a smirk, but the peace doesn’t last. “Spanking’s pretty neat, though,” he mumbles to himself, but loud enough for me to hear it, and emphasises the point by watching me from the corner of his eye.

I wait a moment, and then sigh heavily and sag, turning away. It was an empty threat and he knew it. If he’d been somepony else, sure, but this is a public event and I’m still a Wonderbolt. What I do reflects on all of us, including Equestria itself.

“You know what your problem is, Fleet?”

I sigh again. “Could you please not?”

“When you’re not flying, you’re not happy.”

Reluctantly, I return to him, giving him a weary look with my ears low. “I’m not married to the job.”

“No, no, of course not. But I think it’s fair to say the job’s very important to you.”

“Isn’t it to you?”

He blinks. “Well, yeah, of course. It’s just…”

I raise an expectant eyebrow.

“…There’s more to my life than being good at what I do.”

My brows crease. “So… I lack reasons to be happy?”

He shakes his head. “Flying’s the only happiness you’re comfortable with.”

I pause for a long while, trying to think of some kind of rebuttal, but all that does is give the words an opportunity to sink in, and sink in they do. And because we both know it’s the truth, we both know there’s nothing I can say to convince us otherwise.

“That’s what Spitfire was saying — that you should… loosen up a little.”

“...Loosen up?”

“Yeah. You know, relax. Don’t care. Learn to wind down somehow. Because it seems to me that, if it has nothing to do with what happens out there, you’re not one to take a chance.”

I glance away and lick my lips, irritated. “I don’t need an analysis right now.”

“Then when?”

I shut my mouth, but keep my gaze locked with his and don’t change my expression. I don’t want him to see me lost for an answer.

Soarin sighs after a few seconds more and looks off into the party again. “I don’t want to sound like I’m trying cut you loose, Fleet, because I’m not,” he says dourly — a tone he’s rarely used for as long as we’ve known each other. “But you’ve always been a very career-oriented pon… person. I mean, you showed me that back at the Rainbow Falls tryouts.”

I lower my eyes. “Soarin, I—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I got over it.” He turns to me again. “But it showed me that you and Spitfire could sometimes be… forgetful… when a trophy’s on the line.”

I don’t like how mild he’s being, but it’s not my place to object.

“Spitty’s expanded her horizons since then, which I think has done the team a service. But you, on the other hoof…”

I say nothing, shameful, neither wanting to confirm nor deny anything, which is more or less a confirmation in and of itself.

“Look, I’m not saying you should find more friends or anything, because if there’s one thing we all disagree with Princess Twilight on, it’s that you need to be friends with everypony you meet. Some ponies don’t want that — you included — and some just aren’t likeable. But what I am saying… is that thirty-two is way too old to be a loner.”

Hearing that stings. It weighs on me like a freezing cold blanket — one that shuts my eyes and tightens my lips and pins my ears and pulls my wings and tail as close as they can be.

This isn’t what I had in mind for the last day of our overseas tour.

For a good, long while, Soarin remains silent and still. So much that I start to think that maybe he’s left his post under the cover of the music, which has switched from electronic to something more temperate and agreeable. But then a hoof touches my shoulder. “Hey.”

Subdued, I open my eyes halfway and peer back at him.

He gives me a raunchy grin, biting his lip, and nods to something in the distance on my right. “She might be a start.”

I take a quiet breath and follow his gaze.

A griffon noble dressed in burgundy, on the fringe of a circle of her ilk. Her feathers are white, her fur grey, her beak and claws black, and her eyes a brilliant shade of purple. And as soon as she realises that I’m watching her, she immediately snaps back to her group and glances about for a conversation to join.

“Quite the looker, if I do say so myself.”

My brows lower, unimpressed. Tipsy or not, Soarin knows better, and if he’s going to be like this for the rest of the night, I’m not having it. So, I hop down from the stool.

“That’s my girl, Fleetfoot—”

“Good night, Soarin.”

He pauses, caught off-guard. “…What, you’re not up for—”

“Good night, Soarin,” I repeat, swinging my neck round to face him. “I’ll see you in the morning.” And with that, I turn away and head for the exit, knowing full well what I’d do when I got back to my room.

4 | A Wolf in Sheep's Clothes

Silence.

As I open the door, I’m met with silence.

What a relief.

I walk in and take a deep breath, relishing the smell of a home in the clouds, and thanking myself for heading back a day early. I’m faster on the wing than an airship anyway, and overnight gliding is nothing new to me — spending time away from two ponies in particular is just a happy accident. I left a note explaining where I’d gone, so they shouldn’t be panicking, but I’ll probably cop a little heat from Spitfire for not being a part of the team, and forcing her and Soarin to cover for my absence. That’s okay. It’s nothing I haven’t faced before.

The scent of freshwater fills my nose — vapours from the walls and floors not being maintained for a whole year. Housecleaning can wait — I’m not in the mood and this place won’t dissipate anytime soon; when pegasi make cumuli, they’re meant to last. And considering the amount of time it took to gather, compact, shape and form this one, it really ought to stay that way.

Bifröst sings to hers, says it’s a rare spoken charm from way up north where the winds blow strong and the nights are long. Houses are ponies too, or so she believes. I’m not that sentimental, but I like the notion of a home having its own personality, and I can kind of see it.

Cumuli are limited solely by imagination and how much you can be bothered. The closer you live to Cloudsdale proper, the more restrictions apply, what with limited space and hoarding valuable weather material, but I’ve seen some houses grow as big as mansions, along with the wealth, family or ego of the occupants. Sometimes all three.

I’m a bit of a cynic.

My home’s not that big. As soon as you enter, there’s the kitchen to the left and the lounge to the right, and high above on a landing with no stairwell is the bed — technically all just one room. It’s suited me well for as long as I’ve had it, and I don’t get many visitors. Ones I let inside, at any rate, much less ones that stay the night, and definitely none in the way Soarin was implying.

Jerk.

He was drunk, he probably didn’t mean it, but he said what he said, and I’m already here. Ruminating will just lead to regret; regret over nothing. It was perfectly in my right to leave, so leave I did. Nopony can fault me for wanting to feel safe. Not that I was in any actual danger or anything. It’s just…

I sigh. There I go with the ruminating. Probably the lack of sleep’s fault, somehow — I tend to get philosophic when I’ve been awake too long. In which case, a long, well-deserved nap is in order.

With a loud, unrestrained yawn and a stretch of the wings, withers, neck and back, I shamble over to the kitchen counter and throw my saddlebags on top. Personal effects from the trip, nothing on loan that needs to be returned; toiletries, hairbrush, perfume, red and white pyjama top and bottom — my favourite and only travelling pair, since sleeping unclothed in other ponies’ beds has always felt wrong to me, for some reason.

I might also be a little pedantic.

Another yawn escapes me as I turn around, then stroll a few steps and lazily vault over the back of the sofa, landing and lying on the cushions below; a centrepiece imported from Aquitania, famed for the softness and durability of its sheep’s wool. Like every accessory and piece of furniture here, it stays afloat with some advanced form cloudwalking spell, or at least one that lasts longer on inanimate objects than sentient creatures. A unicorn swings by every year to make sure nothing’s out of place, and updates the enchantment every five years.

The way I understand it, before the tribes were united, cumuli never housed anything that wasn’t made from cloud. Instead, pegasi maintained communal storehouses to keep their tools, food and equipment in, built upon the highest peaks so only the desperate and daring would ever try to raid them. The pragmatic polities owned a corps of unicorn slaves so they could stay mobile, not tied to one mountaintop. Whether Cloudsdale was a part of that little sect, the history books never said.

Equestria’s past is often shrouded in myths and legends. Indeed, some parts more conveniently than others.

Maybe Soarin was onto something.

Sweet stars, I need a rest.

I close my eyes and nuzzle into the pillows, making sure to rub just below the head on the back of my neck as much possible, to give me that nice, fuzzy, relaxed feeling and help set the mood. This is my space. This is my home. Here, I can do whatever, whenever, however I please, and that includes switching on the TV to some mindless soap opera and drifting off to the white noise of dramatized betrayal. Some yoghurt and berries from the fridge would be nice, but not worth leaving the confines of luxury.

It’s good to be back.

The phone rings.

I wait for it to stop — probably Spitfire calling to check I made it home safe. She’ll find out soon enough, and if instead she planned on lecturing me over the phone, she has another thing coming. I don’t need to be told what I did was immature, much less how it hurts the Wonderbolts’ image; I knew what I was doing and I knew the likely consequences, but something this trivial won’t matter in the long run.

Like it or not, the public have short memories, and I know my public well.

“Hello? Fleety, dear?”

My eyes shoot open.

“Listen, if you’re there, sweetie, your father and I were wondering if we could perhaps catch up sometime. It’s not often we get to see each other anymore. One could say it’s almost like you’re trying to avoid us.”

There’s laughter in what she says, but I’ve lived with Mum long enough to see through the thinly veiled pleasantries: she’s guilting me into this. Worst part is, it’s working. Or at least annoying me enough to sit up, shake myself down and hop off the sofa, heading for the kitchen.

“It’d be so nice to see you again when you get back, if you’re not back already. But if you are, I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to call your own mother first thing. That’d be… shocking, really.”

Very, very thinly veiled.

“So, whenever you can, sweetie, if you could give me a call—”

I yank the phone from its mount and shove it right to my ear. “Mum, what are you doing calling a full day early?”

“Fleety, dear!” she exclaims joyously. Feigned, as usual, but only obvious to anypony who really knows her. Somepony like me. “How nice to finally hear from you.”

Finally. Right. As if I hadn’t been sending letters every month as far back as Rainbow brought her parents to the Academy. “What do you want?”

“To see my daughter, of course. We had the new phone installed just last week, so I thought I’d give you a call and see if you were home.”

“A full day early.”

“A mother always knows, honey, a mother always knows.”

And how frustrating that can be. “I’m having a nap.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t sound disappointed; she was expecting that. “Well, the day’s still young, and your father and I aren’t doing anything, really — just housecleaning and birdwatching, waiting for the late-night shows. I thought you might like the join us for a coffee later this afternoon.”

Bribing me with my poison of choice. Devious. Of all the things I forget to buy for myself, and all the things they never get me for my birthday or Hearth’s Warming, it’s an espresso machine. “Why?”

“Oh, Fleetfoot, honestly. Am I not allowed to want to see my daughter after she’s been abroad for the past year?”

That can’t be it. There’s always something else. But I can’t for the life of me think what, and I’m guessing that’s partly because I was awoken mid-doze, and partly because I was already tired to begin with. The solution, of course, is a choice between a hard slap to the face, a cold shower, or a shot of coffee. And since I’m not in the mood to nurse a bruise or get wet and dry myself in the sun…

You win. For now.

“Where and when?”

The Mocha Club: an old favourite, established about thirty years before Luna’s return by a fellow named Morning Brew. He was a waiter once, as well as the manager, now retired from active service as of last winter. The only reason I know any of this is because Dad took me here any day he had to look after me at the weather factory.

It hasn’t changed much, the café; the only difference I can see is the new line-up of staff. The parasols are the same, the logo’s the same, the colour scheme of blue and white’s the same, even the décor and furniture. Nothing is out of place, as far as I can tell, sitting in my usual spot at Table 6 on the far end of the fenced-off courtyard.

I wear a purple pair of shades and a souvenir sunhat I’d bought in Mount Aris. A very basic disguise, since my cutie mark is still exposed, but ponies see our manes more than our marks when the Wonderbolts perform; only the most hardcore fans memorise every detail about us. In Cloudsdale, you wouldn’t be hard-pressed to find one, but wearing much more than this would just be plain suspicious for a city in the sky.

The trick to stardom is learning how to hide without looking like you’re hiding. It took me years to reach this point, and I’m not ashamed to admit I wouldn’t want to repeat them. Not that I don’t appreciate attention the fans give me, but sometimes a pony needs time to themselves.

A perfect example would be right now.

“So, sweetie,” Mum begins as soon as our waiter has left the table, a pleasantly forced smile upon her face, “how was it?”

A bonus of my disguise is that I can get away with looking slightly critical. I just need to watch my lips and make sure they don’t do the same as my brows. “Fine, I guess.”

“Just fine?”

I shrug, picking up my latte and taking a quiet sip. “Nothing bad happened, if that’s what you’re getting at. Not really. I mean, I’m home early, but that’s for something else.”

“What kind of something?” Mum picks up her tea, but doesn’t drink, opting to share a curious, mischievous look. “Not because you wanted to see me too, by any wild chance?”

I glance away and take my time, savouring the flavour in my mouth before I’m obliged to answer. “Just… friend stuff.”

“Fleety, dear, please, can’t you be a little more engaging?”

“What do you want me to say?” I shrug again, frowning somewhat. “It’s between me, Soarin and Spits. I don’t want to go talking about them behind their backs.”

Her gaze lowers to her tea, smile fading. “So, it’s another argument, is it?”

I close my eyes and droop my head and sigh heavily. “Mum, please…”

“I didn’t say anything,” she protests innocently. “I just find it interesting how often you need some alone time.”

“That’s my business, not yours.”

“Alright, alright.” She puts a hoof up in mock surrender, then moves to sip her tea.

As she does so, Dad lowers his newspaper to glance at her, and seeing the coast is clear, leans toward me and smiles. “We’re glad you’re home, Fleetfoot.”

An obligatory line, but a welcome one, especially when ‘we’ means ‘I’ in Dad-speak. “Thanks, old guy,” I say cordially.

His smile widens. He’s always liked whatever sass I’ve given him, for whatever reason. A lowkey masochist, really, not that I’m complaining. But life appears to have taken its toll on him, or at least old age: crow’s feet have formed at the corners of his eyes. His pale green coat seems slightly paler. His mane, a shorter, less gelled, less voluminous version of mine, seems a little shorter, and his moustache seems bushier.

Of course, this could all just be my imagination, but the fact remains that time has passed. Things have stayed the same, but things have changed too. I wouldn’t be home early if nothing had happened.

“Anyway, what was it like, travelling international?” Mum continues, setting her cup on the table again. She looks less weary than Dad, but her golden curls are curlier, with the faintest hint of silver. “I bet you have plenty of stories to tell.”

I shrug once more. “Same as travelling anywhere else by airship, really. Only difference is the time you stay cooped up.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m trying to make conversation, dear.”

“And I’m giving you an answer. You want my take? That’s my take.”

“You can’t be any more specific about it? You didn’t see anything of interest?”

My brows crease as I glance left and right, suddenly feeling like I’m being interrogated. “Plenty, I guess. I don’t know. It’s just hard to pick out something.”

“Alright then, what was Yakyakistan like?”

“Cold.” I sip my latte. “No coffee.”

“And that’s it?” she queries humourlessly. “Cold and coffeeless?”

“Lot of snow and mountains too.”

“Fleetfoot.”

“Fine, fine.” I set the latte down and look off to the right, skewing my mouth to the side in thought. “It’s different.”

Mum gives a small, approving nod. “How so?”

Good. At least I’m on the right track. “The weather’s wild there, and the yaks like it like that. Prince Rutherford does, anyway. We had a blizzard come through on a training day, and we weren’t allowed to clear it by royal decree.”

“Really?”

I nod. “Even Spitfire was surprised, and she was the one who had to read up on each country’s leaders and cultures. But besides that little incident, the rest of the trip was okay. We stayed in this giant hotel-yurt with a big firepit in the centre, and loads of stick-figures on the walls and ceiling.”

“Stick-figures?”

“Folk art.” I shrug. “The real deal were the coloured snow mandalas.”

“Snow what?”

“Mandalas, honey,” Dad answers for me, resting a wing on her withers. “Remember the flower patterns she photographed for us?”

“Oh, right, of course.” She nods in realisation, then pauses, and then looks to me reflectively. “Do they really smash those up afterwards?”

“Yep.”

“…Well, that sounds rather pointless.”

“It’s just how they are.” I shrug again. “They find beauty in the fact things don’t last.”

“And yet they’re the ones who ensure things don’t last,” she counters with an eyebrow smugly raised. “A bit of a contradiction, if you ask me.”

My brows lower. “I’m not debating whose worldview’s more messed up.”

“Nor am I, dear. I’m simply saying it seems odd to me.”

And I didn’t ask for her opinion, but what does it matter? Now I’m getting antsy on behalf of an entire kingdom, all because I allowed myself to get duped into sharing coffee with the one pony who I know always has something tucked under her feathers.

I fold my forelegs and look away.

“Oh, Fleetfoot, must you wear those glasses?”

“If you don’t want to be swamped by strangers, yes.”

Mum swings her head about like an owl searching for mice. “I hardly think we’d be swamped on a quiet day like this. There’s only one other couple dining here.”

“Word spreads, Mum.”

“And it takes time to spread. Time I can spend looking at my daughter without some poor excuse for a disguise hiding her face.”

“Mistral, honey,” Dad lowers his newspaper again and looks at her pleadingly, “let her be.”

“But it’s impolite,” Mum retorts, adding a sudden edge to her voice as she meets his gaze. “It makes me feel like I’m not being taken seriously.”

Girl, you have no idea.

“Weren’t you the one who taught her to take her hat off indoors?”

Dad lowers his eyes. “I was.”

“Well then, isn’t it disrespectful to not look somepony in the eye when you talk to them?”

He chews his lip. As much of a friend as he tries to be, Dad’s still a father, and any disagreement with Mum is an inevitably lost cause. He turns to me sadly. “Fleetfoot?”

When she doesn’t get her way, she starts twisting legs — pulling strings to work around whatever walls I have in place. I bet that’s why she brought Dad along, so he can break a tie. But the more I resist, the more pressure she’ll put on him, and the greater the strain between us. So, as much as it hurts my pride, it’s better to throw in the towel now.

I pull off my hat and shades and place them on the table. As much as I’d like to simply toss them aside, that’d be to nopony’s benefit, and I’d have to dive after them if my aim is off. “There. You happy?”

“You’re still wearing your contacts.”

“Merciful Sisters, is there no pleasing you, Mum?!”

She frowns. “Don’t get snappy with me.”

“I’ll get snappy if and when I need to. And no, I can’t take them off: firstly, because we’re in public, and secondly, because I’m not flying all the way back home just for the case and fluid. The coffee’s here, so here’s where I’m staying.”

Her frown deepens, which she then shares with her tea as she picks it up and sips again. She smacks her lips, savouring the taste, then returns to me. “Did you meet anypony on your tour?”

The tone’s changed: critical, rather than scolding; a red flag if ever I’ve seen one. “Lots.”

“Besides the audience. Did you actually meet with anypony — actually get to know them?”

“Lord Ember of the Dragonlands.”

“Don’t lie to me, Fleetfoot.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re too quick with an answer when you do.”

Damn it, caught out. But at least I know for the future. “What’s your point, Mum?”

“My point, young lady, is that I want to see you spread your wings. Be more sociable. It’s not healthy to spend so much time by yourself.”

I stare at her in disbelief. I’ve hopped right from one frying pan to another, the only difference being the latter’s more insistent than the former.

“Mistral, please, don’t—”

“We’ve discussed this, Slipstream,” Mum interrupts, using her sharp, scolding voice again as she peers at Dad from the corner of her eye. “If not now, when?”

He holds her gaze for a while, but eventually relents and looks to me in a mixture of annoyance and sympathy. He’s a friend, not a fighter. Always has, always will be. An honest shame, but one I’ve grown used to.

Mum continues to frown down at him a moment or two longer, making sure her point’s been made, then returns to me with a stern, yet imploring look.

Uh oh.

“Fleetfoot…”

Big red flag.

“You need somepony.”

My eyes widen. My brows furrow. My ears perk up and my wings try to pull themselves closer, feathers bristling. “…Excuse me?”

“You need somepony,” she repeats without a second’s hesitation, and somehow manages to sound all the merrier for it. “You’re reaching that age where things start slowing down, doubly so with the amount of stress you put yourself under.”

I blink, then shake my head and scowl. “I’m only thirty-two, Mum. I’ve still got plenty of spring in my step. Spitfire’s the same age and I don’t see her retiring anytime soon.”

“Spitfire isn’t my daughter,” she retorts. “And I’m not talking about retirement.”

“Then what…” I begin, but quickly drift off, knowing full well what she’s on about, and giving myself a mental slap for not seeing it as soon as she called.

“You need somepony, Fleetfoot.”

“Mum,” I grumble, threatening to growl, “I thought we agreed not to talk about this.”

“That was ten years ago. I thought you would’ve matured by now, but it appears not.”

“Matured?”

“Yes, matured. Don’t you think it’s time to consider settling down?”

“No, of course not!” I lean forward and point to myself. “It’s my life, Mum! I’m a grown mare! I know what I want and what I don’t!”

“Sometimes what we want isn’t always what we need.”

“Oh, I see! Mother knows best, is that right?!”

“Mother has more experience.”

I pause, glaring, then fold my forelegs again and sit back in the chair. “Did your mother tell you to drop out at the peak of your career, just to be a housewife for the rest of your life?”

Her mouth drops, and her gaze becomes like ice.

“Fleetfoot,” Dad jumps in, frowning at me, “that was uncalled for.”

I blink again, shocked he’d take her side. “But Mum was just—”

“Listen to your father, sweetie.”

“Mistral, honey, please.” He turns to her with the same frown. “Maybe I should talk to her for a while. Alone.”

She stares at him. It’s a hard, cold stare that says she’d honestly like nothing more than to reprimand the both of us if we weren’t in public, however little public there is to witness it. But she also thinks behind those riled, purple eyes, and it eventually seems the pros of Dad’s proposal outweigh the cons; she gives us a warning, cautionary look, then slips out of her chair and flaps her wings idly, snatching her purse from below the table. “I’ll be freshening up,” she says indignantly, then turns and heads for the café.

Dad watches her until she’s out of earshot, then returns to me. He tries putting on a brave face, but I can see the hurt behind the mask; he’ll be dealing with the aftermath of this spat later. There’s disappointment as well. Whether it’s in me, her or him, I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

I feel myself deflate somewhat. “Dad, I—”

“Fleety…”

Nickname in a sober context. We’re getting serious.

“Don’t think I don’t sympathise with you, because I do,” he assures with brows upturned. “I really do. This is your life, you’re an adult, and I don’t have any right to tell you how to live it. You’re a successful, accomplished athlete, and I couldn’t be prouder of you for sticking to your dreams and just… living them.”

I sigh. “But?”

He looks down and puckers his lips. “…But I’d be lying if I said your social life… or what little there is of it… doesn’t concern me.”

A sting. One that strikes deep and painfully. Even Dad, of all ponies, is jumping on the bandwagon. I don’t want to feel betrayed, but I can’t help it. I don’t want to fly away, but I feel I should.

“Everything we say comes from a place of caring.” He meets my gaze again. “Never forget that. Mum may be a little too forceful sometimes, but she cares, Fleety. She really does. She just wants you to have a good, happy, healthy life.”

“Don’t I have one already?”

“You do. You absolutely do.” He glances away, hesitant over what comes next. “But perhaps it could be better.”

I roll my eyes and huff in half-hearted exasperation. “But I don’t need… that to be happy. Much less as far as Mum’s suggesting. I tried dating, it got in the way of the Bolts, so I dropped it, and I’ve been fine ever since.”

“I’m not asking you to date, Fleety. All I agreed with Mum on — reluctantly, might I add — is that it’s about time you start being a little more active. Expand your social sphere.”

“I don’t need a hundred thousand friends either.”

“No, of course not. But let’s say… two or three? Sprinkle some parties and get-togethers in between? Well then, I have a case to present to Mum that you could, feasibly, find a special somepony. We both get her off our backs, and you gain a few extra friends, the extent of which is entirely up to you.”

I huff again and look off to the left, over the edge of the railing to the sky beyond and the green fields below, and scant few pegasi who fly along Cloudsdale’s outskirts.

“Does that sound like a plan?”

“It sounds like I don’t have a choice.”

“Nor do I, really.” He shrugs dispassionately. “Balancing my standing with you and her is like walking a tightrope: give too much one way, and I lose the other. And I don’t want to have to pick up the pieces afterwards.”

“But why put up with this? You obviously favour me, so—”

“I favour nopony,” he states coolly. “I find a compromise, because that’s what you do with the ponies you love.”

“And when the demands are simply unreasonable?”

He puckers his lips again and gives me another sympathetic look.

I quietly sigh, then look to him again and shake my head. “I don’t want to do this, Dad.”

“And I don’t like asking you to step out of your comfort zone. But who knows?” He shrugs once more. “Maybe you’ll find yourself actually enjoying it.”

“A mare my age doesn’t just rock up to a bar and ask if anypony wants to be her friend. Not unless she’s in a midlife crisis where she’s trying to drink and bang her problems away.”

He half nods, half rolls his eyes. “We can work out the details later. Right now, I just want to know you’re on board with this.”

Of course not. I never will be, whether Mum’s the one pulling the strings or not. But as I said before, I don’t have much of a choice, so long as I want as little friction as possible in my domestic life. After all, Cloudsdale’s a very small place when anypony can fly anywhere, anytime; it’s pretty, but privacy’s never guaranteed.

Scrunching my eyes, I let my head sag. “For you,” I mutter, then look up at him from behind a grudging frown. “Not her. You.”

He smiles a small, subdued smile. “Thank you, Fleety.”

It’s a smile that seals a contract — one I’d like nothing more than to not be a part of — and so I look away. Better yet, I could up my game and go the full Monty. And that, in fact, is what I think I’ll do. “I’ll be going now,” I announce impassively, putting hat and shades back in place and sliding out of the chair. “Tell Mum you couldn’t stop me, or something.”

The smile falls, but doesn’t completely fade. “With an attitude like that, I don’t think I could even if I tried.”

A slight jab, but more like a knock on the shoulder. One I can bear. “Bye, Dad.”

“See you later, sweetie. Happy flying. And watch out for those wild storms that keep cropping up. Says here in the paper they can be quite a hoofful.”

I pause, staring at the floor, then raise an eyebrow. “Magical?”

“No, just wild. Strange, though… but Equestria’s seen worse, I suppose.”

Celestia tells Spitfire one thing, the press tells the public another. Either somepony misunderstood something, or something curious really is going on.

Leaning towards and hoping for the former, I nod, then hop into the air and spread my wings, heading off for clearer skies and greener fields.

5 | The Hammer to Fall

Music.

If there’s one thing I can thank Mum for, it’s having good taste in music and passing it on to me, along with copies of all her favourite albums. Getting them from vinyl to digital has been a long and somewhat costly venture, especially when the technology was just starting out, but it’s been well worth it; now I can fly to a beat, and not rely solely on thrill to pass the time.

The problem nowadays is that I’m spoiled for choice.

I stare at the player strapped to my foreleg as a wingtip scrolls through the library, stopping every so often when I see a title of particular interest, before scrolling further up or down. In some ways, I suppose, there can be too much of a good thing. Analysis paralysis, I think it’s called, when there are so many options and none with any drawbacks, that you simply can’t decide.

It’s a frustrating experience; I should’ve been in the air minutes ago, but here I am, stuck on a cloud, trying to figure out whether I want to listen to Golden Sparrow or Rosy Hues. The former’s a prog rock band from the Griffish Isles, famed for their innovative, if not always commercially successful concept albums — rock operas, the lead singer likes to call them — and the latter’s a folk singer from Appleoosa, who just seems to get ponies and the way the world works.

I feel a little paradoxical; I prefer substance over style in my music, yet every Wonderbolt event is literally the team just showing off how stylish we can be. I also wonder if, upon coming to this startling revelation, the universe would suddenly collapse on itself, as if Princess Twilight decided to finally end it all by dividing the entirety of existence by zero.

As funny and terrifying as the image is, nothing of the sort happens, and I give an idle hum to express my disappointment, urging myself to pick an artist already.

I could spend the rest of the day like this, stuck in an endless loop of consideration and rejection, slowly growing more and more frustrated. In which case, I may as well have stayed at Mocha Club; there, at the very least, I’d have an outlet, even if neither she nor Dad would think very highly of me for it.

Perhaps the gym’s a better option. Thunderlane’s usually there at this time of day, and he’s a pretty good training partner — introduced me to the owner of the establishment as a friend, even though I’d never really hung out with him one-on-one before, and now I have a special, limited, platinum edition mates’ rate membership deal.

But of course, Thunderlane isn’t here right now: he’s with the team, either in transit over the Celestial Sea or crossing the Equestrian east coast. They’ll have a pitstop in Canterlot before heading off at dawn, arriving in Cloudsdale late tomorrow morning, dressed to impress in our snazzy uniforms and flashing the cameras wide, triumphant grins.

Part of me wonders if this was a mistake, returning early. There’ll be consequences, no doubt, but now that I really get to thinking about it, none will hurt as much as missing out on the commemoratory photo in front of the Academy. The pictures in the papers may prove I was there at every performance and every venue, but papers don’t get hung up, and they don’t list the names of everypony present as well as those absent.

I can’t just rock up and act like I hadn’t… not abandoned them, just…

…Great, this was a mistake, wasn’t it? I doubt they’re going to kick me out, but they may as well; they’re going to release that photo to the press, and the press are going to blow the story up larger than it ever needs to be, because that’s what sells.

Fleetfoot Flees the Bolts: War Among the Stars?

Wonderbolt Lost Her Thunder: Fleetfoot Considers Early Retirement?

Fleetfoot this, Fleetfoot that, Fleetfoot out the wazoo. It’ll take weeks to correct, and even then, there’ll be sceptics looking for any fault afterwards — any sign I’m in danger of losing my post. Rumours have been going around for a long time now about how Rainbow’s out to take my spot; however hard she and Spitfire try to deny it, the press love the notion of internal conflict too much, and the timeless tale of new blood taking on the old.

My public image has been pretty clean up to this point — one of the few Bolts without any scandals or controversies of note surrounding them. Not to say the rest of the team’s an amoral group of sociopaths, or that fame had twisted them into shining beacons of hedonism and debauchery, because they aren’t and it hasn’t. I’m just the one who’s kept their head down and focussed on the job, and not let their personal life or an inflamed ego interfere with their profession.

But now Mum wants that. Dad can pretty it up all he likes, wrap it up in a neat, frilly bow and write who it’s from and how much they love me, but the ultimate goal — Mum’s burning desire — is for me to do what a mare does best.

It’s bull. More contacts, I can kind of get behind, but not that. No way, no how.

I sigh. What have I done for the universe to suddenly decide to make my life so frustrating? Two mares, two stallions, two different continents, and yet they somehow come up with the same damn topic: get out there, meet some ponies; loosen up a little.

I’ll loosen up whenever I feel like it, if ever. If that means waiting ‘til I retire and I’m past my prime, who cares? The Sisters are both a thousand years old, and yet they’re fawned over day after day, and probably play into more than their fair share of young ponies’ fantasies late at night. Granted, they’re drop-dead gorgeous, but I’m sure the allure of getting lucky with a princess would be at the top of any frisky teen’s bucket list. Bonking a former star wouldn’t be far behind.

…Oh my stars, I can’t believe I just thought that.

I cradle my head in a wing as I feel a headache coming on, nauseating images passing through my mind. How many fans, I begin to wonder, have had that exact idea? How many have been photographed alongside me? How many have I posed for a picture with? How many have a signed poster of me in their room, to which they dedicate their deepest, darkest desires every single evening, sometimes twice, thrice, or even more per session?

Heavens forbid, what do they imagine me doing?

It’s not that I haven’t thought about this kind of thing before, because I have, it’s just that I never really gave it much credit until now — never seriously considered it as being something ponies do. I didn’t, so naturally, why would anypony else? But now the fog is lifting, and I’m finally realising these are the ponies I’ll meet if I follow through on my promise to Dad.

The thought of keeling over and refusing to open my wings suddenly feels quite agreeable.

But I don’t want that. I want to clear my head. I want to forget myself; what I am, where I am, who I am. And nothing does that better than a good, long, relaxing flight. Better than coffee, better than booze, and definitely better than…

I shut my eyes and groan. I really need a nap when this is all over. May as well turn it into a full twenty-four-hour blanket burrito fest, wrapped up as snug as I can be with an assortment of snacks laid out in front of me, watching the entire Second Wind trilogy, reliving sweet, undying nostalgia. Movies from better days, when the world made more sense. Or was at least less intent on me lifting my tail.

I think I have the soundtrack on here, actually.

I open my eyes again and swipe down. Reach… Rockin’, Rollin’, Patrollin’… Sand in the Fur… Say It Ain’t So… The Sea Breeze… Second Wind. I tap the album cover and select play all, then put my goggles on — meticulously polished, as always — and rear up on my hindlegs, standing straight as I ready myself.

The soft, rumble of drums come first, like rolling thunder, and, as always, makes the skin of my back tingle, from neck to croup. This is where the opening text fades in, describing in six short sentences all the audience needs to know…

There was born a child unto a world of endless water.

His clan fractured; his tribe divided.

Across the seas they stole and slaughtered, burned and butchered.

They betrayed their friends and beloved, and called their actions just.

Thus the world was dark and terrible.

Unto the world was born a demon.

Despite the language, it’s not a terribly gory series — I’m sure it wouldn’t have been allowed otherwise — and I’m not a huge fan of violence, but the moment I saw those words for the very first time at the age of… nine, ten? I was hooked. And now individual drummers start picking up the pace in fleeting bursts; the thunder draws nearer.

And then just as the drums sound as if they’re about to explode in a massive crescendo, they quickly patter out; the calm before the storm, and my signal to lean back. A brief, chilling trill of the bamboo flute denotes my fall, and the movie fades in on the ebb and flow of calm ocean water.

There is silence. Eyes closed, I count the seconds before the first ship’s hull is rowed into view, and the moment it does, I open my wings and make a steep upward turn, just in time for the horns and drums to roar and pound. A fleet of a hundred craft approach an island fortress, sails of red and gold unfurled, archers, marines, artillery crews at the ready; a great battle is about to commence.

A shiver of childish delight runs through me. The director? A visionary. The composer? A genius. The actors? Impeccable. The imagery? Astounding. Newer films are starting to experiment with computer-generated effects, but I’m sceptical, and I feel the experience is all the better knowing everything on screen is real.

I need that movie marathon. I’m doing it as soon as I get home, slapping a pizza in the oven, popcorn in the microwave, and breaking out the vintage wine I’d promised to save for a very special occasion.

Well, the occasion may not be the sort I was expecting — not that I knew to begin with — but a drink would more than welcome to wash my woes away. For a night, at least. Celestia knows what I’ll do for tomorrow, or whenever Dad decides to cash in my promise.

But that’s all in the future, and currently, I’m flying high above the world — above scheming parents, above troublesome friends, above any and all repercussions I may or may not face. I can’t control the outcomes, but I can control my actions, and right now, the track is ending. What comes next is battle music, and battle music needs speed.

I float into an upward backflip as the horns and drums fade, then clap my wings and race down at an angle as soon as the first new note is struck. No audience to appease, no formation to keep, no reputation to tarnish. Just me, the music, the air, and a Mach cone with my name on it.

Down, down, further down I go, faster and faster, through clouds wispy and solid alike, forelegs outstretched and already wobbling, wings buzzing with the speed of a hummingbird. Wind whips through my mane, tail and feathers and catches on my goggles, but I hear none of it, only a percussion orchestra drumming up the intensity.

And I can feel it, that familiar shake — a deep rumbling that rattles through my body as I reach the threshold. My excitement builds even before I can see the ground properly; three years’ worth of training and I’m finally at Rainbow’s level — I can do what only she could before. With her help, of course, and the most important piece of advice she ever gave me was to envision what you want most, because that’s how the barrier’s broken: emotion.

For her, it’s keeping her friends safe.

For me, it’s living a happy life.

And so, as I burst through another dense cloud, the sky collapses and explodes in a silvery ripple in all directions, and I steer up and away from the earth as my speed instantly doubles. Momentum doesn’t even begin to describe this sensation of absolute velocity; it’s as if the air isn’t air anymore, but a sheet of silk, upon which I glide without a hint of resistance.

Weightless. Up, down, all around, twisting and turning and looping and diving, I feel I can outrun any danger that comes my way, go anywhere in the world in a heartbeat, even rise above the atmosphere and soar among the stars.

How I’ve missed this. Unrestrained joy. A chance to do as I wish for nopony but myself. The sky may darken and the wind may blow and the clouds drizzle and the lightning flash, but so long as I can do this…

…Wait…

I wipe my goggles with a foreleg, then turn my head as I arc around and see a storm forming, slowly gaining mass as it swirls about. Sparks flare from the vortex in the centre, not yet larger than a housing block, but glowing with a strange, grey, otherworldly light, too bright to see the source but not enough to look away.

I stare with an open mouth. I’ve never seen anything like this. The closest I can remember are the horror stories from the Crystal Empire, where freak blizzards happen on a relatively regular basis. The weather there sounds like it has a grudge on the ponies of the north, as if the Crystal Heart was meant to cage it, and it’s doing its best to break free. Now I’m starting to wonder if their short-sightedness is bleeding over, sending the north’s problem southward.

But no. The weather up there is simply wild. This is magical; triggered by a sonic rainboom, gathering strength, growing in size. Already I can feel the faint hum of thauma in my feathers, like a current of electricity through the body — magic that isn’t my own.

This needs to be dealt with, fast. Spitfire said these storms haven’t caused any damage yet, but if Dad’s told me to watch out, that could mean something’s changed. Cloudsdale isn’t that far, and at this speed, I should be there in next to no time. I’ll alert the Weather Bureau, they’ll send out the teams, assess the situation, and hopefully sort this mess out before it gets serious.

But they might deal with it faster if they knew exactly what they’re heading into. Cloudsdale is on the opposite side of the storm, anyhow; it’d be shorter than going around, and I’m sure they’d welcome any details I could give. Windspeed, direction, air pressure, observations, however general. Small things go a long way.

It’s not bravado or curiosity, just practicality.

I take out the earbuds, wrap them tight around my foreleg, then swing right and head for the vortex. Rain sprinkles from above, but it’s slower than normal, and the slower it gets the closer I come; the air is thick with thauma — so much that I’m starting to feel resistance again, as well as the water catching in my wings, fur and hair.

It’s eerie. And to think I did this. Not intentionally, but still — though I’m not sure if that’s something the bureau needs to know. Of course, knowing it was caused by a rainboom is important information, but if this storm starts wreaking havoc, hurts or even kills ponies, and somepony leaks who sparked it… I’m done for. And there’ll be no correcting that mistake.

It wouldn’t be enough that I’d have to live with blood on my hooves.

I wipe my goggles again and dip a little lower and swerve a little closer, getting as clear a picture of the inside as I can while staying out of reach of the lightning, which arcs in slow motion like sea serpents in water. Sitting in the heart of the maelstrom, barely visible through the grey light and rain, is a swirling pool of rainbow — the colours of Harmony.

I linger on it, circling around the ever-expanding tempest, inexplicably rapt to see something so bizarre, so… mesmerising. It’s as if I’m peering into another world, and I somehow know that something is…

…Something’s coming.

There’s a dark little dot in the centre of the pool, slowly, very slowly growing in size. Accelerating, actually. And the rainbow’s speeding up, and so is the vortex, and the lightning and rain. And as soon as the object — no mere illusion — clears the pool, it shrinks in the blink of an eye and detonates in a brilliant flash of white, cracking like thunder. The grey light vanishes with it, and all that’s left is the object, still falling.

It looks like an extremely oddly-shaped railcar, or more accurately a locomotive; in the brief second or two I have before it plummets past me, I spy the front — which I assume makes space for the engine, however small it is — four wheels, windows all round, and…

Sweet Celestia, somepony’s in there!

I blink, momentarily stunned, then shut my gaping mouth, wind myself up, and shoot down after it, so fast I’m worried I might break the sound barrier again. No more rainbooms.

The black carriage rolls as it falls, tumbling forward with a slight spin to the left, and no sign of any control whatsoever. Either it isn’t meant to fly or the pony behind the wheel isn’t awake, neither of which are good, and makes me hasten all the more.

I reach its side and latch on. The twirling isn’t so bad that I’m scared I’ll fall off, but there’s a definite lack of proper hoofholds. But challenging though it is, I secure my forehooves on the roof and rear hooves in some kind of nook below some kind of strange door, underside pressed tightly against its body, allowing myself a precious few moments to get used to the momentum.

The ground’s thirty seconds away.

I strain my neck lower so I can peer into the cabin.

Whatever he is, he isn’t a pony, but I know a terrified face when I see one. He has his cheek pressed against his shoulder as two hands grip a belt across his torso, eyes closed, lips contorted in a silent, fearful grimace. Too scared to take control or simply unable.

At risk of slipping, I reach my closest hoof down and try for the doorhandle, only to have it jam. I have a second, third attempt, and still nothing.

Twenty seconds.

No time to ask politely.

I smash my hoof against the glass.

A dent.

Once, twice, thrice, upwards of five more hits and the window bends and cracks, but doesn’t completely break. I have, however, caught his attention.

He pushes a button on his side of the door, and there’s the sound and thud of something unlocking.

I pull the handle again, and at last the door opens.

Just a fraction.

I quickly wedge the same hoof in the gap and heave as hard as I can, almost losing my grip in the process.

Ten seconds, maybe less.

I stick my foreleg in front of him. “Grab my hoof!”

He stares at me dumbly with an open mouth and wide eyes.

“Grab it, you idiot!” I shake it for emphasis. “Get out of there, now!”

He blinks and shuts his mouth, and then undoes the belt and latches a… hand around my fetlock.

As soon as he has a solid grip on my leg, I right myself and kick off in whatever direction that isn’t immediately down. His weight strains and pulls at my shoulder, but through grit teeth and clenched eyes and sheer force of will, I somehow clear the falling carriage, and hear it crash a moment later with twisting metal and a heavy, earthen thump.

And then I hit the earth myself.

I land on my back and tumble and turn, side over side, head over heels, skidding and rolling, bumping and bouncing. Up and down become solid ground, as do left and right — a cacoon of grass and dirt from which I can’t escape — until I strike a rock and spring into the air, only to flop on my stomach and slide to a halt.

Everything… aches. Burns. Blunt impacts that first felt numb are already starting to hurt, none more so than my left wing, which I can barely move without a sharp, cutting pain up my withers. My goggle’s right eyepiece is cracked as well, and I think there’s a cut just below my hairline. But all things considered, this could easily have been a lot…

I raise my head, squint and look about, trying desperately to focus my blurry sight, all the while being pestered by the high-pitched wailing of the wreck some way over a gentle ridge. No sign that I can see. Tracing the flattened grass and upturned clods of dirt fares me no better, and only goes to show how far I’d crashed. I think it’s that rock over there that’s to blame for my…

Not a rock.

I scramble to my hooves and canter lopsidedly toward him, doing my best to ignore the aching in my sides and legs and throbbing dizziness in my head. And when I reach him, I freeze.

He’s in bad shape, curled in a foetal position with an arm… bent unnaturally. He has bruises all over his face, a split lip, a bloody nose, blood on his shirt, blood on his brows, blood… everywhere. Just… so much blood.

I don’t know how to check his pulse, so I take off my goggles and place the undamaged lens close to his mouth, and blow a relieved sigh when I see it fog up. Unconscious, but alive. At the very least, alive. But he might not be for long if he doesn’t get help soon — maybe he’s bleeding internally, or there’s some kind of injury I’m not noticing.

But I can’t move him. I don’t think I’m supposed to, at least; he could be concussed, or have a spine or neck injury, or… whatever. And even if I am, I can’t do it alone: he’s too big and heavy, and this adrenaline rush might not be enough to get even me back up to Cloudsdale.

Time’s wasting, and I can’t afford to waste it. Can’t afford to dwell on the shock.

“I’ll be back,” I pant, then leap high and whimper and grimace as I flap my wings, aiming for the floating city ten minutes away.

7 | Friends Will Be Friends

Knocking.

Somepony’s knocking at the door.

Merciful Sisters, what is it now?

With a deep, throaty groan, I grimace as I force myself up, grudgingly flinging the blanket off as I lie on my side in my bed, propped on an elbow. Already the fluffy yet firm pillows are beckoning my head return to their sumptuous embrace, and my cheeks and temples long for their touch. They’re just that comfy — Aquitania knows how to make its linen — and I’m that tired. Not even a full night’s rest before the world decides to screw me over once again.

“Fleetfoot?”

I open my eyes with a squint and peer through the fog of sleep in the direction of the entry.

Another few knocks, then Soarin calls again, “Fleetfoot, you there?”

I sit perfectly still, processing the fact. Not really making any judgements, just… staring it in the face. Or as best I can while the bed and my body conspire against my mind. And their argument is rather sound: ignore him, and I’d be able to wake up well-rested after a few more hours. It won’t make up for two whole days without a single proper moment of respite, and more than my fair share of stress, but it’d be a start. And it’d serve him right for what he did in Griffonstone.

“It’s me and Spits. We just came by to see how you’re doing.”

That makes an ear twitch. Spitfire, on the other hoof… doesn’t deserve that treatment. And now that I really think about it, I already concluded yesterday that I owed her — both of them, in fact — an explanation. Or at least I think I did. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’ve just awoken, but it’s hard to remember what I thought and when I thought it.

I don’t think I’ve ever really gone this long without sleep before. Not since I was in the reserves, training whenever I could to impress the then-Captain Silver Streak, father of the currently serving Streak twins. Whether my posting was held back so he could perform with his sons is still up for debate, but it certainly didn’t take long after Spitfire replaced him for my talents to be recognised. My closeness with her notwithstanding, of course.

And to think, I was about to turn the mare who’d stuck by me from the very beginning away just because I wanted a little peace and quiet, and I didn’t want to face her after breaking her trust. Fantastic leadership material right there.

“You home, Fleet?”

“Yeah,” I reply, trying to sound as awake as possible as I rub my eyes with a hoof, but it comes out as lively as a sloth. “I’m here.”

“Ah.” He pauses, surprised. “Can we… come in?”

I rub a little deeper as a yawn escapes me. “Sure,” I croon with all the musical talent of an asthmatic camel, sitting up further and lumbering to the edge of the bed. “Just give me a sec.”

“Sure thing.”

I sigh as I slip off the mattress and my hooves reach the floor, which quickly turns into another yawn, and that yawn demands a stretch. Seeing no reason to disappoint, I obey, leaning back and stretching my forelegs, wings and all their feathers out to their fullest extent, then flap them a few idle times as I lean forward and stretch my hindlegs. Then I roll all my joints in a slow, grinding, full-body wiggle, accentuating it all by pushing against the floor and arching my back, face scrunching as I feel the satisfying ache. Even my tail gets its own little workout.

Sometimes I wish there were more of me to stretch.

It would certainly beat…

…No, they’re friends. They can be a bit dumb sometimes, but so can I, and Soarin didn’t sound all that hostile. Who knows? Maybe he really does mean what he says.

With my small session of indulgence over, I stroll to the edge of the bedroom — or bedledge, as the case may be — and drop down to the lower level. From where I land, I continue walking toward the door, unbolt the bolt, unlock the lock, then twist the handle, pull, and peer through the gap.

Soarin and Spitfire look away from whispering something to each other and turn to me. Soarin wears his jacket and shirt from the party, while Spitfire has only her bomber. She smiles as she meets my gaze. “Morning.”

I glance at the clear blue sky behind them — somewhere in the early afternoon, I reckon. “No kidding,” I murmur, fully opening the door and standing aside.

Soarin trots inside with an air of… what appears to be indifference, but it’s hard to say. Spitfire’s close behind, but stops to offer the last coffee from a cardboard cupholder — a Mocha Club latte, still steaming from the spout in the lid. “Got this one free when I mentioned you,” she remarks, her smile waning somewhat as she holds it out. “Thought you’d need it after what you went through yesterday.”

I stare at her, lips parting and ears drooping slightly, then at the cup. “Thanks,” I mumble, sitting down and hesitantly accepting the offer with a hoof of my own, then returning to her. “But… you don’t need to make it sound like I’m traumatised.”

“Oh.” Her smile fades completely and she sets the cupholder on the kitchen counter. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“No, no, it’s fine, it’s fine,” I dismiss with a gentle wave of the wing, then rubs my eyes a little more with the other. “I just… haven’t had much sleep. At all. And I don’t think a latte’s going to help that.”

“Would you rather we come back later?”

I pause, giving the notion some thought, but pass it up with a soft and somewhat dizzying shake of the head. “Nah, you’re already here, and you’ve already bribed me.” I take a sip, and the familiar milky goodness starts its work by warming my bones. “And I could use the company, I guess.”

“Yeah, about that…” Soarin begins, standing across from us at the other end of the couch, eyes lowered, lips curled in an uncomfortable pout. It’s only now I notice his mane’s a little more unkempt than normal, and he seems fidgety. “I’m… really sorry for the way I acted at Griffonstone, Fleet.”

I sigh, sagging my head. If that’s what they’ve swung by for, I really should’ve stayed in bed; I’m not in the mood or right state of mind to deal with any of this, especially ancient history. But that’s what I get for acting on sentiment than remembering the current state of affairs.

“When you left… I was worried sick. I mean, sure, there was that note saying you’d gone home on your own, but that made me feel awful — thinking I’d done that to you. I know you can take care of yourself, and Spitfire told me that as well, but… it just…”

I close my eyes, head sagging a little further. “Soarin—”

“Something happened to you, Fleet. Something happened to you, and it’s all because I couldn’t… didn’t control myself and pushed you away. And I’m sorry for that.”

“Soarin… please.” I open my eyes again and raise a hoof to silence him. “It’s too early in the morning for heavy crap. You were drunk, I overreacted. Let’s leave it at that.”

He pauses, seemingly taken aback, but I can definitely tell that’s not all he wanted to say. And the longer he doesn’t say it — a couple seconds, at most — the more pressure builds inside of him, until he just can’t take it anymore. “But—”

“Besides,” I interrupt, already prepared, returning my hoof to the floor, “if you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been there to save him.”

“Him being the creature, right?” Spitfire queries, stepping closer and cocking her head. “The… human?”

I nod after I take another satisfying sip. “Philip. His real name’s longer and far more convoluted, but that’s what he told us to call him.”

“Philip,” she echoes to herself, lowering her eyes to the left for a moment in thought. “Sounds… foreign.”

“That’s a no brainer.”

“Well, sure, but I mean… it’s a different style. Most people in Equestria have more… direct names. Rainbow Dash, for instance — it describes what she looks like and what she’s all about. But if you want names derived from something, you’d either have to travel south to Saddle Arabia and Mount Aris, north to Yakyakistan, or east to the GK.”

“Twilight’s looking into it.”

She blinks. “You met her?”

“No, but that’s what the nurse told me.”

“Ah.” She nods to herself. “Well, at least the egghead’s on the case. I bet she’ll have plenty of questions once he’s awake.”

“He is.”

Her eyes widen. “Really?”

I nod again. “Woke up just before I left last night. Or this morning.” I pause, then shrug. “Before sunrise, at least.”

No reply comes.

I look up from my cup and glance between her and Soarin, brows creasing curiously as I finish another mouthful. “What?”

“Did he say anything?” Spitfire probes eagerly.

“About…?”

“Home? Where he comes from, what it’s like? Why he appeared in the middle of a damned magical vortex over the Equestrian heartland?”

I shy away from her gaze, and instantly realise that was a mistake — if I don’t cover my tracks, she’ll pick it up as genuine discomfort. “No, no…” I begin, shaking my head, standing up and making my way past her for the kitchen, hoping a distraction will excuse a laboured answer. “He just said something about the… United States, or whatever he called it. I know we’ve never heard of it, and we just got back from a worldwide tour.”

“Nothing else?”

I pull open the cabinet and take out a bowl. “Nope.”

“Are you sure?”

I set down my coffee and head to the pantry. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause, and then she gently huffs. “Well, that sucks.”

“Sure does.” I retrieve my pitcher of oats and take it to the counter with the bowl, then pour a light serving in. “Just the way things are, I guess.”

“And how’re you holding up, Fleet?” Soarin inquires.

The concern in his voice tugs at a string in me.

Guilt. What I was feeling last night was definitely guilt. And now I’m being asked how whether I’m okay when he’s down there in hospital, because of me. He’s the one Soarin should be asking about.

“Fine,” I say, opening the fridge.

“Anything I can do for you, at all?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.” He makes a poor effort of hiding his disappointment. “Well then, can you tell us what happened, exactly? How you managed to come out clean and Philip… didn’t?”

Okay, wow, really twisting the nail on that one. I mean, considering he’s putting the blame on himself — which is really making it hard for me to blame him, ironically — it makes sense he’d want to hear the details. But I don’t think I can lie well enough without rousing a little suspicion. Not to them, and not to their faces. They know me too well, and I care too much.

Better to just avoid the question altogether.

“I… honestly don’t remember much,” I say, turning back to the counter with some blueberries and yoghurt. “It’s all just a blur, really.”

“Rough couple of days, huh?” Spitfire chimes in.

I tip in the blueberries. “You can say that.”

“Spits…” Soarin murmurs, “please don’t.”

“I know, I know, just having some fun.”

“Fun. Right.”

I glance over to them again as I smother my breakfast in the sweet and seemly goodness of chilled vanilla yoghurt. “Well then, what about you two? You’re here a bit early, don’t you think? The airship was supposed to arrive around about eleven.”

“We jumped ship in the morning before we left Canterlot,” Spitfire answers decisively. “Soarin couldn’t catch a wink of sleep when we heard what happened from the hospital. Figured if one was missing, two more wouldn’t hurt.”

I look at her and raise an eyebrow. “You’re the captain, and he’s your second in command.”

“So?” she playfull scoffs. “You don’t need a captain to lead the Bolts back home. Rainbow’s in charge — she’ll know what to do. Everyone knows she’s after my job, anyhow.”

I snort and pull out a spoon from a nearby drawer. “I thought she was after mine.”

“Oh, sure, and Soarin’s as well. She’s a one mare army in the making, I’ll tell you that.”

That gets a chuckle out of me. Rainbow’s status as an Element Bearer has always led to speculation over who’s more fit to lead the team, and to remember a debate so fickle and pointless helps me forget what I’m anxious about for a moment. “What about the photo in front of the Academy?” I ask as I stick the first spoonful of bliss in my mouth and chew. “Rainbow knows not to go through with it, right?”

“Please.” She waves a wing dismissively. “Rainbow’s egotistic, but she’s not dumb.”

“Most of the time,” Soarin adds. “Remember her first run at the Ponyville derby?”

“True.” Spitfire rolls her eyes. “But if she does, she’ll get a stern talking-to, and then the papers can say who’s really in charge.”

“Putting your hoof down in public, Spitty?” I muse after finishing a second scrumptious bite. “Are you sure it’s not just Rainbow with an ego?”

“Oh-ho, and you’re one to talk, Fleetfoot, trying to beat Lightning’s record on the Dizzitron.”

“Hey, don’t bring me into this — we’re talking about you and Dash right now.”

She slowly shakes her head with a sly grin and clicks her tongue. “Point still stands, Fleet, point still stands. And so does her record.”

I roll my eyes and groan, “Don’t remind me.”

“How was the fish, by the way?” Soarin queries, starting to feel a little more confident.

I turn to him. “The salmon?”

He nods.

I pause, looking up in thought and with a slight frown. And I secretly savour the drama of the moment. “You know what? I’d honestly have to try it again before I decide.”

“Oh my stars.”

“What?” I wonder with a smile. “It’s really just one of those things that needs a second go.”

“Nothing ‘needs’ a second go to know if you like it or not,” he counters, chuckling. “Just admit it, Fleet: you’ve been seduced.”

“I’m not admitting anything.”

“And so her descent begins,” Spitfire finishes, looking off into the distance with the air of an actress from the early days of film.

“Guys, please, I’m not at risk of eating meat left, right and centre,” I calm with a small, assuring wave. “Let’s leave that to Cadance, alright?”

Both of them guffaw, Soarin almost looking like he’d choked on something.

I snicker to myself. Even after putting these two through the wringer, and two whole days without a proper nap, I can still make them laugh. Must be my magnetic personality. “So, how much trouble am I in?” I ask, steeling my nerves for their cutting response by sampling another mouthful of berries and oats.

Spitfire recovers and cocks her head, still with a smile. “Trouble?”

“For ditching you.”

“Oh.” She nods in recognition and looks away, thinking. “Well, considering the fact you saved a life, I don’t think a punishment’s in order. I mean, if you weren’t here, he’d most likely be dead.”

I force the surprise to outweigh the shame.

If I hadn’t been here, neither would he.

“However,” she continues, returning to me, “I’m sure the press would like to know why you were here before us, so we ought to get our stories straight before the journalists show up. If you don’t want them to know what happened, that’s completely fine by me.”

My eyes widen. This time, surprise is the only thing I feel. “Really?” I ask bemusedly, pointing to my chest with a feathertip. “You’re just… letting it go?”

She pauses, then glances away in a feeble attempt at an eyeroll and sighs. “Okay, look… I’m disappointed you left, and especially over something I think we can all agree was rather petty.”

Soarin lowers his eyes and ears.

I try to keep my gaze steady, but my lips press against each other.

“But honestly, I’m just happy you’re safe. And I don’t want Soarin to blame himself for me doing my job as well.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “You’re sparing me for his sake?”

He looks up, an eyebrow also quirked.

She angles her head knowingly. “I’m sparing you because you’ve learned your lesson.”

At first, I feel tempted to ask what exactly that lesson would be, but I quickly realise I’d be poking a beehive for no good reason. And then there’s the lesson itself dawning on me — or more specifically, resurfacing: never abandon the team. Spitfire and I had learned that at Rainbow Falls, and here I am now, guilty of a similar crime. And, funnily enough, Soarin’s the victim again.

Destined to save a life?

No, I don’t think so.

Doomed to repeat history?

…I sure as heck hope not…

“Yeah,” I say absently, avoiding her gaze. “I guess I have.”

A silence descends, awkward and long. Only the scraping of my spoon on the bowl fills the void, along with the gentle breeze outside the kitchen window.

“So,” Soarin breaks the fragile peace, “what’s planned for today?”

Trust him to indirectly point out the discomfort we’re all feeling. But at least it gives me something to think about, and something productive at that. “Nothing much,” I say with a sigh, looking to the far corners of the walls and ceiling for inspiration. “Housecleaning, I suppose — I’m sure you smelled the vapours before you came in. Maybe catch up on the Dreamscape series, see if it’s as good as they say. Eat, shower, sleep. And that’s about it.”

“Really?”

I return to him. “Well, I’m not needed for anything, so…”

“It’s just… well…” He seems to chew on his words, as if they’re too sour to speak, but also too much to keep in. “You aren’t planning on seeing him again?”

“Who? Philip?”

He gives a slow, exaggerated shrug of confirmation.

I pause, then shrug myself. “Well, sure… I guess… sometime, just… not right now. I mean, it’s a bit soon, isn’t it? Leaving at midnight, returning in the morning? For somepony I barely even know?”

“Someone you saved,” Spitfire corrects, looking at me supportively. “Someone who’s a long, long way from home, by the sounds of it. Now, I can’t say what he’s feeling right now, but… if I were in his place, I’d be after all the support I can get. Seeing you again might be what he needs.”

I pause again, narrowing my eyes at her, feeling bitter at just how thinly veiled this little ploy is. “You’re really twisting my leg here, aren’t you, Spits?”

She softly sighs and smiles, happy to be caught and forced to cut the crap. “I’m just saying this might be an opportunity to… you know… mingle. I mean, an answer may very well have fallen out of the sky, and he owes you his life. That doesn’t happen every day.”

I don’t reply. I want to, but I don’t know how — what words to use, or what tone — because the many layers of this deliciously complicated cake are making me feel conflicted.

On one hoof, I hate being trapped in this intervention I never asked for, meant to fix a problem I don’t have. And on top of that, I’m basically being ordered to leave the comfort of my home to socialise with somepony I can’t be sure I’ll ever get along with.

On the other, the ‘answer’ to this fictional problem’s here because of me, and as much as he owes me for saving him, I owe him for putting him in danger, even if I hadn’t meant to, even if he doesn’t know it.

And then there’s… that thing I saw in him yesterday — that nameless, disconcertingly ambiguous emotion. Whatever it is at its heart, it’s a mystery right now, and the normally quite dormant detective inside me is rattling her chains to be set free; she wants to figure out what it was, what it may still be, and what makes him tick. Good heavens know why.

And finally, there’s that last point — the one thing above all others that keeps me from snapping at her. Or at least, the second most prominent point; there’s also the fact she’s my captain, and I ought to respect the chain of command as much as any good Bolt would.

“As much as I hate you ambushing me,” I begin, slowly, tensely, but ultimately controlled and measured, “luckily for you, I made a promise to Dad. So, if I go down today, it’s because he told me to. Not you.”

“Alright.”

I blink, slightly taken by how easily the reply came to her, but then also by the fact I was apparently expecting a reason to be mad at her — searching for an excuse to cross the line. And that disturbs me, somewhat.

Quite a bit, actually.

As a matter of fact, a lot.

Screw this.

“Okay, out,” I declare, tossing my half-eaten breakfast onto the counter and marching around, directing my uninvited guests to the exit with my wings. “Both of you, out, now.”

“Wait, what?” Soarin sputters before he finds himself being shooed away. “Why?”

“Because you win.” I curb my frown from him to Spitfire, who’s taken the much wiser step of walking to the door of her own accord. “You want me up and about? Fine. I’m going to the stupid hospital, I’m going to talk with the stupid human, and I’m going to make a fool out of myself. Happy?”

“Elated,” she answers evenly.

Oh, she’s relishing the moment hard. But it can’t last forever; with one final shove, I push Soarin back through the entrance and into the open air, joining Spitfire on the de facto front porch. “Shut up.” I close the door behind me and spin back, scowling and pointing a warning feather at them. “Just shut up, or I’ll take it out on you again.”

Spitfire simply watches me in silence with a cheeky grin.

“You’re leaving right now?” Soarin wonders, sounding and looking rather dumbfounded.

“No, I evicted both your asses so we could all get some fresh air together. Of course I’m leaving right now.”

“But… you haven’t locked up.”

“We live in a city of clouds — all a thief has to do to break into someplace is fly at the wall fast enough.” I trot past them and stand at the edge of the porch, spreading my wings and giving them a stretch. “But if anything’s stolen by the time I get back, I’m blaming you.”

“Well, that sounds fair.”

I snap back to Spitfire with another feather and another scowl. “Spitty, I’m warning you.”

“You’re not wearing your contacts.”

“Fuck ‘em.”

Her grin fades, her eyes widen, and her ears point away slightly. That shut her up.

Good.

“Later, asshats,” I farewell, saluting, then lean over the edge and fall away from the cumulus.

8 | Without Prejudice

Regret.

As the elevator opens to the hallway of Ponyville General’s third floor in the east wing, I feel regret. And nothing — not the ding of the bell, the scent of carpet cleaner, or the coolness of the AC — makes me feel any better about any of this.

How’d I let them talk me into this?

How’d I talk myself into this?

You know why you’re here.

…Yes, I suppose I do, but… it still feels wrong — it’s been too soon. If I see him now, he might think I’m being obsessive, or overly concerned, or… something. I mean, I wouldn’t like it if the pony who saved me showed up the very next day to stop by and chat and just see how I’m…

…Actually, that would be rather nice.

But still, it’s…

What?

…Awkward?

Only if you let it be awkward.

…No, no, that… that can’t be right. There has to be some other caveat I’m missing — a proper reason, however small, that justifies why I feel the way I do: conflicted; caught between moral obligation and personal preference. In other words, I suppose, I’m going against my own tradition. Not that I mean to sound cold-hearted or anything, it’s just…

Sweet Celestia, this is some mess I’ve found myself in.

Then dig yourself out.

Easier said than done.

Better done than not at all.

…Stars above, it’s near impossible to argue with myself.

The elevator begins to close again, snatching my attention and snapping me out of this internal war of wills. I reach out a hoof and catch the sliding door before the way is shut, push it open, and force myself into the hallway before I have half a mind to follow it down. The junction I stand in offers three nearly indistinguishable corridors, but I don’t need directions: I remember the journey well enough from last night.

I take the path right and proceed around the corner, and I spy the same chair I sat in at the far end of the hall, as well as the leftover cups I never put away. Just across from it, his room. Between me and there, nothing and nopony, just thin air and the same ambiance as before. It certainly feels less awkward now, seeing where my destination lies, as if I were imagining a perilous voyage through uncharted lands, fraught with danger and dark, devious forces, and all it’s turned out to be is a few simple steps. Because that’s what it is. Just a few simple steps.

I can do this. I’m not entirely sure I want to, but I can. I’m strong enough. Resilient enough. A simple stroll down an empty hall doesn’t scare me.

I am in control.

With an inward breath, I lift my head a little, puff out my chest and fluff my wings, tucking them in closer. And then I start walking. Slow, but steady. Progress is being made.

Nothing to fear, I tell myself. Nothing to fear at all.

…But what if he—

No.

…But—

No. You owe him. And if nothing else, you owe Dad — you said as much to Spits and Soarin.

…But nopony has to—

They’ll find out if you don’t. What, nopony’s going to notice a celebrity coming to a small town like Ponyville to see the weird creature she saved? How long before word gets to the local press, and from them to the bigger outlets, and from them to Cloudsdale?

…I hate how right I can be, sometimes.

You hate it, but it’s better than being wrong. Besides, you’re already here.

I raise my gaze up and to the right; indeed, I’ve already made it to his door: Room 42. It’s open just a tad, both thankfully and not, so I won’t have to see a nurse about this, and I can see a thin sliver of the interior through the gap, but nothing definitive.

Inside is the source of all my current troubles, just as I’m the source of his, and the only thing that separates us is a navy blue slab of plywood and metal fixtures. Poetic, I suppose, in a uniquely unwelcome way. But I’m out of options. That, or I’m too tired to think of another — and if I do, I’m pretty sure my conscience would like to have a word or two with it, smother it to death, and hang its sorry corpse above my head as a warning.

Never any half measures in the game of self-assurance.

Too bloody right.

I press my lips together, eyeing the handle. It’d be such a simple action, to just reach over and nudge the door a little wider. That’d get his attention, he’d ask who’s there, I’d have to introduce myself and apologise for intruding, and it’d all just… somehow work itself out from there. I mean, I trust myself to think on my hooves well enough — I’ve demonstrated that pretty well over the past two, three days — but I’m sure there's no easy way to start this conversation. Or explain why I’m here to begin with, come to think of it, should he ask.

Maybe if I…

…No. No, this happens now. The fledgling has to fly eventually, and no amount of delay or preparation will help in the slightest. Better to just gather what nerves I have left and jump in the deep end, before I find myself in a loop until another nurse comes along.

With an outward breath, I deflate somewhat and hover a hoof just in front of the wood — may as well play it straight and show how unsure I am about all this. Not the nervous wreck like Fluttershy was, once upon a time, according to Rainbow, but more humble than anything.

And then I gently push and poke my head through.

The rooms appears much as it was when I left: the khaki carpet’s still perfectly clean, as are cream-coloured the walls. The only immediate difference I can see is the lighting, where the afternoon sun filters through the open blinds of a large window on the opposite end, overlooking a courtyard.

The longer I observe, however, and the less reaction I receive, the more of an interest I take in the bed, and I notice he doesn’t seem to be awake. His eyes are closed, his head slumped back, two wires running from his ears to a device on a tray placed over his lap; listening to music.

I deflate a little further, and with a soft groan and roll of the eyes, I open the door fully and stroll in. My conscience hadn’t convinced me to do the right thing just so I’d be shot down before something happened; no half measures when it comes to whether this is worth my time either.

It’s a weird thought, that I’m now seeking a confrontation, when only a few seconds ago, I was on the brink of doing anything I could to avoid it. But I can’t afford to dwell it. I entered with a purpose, and I won’t allow myself to back out now. I’m not sure how I’d live with myself if I did.

I continue to the far corner where a spare chair sits, drag it over to the bedside, and take a seat, tail poking through the gap in the backboard, resting on my haunches. Hopefully I seem more composed than I feel.

With the added height, I see what remains of lunch on the tray: half a grilled cheese sandwich served on a plate with a side of steamed broccoli, and an empty cup of water. Pretty standard as far as hospital food goes, I suppose, but with Ponyville being pastoral, a lot of ponies here find their special talent in cooking. I don’t doubt the cafeteria worker who made that sandwich could beat any Cloudsdale chef blindfolded.

Just thinking about it makes me hungry.

But I’ve wasted enough time thinking about things as it is. If I wait any longer, afternoon will turn to evening, and I want to catch some sleep before dark.

I lean forward, reach out a hoof, let it hover for a moment as I take a proper look at his dozing face and all its peculiarities — bruises and stitching aside — hesitate, then look at my hoof, force it closer, and tap his shoulder.

Instantly, he takes a sharp breath through his nose and opens his eyes, blinks a few times, then brings his free hand up to rub them. There’s no saline bag now, I realise, and no heart monitor, just a small bandage where the line fed into his arm. “Did I drift off again?” he mumbles lamely, still drowsy.

I hesitate for a split second, wondering if there’s still a way out, but the thought passes by as quickly as it came. “Yeah,” I say, shifting my weight and sitting squarely on my haunches once more, hoof returning to the seat. “Looks that way.”

His hand lowers and he turns to me, then his brows rise in surprise. “Oh, it’s…” he begins, but almost immediately drifts off as he squints. “…Fleetybee?”

“Fleetfoot.” I resist the urge to look away in annoyance. “And yes, it’s me.”

He stares for a few seconds more, thinking, then cocks his head. “Didn’t you have… purple eyes before?”

I blink, this time resisting the urge to look away in… not embarrassment, just… something else. I do, however, allow myself to clear my throat and shift my wings. “Yeah, uh… Those were… those were contacts. These are their actual colour.”

He doesn’t respond, still staring, measuring me. But just before his gaze begins to seem critical, he purses his lips and softly nods to himself, lowering his eyes and chewing on his cheeks. “Well then, hello. Nice to see you again.” He returns to me. “You look a little worse for wear.”

Part of me wants to object, but it’s the truth; on my way here, I realised I wouldn’t look my best, and probably wouldn’t smell it either. The only bath I’ve had in the last twenty-four hours is a superficial wash given by the nurses to clear up the dirt and grass stains from the accident. My coat’s frazzled, my mane’s tangled, and both it and my tail feel greasy. My wings could do with a bit of preening too.

But at least I don’t have a mug as ugly and battered as his.

“You’re one to talk.”

He shrugs. “The doctors did what they could. Don’t blame me if they screwed up.”

I smirk a little. Acting sassy wasn’t the right move, in immediate retrospect, but at least he has the grace to turn a soft punch on the shoulder into actual humour. But at the same time, it makes me think of everything that happened last night, in this very room; how I stood there and gossiped with Redheart about him to his face. And that memory makes my smirk fade as quickly as it came.

“Hey, it’s fine,” he assures, obviously picking up on it. “Just a few cuts and bruises, nothing permanent — I’ll be right as rain once my arms and ribs fix themselves.”

I lower my eyes, and my ears follow them. “It’s… not that.”

He pauses, and then an eyebrow rises. Not judgementally, just… expectantly.

“…I’m… sorry I called you ugly.”

“Oh,” he utters, surprised, then softly shakes his head with a dismissive sneer. “Nah, don’t worry about it. So long as you’re not planning something nasty, talk shit about me all you like. You’ve earned that much, at least.”

I look to him again, an eyebrow of my own rising in expectation.

“You saved me.” He gives a small, appreciative shrug. “I owe you one.”

This time, I pause, but quickly look off towards the corner of the room before I begin to stare. It was bad enough hearing that from Spitfire, but from his mouth directly is even worse; so many nerves being strung, and nopony knows they’re strumming them.

“Besides, it’d be weirder if you said the opposite.”

…Huh. Now that I think about it, yes, I suppose it would be. And I’ve seen and read enough movies, plays and books that have the exact same storyline: hero saves stranger, and it’s love at first sight — a fated romance, in most cases, as Redheart so wonderfully put it. All because the hero did something any good pony would do.

Gag.

I roll my eyes. Just out of his sight, I hope, or else I might have some explaining to do, or cook up another white lie and feel even more guilty for it.

“Anyway,” he sighs, “what brought you here? Just passing by, or something?”

I return to him, ears perking up somewhat, but not all the way. “Oh, you know…” I begin, shrugging, glancing about idly, but not uncomfortably, “just… checking up on you, I guess — see how you’re doing. Something like that.”

He nods and lowers his gaze, pondering. “Well, everyone’s treating me fine so far. A few more curious looks than I’m used to, but otherwise, yeah, fine. Still getting used to talking ponies, though, so I guess it’s a two-way street.”

I nod as well, then angle my head to the tray. “And the food?”

It only takes a single glance at his unfinished meal for him to instantly melt back into the bed, eyes closed lips stretched in a satisfied, open-mouthed smile. “So that’s why I fell asleep…”

I linger on his smile for a moment before responding. Why, I don’t know. “Not the music?”

“Hm?” He returns to an upright posture, looking at me again, then raises his brows in realisation and takes out his earbuds. “Oh, no, not really. I mean, I have albums and playlists I can listen to for that, but… this is honestly the best damn sandwich I’ve ever had.”

“It’s that good?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Much better than any restaurant I’ve been to, and leagues ahead of any fast food I’ve had. And if this is what you serve in your hospitals, I’m dying to know what fine dining’s like here.”

I pause once more. His enthusiasm’s… off-putting, in a way — as if I expected a more sullen, sombre affair, and part of me is somehow disappointed — but it’s also infectious, to a degree, and another part of me can’t help wanting to play along. But I force that down and maintain a cool, calm, collected disposition, neither warm nor cold, distant or jovial. Merely agreeable. Pleasant. Or at least as pleasantly agreeable as I can manage.

“What’s it like here, anyway?”

My ears perk up fully, attention on him again.

“I mean, Redheart already gave me the lowdown on Ponyville, but what’s the rest of the country like?”

An impersonal question. Good. “It’s alright,” I say, looking to the window and the blue sky beyond. “Same as every other place, I guess, as far as ponies are concerned — you have your good, you have your bad, and sometimes you have your downright ugly.”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

I snort and smirk again. “Actually, you’re not too far off the mark with that.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I’m… something of a performer.”

“What, like an actor?”

“…I suppose, yeah.”

He pauses, waiting for me to elaborate.

I hesitate for a moment, a slight tightness in my chest, wondering if it’s better to leave him in the dark on my occupation so I don’t overwhelm him. But then I remember I’m dealing with someone who’s never heard of Equestria before, let alone the Bolts, so… he wouldn’t really be all that starstruck, would he?

“I fly for a living.”

Great, hit the nail on the head with that one.

“You’re… a pilot?”

I roll my eyes at myself and shake my head — of course that was needlessly cryptic. “No, I’m… just…”

Damn it, why’s it so hard to say? What am I afraid of? That this random guy — this veritable nopony — is going to judge me for having a successful career? What kind of backwards thinking is that? Mum’s the only one with any reason to criticise, and that’s because she’s her.

“…I’m just a flier. You know, like a… a stuntpony.”

“Ah.” He pauses yet again, then nods once more. “An aerial acrobat, right?”

“Yeah.”

“…Okay, I can sort of see that.” He continues nodding. “So, your job takes you all over the place, does it?”

“Pretty much.”

“And you’ve seen a lot of ugly people?”

“Plenty.”

“But none as ugly as me, right?”

I snap back to him.

He lifts his hand defensively. “Just poking fun.”

I realise I’m frowning, and I look away to soften it. Was that really fair of me, to get touchy over what I’ve agreed wasn’t my proudest moment? “Sorry.”

“Hey, it’s fine, it’s fine. I should be the one saying sorry, if anything — need to learn my boundaries with you. That is, so long as you plan on stopping by again.”

My ear twitches. I’ve been here not five minutes, and he’s already asking me that question? I’m sure my company hasn’t been that impressionable. “Sure,” I say, keeping the discomfort out of my voice as much as possible. I’m not sure we know each other well enough to make this a regular thing, even if my conscience would strangle me in my sleep if I don’t, but I‘ve made too many promises to back out now. “I… might swing round.”

“That’d be nice.” He nods again. “You can tell me all about these ugly people you’ve met.”

That gets a snort out of me. “Is that all you care about? Who’s uglier than you?”

“Well, I mean, it could be interesting. If you can top Redheart’s stories, that’d be stellar.”

“Is that a challenge?”

He shrugs.

I smirk. “Well then, you’re in for some doozies.”

“I’m sure I am. But not right now.” He turns to the tray and pulls it a little closer. “Not while I still have an appetite.”

My smirk turns into a smile. I don’t really have that many tales to share, owing to the fact I’ve barely mingled with the general populace more than five minutes at a time, so this change of course is a welcome reprieve. But then again, if I fail to deliver, I’m sure he’ll call me out on it — maybe say I owe him some interesting gossip, or something. He seems like the type.

He picks up the sandwich and takes a bite, and in an instant, bliss washes over his bruised and battered face. “Oh my god, it’s cooled off and I still love it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is our food really that good compared to yours?”

“Oh, sister, you have no idea.” He gives me an eager glance before taking another bite. “I wouldn’t be making this big a deal out of it if it wasn’t. I mean, this is just plain cheese. I can’t even begin to imagine what Celestia eats up in Camelot.”

“Canterlot.”

He looks at me, pausing curiously.

“It’s Canterlot.”

“Oh, right, horse puns,” he says airily, then shrugs and returns to his meal. “Sorry, just some… eerie similarities between this world and mine.”

“Such as?”

“Camelot and Canterlot, for example. Also minotaurs, griffons, hippogriffs, and basically almost every other talking race you have here.”

My brows knit. “Hold on, but didn’t you say humans are the only ones who can talk?”

“Yeah, and we are.” He finishes off a mouthful and looks at me again. “The rest are myths.”

I cock my head. “Myths?”

“Yeah, myths.” He takes yet another bite, but when I don’t respond, he waits until he’s stopped chewing and swallows before elaborating. “You know, legends, folklore, tall tales. Stories from ancient times and long-dead religions we cut up and retell and mix and mash to our heart’s content, like a Frankenstein’s monster of culturally significant texts.”

I blink.

“Never mind.” He shakes his head dismissively. “I’m a bit of a history nut. And let me tell you: my world does not have enough appreciation for what history can teach us. And those are some stories I can tell you, if you’d like.”

I remain silent, still processing what I’d just heard. And a few seconds later, I’m more or less completely up to speed. “I’ll… keep that in mind.”

He sighs and glances away. “Sorry, I’m just…”

“Tired?”

“…Yes and no. Mostly no, but… you know. Still adapting, and all that.”

I gently nod. “Must suck to be so far from home.”

“Yeah.” His gaze drifts over to the door, and then around the whole room. “It’s… certainly an experience, I’ll tell you that. I guess I’ll know just how different this place is when I’m allowed to walk again.”

I nod once more, keeping quiet, uncertain how I’m meant to soften that little blow. Well, a big blow, come to think of it — I can’t really say I’ve known anypony who’s found themselves stranded in a foreign land. But then an old thought strikes me — a thought that might steer the conversation back to friendly waters; we can’t change the past, but the future’s not set in stone. “Have you heard back from any of the princesses yet?”

“No.”

I blink in surprise. “No?”

“Nup. Nada.”

“…But it’s been a whole day, almost.”

“I know, but still, nothing.” He shrugs and finishes off his sandwich. “Look, I’m sure they’re good people, but… what’s the wellbeing of some random nobody compared to an entire nation?”

I continue to stare, now in a mixture of feelings; curiosity that nothing’s happened since I’d left, shock that he’d give up hope so soon, even jokingly, and unease over how blasé he’s being about the whole affair. “I’m sure they’ll make an exception,” I try to defend for no particular reason. “I know Twilight’s all about catering to the little guy."

“Sure, sure.” He nods to himself with puckered lips, then gives me a pointed look — not aimed at me, but shrewd all the same. “And yet, she hasn’t come.”

He’s no liar. He’s too smart for it. He wouldn’t dare be one with so many witnesses around, and especially if he knew how hard Redheart shut me down last night. But then that leaves Twilight, who wouldn’t be an alicorn if she weren’t worthy to lead, and Celestia would have a thing to say to her about neglecting her duties.

Unless Celestia’s…

No. No, that’s conspiracy theory territory, and I’m not about to pull a Soarin over some stupid little happenstances. Twilight’s just buried in her books, doing research, probably corresponding with her mentor in Canterlot. What she’s reading into, and what they’re talking about, I can’t say; that’s princess business, and I’ve no interest in delving through piles of scrolls and dusty tomes for the scantest reference of obscure creatures.

According to Rainbow, it’s almost like she gets off on it.

“But that’s okay, I guess.” He sighs and shrugs, then gestures to the tray. “With food like this, I’m not really in a rush.”

Although it comes out as earnest and light-hearted, I detect a hint of sarcasm behind the remark. Faint, expertly concealed, but there all the same. I know because I’ve made similar comments before. Better make another course correction. “So, what were you listening to?”

“Hm? Oh.” He picks up his device, pushes a small, almost invisible button on the side, and the screen lights up. He taps a few numbers, and the display fades into a list. “I Want to Break Free by Queen. Good song, great band.”

“Genre?”

“Rock, more or less — they’re kind of all over the place; a bit of opera, a bit of pop. Funk too, I guess. I don’t know. But they’re definitely, definitely iconic.”

I hesitate. “Sounds… interesting.”

“Trust me, it’s better when you actually hear them play.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

He holds my doubtful gaze for a moment, then glances away with a soft huff of recognition. “Well then, if they’re not your thing, there are plenty of others on here. My personal favourite’s Justice; a techno group from—”

“No techno.”

His eyes widen, his brows rise, and his lips stretch in an exaggerated look of surprise.

I slowly shake my head. “I loathe it with a passion.”

“Okay, okay, to each their own,” he says good-naturedly, lifting his hand once more in defence. “In that case, I suppose you’re a fan of more traditional stuff.”

Putting it so bluntly makes me sound so unsophisticated. Granted, I’ve never taken much pride in just how prim and proper I can be, but it stings a little. And it’s weird to think how saying such a simple fact could tug at strings I never thought I had. “I’m not a musical prude, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m… not. I’m just wondering if you’re… down to earth in this regard. Pardon the pun.”

I wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t pointed it out. But he’s right, and I’m being needlessly edgy about this, so I lower my gaze to the device in his hand and think for a while. “Progressive rock, I guess, if we’re talking newer styles,” I finally answer, meeting his eyes again. “Country too. Some pop. A few movie soundtracks on the side.”

“Ah, you like your instrumentals.”

I shrug. “Sometimes I want to fly without singing along.”

He nods idly, considering something. And then his face brightens, even if his smile doesn’t return. “Well, I don’t know what you’d like from the selection I have, but if you’re into a mix of rock, country and pop, I might have the song for you.”

One of my ears perks up, as does an eyebrow.

He scrolls up the list, taps on an item, then offers the earbuds. “George Michael’s Freedom.”

“What’s it about?”

He looks up in thought for a moment. “It comes from a time in his life when… the music industry was pushing him to be something he didn’t want to be. They claimed they knew what was best for him, but he wasn’t having it. And this song was his response.”

I hesitate, the short tale reminding me of my current predicament, but eventually accept his offer with my wingtips, and guide the earbuds to their rightful places.

“Huh,” he muses, watching as my wings return to my sides. “Feather-fingers…”

I look down to one and unfurl it, confused.

“Oh, no, sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.” He clears his throat. “Okay, so, uh… do you… want me to start, or…?”

I look at him curiously, but soon dismiss the thought and fold the wing again, shifting into a more comfortable position on the chair, nodding once. I’ll have plenty of time to ask what he meant by that later.

He nods in turn and taps the play button.

A tambourine comes through, and… a small pair of bongoes, I think. And after four short repetitions, a piano and bass guitar join in, quickly followed the silky voice of a stallion — or whatever I’m supposed to call a male human — with a lot of hidden range. And as soon as I hear all of this in unison, my eyes widen.

Sweet Celestia…

And before I know it, the singing’s gone and the music crescendos in an instrumental bridge, so undeniably groovy I’m sure I’d be bobbing along to it if I weren’t so impressed. And the hoof sliding down the keyboard is an excellent touch. But it also snaps me out of my stupor, and I take out an earbud to hear him properly. “This is country where you’re from?”

“Nah.” He gives me a playful, knowing look, and his smile returns. “But I had to say something so you’d give it a shot.”

Devious. Not as calculating or self-serving as Mum, for which I can be thankful, but cunning all the same. And I can’t really fault him for doing so when the music’s this enjoyable. I replace the earbud in time for the first proper verse, and the pre-chorus, and the delightfully grandiose chorus itself, and time slips by as I listen and bob and botch the lyrics.

He, on the other hoof, lip-synchs perfectly, even to the echoes and overlapping vocals; he knows this song inside and out. It’s probably a classic — has that iconic, old-school vibe — and although I’ve not heard it all the way through, I can see why it would be.

One track in and I’m already considering asking for them all.

I’ll have to bring my music player next time.

And then I stop.

…Next time?

I glance across to him to make sure I’m not being watched, only to find him nodding and swaying his head along to the beat with his eyes closed; I’m safe to think for a minute.

So… Next time…

There was always going to be a next time. You knew that.

Yes, sure, but… what, now I’m anticipating, or heavens forbid, keen on another meet-up?

Would it really be so bad?

…If it follows the same course as today’s meeting, no, I suppose not. But saying it, let alone thinking it, makes it sound so definite; there will be a next time, and nothing will get in the way of it. I’d have to plan ahead, shift things around — make time for it, as if it’s part of my everyday life from now until forever.

What else, then?

…Nothing, really. It’s just… a sobering realisation. This is the start of something irreversible — not without burning every single bridge I’ve built, at least. A new and uncertain chapter in my life. And I’m looking forward to the next step down this undiscovered path.

I’m actually… liking it.

Maybe Soarin and Spits were right about this.

I snort. If that’s the case, I’ll never admit it.

“Something up?”

A quick bolt of ice runs down my spine as my ears pin all the way back and I pluck the wires from them, staring at him with wide eyes. “Sorry?’

He examines me with a curious, concerned expression. “You looked a little lost in thought there for a second.”

“Oh.” Damn it, caught out. Better backtrack. I shakes my head. “Nothing, nothing, just… figuring out what the weather’s meant to be like on the way home.”

“Ah.” He turns to the window. “Looks pretty clear.”

“Sure, but… I don’t know Ponyville’s weather schedule.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Weather schedule?”

Oh, right, a land without ponies. “You know, like…”

I drift off as I hear something.

Voices. Two mares. One familiar, one less so.

I look to the open door, and spy the two approaching through the shallow angle I have on the gap; Redheart’s coat of pure white, and the purple coat of a relative stranger, even though I think I know who this stranger is. And sure enough, as they step inside, my hunch is proven correct.

Twilight Sparkle, the Princess of Friendship and Element of Magic, walks into the room, mainly focussing on Philip, but also taking notice of me. For Redheart, my presence doesn’t go unnoticed either, giving me a appreciate smirk, if with sly, knowing undertone I can’t quite pin the source of. Before she can speak, however, Twilight clears her throat.

“Good afternoon,” she welcomes, lifting her foreleg in a feeble attempt at a wave, putting on a brave face and sounding as confident as she can, but ultimately coming short by a few yards. “I’m Twilight Sparkle, Princess of Friendship, but you can just call me Twilight. Or Twi, or Light, or whatever takes your fancy.”

He doesn’t respond.

Neither do I.

I guess we both want to see how badly she’ll mess this up.

Twilight realises she’s not getting the reception she was hoping for and returns her hoof to the ground, her smile waning. “You must be Felipe Ajam Guadalupe Montero.”

“Philip.”

She shuts her mouth, ears lowering. “Of course,” she says to herself, then pipes up with a new grin. She’d be terrible at poker. “Well then, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Philip.”

Silence.

Now she knows she’s being grilled. “I’m sorry I didn’t come and see you sooner — princess duties and all that. Had to… you know… talk with Celestia a lot, get her approval, comb through archives of Equestria’s history.”

“In other words, nothing to do with running the country; you just shut yourself in a library for half a day.”

I look at him in surprise. Criticising the princesses from behind the scenes is something ponies do all the time, but talking smack right to one’s face — especially the one who’s saved the world a couple dozen times — is completely unprecedented. To my understanding, at least.

Even Redheart widens her eyes and puckers her lips, and she had no problem telling me off.

Twilight, however, shifts her wings and glances away with an uncomfortable frown. “Yes, I… may have gone a tad overboard with the preparation side of things,” she mumbles shamefacedly, though I feel like there’s more she isn’t saying. “But at least you had Redheart and Fleetfoot. They’re good company, right?”

I switch back to her and raise an eyebrow, setting the earbuds down on the bed. Was she seriously taking credit for the work of others?

Philip shares a short, meaningful stare between myself and the nurse, then returns to Twilight. “They’ve been alright so far,” he says with a soft, almost nostalgic sigh, and then drops his voice to a colder, cutting tone. “Better than some.”

This time, however, she doesn’t look away. She’s still a little guilty from being called out before, but her resolve has steeled; this is a problem, and it’s her duty as the Princess of Friendship to fix it. She looks to me with the same expression. “Fleetfoot, thank you for saving him and coming to see him today,” she says, trying to sound calm yet commanding, but the reluctance behind her mask is clear for all to see. “But I think it’s best if we talk alone for a while.”

Impending drama. Yes, time to vacate the premises. It doesn’t feel right to just leave him like this, but what else can I do? Defy Twilight? On what grounds? And… why do I care so much?

With a sigh, I shift in the chair and begin to hop off.

“Hey, Fleet.”

I stop and turn back to him.

He seems resigned to his fate, but hides it behind a look of concern. “Get some sleep before you see me again. Looks like you need it.”

My ear twitches, and I feel surprised he’d stop me just to say that. But there’s also… a small sense of gratitude coming through — that he’d remind me to take better care of myself, because Merciful Sisters know I haven’t been doing it lately. “Thanks.”

He nods with a faint, very faint smile before it fades away, then shoos me away with a wave of his hand. “Now, go on. Get. Let the grownups have their alone time.”

I smirk; humour in a less-than-ideal situation — can’t fault him for that. But there’s nothing left for me to do, as much as I… wish there was… and I slide from the chair and stroll for the door, giving both him and Twilight parting glances as I go.

Redheart follows, closing the door behind us as we exit the room and enter the hall, then make our way for the elevator round the corner. “So,” she begins after a few paces, “quite the looker, huh?”

“Oh, shove off,” I exclaim with a laugh, knocking her on the shoulder with a wing.

She’ll never let me live this down now.

And to be honest… I don’t think I mind.

9 | Calm Before the Storm

Sleep.

I feel it sneaking up on me like a spider intent on wrapping me in its web, creeping closer when I’m not paying attention, pretending like it hasn’t when I do. It knows I can tell, but it still pretends like I can’t, and the immaturity infuriates me.

Just a minute or two and I’ll be back home — back in my bed and its perfect pillows and the warmth of the blanket and mattress, dozing off to the sound of a gentle breeze blowing outside the window. And everything will be fine. If only this damned spider would give me a moment’s peace.

I guess postponing a proper night’s sleep this long is finally catching up to me, because not even the trip from Griffonstone was this tiring, and all I’m doing is returning from Ponyville; a ten minute flight if I’m in no rush. At this rate, though, I’ll have to pick up the pace, because the fuzziness at the back of my mind is growing stronger, and I’m having to shake my head more often, and I need to narrow my eyes to stop them from stinging.

I’ve been warned to not drink and fly — it’s something they teach every pegasus and would-be pilot as soon as you enter high school — but I know the truth from experience: flying tired is just as dangerous. Earth ponies can somehow run in their sleep, but pegasi aren’t so lucky. I’d take a nap on a cloud right now, but there are none about. Not even a long, wispy streak I can shape into something solid. As far as clouds go, at least.

Could’ve I begged for some bits and hired a bed in Ponyville for the night? Sure. But that’d raise even more questions for the next interview. What’s a celebrity like me doing begging for money, and why were my eyes green? How long have I been wearing coloured contacts, and why? Is there any reason I’d take them off for the human I’d saved?

The media and I have a complicated understanding of one another. On one hoof, they’re a great way to show off my and the team’s abilities, but on the other, they can sometimes exacerbate things and blow them up to scandalous proportions. Assumptions are made about the most insignificant changes, and when the truth isn’t exciting enough, they might create their own.

Being a Wonderbolt’s a big enough deal as it is, but couple that with what I’ve been through — jumping ship, saving a life, staying with him overnight and returning the next day — and this story might just go international. In fact, I can practically guarantee it: after our worldwide tour, we’ll have at least a few million new fans desperate to know more about us. All focus would be on me when they find out I’m a hero.

They’d be praising something that shouldn’t have happened, if only I’d kept my temper in check.

…Great, now I’m glum as well as tired.

But at least I’d distracted myself, and now my cumulus is coming into view.

Small victories, I guess.

But then I do a double take, shaking my head and narrowing my eyes to slits. Perhaps I’m seeing things, and I hope I am, but for a second, I thought I’d seen somepony standing on the porch.

Sweet Celestia, if it’s a reporter…

Sometimes newbies miss the rule, forget, or just plain ignore it and try their luck: don’t come knocking at a Wonderbolt’s door expecting an interview on a whim. We schedule press conferences for a reason, and if they can’t respect that, they’re in the wrong line of work. And right now, there’s only one thing I want to do, and it has nothing to do with spending more time in the waking world, even if the sun’s only just beginning to set.

But as I approach, my suspicions are confirmed — somepony is there, but… one becomes two, and I recognise the coat colours; pale green and powder blue. I know these ponies, and they know me, and I don’t have to dig deep into their psyches to know what they want.

And all I can do is roll my eyes. Sleep will have to wait a little longer.

With a heavy sigh and a sag of the neck, letting some of the steam out of my system before I blow it in their faces, I quickly straighten myself out again and soar for home, urging myself to be the most pleasant I can be. They mean no harm, and I ought to appreciate the gesture for what it is: an act of genuine caring. It’s just a shame they’ve caught me at a bad time.

The ears of the mare in powder blue perk up and she turns my way, and relief washes over her in an instant. “Fleety, dear!”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes again as I close in and land on the porch at a trot.

Dad turns to me with a similar expression, then darts over and envelops me in a hug so tight and sudden my wings shoot out in surprise. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so glad you’re safe!”

I’m forced onto my haunches by his momentum, eyes wide and mouth shut, even as I’m caught short of breath.

Mum joins in too, wrapping her forelegs around the both us with her head low. “We’re so sorry, dear! We were so worried!”

I blink, staring blankly ahead, partly because I haven’t received hugs like this since my days in the reserves, when simply completing a routine was worthy of praise, and partly because that’s sincere concern I hear in her voice. Hers, of all ponies. And not the condescending, selfish kind of concern I’m used to. She was, and still is afraid for me. “Uh… excuse me?”

She backs away, and after a few moments more, so does Dad, both starting to tear up. “The hospital called and we missed them,” Mum explains shakily, rubbing an eye with her wingtip. “We didn’t check our messages until this afternoon. I’m sorry, Fleety, we… we should’ve been there.”

“Been…” I begin, angling my head, then blink again and shake it slightly. “Mum, I’m fine. It was just a few cuts and bruises at worst.”

“But we should’ve been there.” She steps closer, brows upturned and gaze imploring. “My daughter was in an accident and I didn’t know about it until a full day later, just because I didn’t know how to work a telephone properly.”

“It wasn’t just you, honey,” Dad reminds, trying to be strong for her, but fooling nopony.

“Even so, we should’ve been there and we weren’t.” She returns to me with tears spilling over and dampening her cheeks, ears and wings hanging low. And then she seems to notice something about me and sits down in front of me, putting her hooves on my shoulders and inspecting me all over. “Good heavens, look at you! It’s as if you’ve flown through a warzone!”

This time, I can’t help sighing. “I’m fine, Mum. Nothing a shower and a nap can’t fix.”

“Don’t you say such things,” she demands, grabbing my cheeks and forcing me to look her in the eyes. “What happened was serious. You could’ve been killed, Fleety.”

“So could’ve the other guy.”

“That creature isn’t you.” She stares at my in silence for a moment, making sure her words stuck before continuing. “You’re my daughter, Fleetfoot. My daughter. There’s only one if you in the whole world, and I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

I watch her carefully, lost for words. Years of expecting an ulterior motive of some kind may have conditioned me, so I hope I don’t look overtly cynical, because there are no hidden meanings behind this.

“I’m sorry, Fleetfoot.” She hugs me once more, wrapping her neck around mine as her hooves pull me closer. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“It’s… okay, Mum,” I say, patting her on the back, hopefully not too awkwardly. “It wasn’t that bad, really. And if the doctors wanted me to stay, they’d have let me know. I’m just a little tired right now.”

“I know, I know, and I’m sure you are.” She gives me a squeeze before pulling back to her original hooves-on-the-shoulders position. “I just need you to realise that, dear. You mean so much to me. And no matter what, I’ll always love you.”

That last little bit catches my attention as somewhat hypocritical, but I keep my mouth shut. We’re having a sincere moment — a rarity in modern times — and for what it’s worth, I let it pan out. Who knows? This might be the start of a way to stabilise our bond. Can’t let an opportunity like this go to waste, even if it hurts my pride.

“I think that’s enough standing around outside,” Dad remarks, wiping his eyes and chuckling to himself. “Why don’t we take this indoors? Get away from the cold out here.”

I inwardly thank him for changing the subject, but also find it a little strange to be invited into my own home, even if my dad’s the one inviting me. But I take him up on his offer and gently push off Mum’s hooves, giving her a small, appreciative smile as I do, then stand up and walk around her for the door.

Dad lowers his head and ears as I approach, a guilty grin plastered across his face. “We, uh… may have done some housecleaning while you were gone.”

I slow my pace and raise an eyebrow. “You let yourselves in?”

“Well, you weren’t answering, and the door was unlocked. And when we found you weren’t home, we didn’t want to go out searching for you, in case you came back. We had to keep ourselves occupied somehow.”

I pause for a moment, then smirk. “You didn’t burgle anything, did you?”

“Now, why would I do that, sweetie?”

My smirk becomes another smile, and returning to the door, I twist the handle and push it open. The scent of fresh air welcomes me, free of any vapours; a cumulus restored to proper working order. The kitchen counter’s clean, and I spy the bowl from my unfinished breakfast on the drying rack beside the sink. The living room couch has been dusted down and fluffed to perfection, and the DVD cases I distinctly remember sprawled over the TV cabinet have been put back in their places. If I flew up to the bed, I’m sure I’d find the sheets tucked in and the pillows straightened out.

Sisters, how I’d let this place go.

“Oh my stars, Dad, what did you do to the place?” I exclaim as I reach the midpoint of the house, slowly craning my head to admire the work done to the ceiling.

“Oh, you know, a bit of this, a bit of that.” He shrugs, stepping through the entrance and leaning on the counter. “Anything for our little girl, really.”

“It’s the least you deserve after all you’ve been through,” Mum chimes in, still a little teary as she enters the house as well. “We just want you to feel welcome.”

“Well… thanks. You’ve saved me, like… an hour’s work.”

“It was nothing, dear. If there’s more we can do, please let us know.”

My ears lower. “You really don’t have to.”

“Nonsense.”

“No, I’m serious,” I insist, trying not to sound to snappy as I turn and face them. “I’m not a hero, Mum. I just did what anypony else would’ve done. Saving the world a hundred times over is being a hero; saving a life is just being a good pony.”

“Says who?” she demands. “Did he tell you that — the creature?”

“Philip,” I correct, then shake my head. “And no, he didn’t. I just don’t want you two to go gaga over me the same way the news will. Fleetfoot: Star Turned Saviour, or some shit like that.”

“Language, dear.”

“Oh, cut the crap, Mum. I had enough sleepless nights when I was young because of your potty mouth, and I heard every word.”

She draws her head back, wide-eyed and mouth shut, ears as low as they can go, cheeks showing the faint beginnings of a furiously red blush. No doubt she’s tucking in her tail too.

Dad almost keels over, looking like he’s somewhere in between choking and laughing, as if somepony had given him a hard slap to the back of the neck. “Anyway,” he says with an embarrassed chuckle and a slight cough, “let’s, uh… let’s talk about you. How was your day?”

I smirk again. At least it was their turn to gawk. But then the question sinks in, and I remember what had happened, and what it’s all going to lead to, and it makes me sigh and my smirk fade. “Well, I stayed up all night at hospital, got here at daybreak, went to bed immediately. Was woken up again by Spits and Soarin, which was… kind of nice. I mean, Sorain apologised for being an ass back at Griffonstone, so that was cool of him. But then they also bugged me to go back and meet Philip now he’s awake, which I did… but only because I promised you, Dad.”

He nods in a flippant, ‘guilty as charged’ kind of way. “So, how’d it go?”

I pause, looking up in thought and chewing on my words, then sit down and scrunch my mouth. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t?”

“No, I…” I furrow my brows and let my attention fall to the floor. I don’t want to outright admit anything, lest I give him or Mum false hope, but I can’t deny it wasn’t an horrid experience. “Not really.”

“Did something bad happen?”

I shake my head. “I mean, I think we got a good impression of each other, but…” I shrug, “I don’t know if that means anything or not. So far, it’s just idle talk — I don’t even know his age.”

He nods again, pondering. “Well, if dealing with you has taught me anything, it’s that some things can’t be rushed, whatever the reason.” He gestures to me. “Your first flight, for example.”

I wince and look away. I’d lost so many feathers and singed so many hairs that afternoon I still have nightmares from time to time.

“If it wasn’t bad, and you both came out of it… maybe not for the better, but definitely not for the worse, then… maybe it’s something worth pursuing.”

“So long as you’re out and about, dear,” Mum adds, finally regaining her composure. To a degree, at least — her blush remains, but it’s fading now the topic’s changed. “It doesn’t do well to stay couped up in here throughout the break.”

Dad glances to her without moving his head, then gives me a knowing look.

I grin inwardly. If that statement was anything to go by, then perhaps this little incident was indeed a step in the right direction. Not regarding anything interpersonal — just regarding Mum getting off my back about the whole thing. Something he and I can both be all the happier for.

“How’d it all happen, anyway?” Dad wonders, shifting his weight to be more relaxed.

My grin falters and my insides sink. That’s a question I’m sure I’ll be hearing a lot in the coming weeks, and I still don’t have an answer for it.

“Oh, Slipstream, honestly” Mum scolds, the deliberate edge in her voice dulled by a insincere laugh. “She’s been through enough already, don’t you think? No need to reopen old wounds.”

I’m seriously starting to think she believes I’ve been traumatised by all this, but at least she’s offered me some cover. “Actually, Dad, I, uh… kind of have to agree with Mum on this one,” I say, rubbing my eyes, and the words taste sour on my tongue. “I don’t really feel like reliving that, especially if I plan on heading to bed right after.”

“That’s fair, that’s fair.” He bows his head. “Maybe you can at least tell us a little bit about who you’ve saved, then. He’s… not a pony, I heard.”

“He’s a human,” I confirm, nodding. “Don’t worry, nopony in the Bolts know where he comes from either, and… I’m starting to think maybe even Twilight doesn’t have an answer, or she wouldn’t have been stuck in her library so long.”

Mum’s brows rise. “You saw the princess?”

“Yeah. Right before I was kicked out — politely, of course — but not before he, uh… talked smack to her face about not seeing him sooner.”

She baulks, practically horrified.

Dad’s eyes widen. “He did what?” he asks with an excited grin.

“Yep.” I nod again. “No fear, just… straight-up called her out.”

“Ha! Well, I’ll be… he has some guts, doesn’t he?”

“No kidding.”

“My word, you two!” Mum exclaims, more shocked than outraged. “He insults the Princess of Friendship in person and you like him for it?”

My smile fades, but I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Well, you have to remember he doesn’t come from Equestria, Mum; maybe he’s not familiar with how to address her. And to be fair, she did keep him waiting, when she’s made a name for herself about being punctual.”

“She’s a princess, Fleety. Much more than that, she’s saved the world countless times.”

“And he doesn’t know that.” I shrug defensively. “You can’t blame him for being ignorant if he comes from a land where ponies can’t talk, or so he says. Besides, Twilight’s reaction was pretty damn funny.”

Neither of them react, now staring at me blankly.

I frown in confusion, glancing from one to the other. “What?”

“Ponies… don’t talk, where he’s from?” Dad probes.

This time, I can’t help rolling my eyes, and I do so with a sigh. “Look, Dad, he appeared from a magical rainbow portal in the sky, trying to pilot some kind of flightless carriage I’ve never seen before — I’m not looking too deep into any of this, okay?”

He pauses, mulling over what I’d just said, then glances away and shifts his weight again, licking its lips. “Okay, sweetie. It’s just… that’s a bit of a stretch to me.”

“To you, maybe,” I nod once more, then look up and reminisce, “but I’m sure we’d have heard a lot more George Michael if he were from anywhere nearby.”

He angles his head and quirks an eyebrow. “Who?”

I blink, realising what I’d just said, and that I could still hear the echo of a choir crying out for freedom. “Never mind,” I say, shaking my head and returning to him. “Point is, as incredible as it sounds, he seems pretty credible to me. And I get the feeling he’s harmless enough.”

He pauses again, then smirks. “So, that ‘if’ has turned into a ‘when’?”

I stare at him for a moment, blinking, then lower my gaze in thought. That was a little presumptuous of him, but… “Yeah,” I say, absently at first, the words unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. And then I feel a faint smile sneak through. “I guess it has.”

“That’s good to hear.” He steps away from the counter and rolls his shoulder — his job’s done, I guess, and he’s readying himself to leave. “Any idea when that may be?”

I shrug. “With any luck, the next two days. He told me to get some rest before seeing him again, and, really, I need it. And a shower. And… just… everything.”

“You aren’t wearing your contacts,” Mum comments, clearly surprised and curious, but with a faint, accusatory undertone.

“Hm? Oh, yeah.” I rub my eyes again. The fuzziness is starting to return. “Didn’t have time to grab them before Spits and Soarin pestered me out the door.”

“Were they much worse than us?” Dad queries, now giving his wings a few idle stretches.

“You know me, Dad,” I say with a sigh, flicking some more crud out. “Stubborn as always.”

“That you are, sweetie, that you are.” He finishes his stretches off with a flap. “Anyway, there’s nothing more you want us to do?”

I look away and softly shake my head. “No, Dad,” I reply, returning to him with a flattered smile. “You’ve done enough already. Besides, I’d feel like I’d owe you something if I did, and I don’t think I’ll be in a state of mind to repay it anytime soon.”

“Just checking, Fleety.”

“I know.”

Silence reigns for a few long moments, them savouring the occasion, and me letting them, growing evermore fuzzy in the process, my head slowly beginning to sag.

“Sweet Celestia, you are tired,” Mum murmurs, pointing out the obvious.

“Yeah.” I yawn, and curse myself for proving her point. “That’s what happens when you barely sleep for two and a half days.”

“Ah. Well then, we shouldn’t keep you waiting.” Dad strolls over to me and gives me another tight, but far less needy hug. “Have a nice nap, sweetie.”

I return it and lean into him, closing my eyes. “Thanks, Dad.”

Mum, too, strolls over and wraps us both in a hug of her own, nuzzling her snout into my cheek. “Stay safe, honey.”

“Mum, I’m home.” I chuckle as the circle breaks, both of them stepping back and watching me with proud smiles. “What could happen to me here?”

“Don’t tempt fate, sweetie, or you might find yourself dealing with a lot more than you bargained for.”

“Sure, I’ll keep that in mind when I’m sleeping like a baby.”

Her smile widens, though she tries to hide it.

“Goodbye, Fleety, and good night,” Dad farewells with a bow a his head, then walks backward to the door. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

Mum, however, stays where she is, lost in some kind of watery-eyed trance.

“Mum.”

“I know, I know, it’s just…” She blinks and fresh tears run free. “It’s so good to have you home.”

“Goodbye, Mum.” I wave her off with a wing. “I’ll be fine.”

She nods after a short pause, heading for the door as well. “Goodbye, sweetie. Love you.”

“I know, Mum. Love you too.”

She reaches the outdoors, and with another smile from Dad, the door is closed, and a short while later, I hear them take off for Cloudsdale proper.

I sigh, now with nothing left to do, and no one telling me what to do. And I welcome the silence, and the freedom it offers from all obligations. I’ve let Dad push me into confirming I’ll return — not that saying it to Philip’s face shouldn’t have been enough already — and… I’m okay with that. He was fun-ish. It’ll be interesting to see where this goes. What stories he has to tell. What he can offer me, and what I can offer him.

Interesting. Yes.

But now’s not the time to think of such things.

With another sigh, I pick myself up and hop into the air, and with a few brief flaps, flop into my bed and ruin the neatly straightened sheets and perfectly fluffed pillows. And the sweet embrace of sleep wraps me up in its warm, sumptuous blanket. And I melt like butter on toast.

Everything’s going to be okay.

10 | Playing the Game

Television.

It’s a funny concept, transmitting invisible waves across miles upon miles of various terrain types and weather patterns, only to reach a small, thin piece of metal that converts them into electric signals and display them on a digital screen. Not too long ago, I’m sure most anypony would’ve simply scoffed at the idea; electronics aren’t exactly a new invention, but once upon a time, as far back as when Twilight hadn’t ascended, the most digital anything got was a projector, and even those were pretty darn rare.

Now, I can flick through the channels on my flat screen with the simple push of a button, pause and rewind live TV, and set future shows to record while browsing through a list. And really, I’m spoiled for choice: cooking, documentaries, movies, sports, dramas, comedies — heck, even children’s programs if I’m in the mood for something absolutely devoid of any substance.

It honestly surprises me how quickly all this had spread, relatively speaking. I mean, you’d expect to have had several iterations before we got this far. But no; the ergonomics are on point, and I’ve never once had a complaint with how to operate it. The odd elderly pony may put up a big fuss about how it encourages inactivity, but hey, with half my day spent training and exercising, it’s good to have something that helps me wind down. The frequent snacking and occasional private sessions notwithstanding.

Currently, I’m watching the pilot episode to a newish thriller, where two parallel worlds must stop a plot that threatens to sever their connection. Needless to say, doppelgangers and mistaken identity abound, and the threat of espionage has always grabbed my interest.

And as with most of the shows I choose to watch, it’s actually really good. Of course, the quality’s never a problem when everypony works a job best suited for their special talent; in Equestria, it’s hardly ever the competency of the guy in charge you need to worry about, merely their moral character. And there are a lot of shady folks in this show.

All the better to munch my popcorn at, if I had any popcorn to munch.

But then the screen cuts to black and the credits roll, and the tightness in my chest I didn’t realise was there lets go. And I’m left feeling a little lost, blinking and glancing around my own home as if I expected somepony to be there — somepony I could turn to and laugh with at just how engaging it was. Of course, there isn’t, and I chuckle to myself, shaking my head with an impressed grin as I make a mental note to keep a track of this one.

I turn my attention to the remote held in my wing, then point it at the screen and begin cycling through for something else to watch. I’ve a full two weeks before my duties as Number Three kick in again, and I don’t plan on wasting them. Much. All three DVD cases of Second Wind lying open on the floor are a testament to that. And boy, does that trilogy stand the test of nostalgic time.

But that was last night, and as much as I’d love to see them all again, it’s probably better to wait a few more days, and bide my time with other shows and activities. Mainly napping, but after what I just witnessed, I don’t think that’ll happen anytime soon.

I feel a soft pain in my belly and check the time. Almost midday. I haven’t had anything since a light serving of oats this morning, and now it’s coming back to bite me.

Tossing the remote aside with a yawn, I hop off and stroll for the kitchen, flexing my wings, stretching my legs and rolling my shoulders and hips as I do so. Staying static for hours on end isn’t healthy, I know, and it won’t help me beat Lightning’s Dizzitron record, but this is my home, my space, and my me-time. And everypony I know has told me to take it easy. Even Philip.

What’s the harm in actually listening for once?

Once in the kitchen, I begin gathering the ingredients for something just as uninspired as my breakfast, but a favourite of mine all the same: toast with PB&J. Strawberry jam, to be precise, and smooth peanut butter; never, in the whole of Equestria and beyond, have I ever tasted something so quintessentially breakfasty.

I take out a plate and set it on the counter, then fetch the PB from the pantry, the J from the fridge, and a butter knife from the cutlery draw. But just as I’m about to go back for the bread in the freezer, my ear twitches at the sound of something on the TV: the all-too-familiar jingle of a popular talk show. Somehow, in my infinite wisdom, I’d left it on the one channel I’ve been avoiding for the past few days.

But simply roll my eyes and shrug. It won’t matter in a few minutes; I’ll be back over there before long, maybe digging even deeper through the stockpile of recorded shows I’d promised myself I’d watch later. That short comedy regarding Celestia, Cadance and Luna’s brief stay in Tartarus sounded like good, mindless fun.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome one and all, and for the regular viewers, welcome back to another instalment of The Spyglass,” chimed a mare with frizzy hair and a personality oozing with camp. “My name’s Opal Spotlight, and today, my dear angels, today… we have a very special guest appearing later.”

The offscreen crowd murmurs excitedly as I put four bread slices in the toaster.

“I know, I know — who could it be? Only time will tell, but I assure you, it’s worth the wait. But first! Yes, yes, but first… there’s one story in particular I’m sure is still on everypony’s lips.”

“The alien!” some distant voice cries.

“The human, yes!” she replies as jovially. “That strange creature nopony’s ever seen before, at home or abroad. Even now, the princesses refuse to comment. However, my angels, however… we do have some extra information regarding his sudden appearance, and more importantly who saved him.”

My ears twitch and my eyes widen, staring blankly ahead.

The crowd stirs again.

“Yes, that’s right, lovelies, we do indeed know a little more about his rescuer. We already know she was seen returning to Ponyville General the very next morning for a visit, but what we didn’t know, and we now have photographic proof of, is this was one of the exceptionally rare occasions where Fleetfoot of the Wonderbolts went out in public without her con—”

The screen cuts to black with the press of the remote’s power button, and I’m left only with my reflection in front of the couch, looking like I’d seen a ghost.

Speculating on the incident, I can live with, so long as nopony breathes a word of it around me, and especially, especially not when they’re guessing what my motivations were. If they want a proper answer, they can come to me. I won’t give them one outside a press conference, where the other Bolts can cover for me by simply being there and sharing the load, but they’ll get one eventually. Better to just lay it on thick and say it only once — hammer the point in as far as it’ll go.

Sisters, if this gets out of hoof…

The gentle flap of wings comes from outside my door, snapping me out of a staring contest with myself, and turn toward the sound. For a second, I’m worried it might be a reporter with a terrible sense of tragically poetic timing, but quickly dismiss the idea with a soft shake of the head. If they’d been decent enough to respect my boundaries so far, they wouldn’t start so late. So, it must be an actual visitor.

I replace the remote on the couch and trot to the door, then undo the lock and bolt and pull it open.

Sitting on the porch, fiddling with her saddlebags, dressed in the brown uniform and matching cap of the Equestrian Postal Service, is a mare I… don’t believe I’ve seen before. My usual courier’s Bifröst, and she never mentioned any plans on changing occupation. Unless she’s off sick today, and this is her replacement.

The mare notices me and instantly stands to attention, giving a dutiful, chipper salute with a smile. “Express delivery from Ponyville,” she announces, yanking her wing out of her bag’s pouch and presenting a small envelope for her to read, squinting through wonky eyes. “To Miss Fleetfoot; Cloudsdale, Eastern Quarter; from Princess Twilight Sparkle.”

I blink. A letter from royalty. Not in the strictest sense, but still, it’s not every day you get a letter sent to you by one of the Big Four. And although I get the feeling I already know why I’m being sought out, it could still be anything. “That’s… me.”

“Oh, good,” she says with a relieved, and somewhat endearing chuckle, returning to me and offering the envelope. “I almost thought I’d never find you. All these cumuli look the same. No offence.”

I can’t imagine why.

“Yeah, we get that a lot from outsiders,” I half-lie, not sure if there’s any truth to it. I accept the letter, confirm the address, then flip it over and break the wax seal of a six-pointed star. “It’s easier when you’ve been living here your whole life.”

“Sounds like you’re happy where you are.”

“Pretty much.” I slip out the note inside and unfold it, scanning the lines.

***

Dear Fleetfoot

I’m writing to inform you our mutual friend’s now well enough to move, and will be staying at my castle until further notice. I know you’re probably busy right now, but if you’d like to swing by and say hello, you’re always more than welcome. If I’m not home, Spike will let you in.

While I’m not entirely comfortable requesting your presence, I honestly think you being here would help Philip immensely. He’s coping with his situation remarkably well, all things considered, but I can’t help feeling he’s holding something back. I’m not sure if it’s just me seeing something that isn’t there, but if there is, perhaps you can do what I can’t and get him to open up.

I’ve heard from several sources you’re — and I hope you don’t mind me being blunt here — a bit of a recluse, so I’m sorry if this is putting more strain on your shoulders than you’d like, but I think we can all agree we care for him. Judging by what he’s said, you two seemed to be getting along quite well before I interrupted. I don’t mean to presume, but maybe this could be the start of something; you could be the first friend he makes in all Equestria.

We hope to see you soon.

Sincerely,

Twilight Sparkle

***

My brows crease and I lower the note absentmindedly, staring off into nowhere.

So soon?

I mean, I’d expected to return at some point, but… really? Now? When I’m doing… nothing important, just sitting on my arse all day, getting the rest I no longer need. I’m fit, awake, and with the pop of the toaster, soon to be fed.

What’s stopping me? Is the weight on my withers hesitation, or am I actually feeling… I don’t know… obliged to go? I’d promised him, my friends, my family, and even myself, so it’s only natural I’d want to live up to all those vows.

But if she wants me to get him to open up…

I… can be pleasant. I know I can. If somepony wants to tell me their problems, I’ll listen. It won’t mean I’ll care all that much, but I’ll listen all the same. But the thing is, I don’t plan on being the shoulder to lean on — if it happens, it happens. This, however, is just that: she wants me to be the nail to her friendship hammer. And I don’t want to be used, even if she’s being honest, even if her intentions are noble. I’m an performer, not a tool.

…But I can’t stay away from him forever, or else I’d be breaking all my promises. And if I do that, nopony would give me a moment’s peace about it.

I sit down and groan, closing my eyes and letting my head sag into waiting hooves.

“Oh dear,” the mare murmurs, “am I the bearer of bad news?”

“No.” I sigh, dragging my hooves down my face and frowning at the cloud beneath me. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Oh. That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not.”

There’s a long pause as I brood in silence, slowly grinding my teeth from left to right. I try thinking of a solution that doesn’t involve me disappointing everypony, and also doesn’t turn me into a social pawn, but the only thing that comes to mind is the toast cooling off in the kitchen, and how much the taste of my brunch will suffer because of this.

“Well, they say don’t shoot the messenger, but… that doesn’t mean the messenger can’t have their own input.”

I look up at her and cock an eyebrow, but maintain a doubtful frown.

She glances away awkwardly, scrunching her muzzle. “Unless that’s too forward of me…”

I continue to watch her with scepticism, but eventually lower my gaze and shrug. “Sure, I guess. Can’t be worse than whatever mess I’m going through now.”

“Oh, goodie!” She sits down and claps her hooves, instantly perky and beaming a grin. “So, what’s up, Miss Wonderbolt?”

I wince, wondering for a second if I’d found myself face to face with a mega-fan in disguise. It wouldn’t be the first time, but this mare seems innocent enough. Must be the eyes. “There’s… somepony I promised to meet. An acquaintance. But now… somepony else wants him to open up about something, and she wants me to be the one to do it.”

“Ooh.” Her eyes widen as her head draws back, nodding. “That is a tough one.”

“Yeah. So, either I stay here and piss both of them off, or I play into her hoof and betray his trust, what little of it I have.”

“…Tricky.” She lowers her gaze and hums, pursing her lips. “Very tricky.”

I sigh again and return to the floor. “No kidding.”

Another pause, just as long, veering on the depressing side.

“This thing she wants him to open up about…” the mare continues, lifting her head slightly, “is it hurting him, or anypony else?”

“No,” I answer, as if it’s the most obvious response in the world. Then I shrug and soften my tone. “I mean, I’m pretty sure it isn’t. Last I saw of him was three days ago, and he seemed okay back then, so… I’m not entirely convinced there’s anything to be worried about to begin with.”

“Hmm.” She nods thoughtfully, then beams another wide grin and looks straight at me. “Well then, leave it at that and go see him.”

I switch back to her, raising my eyebrow again. “What?”

“If there’s nothing to worry about, why worry?”

I blink, stunned, then squint and open my mouth to respond, but… nothing comes out. And no matter how hard I try, the words simply don’t come.

It… can’t be that simple, can it?

No. No, there has to be something I’m missing — something that justifies my reservations — because I can’t just simply choose to…

But no matter what happens… time and time again… there’s always one indisputable fact that’ll never change for as long as I can help it.

I have a choice.

And right now, I can choose to visit him, and I can choose to not be a pawn.

I am in control.

“Is everything okay, Miss Wonderbolt, ma’am?” the mare queries, waving a hoof in front of my face.

I blink once more and shake my head. “Yeah, yeah, sorry,” I say, meeting her mismatched gaze once more, “just… having an epiphany, I suppose.”

“I get those from time to time. They make me fly into things.” She shrugs. “I’ve learned not to overthink something before I do it, or I end up making myself anxious over nothing.”

I pause. And then I snort, giving her a small, coy smile. “Well then, I’ll have some of whatever you’re having.”

“Muffins, mainly. My favourite’s lemon muffin surprise.”

My eyebrow quirks yet again, but my smile grows. “Thanks, I’ll… keep that in mind.”

“No need to thank me,” she dismisses with a wave of her wing, then seems to realise something and quickly stands up. “No time for it either — I need to get back to Ponyville before too long, or I’ll miss Dinky’s recital.”

“Oh.” I stand up as well. “I shouldn’t keep you waiting, then.”

“Sorry, Miss Fleetfoot.” She hops into the air and salutes. “It was nice chatting.”

“You too, Miss…?”

She pauses for a moment, and in that moment as she hovers away from the porch, her grin shrinks to a mischievous smirk. “Let’s make that something you’ll have to make me open up about.”

My jaw drops and eyes widen. “Don’t you dare…”

“See you later,” she farewells with a final wave of her hoof, before falling back and diving out of sight.

“You little…” I mutter to myself as I dart to the edge and peer over, catching her twisting as she falls and spreading her wings, pulling up and flying off in the direction of Ponyville. “I could fly after you right here and now and chase you down in five seconds flat!”

“You’re welcome to try!”

And she’s making me want to; I don’t like the suspense — if somepony gets involved with my life, the least I deserve is their name in return, especially if they already know mine. Given my public status, that wouldn’t be hard on their end, but still, fair’s fair, and leaving me in the dark is just plain cruel. And I laugh because of it.

And also because… things seem a little brighter now. The sky’s clear and blue, the sun pleasantly warm, and I don’t believe the weather teams have any plans to change it. The perfect flying conditions. The perfect time to be up and about.

The perfect time to see somepony I’d promised to see three days ago.

But not before a spot of PB&J.

As Ponyville comes into sight from behind a passing layer of clouds, so too does the faint smell of baking goods. The famed Sugarcube Corner must be working overtime. In fact, I’m somewhat surprised the resident Element Bearer isn’t already supplying half the kingdom with her confections, considering how much and how fast she likes to bake, or so it’s been said.

I also see farms to the north and south of the town, sparsely populated with ponies working the fields and orchards. I even spy the form of a big, red stallion I’d accidentally crashed into once, and subsequently had a short-lived, concussion-induced obsession over. One I’m none too proud of, and can safely say does not represent me in any way.

I’m just thankful he never cottoned on to me, or the mare I fought him over, and he’s too preoccupied to look up and see me now.

Sisters, if that wasn’t the lowest point of my life…

But the most obvious landmark, and the one I’m currently descending toward, is the Castle of Friendship, located adjacent to the School of Friendship, both owned and run by the Princess of Friendship. If the name’s not jarring enough, the architecture’s plain overkill; it sticks out like a broken feather, only purple and blue and shiny where the rest of the wing is more soothing and… well, easier on the eyes. Besides the Carousel Boutique, of course. The Element of Generosity sure loves attention. Definitely more than I’m liking it, that’s for sure.

As I approach, the wind whipping through my hair and catching in the nooks of a new pair of goggles, more ponies come into view; walking through the streets, hanging laundry by their windows or in the backyards, playing in the schoolgrounds, chatting, socialising. Simply being. And strangely, it helps ease my nerves, knowing these ponies have more important things to do than worry about what’s happening in my life.

But then that comfort fades when I return my attention to the castle, and I see a herd of news crews camped outside the front door. The windows are shut, the blinds drawn — if any — and the dim, purple sheen of a spell coats the outside. Some pegasi with cameras circle about in the air above, hoping for a glimpse behind the crystalline curtains. And I realise I shouldn’t have spoken too soon.

A pegasus spots me, and another, and another, and a fourth has the brains to shout for their associates on the ground, and as soon as my hooves touch the earth, I’m swamped by five microphones, three notepads, a dozen blinding flashes, and a chorus of journalists asking why I’m here.

“Space, space, personal space, please.” I demand, flapping my wings in the faces of those on either side as I slide my goggles from eyes to forehead. “I’m not here to answer questions, I’m here on private business.”

“Miss Fleetfoot, is it true Soarin made you feel uncomfortable in Griffonstone?”

“Do you have any idea how the storm started?”

“Why are you wearing your contacts now?”

“How well do you know the human?”

“Are you confident you’ll keep your position as Senior Wingpony?”

“Have you considered other careers?”

“Does your private business have anything to do with Princess Twilight?”

“No comment,” I drone, trudging through the miniature crowd and up the steps to the door. They wait at the bottom as I knock, still begging for an answer, but unwilling to break whatever taboo they have against laying a hoof on royal property.

A few awkward moments later, standing with my rear to the reporters, pretending to ignore them as they take their shots and continue to ask their intrusive questions, I feel — not hear, but feel — the soft thump of hoofsteps come toward the entrance. Not unlike stampeding yak, I suppose, but not as rushed and without sound. And when they end, the handle turns, the door opens, and I’m greeted by the sight of green eyes and purple scales. “Fleetfoot?”

I blink, still a little caught on the fact I’m finally face to face with the dragon once described by Rainbow as squat. “Yeah,” I say after a brief pause, blinking myself out of my thoughts, then raise a hoof and gingerly point at him. “Spike, right?”

“The one and only.” He smiles and opens the door a little further, walking back a few small steps and bidding me through with a gentle sweep of a foreleg. Or arm. A bit of both, really. “Twilight said you might swing by.”

“I bet she did,” I reply with a snort, trotting inside and away from the ever-desperate pleas of the newsponies. “She isn’t here, is she?”

He shakes his head and shuts the way behind me, silencing the cacophony and returning to all fours. “Gone to meet with Celestia in Canterlot — something about the storms and the magic that fuels them. Wouldn’t be surprised if they talked about Philip as well.”

I nod absently, examining him. I’ve seen bigger drakes, both within and without the Dragonlands — most notably Lord Ember’s father, upon whom her kingdom’s audience could’ve sat with room to spare — but none who know a pony I know.

He’s almost twice my height — slender, but not thin, with a lot of strength in those arms and legs of his, even if the muscles are hidden beneath a dense layer of scales. His snout is also longer; more pronounced than the old photos I’ve seen of him, back when he was shoulder-height and walked on two clawed feet. His batlike wings, too, though currently folded at his sides, have developed to something more befitting his size.

He looks down at himself momentarily, searching for what I’m seeing, then raises an eyebrow and returns to me. “Something wrong?”

I slowly shake my head. “You’ve grown.”

He blinks, then emits a soft chuckle. “Yeah,” he says, bashfully smirking and rubbing the back of his neck. “We all do at some point, I guess.”

I nod again, still admiring the new look.

“Anyway, you’re here for Philip, aren’t you?”

I pause once more, remembering I had, in fact, come here for a reason. And although I’d convinced myself it wouldn’t be so bad, being reminded of it somehow adds a sour air. But I force a smile and nod yet again.

“Up the staircase, to the left. Just follow the music. I’ll be making lunch in the meantime.”

“Thanks, big guy.” I give a quick salute, much like the one I’d received earlier today, before trotting off down the carpeted hall, and truly realising just how massive this place is.

I’ve heard the story of how this place sprouted from some kind of seed from the Tree of Harmony, but it’s honestly hard to believe. Granted, magic works in mysterious ways, sometimes even surprising the most adept unicorn mages, but something of this scale, so well-formed and… if not nice-looking, then certainly impressive? Even Harmony has to have its limits, and I’m fairly certain it ends with connecting the drainage of a newly formed castle with that of an existing network.

Matters of plumbing aside, it really does feel too big for just two ponies — or rather, a pony and a dragon, and now a human on top of that — and the faint echoes of my hooves on solid crystal as I ascend the stairs only confirm it. If this place isn’t enchanted to keep itself clean, they’d be working themselves to the bone every day. Add to that all the duties of being a princess and her assistant, and it’s no wonder Twilight’s earned herself a reputation for being a tad manic.

Who knows? Maybe that trip to Canterlot’s actually a vacation in disguise.

I wouldn’t blame her; everypony needs a break from time to time.

And judging by the music I hear drifting down the landing, it seems like Philip’s making the most of his. And just like the track he shared with me in hospital, this one doesn’t sound half bad.

I wander down the gallery, passing door after door on my left and right, before I stop and knock on the one the music’s coming from. And just as I finish doing so, I realise I’d done it all without any hesitation.

But before I’m given any time to reflect on what that means, if anything, the door opens.

Feet with short, stubby toes poke out from beneath the veil of black trackpants, an extremely fine and very thin covering of hair on their tops. A cyan shirt covers his torso, leaving a forearm bare from the elbow down while the other remains hanging in a sling looped around his neck. The swelling has gone, and his small eyes — brown, I realise — stare down at me.

If I stood on my hindlegs, we’d be about the same height, but on all fours, my scalp reaches the top of his stomach — or where I can only assume his stomach is. And with this sudden shift of perspective, from the bedside to now, I find myself a little lost for words.

Sweet stars above, don’t let it show…

“Uh…”

“Oh, Fleetybee,” he remarks, brows rising in pleasant surprise. “Fancy meeting you here.”

I blink a few times, cognitive functions slowly coming back to me. “Well, yeah, I… uh… promised to see you again, didn’t I?”

“That you did,” he muses with a nod, and, evidently seeing no problem with the fact, promptly steps aside. “Well then, feel free.”

I pause, caught on whether I’d expected something more substantial — a line of questioning, maybe, for whatever reason. It wouldn’t have to be much, just… more resistance. But the longer I stay out here saying nothing, the more awkward the situation becomes. So, without any further ado, and reminding myself to heed that courier’s advice, I walk inside, strolling past him, and hop on a cushioned armchair.

The room is spartan, lacking any real sense of character; a bed, a dresser, a bookcase, a nightstand with a lamp, but nothing that defines it from, say, a hotel room. Of course, I can chalk it up to him moving into this place just today — or so the letter implied — but at the same time, I’m not entirely sure I’d want to be making a mess of the princess’s castle either. But the window on my left pours in the afternoon sun like warm milk, and the song playing from a small stereo heralds its arrival.

There’s an air here. I can’t exactly say what it is, but I can appreciate it.

“So,” he begins, closing the door and moseying on over to the bed, putting his feet up, “what’s cooking?”

And then I realise something about the window, and narrow my eyes at it.

“Fleetfoot?”

I blink again and shake my head, returning to him. “Sorry, what?”

He glances outside. “Was a reporter making a funny face or something?”

“Oh, no, just, uh… I can see out, but I couldn’t see in.”

“Ah, right, yeah.” He nods and waves his hand dismissively. “That’d be the spell Twilight cast before she left — some kind of privacy thing. The way I understand it, the windows are now basically one-way mirrors, and nobody out there can hear what happens in here.”

My brows rise. “That’s… actually pretty neat.”

“I know. Now I can brood in silence like I always wanted.”

I smirk. I get the feeling one-liners like that are going to be a habit of his, and while I’m sure they’ll grow tiring eventually, they’re a welcome way to relieve the tension in the meantime. Not that I wasn’t at ease in the first place. “Except, you’re not really brooding in silence are you?” I tease, gesturing to the stereo, which I now notice has his audio device attached to it by a cable.

He looks to the stereo as well, and his smirk shines through like mine. “No, I suppose I’m not,” he says with a gentle sigh, then picks up a book I hadn’t noticed from the nightstand. “Listening to some Beatles while I brush up on Equestrian history.”

“Did Twilight put you up to it?”

“Actually, no; I just like knowing things. And I have to say, history here seems very…” he drifts off, looking a little way off to the left as he searches for the right word. His expression tells me he’s found one, but he’s after something less harsh.

I fill in the blanks. “Whitewashed?”

He pouts disagreeably, but switches back to me a neutral look. “Let’s go with simplified.”

“Hey,” I shrug, “it’s no secret things have been dumbed down. I mean, you can’t live in the same world as the griffons and the dragons and not have a history as violent as theirs. That’s just too convenient.”

“So, you think someone’s altered your history books?”

“Oh, everypony knows, and we’re pretty certain Celestia has something to do with it, or she’d be correcting everything left, right and centre. We just… don’t kick up a fuss about it — I guess because we don’t want to deal with any baggage we find. And I think that’s what she’s trying to protect us from.”

He nods, now looking up in thought. “Okay, sure, but… if you forget your history, you don’t really learn from it, do you?”

“Hey, don’t look at me.” I shrug again with an innocent smile. “I’m honestly all for finding out what happened before the Sisters came to power.”

“You have your suspicions?”

Soarin’s theory from Griffonstone suddenly comes to mind, and how the press claimed the storms aren’t magical in nature, and how Spike said at the door that they are. “No more than the average pony,” I say neutrally, shifting my weight slightly.

He smirks. “Sounds like something out an old noir film.”

“Please,” I scoff, “I’m getting enough press coverage for saving you as it is — I don’t need a movie solidifying me as a conspiracy nut on top of that.”

“You don’t like the attention?”

I hesitate. “It’s… hard to describe.”

This time, he shrugs. “We have all day, and it’s not like I’ve anything better to do.”

My eyelids and ears both lower to half-mast.

“Well, it’s the truth,” he defends with a small, good-natured smile. “So far, all I’ve seen of Equestria is a hospital, a brief glimpse at Ponyville, and this castle. And the reporters outside. Being able to talk with you, Twilight and Spike has been the only highlight.”

His… frankness on the matter surprises me a little, but I try not to let it show — best not make it awkward for him. Instead, I pick out another point of interest. “You’ve patched things up with Twilight?”

“More or less.” He sighs and adjusts himself to sit more upright on the bed. “She’s not bad. A tad obsessive, I’ve noticed, and Spike’s confirmed, but otherwise fine.”

“Oh, yeah, those neurotic episodes of hers are well documented. You should hear the stories from Rainbow, about what she was like before becoming an alicorn.”

“Rainbow… Dash?” he queries with a slight cringe. “The Element Bearer?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know her?”

“She’s a stuntpony, like me. We fly in the same unit.”

His brows crease. “She… takes up a civilian job on the side?”

I shrug. “When they’re not saving the world, the Bearers have to occupy themselves somehow.”

He pauses, lowering his gaze for a moment. “Huh…” he muses, looking off to the right. “Thought there’d be more dignity in being a hero.”

For a second, I consider asking him if being a Wonderbolt isn’t dignified enough, but I shut my mouth before anything comes out. That would’ve been needlessly probing, and the more I think on it, the more logic I see behind his words. “Yeah,” I murmur, sighing as I turn my head to the window and see a pony armed with a camera fly by. “But we can’t always get what we want.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

I nod vacantly, eyes lowering to my wing, where I see a few feathers out of place. Must’ve been from flapping them in the faces of all those ponies outside. “You don’t mind if I preen myself, do you?”

“You what?”

“Preen,” I repeat, turning back to him. “You know, like birds do.”

“Oh.” He blinks, then waves his book permissively. “By all means do what you got to do. So long as you don’t mind me reading in the meantime.”

I shrug once more, extending the wing and nibbling away through each line, using the ensuing silence — now the song on the stereo has finished — to measure the air between us.

Comfy is the word I’d use. We’ve not made much progress into either of our personal lives, but we don’t need to, and I don’t think either of us are all that interested. Not that we aren’t disinterested, just… apathetic, but not in a bad way. Twilight will be disappointed I’m not pushing her agenda, but I came here to satisfy my curiosity, not the ‘friendship problem’ that might not even exist.

But then I pause as I pluck a secondary.

I came here because I was curious, not because I felt obliged?

Well, why not?

…I’m not arguing, just… surprised; it’s the only reason that came to mind. And it’s not bad by any stretch of the imagination, just… interesting.

Curious, I’d venture.

“Why purple?”

I look up to see him watching me from over the top of his book. “Sorry?”

“Your eyes. Why the purple contacts?”

“Oh.” I set the feather down at my hooves so I don’t lose it and return my wing to my side, shifting my weight again. “It’s just a… style thing, I guess. Worn them for as long as I’ve been able.”

“Don’t you like green?”

“Purple’s my favourite colour.”

“Ah.” He pauses, then shrugs and goes back to reading. “To each their own.”

I angle my head inquiringly. “Do they bother you?”

“Not really. I mean, I don’t mind one way or the other, but I think green suits you more.”

I blink. Mum’s disapproved of them as far as I can remember, so it’s hard to not hear a little of her coming through him, but at the same time… I don’t feel averse to the comment. And that’s all it is: a comment. Not a scathing critique, or a reproachful statement. Just a simple, amiable comment.

I look away to the open door in case I’m accidentally letting something show — a tiny, upward curl of the lips betraying the beginnings of a small smile, perhaps; a small smile at how surprisingly pleasant this experience is turning out to be. And if this is how each meeting’s going down, I can certainly see myself coming back for more.

…Sweet Celestia, I’m actually enjoying this…

And then I hear heavy footsteps travel down the hall, and the shadow of a dragon poke through the doorway, soon followed my the dragon himself, walking on two legs with a silver platter in his claws. “Lunch is ready,” he announces, ducking through the arch, holding the dish out for us to see. “Cheese, crackers, grapes, and homemade s’mores.”

“S’mores?” Philip exclaims, setting the book aside and shimmying to the edge of the bed with wide eyes and an open-mouthed grin. “Oh, mate, you spoil me.”

Spike shrugs, chuckling, putting the platter on the bed between them, waving me closer. “Just doing my job, Philip, just doing my job.”

The smell of chocolate and melted marshmallows fills my nose, and I don’t hesitate in hopping off and pulling my seat within grabbing distance. And when I treat myself to mouthful sweet, sugary bliss, I close my eyes and savour every bite.

Good food and good company.

Yeah, I’m coming back for more.

11 | Warning Signs

Conversation.

I don’t believe it’s ever been my strongest suit, but it’s an art I’ve learned to share with more and more ponies as the years have gone by — encouraged, of course, by friends and family. And it seems like I’ve something to thank them for once again.

“So, let me get this straight,” Philip says, slouching in his chair with his hot mug of cocoa in hoof. Hand. Whatever. “There was once a unicorn whose best friend moved away — shipped off to a magic boarding school, or what have you — and that somehow sent her into a downward spiral where she eventually, a decade later, started up a cult about making the whole kingdom equally horrible at everything, except she’d be the only one with any power. Correct?”

“Yep,” Spike replies, lying sideways on the rug, gently blowing on his own, much larger mug.

“And when she was found out, she made a break for it and vowed she’d get revenge, stalking the Bearers for close to a year, and her ultimate plan was to dig up some legendary magician’s time travelling spell — which hadn’t already been destroyed, for some reason — and stop the event that brought them all together, going so far as to doom the world and herself to a barren wasteland just to get back at Twilight. Right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“…And Twilight just… forgives her?”

“Yeah.”

Philip stares at him with an open mouth and a bemused eyebrow raised. “She knowingly almost caused the apocalypse, all because she got unreasonably pissy about something her friend had no control over, and she doesn’t even get a slap on the wrist?”

Spike nods and sips his drink. “Mm-hmm.”

A stunned few moments later, Philip looks away with a bewildered scoff, brows high and mouth stretched in an entertained smirk.

“Hey, make fun of it all you want, but it worked,” Spike counters with a smile of his own, lifting a claw defensively. “I mean, she may have been petty, but Twilight likes to see the best in ponies. And really, Starlight wasn’t all that bad when you really got to know her.”

“Oh, so, like, a hard on the outside, soft on the inside kind of deal?”

“Nah, more like… if you got over the fact she did what she did and actually gave her a chance, you’d have been surprised. She was kind, funny, loyal to her friends, and… basically everything the Elements represent by the time she left us.”

“Sounds like quite the reversal.” Philip sips his cocoa, and takes an extra breath in to cool his mouth. “Was there any brainwashing involved?”

“Yeah, you’d think, but there wasn’t.” Spike goes back watching his mug. “It was… quick, I’ll admit, but… she was quite a character. Definitely made this place feel a little livelier.”

“Where’s she now?” I ask, sitting in the chair opposite Philip, forming the third point of a loose triangle set beside the castle’s hearth. My hindlegs and head dangle over and are propped by the armrests, a warm, fuzzy blanket covering my lower body as I hold the final cup in my forehooves.

Spike lingers on his cocoa for a second, watching the marshmallows swirl, then looks off to his right for the window outside and the night sky beyond. “Touring the world with her girlfriend,” he answers matter-of-factly. “Last time they wrote, they were in Fillydelphia, about to hop on a boat for the Griffon Kingdoms. That was about two weeks ago.” He turns to me. “You didn’t happen to see them, did you?”

I shake my head. “Not many ponies in Griffonstone, sorry.”

“But of the few, did you see any towing around a rickety, purple carriage? Maybe a purple robe and hat with gold and silver stars?”

I shake my head again.

“Hmm.” He lowers his gaze to the mug once more and takes another drink. “Well, they’re having fun together, on a honeymoon of sorts, and I’m holding the fort here with Twilight.”

“Feeling neglected?”

He pauses, but eventually shakes his head with a subdued, if good-natured smile. “Nah, just… a little lonely, I guess. Not that Twilight and the gang aren’t good company — I mean… well…”

“You wish there was someone for you too?” Philip queries.

Spike nods, switching to him. “Yeah, basically. I mean, I’m about to reach my late twenties, and the most romantic I’ve ever been with somepony is a few one-way crushes. And Celestia knows they’ve gotten me nowhere.”

“Oh my stars, seriously?” I roll and widen my eyes, chuckling. “That’s what you’re complaining about? Trust me, I’m thirty-two, and I can safely say relationships are extremely overrated.”

“Well, that might be true for you, Fleetfoot, but not everypony’s wired the same.” He looks away and moves to take another sip. “Also helps that you’re married to your job, but that’s none of my business.”

Philip almost chokes on his cocoa.

I’m sure I’d have done the same if I had any in my mouth. Instead, I simply baulk. “Oh, oh, is that how you’re playing it? Talking smack right to my face?”

“I’m just saying, Fleet, it’s not like you’ve had much experience, so don’t go throwing stones in glass houses. Or crystal, in this case.”

An impressed smirk sneaks through, and, deciding to let the friendly jab be just that, I give him a small salute with my mug. “Well, you can’t hurt me with the truth.”

“Didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” I tilt my head back and take a swig. “Just saying, I quit looking when I was seventeen, when I joined the reserves. And really, I haven’t missed it. If anything, dropping it altogether has improved my life.”

“And I’m saying, with nothing to pour my time into besides helping Twi and the occasional mission to the Dragonlands…” he drifts off, watching the fire for a short while with a thoughtful frown, tapping his claws on the rug. “You start noticing things, is what I’m trying to say. Things you might miss out on if you don’t… you know… look for them.”

I quietly sigh to myself. This isn’t the kind of conversation I wanted, but after visiting these two for three days straight — much to my modest surprise — I suppose it’s the kind I’d better get used to. Especially if Mum starts treating this as the new norm, and thinks I should push my boundaries even further. She hasn’t said anything of the like just yet, but it’s a possibility I should prepare for.

“How many?”

Spike turns to Philip. “How many what?”

“Crushes.” He makes a vague, wavy gesture with his free hand, now without the sling. “Can’t imagine a dragon as renowned as you would be short of options.”

“Oh.” Spike seems somewhat taken aback by the comment, widening his eyes and glancing away, perhaps uncomfortably. But he quickly settles down and shifts his weight. “Well, strictly speaking, I’m not. I mean, if I were to actually try my luck, I might convince a couple to give me a shot, but… it’s easier said than done. Besides, there’s… really only one mare for me.”

“Who?”

I raise an eyebrow and look at Philip. “Really?”

He looks at me. “What?”

“You seriously don’t know?”

“…I wouldn’t be asking if I did.”

“Besides Celestia’s fat arse, Spike’s biggest crush is the worst kept secret in the kingdom.”

He blinks. “Well, excuse me for being ignorant. It’s not my fault I found myself transported to an alternate universe where I know jack shit about the locals’ history.”

I linger on him for a moment, then return to my cocoa before my smile wanes.

“Anyway, you were saying, Spike?”

The dragon sips his drink. “Rarity.”

Philip sits a little more upright and looks at him more attentively. “Rarity as in… our Rarity? The Element Bearer and Ponyville’s Carousel Boutique Rarity?”

“Yeah,” he answers with a wistful sigh, picking out a marshmallow and popping it in his mouth. “She’s just… a dream.”

“…Oh.” Philip slowly slumps back, staring off into the distance with creased brows and parted lips. He takes a long, quiet drink and savours the taste before looking at Spike once more. “I thought you were talking about ladies of a more, uh… reptilian persuasion.”

“Ah.” Spike lowers his gaze in thought and drums his claws on the rug, perhaps confused or feeling a little awkward. “Well, uh… it’s not that I don’t like dragons, or can’t appreciate them in that way — it’s just…” He shrugs, peering up at Philip. “I don’t know. I’ve spent my whole life around ponies, so I guess things have kind of… misaligned, maybe? But saying it like that makes it sound like there’s something wrong with me.”

“And there’s not,” I assure with another small salute. “As you said, big guy, not everypony’s wired the same. Can’t help being what we are.”

He smiles at me at lifts his mug in agreement. “Here’s to that.”

As we skol, Philip glances between us, an air of neutrality about him, though it feels somewhat… feigned, I suppose. But that’s too harsh a word; more accurately, he seems reserved.

“Something up?”

He turns to me inquisitively, then shakes his head and looks away. “Nothing, nothing, just… cultural differences, I guess.”

“How so?”

He continues watching the fire for a while, finishing off his cocoa with another long drink. “Back home… some people hate others more or less for the colour of their skin.”

I blink in surprise. “What?”

“It’s a bit more complex than that, but that’s the long and short of it.” He returns to me with the same neutral expression. “And that mindset’s influenced my world more than anyone cares to admit. It’s gotten better with time, but… it still has a long way to go. But where everyone draws the line is…”

I wait a moment, then roll a hoof expectantly. “Is…?”

He puckers his lips and lowers his gaze, now less neutral and more at odds with himself, as if he knows what to say, but not how to say it. “Isn’t it frowned upon at all?” he queries, sharing his less than stoic visage with Spike and I. “Liking someone outside your species, I mean.”

I shut my mouth and glance away, not really sure how to answer it myself.

“Well…” Spike replies, rubbing his neck, “it’s certainly not discouraged. Twilight and Rarity haven’t given me a flat out no, and I’ve heard of a few pony-griffon, pony-kirin pairings on the east coast, so… I’d wager interspecies couples are more curious to most ponies than taboo.”

“Yeah,” I say before I have the wherewithal to stop myself. And now I’ve thrown my hat into the ring, I feel obliged to elaborate. “I mean… wouldn’t know anything about interspecies relations, but… you still get the odd few pegasi up in Cloudsdale too proud to court outside the tribe.”

“Really?”

I raise an eyebrow at Spike. “Rainbow and Flutters never mentioned?”

He shakes his head.

“Huh.” I shrug. “Well, there are, but they’re getting fewer every year.”

“As do all old-fashioned ideals.” He lifts his mug once more. “To free love.”

“To being single forever.”

He laughs. “You do you, Fleetfoot. You do you.”

We tilt our heads back and down the rest of our drinks, marshmallows to boot.

“Funny way of saying it,” Philip muses, pensively watching his thumb run up and down the lip of his cup. “Court.”

“Would you rather I’d have said ‘put the moves on’?”

He looks up at me without moving his head, peering from behind brows neither tense nor relaxed. From this angle, he seems critical, even though I’m sure he’s not trying to be. “I’d rather you stop making me think about it, honestly.”

I hold his gaze for a moment, wondering if I’d heard a warning edge in his tone, but eventually shrug again and decide to let the subject be.

“Well then, what about you?” Spike inquires, motioning to him. Perhaps he’d heard what I thought I hadn’t and decided to shift the focus. “How many crushes have you had?”

Philip turns to him, still not giving much in the way of expression. He’s bothered by the question, I can tell; nopony gets that quiet or straight-faced unless they’re hiding something — I know because I do it often enough — and he doesn’t strike me as the sort to hide his enthusiasm. But with an eventual sigh, he looks to the ceiling and regards it thoughtfully. “Crushes? Nine. Girlfriends? I’d prefer not to say.”

“Oh-ho, so you never made it past the crush phase either, huh?”

He moves to take another sip, only to find his cup empty. And with his disappointment as he peers inside, I see what I can only assume is boredom. “No comment,” he murmurs, going back to the fire.

“See, Fleet?” Spike turns to me with his cheeky grin. “I’m not alone. If you want to bash me, you’ll have to bash him too.”

“Fine, fine, you’re vindicated,” I groan, I rolling my eyes and my head with them. “Just… fetch us more cocoa before things get violent.”

“Gladly, milady.” He stands and bows as he backs up a few paces on his hindlegs, a claw on his chest and the other behind him. But then he bumps into somepony emerging from the shadows.

“Ow! Spike! Watch where you’re going!”

“Sorry, Twilight!”

As the dragon fumbles about, forelegs outstretched and offering help, the princess waves him off with a wing and huffs to herself, stepping into the warm, orange glow of the fire. It plays well on her purple fur and hair, even if both now seem more frazzled than normal. Her face scrunches up as she nurses a small bump on her temple.

Philip appears to brighten somewhat. “Oh, hey, it’s Twinkle Sprinkle.” He sets his empty cup at the foot his armchair and sits more upright. “Sup, girl?”

Whatever tension was in the air before, it’s vanished now.

“You mean besides my assistant trying to murder me after the reporters had their turn?” she questions cynically, looking at him with lowered brows and eyelids at half-mast. But then she glances away and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, it’s just been a long day.”

He shrugs. “Well, don’t let me tell you how to do your job, but… I’m pretty sure you don’t have to meet them every time they come knocking.”

“I know, I know.” She slowly, wearily walks between us for the fire and sits down on Philip’s side of it. “But the public deserves answers, and if I can give them, I will. That’s what a good princess does.”

He scoffs with a smile and sits back.

I raise an eyebrow. “You disagree?”

He turns to me and shakes his head. “Nah, just… back in my world, ‘transparency’ and ‘people of privilege’ aren’t two terms that’d normally go together. I’m just laughing at the irony, I guess — it’s actually a breath of fresh air to meet someone important who values honesty.”

Twilight glances at him and chuckles awkwardly, ears flattening. “Yep. That’s me. Princess of Friendship, everypony.”

We both look at her probingly.

She takes notice forces a smile. “It’s been a very long day.”

I raise my eyebrow again. Considering how much time I’ve spent here, and how much I’m looking forward to spending, I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that I’d see her manic side slip through at some point. It may have been entertaining if I hadn’t caught the nervous quaver in her voice.

Whatever she’s not saying, she’s not hiding it well; I meant what I said about her being terrible at poker. But if it’s important enough for a princess to keep quiet — much more a saviour of the world — I suppose I shouldn’t press the issue. I may act all calm and casual around her, but the fact of the matter is she outranks me, and if there’s one thing the Wonderbolts have taught me, it’s to respect the rank. If she has something to share, she’ll share it in her own time.

Philip, however, to the best of my knowledge, has never had such an upbringing, and opens his mouth to ask her something.

“Hey, Philip.”

Before he makes a sound, he looks back to me with an eyebrow of his own raised.

“What did you do before… this?” I twirl my hoof at the ceiling in a vague and half-hearted circle. “I don’t imagine life was so exciting.”

He lingers on me, possibly assessing if I’d interrupted him on purpose, but it’s hard to say; whether he knows it or not, he can be frustratingly hard to read sometimes. But eventually, he leans forward with a sigh, elbows on his knees and rubbing his nose. “No, I suppose it wasn’t,” he says listlessly, looking off to the windows behind me. “Far more… relaxed, I guess. Of course, I’m saying this while sipping cocoa beside a fire in a crystal palace, but you know what I mean.”

I nod customarily. “So, what were you?”

“A motel clerk.” He returns to me markedly more expressive than before, brows high and mouth stretched in a way that says he knows it’s nothing to be thrilled about. “Worked the front desk of my dad’s small apartment complex in Minnesota — did some of the heavy lifting too; cleaning, paperwork, you name it.”

“Was it any good?”

“It paid well, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I angle my head, unimpressed. He knows what I mean.

He rolls his eyes and sighs with a light smile. “Yeah, it was fine. Business was slow, but we got by. Didn’t hurt that I got to be around Dad more. Met my fair share of colourful characters, I’ll tell you that much.”

I nod again. Oddly, I find attention drawn to his smile, and the way the firelight plays on the details of his face, from freshly shaven jawline, chin and upper lip to the reflection of the heart in his eyes. I don’t know why at first, but as the seconds pass, I realise it’s because, even though we’ve only briefly known each other… I don’t think I’ve seen him smile all that much.

Of course, finding yourself in another world, cut off from your family and surrounded by complete strangers wouldn’t be too high up on anypony’s bucket list, so who am I to judge? But still, for some reason… I can’t help wondering if I can’t do better.

“Is that how you learned to be so stoic?”

His smile widens.

Bingo.

“As a matter of fact, it is.” He straightens up somewhat, stretching and suppressing a yawn. “You need to put on a brave face for all those lost souls who’ve mistakenly wandered into your establishment, lest they get a bad impression. Never mind your impression of them, from cigarette smoke to booze to… whatever. If you don’t make them feel welcome, they won’t come.”

“Do you miss it?”

He pauses, staring at me with lingering wistfulness, but with an outward breath, he slumps and looks to the fire, grin wilting. Not entirely, but noticeably.

I shouldn’t have said that. It was a question anypony would’ve asked, but I shouldn’t have said that. Of course he does — why wouldn’t he? For as much of a pain as my friends and family can be, I know I’d hate to lose them all, especially in the blink of an eye. And reminding him of what he lost is just adding insult to injury.

My ears lower and a brief chill runs through my chest as I open my mouth without thinking and try to salvage the situation without knowing what I’d say.

“I don’t know.”

And then I stop, and my ears perk up slightly, and a new, longer-lasting chill runs through me, this time from the back of my neck to as far down as my wingtips and rear hooves.

“I mean, I had a good life.” He shrugs, flexing his toes and clasping a hand around his wrist. “I was… well off. Not rich, but safely above the poverty line. Mum, Dad and I had a good relationship, all things considered, and my sister and I were best friends. But this … feels like any other day, I guess, just with less stuff to do. And I say that when I’m surrounded by creatures… people I never thought I’d meet. So… I honestly don’t know what to make of it.”

During his little speech, I’ve shimmied more to lie on my side, letting me face him without angling my head so much. And I watch him with interest, and a vague, indecisive sense of concern.

He lowers his gaze to the floor for a while, before returning to me with knitted brows. “Does that sound… weird to you?”

It honestly does, considering how I’d be feeling if I were in his place, but saying that to his face wouldn’t help him at all, especially with how blunt I know I can be. But that being said, I don’t want to lie about this, because that’s just plain unfair. Besides, I’ve already taken to long to think of a response.

“Not in the slightest.”

We turn to look at Twilight.

She beams me back a warm, assuring smile, then shares it with Philip. “Ponies react to shock in completely different ways,” the princess continues with a shrug; still a little tense, but calm enough for the occasion. “Sure, some ways may be more common than others, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t dealing with it. You’re doing a lot better than I did, that’s for sure.”

“You?” he queries.

And in an instant, her composure wanes. “Uh, yeah.” She grins uneasily. “There was this mission a while back. Had to pretend to be somepony I wasn’t so the locals would trust me, and I could retrieve a magical artefact and save Equestria. Again.”

His eyebrow rises, more confused than inquisitive.

Twilight shrinks in on herself. “It’s been a very, very long day.”

“…Right.”

With a glance to her left, she spies me, then quickly gestures to me. “What about you, Fleetfoot? Any words of advice?”

I blink, still trying to get over that little episode, then realise I’d been called upon. “Well, uh…” I blink again and shake my head, then look at the floor as I think. “She’s… not wrong, I guess.”

Philip returns to me.

“I mean… back when I was a reservist, you’d get all sorts of recruits. Some had to work hard, some had to study hard, but… really, all it came down to was who could do the best under pressure. And that’s where a lot of ponies faltered.” I look him in the eyes. “I know I did, from time to time.”

“How?” he asks candidly, curiously.

“I was too caught up in what I thought would happen instead of what was happening.” The irony of that line hits me like a tonne of bricks, and I somehow manage to numb my reaction with a shrug. “I never got stage fright, but worrying what came next never gave me enough time to react in-flight. I had to train myself not to overthink things — to… tell myself I’m in control. And no matter what happened, I could handle it.”

He doesn’t reply, but his face slowly softens.

I shrug once more and wave to him. “To be honest, I… kind of envy you, being able to cope as well as you are.”

He remains still and quiet for some time, eyes locked with mine and genuine interest in his gaze. But then, once again, he gradually sits more upright and looks away, brows rising in surprise and a faint, upward curl in the corner of his mouth.

He’s smiling again.

“Well,” he muses to himself, “how about that?”

It makes me smile too. I’m not sure why, and I try not to let it show too much, but it does.

I think I’ll come back again tomorrow.

“I return bearing gifts,” Spike announces, walking from the shadows and holding a steaming thermos. No doubt he’d found a way to use his fire to heat the thing up again. “Hot cocoa for us all.”

“Thank you, Spike,” Twilight acknowledges, still a little shaky from whatever she’d talked her way out of. “But, uh… you forgot to bring a fourth cup.”

“Here, take mine,” I say, making a show of holding it out and placing it on the floor, then I pull the blanket from my lap, turn in place, and hop out of the chair. “May as well get going anyway.”

Spike sits where he used to and fills his mug up first. “You’re not staying?”

“Sorry, big guy.” I stretch my legs and crack my neck, much to Twilight’s displeasure. “It’s late enough as it is, and this mare needs her beauty sleep.”

“But you’re pretty enough as you are.”

“Hey,” I shoot him a feather and a playfully warning frown, “no funny business. You save that for the other girls, alright?”

“Alright.” He nods. “You take care, Fleet.”

“Thanks. You too.” I relax my features and look to Philip. “That goes for you as well.”

He too nods, his smile widening. “See you later, Fleetybee.”

I nod in turn, then look at the princess and smirk. “And as for you, Twilight, I just want to say, living with you must be a nightmare, and I pity these two fools for being your victims.”

She laughs. Harder than I expected — strained nerves finally being unwound, I suppose — but it’s a welcome gesture, and the admittedly cute snort at the end only makes me feel better about it. “Good night, Fleetfoot.”

“Good night,” I echo, trotting off for the exit to the hall. “See you all tomorrow.”

And this time, for certain, I know I mean it.

12 | The Weapon of Choice

Suspense.

For as long as I’ve been a stunt flier, I’ve known that keeping my audience on the edge of their seats is the aim of every event. It engages them. Makes them beg for an encore. Brings them back for more. Every routine I choreograph never disappoints.

Then again, the same could be said for basically every Bolt; unless you’re extremely gifted like Rainbow, there’s no way you’re getting on the team because of your flying skill alone. And no, she wasn’t selected because she’s an Element Bearer — I can say that because I was there for the discussion, listening in without any input like I usually do. Anypony who says otherwise doesn’t know Spitfire, or is lying to themselves.

But regardless, suspense is essential to the enjoyment of any performance. Without it, you may as well grab yourself a box of popcorn and watch paint dry, provided you don’t die of boredom at the very idea of it first.

With all this in mind, I never thought I’d be as invested as I currently am in just how much time, care and effort’s being put into this final shot.

“Come on, Philip,” I groan with a smile, tilting my head back to the ceiling of the castle. “It’s been five minutes. Just hit the ball already.”

“You can’t rush art, Fleetybee,” he counters evenly, sitting on his haunches, putter balanced on his knees, peering with a careful squint down the staircase to the entryway.

A lone coffee cup lays on its side, surrounded by a panoply of book-themed hazards. The entirety of the princess’s personal archives had been turned on its head and used to construct the giant minigolf course running throughout the halls, all eighteen holes of it. We’d gone from the deserts of Saddle Arabia in the kitchen — the sandpits made from sacks of flour, of course — to the perilous heights of the Frozen North in the library, represented by Twilight’s chillingly large amount of tomes on Starswirl the Bearded.

Needless to say, the princess wasn’t impressed.

From there, we circumnavigated the world in the map room, braved Ghastly Gorge in the corridors, cut our way through the jungle of empty rooms in the southern wing, and faced the mighty steppes of the main hall. Spike had spent the whole of yesterday planning this out, each stage with its own challenges, some of which I’d never even seen before. Granted, I’d never played golf before, mini or professional, so I can’t really say — hoofball’s more my sport, though I do tune in to the occasional cloudball match.

Now, we’ve come full circle, back in the entry at the top of the stairs, where the whole floor below has been converted into a loose representation of Canterlot. Books with paper cut-outs of ponies taped to their covers float through simple streets, levitating in purple auras while Twilight reads one herself, sitting on Philip’s right.

“I like taking my time as much as the next pony,” she says idly, not looking up from Golden Virtue’s Reflections of a Stoic, “but I have to agree with Fleetfoot. Get on with it.”

“Patience, young grasshopper, patience.”

Now she looks at him, unimpressed. “I’m thirty-five.”

“And yet you’ve much to learn.” He gets down on all fours and puts his head to the floor, closing one eye and examining the trajectory. His rear’s up in the air like a foal displaying their new cutie mark, and I turn away with an amused smirk. “This is all about precision.”

“It’s minigolf. It’s all about fun.”

“And I’m having my fun.”

I snort. “By annoying the heck out of both of us.”

“By taking the game seriously.” He peers at me from the corner of his eye with a smirk of his own. “Something you’re not doing, and look who’s winning.”

“Oh, so you are keeping score.”

“As is tradition.” He rises from the floor to sit on his knees, returning to the course ahead. “You may be a flier, Fleet, but you’re no golfer.”

“I told you that before we started!”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t hurt to test the waters — experience something new for once.”

I look away and scrunch my snout. “Touché.”

His smirk widens to a smile as he stands, the putter slipping to one hand. “Don’t worry, I won’t say the tally if you don’t want.”

A small mercy, but in the spirit of the moment, a welcome one. “Thanks.”

“You’re trailing by a lot, though.”

“Oh, screw you, jerk.” I laugh and give him a light slap on the flank.

He shoots completely upright, stiffening, eyes wide and staring blankly ahead.

Instantly, my grin falls and ears droop. A warm weight pulls at my underbelly, and the primaries I’d used to smack him with suddenly feels very… unclean. Heavy. Like they shouldn’t belong. I risk a glance and half expect to find them covered in tar.

He continues staring, blinking a few times with his mouth straight and brows high. “Fleet—”

“I know, I know!” I snap my wing back and sidestep away from him, cringing. “I’m sorry, I’m just… used to ponies closer to my height.”

Slowly, and just as stiffly, he turns his head, looking at me with a mixture of alarm and confusion, though the former’s gradually fading.

“It was an accident.” I meet his eyes and face him, even as my hooves beg me to unroot them and my wings itch to take flight. “If you were a pony, I swear, that would’ve been aimed for your head.”

He blinks, the pause stretching on, daring to become judgemental. “Okay, just… think before you act, alright?” He rubs his backside as he shifts his feet and returns to the ball. “We’re not that close.”

That we aren’t. If I’d hit the intended target like I said, I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded. In fact, I can practically guarantee he’d have shrugged it off as a just punishment. Soarin does all the time, yet he keeps making jokes at my expense, because in his mind, the payoff’s worth the pain. This guy’s pretty much the same, but taller. And not as close.

I hope this won’t sour things between us. He may have waved it away, but that doesn’t change the fact I did what I did. And after coming here for almost a week and a bit straight, I’ve grown too used to this routine already to let some stupid mistake shake things up.

I wait a few moments after he goes back readying the shot before I allow myself to settle, but even then, there’s tension in my wings, neck and ears. I try glancing about for another point of focus to distract myself from the tightness in my chest, only to find the princess watching from behind her book.

“It’s okay,” she mouths. “You didn’t mean it.”

I hold her gaze, trying to keep myself composed. At least I have an ally in this.

And she’s right: I hadn’t meant it; she knows it, I know it, and so does he. I’m just… overthinking this like I always do. It was an honest mistake, and he accepted it as such. There’s nothing to worry about, so I don’t need to worry.

I am in control.

“Fore,” Philip cries to nopony in particular, and in a smooth, mechanical stroke, putts the ball down the staircase.

Latching onto the immediate sense of interest, I shuffle back to my original spot and peer over the edge.

Twilight watches also.

With the velveteen carpet cushioning the way onwards, there’s barely any sound as the ball bounces after every drop, steadily descending the… fifty or so steps up from the foyer. Down, down, down, falling and rising, always lower, never left or right. But on the final step, it strikes the lip and rockets off, skidding in long, leaping bounds across the floor at the bottom.

My eyes widen and I lean forward.

Careening through the three major lanes of book traffic, without clipping a single one, even by a hair, the ball continues its path down a narrow book tunnel — one of only three bottlenecks into the book castle’s courtyard. And from there, it slows down to an amiable roll, trundling past the book garden beds, and pops into the coffee cup serving as the gateway.

A hole in one from thirty metres, following a completely straight line.

My jaw drops.

Philip sticks his arms up in the air and whoops.

“What?!” Twilight cries, her magic dissipating as she jumps to her hooves. With so many books dropping at once, it almost looks as if the entire lower floor had started collapsing. “But that…! That…! How did you—”

“Patience, young grasshopper, and lots of practice.” Philip grins at her as his arms flop by his side once more, though he now holds his putter like a cane. “There was a minigolf course just down the road from the motel. My sister and I made it a weekly thing.”

“Really?” I turn to him and chuckle, still impressed by what I’d just witnessed, but amused all the same. “Minigolf Mondays?”

“Sundays, actually.” He shares his grin with me. “Not that far off the mark, but yeah, it was fun. The deli next door also did some wicked beer-battered fries, and we’d buy a small basket to share — make an unhealthy picnic out of it.”

“And you never got bored of it?”

“With good company? Never.”

I snort in acknowledgement. Hard to believe just shy of a minute before, I’d thought I ruined things with him. Of course he has thicker skin than that — I know him, after all. Maybe not as well as I could, and I’m still learning things about him and his old life, but I definitely know him. “Who was the better minigolfer?”

He looks up in thought, furrowing his brows and skewing his jaw. “Hard to say. If I said me, I’d be boasting, but if I said Anita… that wouldn’t be accurate. I guess I’m better at the putting itself, but she? She can do trick shots like they’re nothing. Heck, at my twenty-fifth, she had a punt at beer pong with a wedge club.”

I blink. “Say what?”

“Yeah. And of the six swings she took, three landed. Best tequila shots I ever had.”

I pause for a moment, and then the smile I didn’t realise I had grows a little wider. “Didn’t peg you for a drinker.”

“Oh, I’m not. But when the occasion calls for it, I’m game if everyone else is.”

“That’s… interesting,” the princess muses absently, still staring at the foyer. But then she blinks a few times and snaps herself out of her thoughts, looking to us. “Anyway, I, uh… assume you two are finished now, correct?”

“Correct you are, fair lady,” he replies with a courtly bow. “Unless my associate would like to embarrass herself a little more.”

I feel the tug of a familiar nerve, but force it down and give him a sly, knowing look. “Okay, you’re just begging for a slap, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps I am, perhaps I’m not.” He swings back to me with a smug, teasing smirk, his small eyes practically drowning in how much he’s enjoying it. “Either way, compadre, the question still stands: do you want another go?”

Now that his cheeks are within reach — the proper ones — I’m tempted to just give him a smack right here and now and take him up on his offer, even if I make a fool out of myself and leave him a little dazed and confused. The look on his face, the satisfaction of swatting away a pest, the prospect of proving him wrong… Somehow, on some level, it’d be worth it. If only we were at that point. But we aren’t. So, I’ll just have to swallow my pride and let the water slide off my wings.

“Nah,” I dismiss, glancing away and shrugging, “you’d like that too much. Can’t have you having fun at my expense all the time.”

“Fair, fair.” He nods, rising, switching back to Twilight. “Seems that’ll be a decisive no.”

“Oh, thank the stars,” she exclaims throatily, and in a sudden, intense and instantaneous flash of white light, she, the book she was reading, and all the tomes stacked and scattered about the entrance vanish. Gone. Poof. And the only sign they ever existed are tiny motes of sparkling dust, quickly fizzling out, barely any of it reaching the floor.

Philip doubles over and bursts out laughing.

I rub my eyes and blink, trying to erase what damage she’d done to my sight, and when I recover, I squint and raise an eyebrow at him inquiringly. “Did she just—”

“Teleport everything to the library, yes,” he confirms, giggling. “Wouldn’t be surprised if she decided to try out a new sorting system while she’s at it. But… the look on her face.”

“Priceless.”

“She’s a hoot, Fleet, I’ll tell you. Absolutely fabulous host, though, considering the crap I put her through.”

I angle my head. “You mean you and Spike organise more of these shenanigans when I’m not here?”

“Shenanigans.” He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You make it sound like I’m trying to make her life a living hell. No, we don’t; this, I’m pretty sure you’ll agree, is the biggest feat our combined insanity’s come up with. Twi’s just kind enough to let us do our thing.”

I snort again. “You’ve taken a liking to her.”

“Hey, she’s an alright gal.”

“I know she is, or she wouldn’t be an alicorn. I’m just saying, it’s been quite the reversal since your first meeting with her.”

“Oh, yeah…” His smile shrinks to an awkward grimace. “That…”

Part of me thinks I shouldn’t have turned the conversation down that road, to what he seems to agree was a poor display of character. But curiosity rears its ugly head, and for the first time in a long while, I feel the urge to slake it. “What was that about, anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?”

He sighs, pressing his lips together and looking away, brows creased in a troubled frown. “That was… me at my worst, frankly. Acting entitled and just… not being too pleasant.”

“Well, yeah, I got that, but why? I mean, considering you’re not from here, and nopony knows why that vortex opened…” I pause after that, then quickly blink and shake my head before it seems a little too suspicious. “Point is, you were entitled to an audience with a princess, but… why act so—”

“I know, I know, you don’t need to say it,” he interrupts, waving the rest of that sentence away. And then he shrugs. “I’m not sure why, I just… did. But if I’m being entirely honest, I think it’s because… well…”

I wait a few moments, then roll a hoof to coax him on.

He sighs again and folds his arms, putter still in hand. “If I’m being entirely honest… I think it’s the species barrier thing.”

I blink, cocking my head once more. “What?”

He chews on his bottom lip and looks even further away, obviously uncomfortable with either his choice of words or the fact he’s saying what’s on his mind. Probably both. “Don’t get me wrong, I can clearly tell you’re a person — a sentient, sapient, living, breathing being — it’s just… it’s harder to get over the fact you’re not… you know… like me.”

“Like you?”

“Human.”

“Oh.” I blink again, and a few times more, my gaze gradually to eyelevel and staring off into nowhere. Some kind of feeling’s taking root, but I can’t be sure what it is. Surprise? Confusion? Disappointment? If it has a name, I can’t name it, but it leaves me feeling… numb, I guess. And my ears droop a fraction because of it. “Oh…”

“It’s nothing against you, Fleetfoot, believe me. The last thing I want is something as stupid as this coming between us. But… yeah. I think the reason I was so… brazen before — I think that’s the right word — was because… it’s hard to take a lot seriously here when I’ve been around people… humans all my life, and we’re the only talking species in our world. Here, I’m surrounded brightly coloured ponies, who look nothing like my Earth’s ponies, and who all have butt tattoos and saccharine names and official titles like the Princess of Friendship.

“Couple that with the fact I, a de facto alien, had been waiting a day without word from anyone about what’s happening, and I think that’s the toxic cocktail you saw in the hospital.”

I nod idly, still not totally sure what I’m feeling our how to process this new information.

“Trust me, I don’t like it either. But I think a change as big as this takes time to get used to, even for someone as stoic as me. And I can guarantee you, there’ll be plenty more mistakes where that came from.”

Still I nod, and I’m still no closer to figuring out what this feeling is. But the more I focus on labelling this mystery emotion or state of mind, another question pops into my head: why?

Have I been denied something? Had I expected something to come out of these almost daily get-togethers? Does the fact he doesn’t see me as an equal hurt me?

He’s trying his best.

…Yes. Yes, I suppose he is.

So long as it doesn’t affect us.

“Does that make any sense?”

I pause a little while longer, making sure I’m okay with this new perspective, then nod with purpose and force a small, light smile. “Yeah, it does.”

He balls a hand into a fist and offers it to me. “We cool, fam?”

I watch the fist for a few seconds, hiding my hesitation well behind a contemplative mask as I examine how bony the knuckles are, and the veins beneath his skin. Then I reach out with my hoof and bump it. “We’re cool.”

“Right on.” He lets his arms flop back by his side and looks down to the now empty foyer, blowing an idle sigh. “So… what now?”

“You’re asking me?” I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you were the shenanigans guy.”

“Spike’s the one with the ideas, I just give them pizzazz.” He shrugs, but as his shoulders settle, something appears to strike him, and he turns back to me curiously, with a hint of guile. “Say, you wouldn’t be in a dancing mood, by any chance, would you?”

I blink, drawing my head back somewhat. “Dancing?”

“Yeah.”

“…Why?”

“Because I’m bored, and I want to liven things up a little. Doesn’t hurt if I get to see what you can do as well.”

I don’t reply immediately, frankly stunned he’d even suggest such a thing. Why, I don’t know, though I swear I’m not a prude. “I’m… not much of a dancer, honestly,” I politely refuse, glancing away with a hint of embarrassment. “I know how to, but it’s never really been for me. Besides, I’m not sure it’d be all that appropriate.”

His brows crease somewhat and he angles his head. “How so?”

“Well, you know… Big space. Just us. No other couples around.”

“Oh, ballroom dancing.” He glances away with a smile, as if relieved he’d dodged an arrow, then shakes his head and chuckles. “No, I’m talking freestyle — moving your body to the rhythm and the like, because I’ve a few on my phone that’re genuine hip-swayers and head-bangers.”

“Oh, okay, uh…” My brain quickly runs through the options, and although I hate that it’s basically a confirmation — that I might’ve raised any hopes over nothing — the one I choose is the least offensive. “I… guess it depends on the song.”

“Awesome.” He nods once, then turns to the corridor behind him and cups his free hand around his mouth. “TWILIGHT!”

The cry echoes off the walls and bounces through the halls, and for a moment, my ears pin back to shield themselves from the loudness. But when the echoes fade, a new cry returns, this one less clear, but more to anypony who’s everypony in Equestria. “WHAT?! I’M VERY BUSY!”

“CAN YOU MAGIC THAT STEREO TO THE FRONT FOYER?”

“YOU DO IT — YOU’RE CLOSER!”

“YOU HAVE MAGIC, THOUGH!”

“SO?!”

“SO, IT’S FASTER!”

“IF YOU HADN’T STARTED TALKING, YOU’D ALREADY BE AT YOUR ROOM!”

“I HAVE A GUEST!”

“YOU’RE MY GUEST!”

“EXACTLY! SO, BE A GOOD HOST!”

A long pause follows — one where I’m sure Twilight’s massaging her temples to relieve some kind of headache. But, after a while, there’s another flash, and the unplugged stereo, along with Philip’s music device, appears on the carpet beside us. “THERE, NOW LET ME CONCERNTRATE!”

“THANKS, TWIGGLES! LOVE YOU!”

“PHILIP, I SWEAR TO CELESTIA, IF YOU RUIN THIS FOR ME, I’M REVOKING YOUR IMMUNITY!”

He laughs.

I switch focus between him and the hallway, eyes wide and brows furrowed, unsure what exactly I’d just witnessed.

He turns back to me, notices my expression, and shrugs. “She’s a hoot.”

“…Right…” I look at the stereo and his… phone — a small, flat device that hardly resembles the ones in ponies’ homes or meant for public use in the cities. “And here I thought you said you aren’t trying to make her life a living hell.”

“She loves it.” He kneels and picks everything up, tucking the wires and stereo under his arm and holding the phone in his hand. “I’m just a spanner in the works for her monotonous and… largely lonely days. I mean, her friends come around, and she has Spike, but… you know, large house. And they have jobs of their own too.”

I nod. I guess I should be glad I’ve been given as long a break as I have, to be able to come here so consistently. What’ll happen when my duties start kicking in, I don’t know. Maybe I should tell him, or maybe it’d just spoil the moment, whatever kind of air this is between us.

“Anyway, showtime.” He strolls over to the wall and sets the stereo down, plugging it into a nearby power socket — the presence of which feels completely at odds with the castle’s aesthetic — and attaches his phone. He turns both on, pumps the volume right up and begins scrolling through for something to play.

I slowly rock back and forth on my hooves and shift my wings as I wait, not exactly sure what I’m waiting for. I mean, I’m expecting music to start blaring out pretty soon, from which I may have to cover my ears if it’s anything techno, but if he wants me to dance alongside him…

“Can’t help wondering, though,” he says, pausing his work and looking up at me, “how’d you learn to ballroom dance? If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t exactly strike me as the classy type, or one who likes to be that close to people.”

And he’d be right. I won’t confirm it, but that’s me in a nutshell, I guess. Less than two weeks and he’s already figured me out pretty well. “The Wonderbolts get invited to a lot of upper class functions,” I explain, remembering what little I’ve cared to remember. “Dancing lessons are mandatory — helps… smooth things over with the nobles, I guess. And the rich, if they’ve bought their way in.”

“Ah.” He nods and goes back to his phone. “Well, maybe you can teach me sometime, but right now, this is something I’m pretty sure the aristocrats never get to hear: some good, timeless Fatboy Slim.”

I squint. “Fat… what?”

“Just listen.” He taps the screen, sets down the phone and stands up, facing the staircase. “This, Fleetybee, is a genuine classic.”

And so it starts, first with a bit of distorted and remixed vocals and vinyl scratches, and then with a lone drum beat that cuts everything off, quickly rising again with a keyboard and… various other synthetic instruments, I’m sure. It swirls at its peak twice, like two upward bends in a rollercoaster, before the bassline drops.

And with that, he starts traversing the stairs in time with the beat, leading with his hips, hands out as if he’s sneaking around while swaying to the rhythm. And the second he reaches the bottom, the lyrics cut in, as if all of this were planned beforehand.

I just watch. A golf swing of impeccable accuracy, and now a seemingly choreographed dance routine. If he said he’s not trying to impress me, I’d call him a liar, but I wouldn’t be mad. I couldn’t be, frankly. Not at him, and not with moves like that. And not when I’m finding the music to be this enjoyable either.

Funny how it’s turned out, isn’t it? I was so resistant to the idea at first, but now, it’s almost like I can’t get enough of him, even if he acts like a giant goof from time to time.

The singer, a stallion without a lot of range, switches the subject to blowing with this or that, and Philip shimmies left and right, pointing in either direction respectively. And it just… flows so well. Seriously, either he’s been practicing long before he came here to Equestria, or he’s just that good at following the music. Probably the former, since humans don’t have cutie marks, but I’d like to think he could’ve been a professional dancer, somehow, if his life had played out differently.

Could’ve chased after his dreams like I did, and I know I’m happy doing what I do.

Wouldn’t change it for anything.

Ah, screw it. You know you want to.

With a contented sigh and a roll of the eyes, I hop into the air and glide down to the foyer. And with him putting me to shame by sheer confidence and versatility, we dance the afternoon away.

13 | Such Sweet Sorrow

Winter.

It’s come suddenly this year, the entirety of central Equestria covered in snow almost overnight. Spitfire said over the phone a wild blizzard blew in from the north, and the Equestrian Weather Bureau’s decided going with the flow is easier than cleaning it up. I don’t believe anything like that’s ever happened before, but if that’s the decision, there’s nothing I can do.

Staying indoors isn’t so bad anyway, I’ve come to discover. In fact, I think this is the first break I’ve had in years where I’ve not found myself exercising nearly twenty-four-seven. I’m pretty sure the me from two weeks ago would’ve slapped me raw if she knew I was thinking such heathen thoughts.

Where’d my drive to shine gone? My need for speed? Don’t I want to beat Lightning’s Dizzitron record and cement my rightful place as the greatest stunt flier in Equestria?

It’s all still there, and yes, I still do, it’s just… I’ve found something else to occupy my time. And surprisingly, it’s just as enjoyable. I see Soarin and Spitfire and the rest of the gang at the Academy every day, so it’s not like I’m giving them the feather if we don’t meet up in my off time. If anything, I’d be giving this guy the feather if I did.

“…And that’s Anita,” he says after swiping across and holding out his phone for Spike and I to see. “Taken right after she slipped from the boat and fell in the river.”

Another human, not unlike Philip, climbs onto a wooden pier with a smile. Her white shirt and black shorts are drenched, as well as her long, dark hair, clinging tightly to her body and dripping generously. She doesn’t look all that dissimilar from him.

“When you said ponies, err… people back home have different skin colours…” I muse, turning my head to the left and meeting his eyes, “how much variation are we talking about? Because, to me, you and your family look almost identical.”

“Oh.” His brows rise for a brief moment in surprise, then crease together in a reflective frown. “You mean, uh… that’s not how genetics works here?”

“It’s a little more haphazard,” Spike explains from over both out shoulders. “Ponies can have a coat and mane like their parents’, but there’s often a lot of leeway. Kind of like how family names are optional, which is a bureaucratic nightmare Twilight’s been trying to fix for as long as she’s been a princess.”

I snort and smirk. “She’s been trying to force family names on ponies?”

“All I’ll say is that she’s been making pitches to the Sisters.” He shrugs. “But honestly, if they haven’t given in by now, I don’t think they ever will; it’d just create more confusion and uproar than its worth. Equestria’s just too set in its ways.”

“Well, yeah. The kingdom’s lasted for a thousand plus years by doing basically nothing, so it’s not like anypony’s eager to change. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You have a bone to pick about this?”

“Nah,” I shake my head, “just stating the obvious.”

He snorts as well, and in the short silence that follows, I pick up the steady beat of music playing on the stereo Philip had grown so attached to, set atop his room’s bookshelf. If I recall correctly, he called it a ‘lo-fi jazzy hip-hop mix’, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Nothing about it stands out, really, but I suppose that’s the charm of it — something to fill the void when conversation patters out.

Currently, we’re sitting on a small pile of cushions, facing the bedroom’s only window and the late morning sun lighting the world beyond. The snow-covered hills marking the northern border of Ponyville contrast nicely with the bright blue, cloudless sky. I’d be paying the sight more attention if I hadn’t already seen it on my flight here, and I weren’t so comfortable with my attention being paid elsewhere.

“Anyway…” Philip continues, returning to me, “yeah, back home, if someone’s not the same skin colour of their parents, or a blend, there’s usually a lack of faith going on.”

“Oh.” I wince and grit my teeth. “Hope that doesn’t happen a lot.”

“Not a lot, but it happens.” He looks at Spike neutrally. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this place has it far worse.”

The dragon guffaws, glancing away with a slight sense of embarrassment, almost rocking completely backward with the force of the initial chuckle. “Well, uh… I can safely say I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t doubt it, considering your stash of Rarity memorabilia.”

Spike angles his head at him and lowers his brows, giving a short, unimpressed, smoky huff.

“Hey,” Philip lifts a hand in his defence, “I’m just saying you’re dedicated, if nothing else.”

“There's more to me than just a crush.”

“Whatever you say, Spikey-Wikey.”

Spike’s eyes narrow, his expression turning shrewd and scheming. “I could incinerate you, you know. Right here, right now. And I’d just sweep the ashes under the rug.”

“Oh really?”

He slowly nods.

Philip squints at him like it’s a standoff, then glances to me. “Well then, you ought to leave no witnesses, shouldn’t you?”

I baulk and point to my chest. “What, you think I’m against this?”

His smirk turns to stunned betrayal. “Fleety…”

“Burn his arse.”

Spike grins nastily and rises on his rear feet, cracking his knuckles, flexing his forelegs and unfurling his wings, small trails of smoke wafting from flared nostrils. “With pleasure.”

Philip flips over onto his backside, propping himself on the elbow of the arm holding his phone. He holds a hand up defensively, legs tense and ready to scamper away. “Okay, okay, take it easy, big guy. We’re all friends here.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Are we?”

“Yeah.” He switches to me with an awkward smile, relaxing somewhat. “I mean, I haven’t known you guys as long as Anita, Mum or Dad, but… sure, I’d count you as friends.”

My brow remains high as I ponder the notion in silence.

Were we really… that?

I can’t imagine what else we’d call ourselves if we weren’t. Acquaintances, maybe, but that’s too… dispassionate. And we’re definitely beyond that point; a proper acquaintance would be Nurse Redheart, whom I’ve only seen twice. That was a fortnight ago, and we haven’t talked since, even if I don’t have anything bad to say about her.

This guy, however, I’ve gone out of my way to see. Visiting the Castle of Friendship has happened practically every day for the same amount of time, and it’s barely felt like two weeks because of it — because of him, Spike and Twilight; good food, good company, good conversation.

If that’s not friend material, I don’t know what is. I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

“Besides, one of you puts up with me all day every day, and the other saved my life. Really, it’s not that hard to feel at least a little appreciative.”

“Getting sappy, are we?” Spike teases, easing back to his haunches. “Or are you just saying that to spare yourself?”

“No, I mean it.” He shimmies rearward a bit and sits up properly. And then he lowers his gaze to the right and thinks. Not pensively, it seems, judging by his expression, but not exactly in fond remembrance either; as if he’d struck upon a sobering realisation. “Like… if we’re getting real for a moment here, I… never thought I’d be comfortable with… this.”

“This?” I query.

“A fresh start,” he explains, his smile waning to something more subdued and thoughtful. “I mean, I still want to go home, of course, but… my stay here hasn’t been all that bad, all things considered.”

“You expected something different?”

He shrugs and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have known what to expect. Certainly not meeting a dragon and a talking pony, that’s for sure. Or a land full of myths and magic come to life, yet somehow full of technology like mine.”

“Yeah.” Spike chuckles and glances over to the stereo. “You just hit the right parallel universe, I guess. Luck of the draw and such.”

“I guess,” Philip agrees absently, looking down to the picture on his phone and slowly swiping through a few more. “Just a shame I can’t tell everyone back home I’m safe.”

My brows furrow and my lips press together in sympathy, and leaning over, I give his knee a gentle pat. “I’m sure Twilight’s doing all she can.”

“She is,” Spike assures, nodding emphatically, then pats his chest with a fist. “Stayed up all night the day before yesterday talking with Celestia. Haven’t burped up that many scrolls since, uh… Discord, I think. When he was evil.”

“And you’re still not allowed to say what they said?” Philip asks, returning to him with a glint of hope in his eyes, despite his tone.

The dragon shakes his head with puckered lips. “Rules are rules, dude. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He sighs. “It just…”

“Sucks, I know,” I finish, slowly nodding. But simply acknowledging the problem isn’t enough, I feel, so I decide to offer some consolation. “It’s not the same, but in the Wonderbolts, we take applicants from all over the place, even overseas — more so since some ponies have taken to living abroad. And they often have to leave a lot behind to train at the Academy; jobs, friends, family… a lot.”

Philip watches me with the same straight, unreadable face he always has when reserving judgement. There’s never an negative air about him when he does, just a sense of… quiet observation, I guess. I’m not sure how I feel about his lack of expression, as if he’s assessing me from behind a glass wall, but I’ve come to accept it as just a quirk of his. Like me and my contacts.

“Again, it’s not the same, but you’re not exactly alone either.”

He remains silent a little while longer, then nods in turn and lowers his gaze for a moment. “Thanks, Fleet, but—”

“There’s also the Pillars,” Spike exclaims, glancing between us, knowingly or unknowingly interrupting him, though his gusto implies the latter. “Starswirl and the gang. They were trapped in Limbo for a thousand years, so when they got back, everypony they knew was gone, so they all had to make fresh starts as well.”

Philip raises an eyebrow.

“If you want, maybe we could organise a meeting with one of them — tell you how they dealt with the brand new world. I know Somnambula’s down in Saddle Arabia, and she’s all about helping ponies find their inner peace.”

“Through yoga,” I remind, adding a hint of scepticism.

“Hey,” Spike shrugs, “if it worked for Pinkie when she had her Cheese Sandwich phase, maybe it’ll work for him too. You never know.”

I’ll just have to take him at his word on that; I won’t pretend to know the Bearers any better than whatever Dash tells me, and what she’s said of Pinkamina Diana Pie is as concerning as it is hilarious. Dark forces assist her, she swore, they’re just too scared to say no.

“What do you think?” he inquires, going back to Philip. “Would that be something you’d want to look into?”

Philip, for his part, continues to appear unmoved, slowly switching focus from Spike to me to Spike again, as if we’re somehow interrogating him. Perhaps we’re putting him on the spot, but before I can open my mouth to offer some kind of reprieve, he angles his head, lowers his gaze, widens his eyes and scratches his scalp. “A thousand-year old pony yogi,” he mumbles, and then shrugs and gives us both a sudden, surprising, yet altogether clearly genuine grin. “Sure, why not?”

Spike blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah. Beats waiting for the worms to crawl.”

His brows crease. “What?”

“Never mind.” Philip glances away with a small sigh. “Anyway, yeah, send her a message. No harm in asking, right?”

“Excellent.” The dragon claps and rubs his palms together, looking about. “Now, if only I had a quill and paper…”

“What, you mean right now?”

“Of course. No time like the…” he drifts off, staring ahead blankly.

“Spike?” I wave a wing to grab his attention. “Something wrong, bud?”

“…Excuse me for a second,” he quickly says, before tilting his head back and belching green fire, in which materialises a scroll bearing the royal seal. It falls once the flames die and he catches it with practiced precision, the unsinged parchment resting comfortably in his foot with room to spare. “Sorry, can’t control it.”

“Speak of the devil,” Philip muses to himself, watching the scroll with a sense of wonder. But then he exchanges awe for curiosity and returns to Spike. “Doesn’t that make you feel used at all, being someone’s personal fax machine?”

Spike shrugs as he breaks the seal and carefully unrolls the document. “I’ve grown used to it. Sure, maybe I’m being exploited when a phone would do just fine, but… I wouldn’t be as useful an assistant if I weren’t.”

“In my world, we call that Stockholm syndrome.”

I burst out laughing.

Philip looks at me inquisitively, but then quickly realises what’s so funny. “Don’t tell me…”

“Yep,” I nod, pounding the cushions, “it’s a thing here too!”

“Oh, for…” He looks away and shakes his head with a bemused smirk. “For crying out loud, is there anything original here?”

“Doesn’t seem like it!” I wheeze through the cackling, then left my forelegs and hug my chest, falling sideways and rolling onto my back. We’ve made a game out of finding similarities between our worlds, and nearly everything, it seems, is basically the same. Why this detail’s making me wind up with stitches, I don’t know. Can’t bring myself to care either.

“…Alight, so, anyway…” Spike says dismissively, unravelling the scroll and reading it.

The disappointment in his voice just makes me laugh all the harder.

“Okay, it appears we’ve broken Fleetybee,” Philip mutters, after which I hear a soft sigh. “So, what’s it say, Spikey-boy. Anything important?”

There’s a pause. This’d be a good place to calm myself down, because if it’s something he’s allowed to disclose, why shouldn’t I get to hear it firsthoof? So, I face the ceiling, close my eyes and focus. Cackles becomes giggles, giggles become chuckles, and chuckles become short, sharp breaths through the nose and a poorly contained, idiotic grin.

“Spike?”

My ear twitches, and with a throaty cough, my laughter ends. I open my eyes again and prop myself up on my elbows, a small, open-mouth smile lingering as I look between the two of them, hoping I’d somehow misread the mood. Unfortunately, it appears I hadn’t.

Philip sits a little more upright, head angled to the side with an eyebrow raised at Spike, who continues scanning the scroll with an increasingly serious look; brows creased, lips parting.

My smile fades. The air’s changed.

This isn’t good.

“What’s wrong?” Philip asks.

The dragon shares his expression with him for a long moment, glancing at me too, then shuts his mouth and looks to the message once more. “I, uh…” he begins, but quickly drifts off, lost in the words in his claws. “This… is addressed to Twilight, but… really, I don’t think she’ll be telling you anything this doesn’t already say.”

“…Which is…?”

He takes a deep breath in, then out, rumbling softly in the way dragons his size usually do. And then he returns to Philip with a sorrowful look. “You’re moving to Canterlot.”

“What?”

He gives a disheartened shrug. “Celestia’s orders.”

“Why?”

A flutter of some indiscernible takes root in him, making him straighten himself up somewhat, and he quickly skims through the scroll yet again. “To ease Twilight’s burden.”

Philip squints. “Burden?”

“Yeah.” The dragon returns to him, his gaze a little more hardened, but still unmistakably understanding. “Don’t get me wrong, I like you. Twilight doesn’t think you’re half bad either. But… your presence has disrupted the flow of things. The Castle of Friendship was old news before you showed up, and now journalists crawl over themselves for a slice of the pie.”

I blink.

I feel… something…

…Am I supposed to say anything?

“You haven’t been outside in close to a fortnight because of them. The palace in Canterlot’s better equipped to deal with this kind of thing, and frankly, so are the Sisters. I’m pretty sure they’ve been through far worse than this.”

“How long?” I wonder absently, blinking again, but finding nothing to really focus on. Not even Spike’s slitted, emerald green eyes feel like points of interest.

He looks at me with a troubled frown and hesitates. “Indefinitely.”

…And still, nothing really changes — I feel neither worse nor, heavens forbid, better. Just…

What?

…Numb, I guess.

But I don’t want to feel numb, I want to feel… angry, or betrayed, or something. Sad would do just fine, because that’s what this is; sad, sorry news any normal pony would feel would feel sad to hear. Except, I’m not. And that’s disturbing me more than the news itself.

…Now I think I know what he meant when we were drinking cocoa by the fire. I envied it then, but I don’t anymore. I’m normally too emotional to not be sure how to react to things.

“Well then,” Philip murmurs, by lowering his eyes, raising his brows and pursing his lips together, “that sucks.”

Something about his response… disappoints me. As if I were expecting something more… grandiose, for lack of a better term. Showy. Spontaneous. For him to be the one to pick up the slack and shout and kick and scream and moan and whine and plainly and simply bitch. Complain as much as I want to right now. Help me feel like I’m not the only one who doesn’t want this happening.

But no; true to form, he’s as subdued to shocking news as ever.

“Yeah.” Spike nods, looking to the scroll sullenly. “It does.”

Silence creeps in. The stereo’s not being much of a comfort, playing a tune that doesn’t quite fit what we’re all feeling: regret. Regret that something good’s finally coming to an end. Regret over something none of us can change.

For me, it would’ve officially ended after today regardless, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t sneak away from Cloudsdale for a few hours if I knew nopony would miss me. Just a quick little visit here and there, see how he’s going, catch up. That sort of thing. Less invested than now, but that’s only fair with work on the line.

Even if I couldn’t change the fact, I’d have still been in control.

If he’s all the way in Canterlot, however…

I sigh.

What a note to end things on.

“Anyway, I’d, uh… better get this to Twilight,” Spike says quietly, slowly standing up and backing away on three legs, the fourth holding the scroll. “You two… do something, I guess.”

“Sure thing,” Philip replies, nodding softly. “Take your time.”

The dragon offers a small, brave, but altogether feigned grin, then turns and heads out the open doorway, the padding of his feet and clicking of his claws fading as they’re slowly drowned out by the sound of mellow hip-hop.

And then there’s another long silence. At least, it would be if it weren’t for that blasted stereo. I’d turn it off right now if it didn’t mean getting up and drawing his attention, because the last thing I want to do right now is make a scene. Even though I’d really just be…

I droop my head and sigh again. It’s always so simple, and yet it’s not. And I can’t tell anymore if it’s me or society as a whole that’s the problem.

“So…” he begins, being the first to break the ice as always, “don’t suppose you could swing by Canterlot for a few hours every day, huh?”

My ears try to lower, but they’ve already found themselves as low as they naturally go. “It… wouldn’t be every day,” I mumble, turning to him apologetically. “And it wouldn’t be for a few hours.”

“Oh.” He licks his lips and looks away. “Damn.”

“Damn indeed.”

Silence once more.

Faux hip-hop instead.

I give the stereo a warning stare.

May as well see if smashing something makes me feel any better.

“Doesn’t mean we can’t make the most out of today.”

I switch back to him and raise an eyebrow.

He shrugs. “Maybe we could play a boardgame, or something. There’s that Dragon’s Trap in the library, or whatever it’s called — with all the coloured squares and the volcano in the centre.”

I vaguely recall it, and a story Spike told about that unicorn who used to live here as well, where she and her friends played a life-sized version of the game. Things got even crazier when Discord wanted a go, and insisted they made it a live action roleplay, with him as the storyteller.

But I doubt it’d do the trick. Playing something’s only good if you have a neutral state of mind, and while mine’s not far off the mark, it’s still not where it needs to be for me to be fully immersed. The fact this is the end would hover over me and just…

It wouldn’t be fun.

“Or?”

“Or…” He looks about, then shrugs again. “Maybe we could just chill? Sit back, read some junk. See if we can’t piece together Equestria’s hidden past bit by bit.”

He’s trying his best, I can tell, but it’s not enough. Inactivity leads to thinking, and I don’t want to think right now unless it’s to think of a solution that doesn’t involve me leaving before sunset. The reporters thin out by then, usually, and it wouldn’t hurt staying just that little bit longer. Heck, a sleepover would be nice.

If only it weren’t for that stupid…

I heave forward, get to my hooves and start heading for the stereo.

“Fleetfoot?”

“Sorry, I just… I can’t concentrate when that thing keeps playing this crap.”

I can practically hear him raise an eyebrow behind me. “You think it’s bad.”

“No, but it’s not great either, and it’s ruining everything.” I reach the device and rear up, steadying myself with my forehooves on top of the bookshelf, searching for a button to change the channel. I’m not familiar with this design, though, so it’s not easy. “I need something to sing along with, bob my head to. Remember the motions for…”

And then it hits me.

“Fleet?”

It… might be a bit forward of me, and I certainly don’t want to be making any sort of implications, but… if I want to distract the both of us, it’s worth a shot. I think it is, at least.

“Philip…”

“Yeah?”

I hesitate for several long moments, steeling my nerves, wings tensing at my sides, as well as my tail. But I finally angle my head and look at him from the corner of my eye. “Were you serious when you asked about learning ballroom?”

His brows rise, genuinely taken aback. “Uh…” He blinks and shakes his head to himself. “Well, I mean… Is… is that an offer?”

I drop from the bookshelf and face him side-on, forcing a casual shrug. “If you have music that’ll work, I, uh… don’t really see why not.”

He blinks a few more times, then squints. “Is it even possible? Like… you have four legs.”

“And I can dance on two,” I respond with a slight sense of indignation. “I know the difference between bipeds and quadrupeds, Philip. We get minotaur and Abyssinian ambassadors all the time at the Grand Galloping Galas nowadays.”

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.”

I pause for a second, then sigh and shake my head. “It’s okay. But the point still stands: do you have something at least marginally more befitting a Triple G than… this?”

He pouts at me in silent disapproval, but soon lowers his gaze to his phone and swipes and taps through a few menus. “One or two,” he says distractedly, slowly scrolling down a list. And then he taps an item and returns to me. “How’s this?”

I don’t know my instruments well enough, but jazzy hip-hop cuts out and a squeaky trumpet of a sort takes its place, quickly followed by some woodwind, all sounding like they were recorded on vinyl, or shellac, or one of those primitive formats.

“The White Cliffs of Dover, Glenn Miller.”

A foxtrot, by the sounds of it, but I can adapt it to something less complex. I nod and start trotting back. “Yep, this’ll do just fine.”

“Sweet, first try.” He smiles as he stands, then puts his phone in his pocket and tosses as many cushions as he can onto the bed. Some fall short, some overshoot, and one threatens to topple the nightstand’s lamp.

Good thinking for clearing the dancefloor; there’s only one cushion I need to kick aside by the time I arrive.

When done, he returns to me, arms spread slightly. “Okay, so… what now?”

Well, I certainly appreciate him not making this out any weirder than it needs to be, namely not at all. But indeed, better to get straight to the point, and knowing songs like this, they always end way too quickly. So, I rear up again and steady myself on his shoulders.

We aren’t too different, height-wise. So close, I can smell his skin a little clearer, and his hair, and the faint, pungent undertone to his breath. That’s okay, I guess; mine probably isn’t much better. Good to finally meet his eyes at proper eyelevel too.

“It’s usually the taller pony who takes the lead, but since I’m teaching you, let’s pretend you’re shorter.”

“Alright.”

“Hoof on my withers.”

He cocks an eyebrow.

I roll my eyes. “The point between my shoulders.”

“Ah, right.” He nods once and obeys.

His hand’s neither warm nor cool against my fur, just there. Which is good. I shift my left hoof down to his free hand and bring it up. “And you keep this one loose, but always push against me if I push into you. And since I’m not as adept on my hindlegs as you, I’ll probably be doing that a lot. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” Now comes the awkward part, where I watch as I slide my free hoof under his arm, around his side, and down to the small of his back. I meet his gaze again, feeling an anxious flutter in my chest, but keeping it hidden as best I can. “Still good?”

“Yeah.” He glances to our intertwined limbs, and then watches my eyes carefully. His nose and my snout are maybe only a single hoof’s width apart. “So… now what?”

I count the beats.

The singing’s already started.

“Now… we do this…”

14 | A Surprise Not Unwelcome

Interviews.

Of course the first month back’s chock-full of them. All the news outlets want our opinions on how the past season went, and what our plans for the future are — who’s staying, who’s leaving.

Nopony, this time, or so I’m hearing; nothing in the locker rooms and nothing on TV or the radio. Still the same team as it was the night the Bearers were chosen. Or discovered themselves, or however you want to put it, depending on your interpretation of how destiny works. But I’m a staunch believer in making my own fate. I wouldn’t have made ‘I am in control’ my mantra if I thought otherwise.

And if I had any control over my current situation, I’d be as far away from this press conference as possible.

Now the honeymoon’s over, the wolves are hungry for details. If I gave them my response one-on-one, each journalist asking the same questions and expecting different answers, anypony could pick and choose from a hundred versions, and none of them would be the whole truth. I promised myself I’d say everything only once, and that’s what I intend to do. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.

At least Spitfire was kind enough to cancel all my private interviews, on the grounds of me being too sick for them. A standard white lie, but one we couldn’t keep up forever; they photographed me doing drills in Academy airspace, the most famous of those pictures being Rainbow and I flying in tandem. Rivals Unite: Fleetfoot and Rainbow Dash Mend Broken Ties. As if they were fractured to begin with.

Flashing cameras flicker even through the relatively bright lighting of the conference room. Normally, it’d be used to brief new recruits on how everything functions around here, as well as break down upcoming routines for the fliers whom it concerns. Presently, the ten rows of sixteen chairs are packed with the press, and the backdrop emblazoned with the Wonderbolts name and logo hides the projector screen from view. The team and I sit on folding chairs in our silver tracksuits, assembled in a line atop a raised platform. I’m on the furthest right.

It’s Rainbow’s turn right now, soon to be mine. Spitfire instructed everypony behind the scenes to take as much time as they could with their answers, so they’d have to cut the conference short on my part, and Rainbow’s making the most of it. It’s always been easy for her — despite being one of the fastest ponies alive, she can delay and deflect like there’s no tomorrow, and so expertly. It’s almost as if that was her special talent, but I can’t imagine her being a politician.

“And now Fleetfoot will take some question, but… we only have a few minutes left, so keep them short, everyone,” Spitfire announces from the centre of the group, leaning forward and looking at me from over the brim of her dark aviators. She’s a good captain, and a good friend.

It’s just a shame that, sometimes, I have to face the music like everypony else.

I become aware I’ve let myself slouch, so I sit up and adjust my own purple shades, hopefully hiding my eyes as I glance about the room. “Okay, uh…” I begin, raising the microphone in my hoof to my mouth.

Upward of a hundred forelegs and voices fly up at once, and I’m bombarded by a sudden volley of flashes. This is more of a response than any other Bolt down the line received, and it doesn’t make me feel any better about this in the slightest.

“Alright, people, settle down, one at a time,” Spitfire declares, putting her hoof out as if she’s taming a ravenous beast. “Let’s not overwhelm her, okay? She’s had a tough break.”

I look at her from the corner of my eye without moving my head. She made it sound like I’m emotionally unstable. Which might not be that far off the mark, to be fair, if I have to put up with bullshit for the next five minutes.

The flashes dwindle to where I can count them if I try, and the voices die down to hushed mutterings. Tolerable. But I’d heard enough through the racket to know what the vast majority wanted to ask. Now all I have to do is try and carefully weave my way through the minefield, picking out the safe ones from the rest. Not an easy task, even on my best days, but I hazard a guess and point to a younger-looking mare at the front.

“Yes, thank you,” she says as if I’d verbally announced her, then peers at her notepad and clears her throat. “Reviewers from your last tour claimed the routines you choreographed were uninspired. Do you have any doubts on your ability to compose routines in the future?”

Good. A safe, petty question. A few crowd members roll their eyes, surely disappointed the more exciting answers wouldn’t yet come, not that I’d be willing to give them. She also didn’t name her employer, which means she’s either new to the job or she’s part of an agency not worth mentioning. Either way, I can work with this.

“Not at all.” I smile and disguise a relieved sigh with a stretch. “I just chose to harken back to some of my old work. Besides, there are only so many ways you can fly, and with a career as long as mine, you start feeling like you’ve flown them all.”

“Does that mean it’s less exciting?”

I snort. “Hardly. It just means I’m more experienced.”

“Have you considered other prospects?”

And then my smile falls and my ears and brows lower. “No.” I quickly look about for another pony and point at the most inconspicuous of the lot: a colt of a similar age with a beige coat and brown mane and tail. “You next.”

I don’t need to see Spitfire to feel her eyes watching me carefully from down the line.

The stallion blinks a few times, glancing between myself and the journalist who’d now sat herself down, but then he nods and also clears his throat. “Featherweight, Ponyville Chronicle. Is it true you once stayed overnight at the Castle of Friendship while the human, Philip, was present?”

My gaze hardens and I grit my teeth. “Yes,” I reply, slowly and gratingly. “But if you’re implying what I think you’re implying, you can take those spindly legs of yours and—”

“I think we’ll take just one more,” Spitfire very wisely interrupts, and then gestures for somepony at the far back. “You, from the GK. What do you have to say?”

A griffon peers up at us from a mop of black and white feathery bangs, raising an eyebrow as if we were somehow the ones wasting her time. And the way she proceeds to sigh and get up from her chair, only to climb back on and sit on the backrest doesn’t help her image, not that she appears to care. “Gudrun, Griffonstone Gazette,” she announces, idly shuffling through the notecards in her claws, almost as disinterested as I’d suspected.

Perhaps a little impolite, but I’ve seen worse — reporters who’d always wanted to cover the fashion scene, for example, getting assigned to the sports department and taking their frustration out on us. This one doesn’t seem contemptuous, only bored. She’ll be full of easy questions. Spitfire chose right, just like she always does.

The journalist continues examining her notes for a few short moments, then looks me in the eye and cocks her head. “Do you like him?”

Do I like him?! DO I LIKE HIM?! DO I FUCKING LIKE HIM?!

What kind of dipshit question is that?! Why would she even think that was appropriate to ask?! Never mind the public setting, the answer was and always will be no! No, no, a million times over, no! He’s a friend!

Why couldn’t she or the rest of those assholes get it through their thick, fickle heads?! Just because you appreciate somepony’s company doesn’t mean you want to get involved with them! On top of that, we aren’t the same species, and even if we were, I’ve only known him for the better part of two weeks. That’s not long enough to develop a bond as deep as that, and certainly not when I’m doing the best I can to avoid distractions at any and all costs.

I beat my way through a cloud and continue soaring as fast as I can for home. Maybe I should’ve stayed at the Academy to use the gym and wear out its punching bags, but being on the same floor, let alone the same building as those reporters was simply too much. My refusal to give an answer as I stormed out sent them into a gibbering frenzy anyway, asking so many on the spot questions spurred by speculation. I could even see pleasantly surprised look in that blasted griffon’s eyes.

Vultures, the lot of them. Better off avoiding public appearances for the next six months or so, let the excitement kill itself from exhaustion, and maybe then I’ll actually enjoy myself on the red carpet again. But until then, I’ll have to avoid cameras, prying eyes, and whatever else they have in store for me.

Rumours of romantic endeavours aren’t anything new. More than once, Soarin, Spitfire and I, as well as practically every other Wonderbolts not already in a committed relationship, have found ourselves in a perceived love triangle. I remember the time when I was so happy after pulling off a rainboom alongside Rainbow for a show that I kissed Misty backstage, and that sent the press on fire. I still hear whispers about it five years later.

But this? This is just plain bull. They’re seeing something that, without a doubt, will simply never happen. I wouldn’t allow it. And I say that as if I’m not in complete control of myself. But I know who I am and I know what I want, and anything to do with that is completely out of the question. It can impale itself on a spike up the butt and leave itself to bake in the sun.

I don’t care if that makes me sound psychotic; right at this very moment, that’s genuinely how I feel. I’m happy as I am and I don’t need anypony else’s vision of it forced on me. They know me better than that. And if they don’t, screw ‘em. I’ll be fine on my own.

My house comes into view as I tear through another bank of clouds, and slowing herself down to land on the porch is the very pink form of Bifröst. She’s dressed in her brown postal uniform as always, same as the mystery mare whose name I never learned — dropping off the mail. A welcome coincidence compared to the dumpster fire I’d just escaped. Wouldn’t mind venting a bit if she has time to listen.

From on high, I swoop low and use the momentum to glide straight for the porch without a single flap, getting a small thrill from the speed as I do so. “Incoming!”

Bifröst snaps her head in my direction and shrieks and pulls away.

It’s a needless but hilarious reaction, seeing as I’d only meant to catch her in my wake, and I suppress a chuckle as I push my wings against the air and slow myself to a sudden crawl. The strain’s immense, and I’ll probably have to preen quite a little longer tonight, but that’s the price I pay for the look on her face. I set down on the cloud at a trot and turn back to her with a daring grin. “Beat you to it.”

She hovers in the air with wide eyes and a hoof to her chest. “Merciful Sisters, Fleetfoot, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” I wave her off with a wing, then notice a few feathers out of place and make a mental note as I fold it at my side again. “You know me better than to ram my favourite courier.”

“Your only courier,” she corrects, finally descending and giving me a hint of cheek. “Maybe I’ll ask for a transfer to the Western Quarter after a stunt like that.”

I open my mouth and furrow my brows in a look of mock offence. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I dare, sister.” She nods warningly. “So, you’d better start treating me with more respect or you’ll be finding another pony to torment.”

My smile returns. “And wouldn’t that be fun?”

Her eyes narrow as a smirk she was trying to hide breaks out across her lips. “You’re a cruel one, Miss Fleetfoot,” she teases, strolling closer. And then she stops and cocks her head. “Also, weren’t you supposed to be at work today?”

My smile falters and my ears lower. Not completely, but now I’ve been reminded what I was running from, I can’t glancing away and letting my features harden. “Yeah… Things got… heated.”

“Oh, stars, another outburst?”

I squint at her. “What do you mean ‘another’?”

Bifröst sighs and looks up in thought, sits on her haunches as she counts with her primaries. “Well, there was the time in Cloudsdale, and then the time in Las Pegasus, and then the time in Klugetown, and then other time in Cloudsdale, and then—”

“Okay, okay, jeez. Didn’t know you were the grudge-keeping type.”

“Eidetic memory.” She taps her temple with a wingtip. “A blessing and a curse; can’t forget anything whether I want to or not.”

“Oh.” I glance away again and shut my mouth. “In that case, do yourself a favour and don’t watch the news tonight. Or tomorrow. Or the next three night, just to be safe.”

“That bad, huh?”

I bob my head from side to side. “Could’ve been worse, I suppose. But yeah, pretty bad.”

She lowers her gaze as she hums to herself and nods thoughtfully, then returns to me sympathetically. “I’ll try my best, but no promises,” she admits, standing up and reaching a wing into one of her saddlebags. “Still pretty invested in that scandal up in Caribousk. Always love it when the baddies get busted. Besides, I live in Cloudsdale anyway — if it’s anything concerning the Wonderbolts, I’m bound to hear it eventually.”

Great. Of course she would. And with TVs and telephones in every household nowadays, gossip’s been able to spread faster than ever.

…Shit. Mum’s going to throw a fit.

And so will Spitfire, probably, considering I disrespected her and the team by going AWOL at a public event, in front of a hundred camera-armed reporters no less. Once again, I’d let impulse get the better of me, and this time, there’ll be consequences. I’m sure of it.

“Anyway, here’s your mail.” Bifröst pulls out a lone envelope and offers it to me. “Just one, this time, thankfully.”

Thankfully indeed. After some particularly flashy performances or impressionable recruitment rallies, I’m often swamped with fans writing to me, saying how awesome I am and how I’ve inspired them. It’s nice, really, and I try my best to read them all and reply to the ones most deserving — sometimes that takes up an entire day — but it’s a pain for the pony who flies around delivering them. Even Bifröst has her limits.

I accept the offer and inspect the florid, near illegible cursive scrawled on the front. If I squint and tilt my head to the left, I can kind of make out my name, as well as my address. The postage stamp on the top right explains everything. “Canterlot,” I mutter, rolling my eyes as I tear it open. “Probably some prissy noble inviting me to dinner again.”

“Oh no, luxury and class. How dare they treat you to food fit for royalty.”

“Yeah-yeah, laugh it up all you want,” I playfully grouse, looking at her as I slip out the folded letter. “But trust me, the pampered life’s not all it’s hyped up to be.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You’d better.” I flip the paper over and frown. Instead of more barely readable scribbles and scratches, I’m met actually decent script. Shaky in some places, imperfect and scratched out in others — nowhere near as refined as the average Canterlotian. Even the children there have neater writing than I do. And this intrigues me.

I begin to read.

***

Dear Fleetfoot

It feels a little awkward writing that, to be honest. It feels awkward writing a letter, period. But texting hasn’t been invented yet, and there aren’t any phones, and I’ve been told working on my penmanship might do me some good. It certainly beats doing the same old routine day in, day out anyhow.

So, here I am. I’ve been here for the past month, and things have settled down. Still waiting for any word on whether I can go home at some point, but otherwise, it’s been fine. The food here’s the best I’ve ever had, and the staff, when they’re not on duty, make for decent company. Met the princesses too, and I have to say, they’re not at all what I expected. Not that I’d have known what to expect, in any case.

Celestia’s humble. If I were to sum her up in a word, that’d be it. Nothing like the aristocrats back in my world, modern or historical. She tells me you’ve met before, on several occasions. I wish I could say I’m not surprised, but I can’t help it; I didn’t think you were that connected. But you're famous, and the princesses are far more open than I’m used to thinking the upper class could be, so I really should’ve expected something like this. Not that I’m trying to accuse you of anything.

Luna’s the one I’m seeming to click better with. It doesn’t help that her sister’s always hosting tea with a foreign dignitary or hearing the problems of her subjects, and the only time we get to talk is over breakfast. Luna, on the other hand, is free for most of the day — when she’s not sleeping, that is. But since barely anyone’s up at night, her business hours are mostly unoccupied, and we’ve had more time to chat.

She’s cool. They both are, really, but I’m not sure if I’m quite as comfortable as I was back in Twilight’s place. Sure, if I’m under what’s basically house arrest for the remainder of my stay, it’s better to have the bigger house, but the atmosphere’s very formal here. I can only take a leisurely stroll through the gardens so many times before I’ve seen all the flowers.

So, I guess that’s also why I’m writing. It’s been too long since I’ve heard from you. I’m writing to Spike and Twilight too, so don’t feel like I’m singling you out, but if I have at least one extra thing to do every week, I think that’ll be enough to keep my sanity in check.

I’m joking, of course. But if I start going crazy, pacing the same halls with no break in the monotony, I wouldn’t mind knowing there’s an escape plan you’ve put together. Positively treasonous, but it’d be a story for the ages.

I hope to hear from you soon, Fleetybee.

Philip

***

“So, not a noble, I take it.”

I blink, realising I’m staring, then look up at Bifröst again and shake my head. “No,” I reply airily, returning to the letter. “Far from it.”

“Philip?”

I slowly nod.

“Huh.” She peers at the envelope still in my other wing. “Must’ve used a go-between to sneak it out of the palace. You know, so it’s not an official royal message, or whatever. Wouldn’t have gone through the normal postal system if it was.”

And if it was, there’d be pomp and ceremony, and even more public attention. Whoever had the idea for somepony to post it in his stead, I’d give them a hug without hesitation. Heck, I’d probably kiss them too, just to spite the press.

“Anyway, I should get back to doing the rounds.” She gives me a bow of the head, then turns away and starts strolling for the edge of the porch. “You take care, Fleet. And try to keep that temper in check.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, still feeling a little lost as I slowly swing about and head for the door. I barely hear her take flight as I unlock it and head inside, closing the way behind. It’s quiet. Neither cool nor warm. Motionless. And as I continue through and sit on the couch, I’m overtaken by a sense of… gratitude.

This came at just the right time — a distraction to keep me from focussing on the bad. It puts me to shame, somewhat, to realise I’ve never figured out how to contact him after so long, but I’m secretly happy it wasn’t me being the first to put my hoof forward. That’s shallow, I know, but… if I’m not the one taking risks, that’s fine by me.

Now all that’s left to do is find a pen and piece of paper.

15 | Letters from Afar

Philip

Yeah, I think we can both agree to cut the “dear” part out of the equation. And don’t worry, you’re not the only one out of practice at the art of letter-writing, as you can probably tell by my sloppy cursive. I can’t promise everything in this’ll be all that interesting, but I can give it a shot. But please, for the love of all things good and merciful, don’t expect me to become a poet overnight.

Wonderbolt practice has started up again. They morning after you left, I was back on the track; time trials, mainly, to make sure we’re all in top shape. It’s not really necessary, I don’t think, but the team prides itself on maintaining peak physical condition, so even a week’s break demands routine examination afterwards. Considering I was out for a fortnight, lounging around for most of the time, no thanks to you, I was given special attention.

As the exams were happening, we also had interviews. The press always wants to know exactly what we think of a tour after it’s all over, and how we’re faring with the other Bolts, and all that standard jazz. But I knew they’d only ever ask me about you if I let them interview me, so Spitfire was kind enough to let me pass on all the individual ones. She’s a good captain. Always has been. You should meet her sometime, and Soarin, and the rest of the crew while you’re at it, I guess.

But I’m not sure if that’ll happen anytime soon, considering your situation. Not to be a downer or anything. And there’s also the fact I’ll probably find myself under some kind of reprimand — one of the rare few times Spits will be harsh on me.

See, I’m writing this on the day I legged it from a giant press conference after they poked their nose where it didn’t belong. I expected it, but I didn’t think they’d be as brazen as they were. I’m pretty sure you’ll read it in the paper — I hear the Sisters keep up to date with everything. Just know I don’t mean whatever the journalists think I mean. All they want to do is sell the most sensational story. Maybe there were honest reporters once upon a time, but the longer certain institutions exist, the greater the chance they lose their guiding philosophy.

And there I go using the P-word. Sorry. I tend to ramble when I’m either pissed or tired, and I’m a bit of both right now. Tired with the world’s junk, and pissed at myself for letting it get to me. I swear, I’m not always this touchy but things haven’t been going my way recently. Nothing you should really concern yourself with. All you need to know is I’m being forced to socialise a little more. This started before you arrived, and I suppose you can say it's how I ended up in the right place at the right time.

Meeting you again the morning after took some convincing, I’ll admit, but please don’t take it personally — you’re not that ugly. And I can’t say I’m regretting everypony finally shoving my miserable flank out the door. You’re not bad company, and from my experience, neither are the Sisters. I hope you lot are able to get along.

As for my future prospects, I’m not quitting the Wonderbolts anytime soon, despite what the papers may say. No, I’m sticking with them, I’ll just stay out of the public spotlight for a few months. But I hope I won’t be forced to save another falling sky-baby with all this going on.

On a more realistic note, and probably more relatable, Hearth’s Warming approaches, and I’ll be spending it with my family. As usual. I’d honestly consider the Bolts to be family as well, but whatever you do, don’t you dare tell Mum I said that. Or wrote that, or however you’re supposed to label it. Point is, she’s a very traditional pony. I’m not sure if you have anypony like that where you’re from, and I hope you don’t, but supposing our worlds aren’t too different, I think you’ll know what I’m talking about.

But I’d better stop myself there before I turn this into a rant. You don’t need to hear it. I should be asking about you, shouldn’t I? So, how are you? I know you’ve said you’re bored and all, even if I hear the Sisters are legendary hosts — they wouldn’t be our foremost diplomats if they can’t handle the strain — but how exactly does your day go? Any new developments? Familiar faces? Never much been one for gossip, but if I have a spy on the inside, more power to me.

The sun’s setting now. Maybe Celestia’s sending me a warning. I’ve heard she’s clairvoyant as well as immortal, but if she is, I’m pretty sure she’d have stopped every single threat Equestria faced while she was princess before it happened. Heck, she’d have found a way to send you home by now. Wouldn’t that be something?

I think I’ve raved on long enough. I’ll be giving this letter to Twilight in the morning — she’ll know how to get this from Ponyville to you. And if there’s any delay, blame her. She’s probably done something at some point to deserve it.

Regards,

Fleetfoot

Fleetfoot

Well, that was certainly more than I expected from your first attempt, I’ll be honest. Not that it’s a bad thing or anything. Hell, the more to read, the merrier. And thanks for doing away with the formalities. The princesses do what they can to help make my stay more comfortable, but there’s always this rigidity with the staff. Everyone here takes their job so seriously. But then again, they are serving a pair of demigods, so I suppose that warrants a degree of pride.

Your letter arrived three days away from Hearth’s Warming. Since you didn’t include a date, I can’t tell if Twilight posted it on time. Make of that what you wish, but don’t be too harsh on the lass. She’s a frail heart.

As for the holiday itself, I find myself somewhat torn. You see, there’s a holiday almost exactly like it back on my Earth. We call it Christmas. The origins are quite a bit different, and its meaning and traditions have changed over the centuries, but as it stands, yeah, Hearth’s Warming is more or less yet another bootleg version of something I had back home. Same time of year and everything.

And I say I’m torn, but really, I’m actually kind of happy for it — brings back some good memories. Nanna used to make shortbread cookies with cream and strawberry jam centres when she swung by. And she always did, even when she was getting up there in her years. It was also one of the few times any of us would ever get to taste the special dish we only ever knew as “rice, beans and weenies.”

Okay, quick sidenote: I know it’s been said me eating meat isn’t that big a deal, and Luna and Celestia host omnivorous diplomats all the time, but I can’t help feeling it’s wrong now. Like, now that certain nonhumans can talk, and the vast majority of animal life is on the brink of crossing the threshold to sapience, I really ought to reassess myself. Start going vegetarian like you lot, or heck, even vegan — if the concept of drinking another creature’s milk wasn’t disturbing enough already, add the fact that cows can talk and you’ve increased it exponentially.

Anyway, Bootleg Christmas isn’t so bad. The guards and staff are celebrating the occasion in their own time, leaving just myself and the sisters. For the most part. I get the feeling it’s going to be a small, reserved affair, this break from all the management in the realm. Should really get to asking why it’s a kingdom and not a principality, now I think about it.

But there I go, rambling away — you’re not the only one, so don’t you worry. Point is, I’m predicting it’ll be a nice change of pace. It’s just a shame Mum, Dad and Anita can’t be with me, or me with them.

Speaking of mothers, you say yours is traditional. I’m not sure what exactly that entails, but from the sounds of it, I think I get what you’re hinting at. Yes, we do have people like that back home, and yes, they’re not that uncommon. Do I know any personally? Sort of. Between my parents, Dad’s the least open-minded. Not by much, though, and not the worst by far. I can’t recall any specific examples, but I know he’s quicker to judge, and holds a grudge longer.

But I don’t think it’s polite to talk too much about him behind his back. Regarding Celestia’s clairvoyance, however, I think I can safely say those whispers you heard are fairly unfounded. She’s a master wordsmith, I’ll give her that — seems to know exactly what to say and how to say it at any given time — but yeah, she’d have found a way home for me by now if that were the case. She said so herself. Besides, if you’re psychic, it doesn’t make sense for your powers of seeing the future to come and go: either you can or you can’t.

Don’t feel too bad. Spending the holidays with royalty was on my bucket list anyway. Luna’s certainly making it worthwhile. She’s fun. Well, maybe not fun, but an enjoyable conversation partner, and she’s insanely fascinated by my phone and all the music and images stored on it. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve been trapped on the moon for a thousand years.

Gods, even writing it, I’m still having trouble believing it.

I’ll keep you updated on that front. Maybe she’ll appreciate whatever music you can’t. Sure, you’ll say she’s far too refined, and so is her sister, but don’t forget: I can be very persuasive. You’ve seen me work my magic with Twilight, and while these two are markedly less manic, they still have that youthful spring in their step. I’ve heard Celestia can be quite the prankster too.

As for the unfortunate press incident, don’t worry about it. I get you. They weren’t respecting your privacy, so you left. Can’t really blame you there, personally, but yeah, I imagine leaving the team hanging would get you reprimanded. But considering your captain is also your friend, I’m sure she’ll be lenient. Nepotism is the bane of a meritocracy, but it has its uses.

See? You’re not the only one who can get philosophical.

I’ll write again come Hearth’s Warming Eve. Hopefully it’ll reach you on the day.

Happy holidays,

Philip

Philip

As much as I hate to admit it, you’re right about the nepotism thing.

It was just a five minute lecture on my responsibility to the team — a warning — and then I was out the door and doing laps within the hour. Spitfire suspended me from any and all interviews until further notice, but she passed that sentence with a knowing smirk. Seriously, that’s like getting a slap on the hoof and earning a million bits for it. A blessing, really.

The rest of the afternoon was spent training, then I grabbed a coffee on my way home. The Mocha Club. If there’s a branch over in Canterlot, I highly recommended it. Best damn lattes you’ll ever find, as well as coffee in general. Just ask whoever it is who mails your letters to pick some up while they’re out and about.

Alternatively, you could simply ask Luna. I hear she’s addicted to the stuff, almost as much as me — it’s how she copes with so many late nights. Or days. Or however it works for somepony who’s more or less nocturnal. Not saying she’d step outside the palace for you, but I can guarantee you a princess always gets what she wants, no exceptions. Trust me, I speak from experience: Flurry Heart wanted to see a Wonderbolt performance for her sixth birthday, so we had to put a tour on hold midway through and improvise a show within a week.

Somepony needs to give that kid some boundaries, but I think we’re all to scared for that — scared she’ll blast us to the next dimension. Heck, might be how you ended up here, somehow.

Speaking of princesses, Twilight did send my letter on time. I don’t suppose Celestia was the one who handed it to you? If she did, I’ll have to thank Spike for incinerating it. Wasn’t expecting to see guards at her castle, though, or this other mare — a unicorn with a sun cutie mark. Seemed pretty important, whatever their meeting was about. Didn’t want to impose, so I left as soon as I arrived.

Anyway, that’s about it. Sorry this one’s shorter than the last; I’m heading to dinner with Mum and Dad soon. Just thought I’d write again considering it’s almost Hearth’s Warming Eve and you said you’d be writing as well. I’m getting cards from other Bolts and fans alike, but I’ll keep an eye out for yours.

By the way, the Equestrian Weather Bureau has put out a notice: it’s going to be a cloudless Hearth’s Warming. Perfect for stargazing. Just thought I’d beat Luna to it, in case she tries recommending it herself.

Regards,

Fleetfoot

Fleetfoot

I’m not much of a coffee person, sorry. Never liked the taste. Besides, while caffeine’s better at waking you up, but an apple keeps you up. Or so I’ve heard. It’s how I’ve done thing for as long as I can remember, anyway. Toast or leftovers, then an apple — Kanzi, specifically, or whatever you call the actual apple instead of the brand. And honestly, if you had a fruit bowl full of them, you’d find it empty before the end of the week. They’re just that good.

Or so I thought. Apple Family apples are insanely delicious, and when they’re baked into a pie, heated, then served with creamy vanilla ice-cream…

If there’s a heaven, I wish it were filled with nothing but that. Ice-cream and apple pie forever in all directions.

But you don’t want to hear me ramble about what makes a perfect afterlife. No, you want to know how Hearth’s Warming is over in Canterlot, don’t you? Well then, I’ll say this: it’s pretty alright. Streamers and banners lining the streets, lanterns lighting up the snow on the rooves. It’s also the first time I’ve been allowed outside the palace. Under royal escort, of course.

I never thought how liberating simply leaving that place could feel — to see the stars and not be standing on a balcony, or in the gardens. It’s all meant for my benefit, I know, and I’m sure I’ve said it before, but it’s grown tiring. I hope this means they’ll start slackening the rules, because for all the stares I received, I didn’t feel terribly out of place. Maybe that’s just the relief clouding my judgment, but I really didn’t mind the attention despite myself.

A little girl ran up to me — well, filly, but I’m not calling her that — and she offered me a candy cane. One of the guards insisted they taste it before I do as a precaution, which just ruined the whole thing and I let him have it instead. Perhaps that was his plan all along. But I thanked the girl for the thought and she skipped back to her parents across the lane, giggling. Cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

Pretty soon, though, the whole city hopped on the bandwagon and started offering me gifts left, right and centre. I was swamped with treats and selfie requests, which I plan to let Raven leak to the press. She’s my middleman, by the way — or mare, or lady, or whichever’s the correct and least awkward term — and while she’s a bit stiff, she’s definitely easy enough to get along with. I suspect it’s really just a façade, to keep but the most confident of commonfolk at bay while she goes about her everyday life.

Ooh, look at me talking fancy! That must be Luna’s influence. This time next year, I’ll be the next Shakespeare; a delightful prospect, verily. But yeah, if you read the papers sometime in the next week, don’t be surprised to see my face plastered all over them. I’m not a huge fan of the fame, but I don’t want to promise all those people something and not deliver. That wouldn’t set a good precedent for humanity. We’ve done too much of it in our history already. No need for that reputation to bleed over into this world too.

I saw the annual play as well, about the founding of Equestria, seated between the sisters in the front row of the palace’s main hall, a few hundred other attendees behind us. Honestly, and I hope I’m not being insulting when I say this, but it works better on the page than it does on the stage, even if it’s all whitewashed mythology. At least in a book, you can imagine what that time period might’ve actually looked like.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being too cynical for my own good. Searching for flaws in a comparatively pretty flawless world. Jealous, for all I know, and care to know.

Luna got Celestia a lemon cake, which she grudgingly ate, and Celestia got Luna an “I hate Sundays” mug for all the coffee she’s now ordering from the Mocha Club, no thanks to you. As for me, I got a new wardrobe, and since I had nothing to thank them with, even with their insistence it wasn’t necessary, Luna finally relented and told me to mouth the “lyrics” to Pink Floyd’s The Great Gig in the Sky for them. She caught me doing exactly that in my room once, apparently, and now she wanted to show Celestia as well.

Well, I think it’s safe to say I was more than a little taken aback, but being the brave and resilient soul I am, and having brought this on myself, I did as I was told. And by the light of the hearth in the princesses’ shared living room, with two horse demigods as my witness, I made a complete and utter fool of myself, and I somehow loved every second of it.

The rest of the night was full of mindless conversation and half-baked quips, but Celestia always had the best comebacks. I don’t know how that girl does it, or frankly how either of them have been able to keep it together for so long — a thousand years of banishment notwithstanding.

Seriously, a thousand years, and they sound and act as if they’re no older than thirty.

So, that’s a brief recap of everything that happened. I hope yours was just as exciting. Interesting titbit about the guards and the unicorn at Twilight’s place. You don’t suppose that’s why they moved me out, do you? I doubt it, really, she’s never struck me as the dependant type — using guards seems out of character. But there’s a first time for everything, I suppose. Whatever it was about, I hope it wasn’t too serious.

But now all that’s said and done, there’s one final thing I need to address, isn’t there? The music player in the envelope along with this letter. Well, in the spirit of Hearth’s Warming and Christmas of old, I grant unto you your very own copy of my entire music library, complete with all the songs and instrumentals you’d probably detest. Good luck figuring out which is which!

I’ll take only partial credit for this; Celestia thought it’d be better if I made it a challenge.

Wishing you a very merry Hearth’s Warming,

Philip

Philip

Oh, wow, this is the best gift ever! I’m shivering with enthusiasm! I can’t wait to stick my earbuds in and listen to some fucking JUSTICE!

Seriously, thanks. But also, screw you. Now I feel like I owe you something, and I don’t know what to give. And it’s past Hearth’s Warming now anyway, so I’ve missed the deadline, so now I’m the bad guy in this situation because you were more thoughtful than me. And screw you! Thank you, and screw you!

But unfortunately, no, my Hearth’s Warming wasn’t nearly as exciting. Mainly just myself, my mother and father sitting around a table trying to make conversation. Apparently, making friends with you was a step in the right direction, but now you’ve moved away; you’re no longer a physical presence, so it’s time to expand my social circle even more.

The food itself was okay — sweet potato curry with garlic bread and a desert of cherry pudding and sugar icing. The wine was better. Mum always liked wine. Not really my style, but it beats nothing at all.

Gosh, that’s depressing. For the record, I swear, we’re not a family at risk of tearing itself apart, you’re just catching me at a not great time right now. The fire didn’t burn so bright around our hearth that night.

Anyway, you finally made it outside the castle. Good for you. Just beware, maybe that first filly offered you her candy out of the kindness of her heart, but rest might’ve done it for the bragging rights. When somepony starts a trend, you can bet a Canterlotian would be quick to follow suit. It’s not fair to generalise, I know, but I don’t think anypony can deny certain cities behave more a certain way than others, and Canterlot as a whole tends to care for its image more than most. A giant popularity contest to one-up their friends, family, and maybe gain favour with the Sisters.

That’s experience talking. Don’t let it ruin your enjoyment of the city itself — there’s a lot of history there, including some pretty interesting tales of court politics, when you have the stomach for it. Nothing grizzly, don’t worry, just normally a he said she said sort of deal. Gossip, mostly. You’re better off reading up on the more devious tales, like this mare who once convinced the aristocracy she was the secret daughter of Celestia.

It’s been disproven by all accounts, but the Sisters play along, if only to watch her descendants make an ass of themselves — a topic of conversation over dinner. The most recent one’s fashioning himself as a prince. Blueblood, I think he’s called. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Don’t meet him.

Sorry, this isn’t turning out like I hoped it would. Spent half an hour figuring out what to write next. I’m doing fine. Cold weather training is next on the agenda, which means I might not have time to write for the next week or so, but I promise to write as soon as I can. We’re prepping for another world tour.

Joy.

I kid, I kid. The last one wasn’t so bad. Wouldn’t mind seeing those Yakyakistani snow mandalas again. I’ll take a picture for you, if you’d like, and I’ll be sure to give your music library a peruse. More workout tracks are always welcome. Any recommendations?

Oh, wait, that’s right, you’re being a dick about it. Ha. Ha-ha. Very fucking funny.

For real, take care. Hearing from you is nice.

Regards,

Fleetfoot

Fleetfoot

Sorry about your parents. Well, parent. Unfortunately, I can’t say I know how you feel — Dad was happy having me all to himself, seeing as we were both at work together most of the time, and Mum was happy so long as I was happy.

Look at that. Was. That’s like saying it’s all over. But it’s approaching two months now and I haven’t heard of any progress, so I can’t think what else to use. I know it’s not over. I still want to go back. It’s just been too long, I guess.

And yes, I’ve heard of Blueblood. Gods, even writing his name makes me feel dirty, especially after hearing the way he treated Rarity at her first Gala. Maybe he wasn’t really interested in her, but the very least he could’ve done was be nice. Trusting gossip wholeheartedly isn’t healthy, but nobody’s lied to me around here yet. Maybe a deflected question or two, but nothing downright deceitful.

Sweet mercy, if I were thrown into King’s Landing, I wouldn’t last a day.

Don’t worry if you don’t get that reference; no one around here does either.

So, another world tour, huh? Two years back to back abroad? That’s sounds pretty rough, but then again, after being cooped up in the same city for two months, a little variety wouldn’t hurt. Which is quite ironic: I’ve never been much of a traveller myself, and here I am, flung across space and time to another universe. Or however interdimensional physics work. Celestia tried explaining the leading theories regarding them, but that just did my head in. Spent the whole night staring at the ceiling, having a miniature existential crisis.

I never got around to explaining where I’m living, have I? Well, it’s a modest room, as far as modesty goes for royalty. White, purple and gold everywhere. My bed’s made from mahogany, has four posts and a canopy, and the room’s bigger than anything I’ve ever stayed in. It’s like a penthouse all on its own. Leagues better than the motel. Dad would’ve killed for facilities like this.

The halls are lined with stained glass windows and paintings, more often than not depicting some kind of historical event. Considering how many times you’ve visited as part of a Gala, though, I’m guessing you already knew that. But now I think about it, I forgot to mention, I spied something interesting in Celestia’s wing of the palace while I was idling around.

You remember that unicorn you saw with a tattoo of the sun on her butt? I think I may have discovered her name: Sunset Shimmer. A former student, so the story goes, before some vague altercation happened and she ran off, and then another vague happening compelled her to make up on her own accord. Travels to distant lands nowadays, studying other cultures.

I’m noticing there are a lot of heroines here. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. At all. It’s just an interesting twist; in my world, history’s often very much dominated by male figures. I doubt that’s an indicator of a weird reversal of gender norms, as I’ve never heard nor seen hide nor hair of such a custom, but it’s a strange thing to notice. Kind of refreshing, to be honest. I like to read about any and all the warrior queens of old, and I get a small kick out of knowing there are, or have been people who bucked the societal standards and were accepted for it.

Maybe that’s the rebel in me talking. Luna’s starting to stoke it — getting wittier by the day. Can’t recall any specific examples off the top of my head, but I just know she’s feeling more at ease around me. Definitely enough to hum.

You read right. Princess Luna, Diarch of Equestria, Bringer of Night, Guardian of Dreams, Lady of the Moon, loves Tommy Dorsey’s I Guess I’ll Have to Dream the Rest. Who’d have thought? I’ll have to thank you for reintroducing me to that side of my library. The “big band” era is sorely underappreciated, even if it’s quite easy to think their songs are all more or less the same. My only regret now is that I don’t have nearly as many female vocalists. It’s making me feel a little self-conscious.

A petty concern — music is music; what matters is the lyrics and their meaning and beauty. But here I am saying this, and I know a good chunk of that library’s dedicated to jokes, parodies, sendups, mashups, and whatever else you want to call them. Again, good luck traversing the minefield, though some are easier to spot than others.

Anyway, here’s to hoping cold weather training doesn’t give you frostbite. I know pegasi are resilient to the temperature, but kind thoughts are always welcome, aren’t they? And yeah, snap some pictures while you’re out and about. I can only go so far as the sisters allow me, and since I can’t stretch my legs further than Canterlot, I’m starved for new locations.

Take care, Fleetybee,

Philip

Philip

Sorry I haven’t written in a while. This new world tour’s approaching faster than I thought, and I’ve been staying up late perfecting my routines with the team. Spitfire’s had to delegate training the reservist recruits to one of the ground crew, and she’s pretty sour about it. She’s not mean, I swear, she just loves finding new ways to scare the crap out of them. Which you could say is the very definition of mean.

We’ll be going north first, making our debut at the Crystal Empire, do a few performances there from west to east, then a bit further north into Yakyakistan, and east to west through there. Then it’s a southern run straight down the coast of the GK, the Dragonlands, and then west across the sea to Mount Aris. Up to the southern Equestrian provinces, then spiralling clockwise around Equestria proper until we reach Canterlot.

You’ll finally be able to see me perform. And for that show, I’m planning something special. I hope it won’t disappoint. The break afterward has also been extended, as compensation for the back-to-back nature of everything.

I’m also sorry I won’t be saying much this letter either. I’m tired. More than usual. And dealing with Mum getting teary about the whole situation hasn’t helped my patience. “Just when we were spending more time together!” she exclaimed. Mare just can’t let go. But then, it means we’ll miss celebrating my birthday together again, so I can’t exactly blame her.

Updates will be sparse from here on out, and probably take a while, since I’ll have to rely on the local postal system to get it to Twilight, who’ll get it to you. Please don’t feel bad if it takes a while for me to respond. I don’t mean to be negligent. Jobs interfere with life, and vice versa.

Next message will probably be from Rainbow Falls.

Regards,

Fleetfoot

Fleetfoot

Wow, that’s quite a timetable. I knew the Wonderbolts were popular, but that popular? Jeez. You must love your job to be that dedicated.

Nice to know our families aren’t so different after all. As in, how they behave, or would’ve behaved when their children left. I imagine both my parents would be confused and heartbroken, and maybe a little angry, me just disappearing on my way back from a Star Wars convention. Which, for your information, is one of the best known science-fantasy universes out there, and totally doesn’t make me a vanilla-ass nerd.

If I had the two original trilogies on me, I’d show you in a heartbeat. Seriously, for all their faults, they’re worth watching, if only so you’ll understand a number of references I may or may not drop.

Luna grows evermore curious about my taste in music, and she’s requested a copy of my library for herself, techno and all. I’m not sure if she’s planning anything, but I’m a little hesitant for some reason. It’s like I’m a bad influence on her precious, innocent mind, even though I know she’s far from innocent.

Sparing you the details — and you never heard this from me — she’s a sultry drunk. But don’t worry, she’s not trying anything, and as far as I can tell, has no intention to. And I blew a huge sigh of relief when she told me that , because the last thing I need here is a princess, much less a horse princess getting the hots for me, and to be living alongside them for next few months. What a scandal that would cause back home, if they knew the truth.

To be honest, I never thought of you ponies in that way before. Not to sound condescending. You have to understand, in a world where there’s only one sapient species, even thinking about a horse, or dog, or cow or whatever in that way is just a big, big, BIG no-no. I mean, we humans have made games where we can, and more often than not do romance another sapient species, but they’re always humanoid.

This is why I don’t like thinking about that sort of thing here. There are just too many ethical queries involved. I’ll have to accept it, but I’ll never really be comfortable with it, I don’t think. Part of me wants you guys to “stay pure” in my head somehow, but that’s just naïve of me, and unfair, and unrealistic. All I can do is shake my head and despair at how human we really are.

And now that makes me feel racist. Or speciesist, or whatever.

My god, I’m focussing too much on this.

ANYWAY! On a I-totally-wish-this-wasn’t-related-but-kind-of-is note, Celestia posited the idea of what I plan to do if she’s unable to fix things. Where I’d go, how I planned on spending my time, whether I saw myself fitting in or sticking out. She made it clear she wasn’t implying she’d given up hope — and neither have I, frankly — but it’s gotten me a little worried.

Anyhow, that’s nothing you need to fret over. Sorry. I just don’t want to leave my old life behind. The sisters are doing what they can, and I really do appreciate everything they’ve done — it’s more than I probably deserve, at any rate. And strangely enough, I’m missing the Castle of Friendship as well, and especially the nights you, me, Twilight and Spike shared together. Those were swell. Felt like a proper home, in a way. The palace here? I’m not so sure about. And I can’t rightly say why.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just in a funk tonight. I hope travelling abroad fares you better than staying cooped up here is faring me.

Bloody hell, just can’t keep it together. I think I’ll turn in now. A night’s rest always works wonders, and I’ll certainly be looking forward to breakfast: red velvet pancakes with mixed berries and vanilla ice-cream. Living the high life has never tasted so rich.

I’ll see you when I see you,

Philip

Philip

If we’re being honest, talking about that isn’t comfortable for me either, so I’m right there with you when you say you should stop focussing on that. If you want a mature discussion, then fine, but if you don’t want to make this awkward between us, then let’s cut that line of thought off. I don’t mean to be disrespectful or heartless, I’m just saying what I’m sure we’re both thinking.

Luna being a sultry drunk is a new one, though. I’m surprised either of the Sisters could even get drunk. And now I’m wondering if she’s just like the rest of us, or had to drink a couple dozen barrels of champagne. If it’s the latter, that would’ve been a sight, and I’d also have to wonder just how big the cellar is over there.

Didn’t Spike say something about that, and the quality of their mouldy cheese?

Anyway, yes, don’t fret yourself. They’ve worked miracles in the past, so I don’t see why their… well, magic would stop now. Granted, Twilight and the Element Bearers have done the vast majority of the heavy lifting since they were chosen by fate, or however it happened, but that doesn’t mean the Sisters don’t have a few tricks under their wings.

And don’t worry about your family. They sound like a resilient bunch. Heck, if you’ve coped this well after being dropped into an alien world, I’m sure you got that hardiness from somewhere. They’ll be alright. They’ll be sad, of course, but they’ll survive. We’re all stronger than we think. It’s just a shame tragedy has to test us so harshly.

Huh. That almost sounds refined, coming from me. Maybe all that Luna-speak is rubbing off on me too. But yeah, if there’s one lesson I keep having to remind myself of, it’s that I need to relax every now and then. Not worry so much. Recognise we can’t control everything in our lives. Scale back expectations and focus on what we can handle.

And I know, it’s always easier said than done. Trust me, I’ve been making the same mistake for almost thirty-three years now. You say it’s hard to believe the Sisters are a thousand years old? Try thirty-three on for size. Celestia and Luna should be thankful they don’t have a mother hounding them to experience the same joys in life as she has before it’s too late. Nothing makes you feel as ancient as that, let me tell you.

And there I go, ranting about Mum again. Sorry. She isn’t that bad, really, I swear, but it’s just one of those things you can’t get over about somepony — that one detail you just can’t accept. If only they were less of this, if only they were more of that. If only they accepted you for who and what you are. What you always will be.

But that’s enough depressing garbage. You want to know what it’s like in the Empire. Green. Fertile plains throughout the whole basin, always green no matter what time of year. The fields shimmer like emeralds at noon when the wind blows, and the mountains forming the Empire’s borders are massive. Their cliffs glint with the sun’s light at dawn and dusk, filled with so many gems they could feed the Dragonlands for a hundred generations, easily.

The architecture’s beyond compare, even to Canterlot; the Empire was founded after Equestria, but Equestria borrowed the Empire’s culture. The key word there is “borrowed”. You’ll see Imperial influences only in the oldest Equestrian towns and cities, where the majority of the nobility live. Everywhere else kept to their own regional styles, too set in their own ways to change.

We stayed in our airship during most of our performances. I was and still am bunking with Thunderlane, Rainbow — she says hi, by the way — and Wave Chill. Thunderlane snores. Rainbow had the idea to tip some water down his mouth when he inhaled on a particularly bad night, but I satisfied her by smacking him in the face with a pillow.

The shows weren’t all that spectacular, except for the one in the capital. It was as much a light show as it was a performance, really, since we’d arranged for entire performance to happen inside the stadium at night, with heavy clouds over the open roof. Since I was waiting on the sideline until Soarin and I got the signal to pull our Rising Eagle manoeuvre, I have to say, watching coloured spotlights track a dozen pegasi zipping about a pitch-black arena is something to behold. But if the palace has a TV, you might’ve caught a glimpse of it yourself.

Seeing isn’t the same as experiencing, though. I wouldn’t mind if you were able to tag along, finally being able to meet the gang. But we’ll just have to wait for the end of the year, won’t we?

Yakyakistan’s next. Overall, I think this has been a good start to the tour. But save some of those pancakes for me — they sound delicious.

Regards,

Fleetfoot

Fleetfoot

Great to hear things are going well! Not that I ever doubted they wouldn’t And thanks for the words of assurance, for what they’re worth. And it’s okay, you can rant about your mum to me all you like — I won’t take offence. What’s a friend for if you can’t bitch to them about something that’s troubling you, even if that something’s a someone, and as close to your heart as your parents? She doesn’t need to know. I wouldn’t know how to contact her anyway.

I imagine it’ll be quite a while before I hear from you again. That’s alright. Knowing there’s a special day at the end of each month is making me feel better about my stay here, for some reason. It’s like I can now tell myself the mediocrity’s worth something.

But that’s a bit harsh of me. Celestia put aside a day just for me the other week, where we had a picnic in the shadow of not Niagara Falls. And it was nice. Grilled cheese sandwiches — very unladylike of her — and fresh fruits and berries. Pleasant conversation on the nature of things, and shared hardships. It was honestly the most liberated I’ve felt in a long, long while.

Luna’s been up to her own shenanigans as well, deciding, of all things, that my music library should be made public — a testament to the similarities and uniqueness of our two cultures. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. I just smiled and shrugged — I wasn’t really in a position to argue, But despite the fact my world’s copyright or fair use laws probably don’t extend beyond dimensions, I won’t be taking any of the credit: that feels dishonest. So, watch out for any songs on that audio player broadcast on the radio. But don’t worry, I haven’t greenlit any techno.

Another small update, but nothing much has happened. Still waiting for news, still trying to make the most of this situation. That’s all there is to it, right?

Oh, and I watched you perform on TV. You did well, all of you. Can’t wait to see what you have up your sleeves for the next show.

Safe travels,

Philip

Philip

I finished listening through your entire library. Every single track.

Who the heck hurt you when you were young?

I kid, I kid. I can’t say everything’s up to my standard, but your taste in music doesn’t totally suck. More a fan of your older selections, surprisingly enough: 70s to 90s, and a select few from the early 2000s. After that point, it seems all your “iconic” songs are about who had the hardest hitting beat, rather than the deepest lyrics. And before you start pointing to your male artists with that whiney way of singing, no. Just no. Personal failings start and end with you — you can’t just sweep it under the “I’m only human” rug.

So, as for what I like? Well, a lot of your one-hit wonders, for starters — that’s something we can agree on. Basically all of your concept album groups, which includes Alan Parsons Project, Pink Floyd, pre-Ghost Stories Coldplay, and weirdly enough, that musical rendition of War of the Worlds. Electric Light Orchestra I’m iffy on, as well as Roger Waters, but George Michael is a definite yes, and so is P!nk — unrelated to Floyd — Tom Petty, Tracy Chapman. Too many to list.

Yeah, your taste isn’t half bad. Objectively atrocious, considering the presence of Daft Punk and Justice, but not completely beyond saving. My favourite’s What’s Up? No idea why, it just calls to me. Could sit in my bunk all day bobbing my head along, mouthing the lyrics. And the funny thing is, it’s not even that great. But I love it. WHY?! YOU THINK YOU’RE IN A TOUGH SPOT?! YOU’VE MADE ME QUESTION WHAT I VALUE MOST IN LIFE!

On a lighter note, Yakyakistan is always snowy, always cold. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Or the yaks. They’re a very straightforward… people (yes, writing that in place of “ponies” demands a dramatic pause), even the nobles, and it’s such a breath of fresh air compared to Equestria. No pretences, subtext, or whatever other name you want to call court culture. Just plain “I say X and I mean X, and if I meant Y, I’d have said Y”, but in less words. There’s an elegance in being blunt, I think.

Yurts everywhere. Campfires too. Prince Rutherford’s great hall is one of the very few permanent buildings in the capital, which has survived thirteen avalanches. If it’s so dangerous, I wonder why they don’t just up and leave, but I guess they’re too proud for that. They don’t want to give up sovereignty, so they brave the elements and make their own path. And in some strange way, I can respect that. Absolutely foolish, but damn, they have guts and are reaping glory.

As for this show, it was nothing special again. A few loops, a few spins, a few dives, a few Buccaneer Blazes, and the crowd was roaring. And stomping. I managed to take few pictures of the snow mandalas before they were trampled, as you’ll have noticed from the photos in the envelope. I almost always live up to my promises.

What? I’m not the Element of freaking Loyalty. Don’t judge.

It’s the Griffon Kingdoms next. They’re more technologically similar to Equestria, so expect those performances to be televised as usual. Two locations down, the rest of the year to go. We’ll see each other soon enough, don’t you worry.

Regards,

Fleetfoot

Fleetfoot

Glad to be an existential threat. Now, to business…

Luna and I did something stupid. Like, incredibly stupid. And I couldn’t be happier. I’ll show you in person when you swing around, but I promise, you won’t have seen anything like it before. It’s a one-of-a-kind experience I’ve promised will only stay between her, Celestia, myself, and maybe you. Still need to do some convincing, admittedly, but you know how persuasive I can be.

Five months, though. I think. I’m starting to forget. Hard to believe it’s been that long without checking the date on my phone, in any case. My twenty-seventh birthday’s coming up in a few days. It’ll be the first I’ll have spent away from my family, but also the first I’ll have spent with royalty. And I’m not sure what to make of that, honestly; I don’t feel sad, but I don’t feel happy either. It’s a strange “it is what it is” feeling. Reminds me of when I woke up in the hospital and saw you and the nurse.

I swear, I’m not feeling down when I write this. Twilight said we deal with shock in different ways, so I guess this is mine: I just… do.

Celestia met that Sunset Shimmer character the other day. Definitely a former student. Sounded like they were discussing something important, so I’ll see what I can dig up and report back to you next letter. Not much in this one because, again, there’s only so much you can do in a palace.

Hoping for a safe return,

Philip

Philip

I’m sure you already know this, but be careful you don’t go poking your nose where it doesn’t belong. Not saying the Sisters would do anything cold-hearted, but it’s just a general rule of privacy. And definitely don’t go biting the hoof that feeds you.

Anyway, yeah, What’s Up? is fast becoming the soundtrack to my life, and screw you SO HARD for introducing me to it. It infuriates me. Like, no joke, I get the feeling I’m starting to sing it out of spite more than anything else, but I can’t say where the spite’s directed — what part I don’t like. You’ve legitimately ruined my life.

The workout songs I’ve picked up are making up for it, though. Keeping me motivated, keeping me in tiptop shape. I can tell you the rest of the team’s taken an interest as well: Soarin likes Duffy’s Mercy, Rainbow likes Hey Jude, and I swear, the instant Spitfire heard the first few seconds of this one Save Ferris song, she was itching to get out the door and stretch her wings. Wave has found The Beach Boys to be his calling, and Thunderlane can’t get enough of Holding Out for a Hero. Crazy fool blasts it on the stereo whenever he thinks nopony else is around.

You’ve created an epidemic, Philip. I hope you’re happy.

Griffonia is a very mountainous land, but very beautiful. The valleys are full of grass and sheer, impressive drops, and while the snow never melts completely, it’s not exactly cold. To pegasi and griffons, at least. If you’ve never seen black sand before, or ancient temples and villages based on the highest peaks, this is where you go.

And on the note of temples: yes, they’re still in use. Worshippers of the local deities have grown fewer and fewer the better known the Sisters are, but there are always traditionalists, no matter the culture.

As for the griffons themselves? Gruff and boisterous, but tolerable. They tend to treat you as if you’ve been friends for years, instead of letting you settle into things. You know I’m more naturally reserved, but even Spitfire was taken by surprise when King Gundahar hugged her and slapped her on the back after she held out a hoof to shake.

Since we’d come through just half a year earlier, we needed to mix things up a little. Mass formations — the whole team in one sitting, shorter show, one heck of an applause afterwards. I think I spied Twilight’s former student in the crowd when we were bowing, sitting alongside her girlfriend. Maybe. They were the only ponies in that audience, at any rate, and one was wearing a purple cape.

The Dragonlands are next, and then Mount Aris. More than halfway there, Philip, just bear with me.

Regards,

Fleetfoot

Philip

The news has probably already reached you, but Sun Chaser sprained a wing while practicing on the way from the Dragonlands to Mount Aris. She’s been replaced by a reservist, Hurricane, for the time being. Now it’s her time to shine. Very rarely does this happen, but it happens, and that’s why the reservists are there — to plug the hole in a leaky ship. No, we’re not going to sink, but precautions are always necessary.

I’m going to assume your letter’s either late or lost in the mail, so I’ll just answer a few questions that might probably be on your mind. Firstly, I’m posting this from Klugetown because the Dragonlands are heavily depopulated and Mount Aris is such a small location; we got through both within the month, so most of our focus has been the southern provinces.

Secondly, the Dragonlands is an ostensibly barren, relatively unforgiving volcanic plain. It’s full of crags and lava flows, and what little workable land there is — as we ponies understand it, at least — is overrun by creatures as vicious, if not more so than any dragon could be. The dragons themselves don’t really have too many towns, preferring instead to live in any tunnels, caves and hollows they can find, and if none are available, dig one. Back before Lord Ember (Lady Ember isn’t as intimidating — her words), they’d have fought over living space.

Mount Aris is a towering… well, mountain and, as far as I’m aware, the only piece of land owned by the hippogriffs. It sits at the end of a long and narrow peninsula, which is the only way to reach it by land. That helped protect them from any would-be invaders for a long time, before the Storm King took away that advantage with his airships. But despite their martial history, they’re really quite peaceable. In fact, there’s a garden in the capital dedicated solely to the art of meditation. It sings, like windchimes. I almost fell asleep when I was there.

The southern provinces are largely part of a giant desert, Abyssinia and Saddle Arabia being the two most prominent. The ponies — and other people, mind, such as the Abyssinians themselves, who are bipedal cats — live seminomadic lifestyles, moving from one oasis to another when the sands and seasons shift. I don’t know how any of them can tolerate the heat, but I guess you get used to it after ten generations or so.

The pyramids and ancient ruins are worth a gander, if you get around to it. I don’t think they’ve been studied by archaeologists yet, so whoever built them, we don’t know the names or how their society functioned. Outside oral histories, that is, but I haven’t had time to listen.

The shows have been short, and once again, apart from Mount Aris, I’m sorry everything hasn’t been televised, but we’ll be heading for Equestria proper after tonight. And not too long after that, we’ll have arrived at Canterlot.

See you soon,

Fleetfoot

Philip

I’m at Baltimare now. Still haven’t heard from you. Is everything okay? I haven’t done anything to upset you, have I? Or has the address changed, or something?

I can understand a month of radio silence, but now I’m starting to get a little worried.

Fleetfoot

Dear Philip

I didn’t see you at the performance.

I looked for you beside the Sisters, or close to them, but you weren’t there. Your chair was, but not you. Celestia told me after the show you decided to stay in and watch it, and you’re having trouble “coming to terms” with something. She was fairly vague about it, but said to give you some space and let you do things in your own time. If she hadn’t, I was liable to walk up there and knock on your door without a second thought.

Rainbow and I did a twin rainboom for the finale. Thought that’d impress you — two explosions of colour that wouldn’t send you to another dimension. Was given the go-ahead by the Weather Bureau, who said the storms had cleared up.

I was hoping that’d make you smile. That sounds childish of me, I know, and maybe a little inappropriate, bit it’s the truth. I like making you smile. I don’t like you not enjoying yourself here. And whatever’s happening between you and Celestia, or whatever else, I want to know. You’re a good friend, and I don’t want to let that go to waste. So please, if and when you can, write back, or call me, or something. I don’t want you to feel alone out here.

Sincerely,

Fleetfoot

Fleetfoot

Can we meet up someplace?

Philip

16 | On Melancholy Hill

Fillydelphia.

Ever since my first performance here, I’ve always felt a certain fondness towards it. I was a new face back then, barely known and with quite a few dismissive critics on my tail, despite my soaring marks and spotless track record; I could walk out in public, and nopony would’ve known my name. And it was during one of these idle walks around town, admiring the modern architecture and the ambiance and the general excitement of the populace for a Wonderbolt event, that I found myself here, at the Lunar Bean Café.

Although the Mocha Club is my personal favourite, this place serves the best caffeine in the whole kingdom, without a doubt; they never sell any brew unless Luna herself has tasted it and given her stamp of approval. Unfortunately, this means the majority of coffee on offer is dark, and the cakes on display are rich to the point where one’s jaw tires from simply chewing it. But I take what I can get, and there’s no denying the quality of the lattes. So long as I get some of that goodness in me, the rest is water off my wings.

In fact, this is the place where my infatuation with coffee began. We’d finished the show just the day before, and I decided to see what the early morning hustle and bustle was like here. But since televisions hadn’t been invented yet, and the papers hadn’t been distributed, nopony knew who I was. And despite myself, I actually liked the anonymity — I felt like a comic book hero, putting on the mask only when the situation called for it, and hiding in plain sight at all other times.

I strolled in, hearing the customary jingle of the doorbell, ordered a latte because the name sounded cool, then sat down at this exact table overlooking Mulberry Lane. The vines for which the street is named grow up the trellises and railing much as they did before, and the shoreline beyond is just as pretty as I remember, shimmering in the midday sun.

I’m wearing my sunhat again, and purple shades — a disguise so standard I may as well have gone without anything. Easily recognisable to him, no doubt, but anypony else in the café would probably have to take a second look, and to anypony in the avenue below, I’ll just be another mare enjoying a casual work break.

Could we have met in Canterlot, or at least a place closer to it? Sure. But he’d always complained about a lack of variety in his surroundings, and whatever spurred… whatever this is, I’ve a hunch it’s something to do with royalty. Space is what he needs, and while I might not be able to offer a solution, I can hear him out at the very least. If only he’d just hurry up and arrive already. This disguise won’t hold out forever.

I should’ve left my contacts at home. As alien as going out without them would’ve felt, it might’ve bought me an extra glance or three. Not that it’d matter all that much when he sits down and we start talking; seeing as that’s the case, may as well have forgotten the disguise altogether.

This isn’t right. Meeting a friend shouldn’t be this difficult, and I shouldn’t have to worry if this ultimately useless getup will in any way, shape or form make him think I’m embarrassed to be around him. I’m not. I just don’t want other ponies getting in my business.

You could just tell him that, word for word.

Yes, I could, but it’d be better if I never had to.

Too late, anyway: the doorbell chimes, and a member of the Royal Guard steps through, followed immediately after by Philip, and then a second guard, and a third. All three ponies are dressed in their golden armour, which is largely ceremonial — seriously, the mail hauberks and lamellar vests of the griffon housecarls offer far more protection and look just as nice.

My invitee, on the other hoof, wears simple olive cargo shorts and a peach-orange shirt, the arms and legs trimmed just below his elbows and knees. He doesn’t look too good, and as he approaches while the guards take their positions at empty tables, drawing the attention of quite a few ponies in the process, the damage becomes clearer.

He hasn’t shaved, for starters, sporting fuzz that hasn’t quite grown into a beard all along his chin, neck and around the mouth. Some shadow on the cheeks too. His hair’s scragglier than I remember too — not frazzled like he’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed, but slightly longer and just that tiny bit more frayed than I’m used to. And while he’s always had dark patches under his eyes that never go away no matter how much he sleeps, his gaze seems tired now. Wearier. Like me after I’d saved him, but not nearly as panicky.

He watches me as he walks, and he smiles, and it’s genuine, but it’s obvious whatever happened at the palace really got to him, if the lack of letters in response wasn’t a big enough hint. “Hey, Fleet. Long time no see.”

His voice is croaky — a cold, maybe, or not enough water; his breath will either be infectious or noxious. I wouldn’t think our germs are the same, but no working nose can deny a bad smell. Shouldn’t be too hard on him, though, without knowing what’s the cause of all of this. “Indeed,” I reply with a smile of my own, forcing down my concern for the time being and letting the relief shine through; he can walk and talk, at the very least. “A full year, huh?”

“Feels longer.” He pulls out the chair opposite and sits down, scooting in and leaning back in his seat. “And shorter, somehow. I don’t know. Time’s weird.”

“That it is,” I hum, shamelessly glancing at the menus in the centre and wondering if now’s the right time to figure out what we want. I’ve been waiting close to an hour with the smell of coffee wafting from the kitchen. “Thirty-three. You never appreciate how far you’ve come until you’ve reached a milestone.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Just a thought.” I shrug, returning to him. “Nothing all that heavy behind it.”

“Hmm.” He puckers his lips and nods to himself. “Well, I think I’ve reached one myself.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“I’m happy to see a horse after… who knows how long.”

“Pony,” I correct with a smirk.

“A pony’s a tiny horse — that’s literally the only difference.” He peers up at me in a way that says he knows he’s nit-picking, and is enjoying it, but then he looks away as another thought crosses his mind. “Well, in your kind’s case, aside from the colours, and the wings, and the… overall physique, and the talking, and… everything, really. But you’re a tiny horse regardless.”

“Who you’re happy to see.”

“I am.”

I pause, but don’t let my expression change. I’ve never heard him use that tone before. It was earnest, but almost too earnest; not forced — no boldfaced lie by any stretch of the imagination — but genuinely heartfelt. Forthright. We’ve always been honest with each other, for the most part, but something seems… off about this. Whatever his problem is, this is the tip of that iceberg.

He seems to realise it too, and his smile falls. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” I interrupt, lifting my hoof from the table in a small, reserved gesture, then think better of my actions and take off my shades, setting them on the table instead. Better I look him directly in the eyes for this. “It has been a long time.”

We’ve gone in a figurative circle, I know, but an affirmation seems to be what he needs to hear, and his bashful gaze becomes appreciative. Subdued, but appreciative. And his smile grows a tiny bit wider.

“So, how have you been?”

And then his smile shrinks again, sighing, turning away. “I’ve seen better days.”

“I’ll say.” I chuckle. “You’re looking hairier than a yak’s fuzzy behind.”

He switches back to me with an eyebrow raised. “And how would you know what a yak’s fuzzy behind looks like?”

“World tour. Duh.”

“Oh no, that doesn’t answer the question.”

I snort. “Well, it’s hard not to when they’re twice your height and always throwing their weight around, and the prince insists on personally leading you everywhere.”

“Oh, so it was a princely behind.”

“Shut up, perv.”

“Hey,” he holds his hands up in mock defence, “it’s not my place to judge. I mean, whether I like it or not, I am stuck here, so…”

My ears perk up beneath the sunhat, and my grin fades in an instant. Even my wings and tail try tucking themselves in, and I feel the faint urge for my hindlegs to do the same.

He waits a few moments, knowing what he’d just said, but taking longer to process it, and when the fact settles in, he deflates with another, heavier sigh and looks away once more. He folds his arms and frowns, sucking on his bottom lip as he shakes his head. He’d let the cat out of the bag, and he hadn’t meant to.

I lean a little closer, brows upturned. “Philip, I—”

“Don’t.” He lifts a hand to silence me, but his tone isn’t scolding. Rather, surprisingly, he sounds defeated. “It’s not what you think.”

I blink, then angle my head curiously.

My wordless query doesn’t go unnoticed, but he doesn’t give me an answer. Not immediately; after a length pause, he shrugs dolefully and gives me a fleeting glance. “Let’s just… focus on you for now, alright?”

My expression doesn’t change. “You don’t want to talk about it?”

Another pause. “Eventually. But right now, I…”

I wait patiently.

For a whole minute, he sits there, staring intently at nothing under the table, troubled as he grinds his teeth behind pursed lips. And then he looks me in the eye and mumbles honestly, coyly, “I want to hear you talk.”

I blink again. “Excuse me?”

Yet another pause, wondering if he’d phrased it wrong. “I mean, for the past year, I’ve been surrounded on all sides by the same walls, same windows, same people… and I haven’t been allowed to live anywhere else, even when…” He lowers his gaze, then slowly shrugs once more and peers up at me. “It’s just… nice to hear your voice again. Lisp and all.”

I stay where I am, caught on the notion. Coming from anypony else, I might’ve easily mistaken the intent and meaning, but we’ve both made it abundantly clear we’re not after that — him less so, knowing his background. And since he’s now stuck here…

…Merciful Sisters, I’ve ruined this boy’s life.

But I can’t let it show. I just… need to distract myself, and the conversation at hand is as good as any. So, before I let the thought take hold and sink its claws into my chest, I give him another small smirk. Feigned confidence, like I do with reporters when they’re on their best behaviour and I’m having a bad day. But this is more… personal, for lack of a better word.

“Did you miss it that much?”

He stretches the corner of his mouth and gently nods. “More than I thought I would.”

I snort, leaning against the backrest, and that dispels the creeping feeling of guilt for the time being. “Didn’t peg you to be so whimsical.”

“Eh.” He shrugs. “I have my moments.”

“Hmm.” I glance at the menus again, then decide to turn it into an open query. “Did you want to order yet?”

“They serve lunch here?”

“Delicacies, mainly — unhealthy snacks.” I lean closer once more, as if to whisper something nefarious. “Unbecoming of an athlete such as myself, so don’t go telling the press.”

“Oh, I don’t think they’ll need my input for that,” he quips, nodding to the other patrons.

I follow his gaze, and one by one, the patrons who’re trying their best not to stare stop staring. I don’t feel any particular enmity towards them — it’s not like I wouldn’t have done the same if this were the first time I were seeing either of us in person. But none of them have any cameras out, which is good, though I’m sure there are some reporters waiting hopefully outside. I doubt they’d try their luck going in when they saw the three guards enter alongside him.

“Was this a mistake, coming to a place so public?”

I skew my jaw for a moment, then shake my head and return to him. “They’d find out eventually. Nothing we can do about it. And it’s not like our daily meetups at the Castle of Friendship went unnoticed either.”

“Ah, right,” he lifts his chin and squints in thought, “the infamous sleepover.”

“Argh.” I shut my eyes, slump forward and bang my forehead on the table, almost losing my hat in the process, forelegs falling limp by my flanks. “Don’t remind me. It took a whole month to clear that image from my mind, and I don’t need it resurfacing.”

“A month?” he exclaims incredulously. “You imagined me in compromising positions with you for an entire freaking month?”

“What, you think I wanted that?” I snap, tilting my head up and raising an irritated eyebrow at him from under the circular brim.

He pauses, and then glances away uneasily. “Well, no, but… now I have to wonder if you ever… you know…”

My eyes narrow, then widen in realisation and my whole body stiffens, sitting upright. “Oh, no,” I shake my head, “we are not going there.”

“Well, it kind of begs the question.”

“No, it doesn’t. I came here to have a nice, quiet chat with a friend I haven’t seen in a year, not discuss the very private details of my personal life. And for the record, no, I didn’t. Did I find time for myself? Yes, of course I did, but it was never to you. I mean, almost everypony wants to scratch that itch at some point. And you? You’ve had all the time in the world — I bet you’ve been jerking up a…”

His eyes are wide and his face seems paler.

This was the wrong line of thought. He couldn’t have made it any clearer just how uncomfortable the subject was to him, and I doubt it coming from me was doing him any favours. And the fact I’d started rambling on about it with such nonchalance, as if I were happy to discuss it on a whim… That kind of disturbs me as well.

“…Sorry.” I deflate and lower my gaze. “That… wasn’t called for.”

He stays like he is for a good minute or so, waiting for the extremely awkward moment to pass. “Yeah, so…” he tentatively offers a hand across the table, “if we could agree to just not talk about that, that’d be great.”

I pause for a moment, and then sigh. “Sure,” I say, reaching over to accept his offer. But then I hesitate, and then I switch hooves.

He doesn’t return the gesture, instead raising an eyebrow questioningly.

“Cleaner.”

He looks down at the offending hoof, then withdraws his hand and sits back, averting his gaze with a wrinkled nose and puckered lips. “Okay, let’s just order something now before I completely lose my appetite.”

Apple juice for him, a latte for me. Few words spoken as we left the table and placed our orders. Now we’re sitting at our table again, waiting for the waiter to bring our drinks. It’s a mutual silence, neither of us willing to break it until the obligatory show of appreciation for a member of the café’s staff doing their job.

But I’d taken this too far — crossed a line we’d both established shouldn’t be crossed. And the next topic of conversation couldn’t very well be whatever news he wanted to share with me. So, it’s on me to end this quiet stalemate.

Sideways in my chair, hindlegs crossed and forelegs folded, I glance across to him.

He sits hunched over, elbows resting on the tabletop, absently staring with a troubled frown at the lacquer surface. The thing he wants to talk about, but isn’t ready to, it’s eating away at him, and while I’m not terribly eager to poke and prod anymore, if I ever was, I know it’s my duty as a friend to do just that. If only Princess Twilight were here — I know for a fact she would’ve avoided the conversation we’d just finished entirely.

“Nopony’s done that before, you know.”

He peers up at me. His frown softens, but doesn’t fade completely.

“My lisp. It’s not something ponies compliment. Most of the time, they barely notice it.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while, quietly measuring me instead. And then he shrugs. “It’s the little things, I guess. Not as bad as it could be, that’s for sure, but… I don’t know. I just missed what we had before, you know?”

I nod. “There was comfort in routine.”

“Exactly. And now Celestia’s thrown a spanner in the works.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re still bitter about being relocated?”

He pauses, and then he looks away and breathes deeply. “Among other things.”

There’s the iceberg again. Definitely something to do with the princess, and I’m guessing it’s more than the fact she’s delivered him some bad news. “Has she been treating you well?”

“Yeah,” he says with an apathetic sigh, and then gestures to the guards — two stallions and a mare. “Always looking out for me, as you can see. Nothing but my complete and utter wellbeing in mind.”

Sarcasm. Not obvious, but I’m used to picking it out over the years. “Are they giving you trouble?” I ask, somehow hoping his woes aren’t being caused by the one pony I’m not sure I should criticise. Her sister might visit me in my dreams sometime and give me a stern talking-to, or far, far worse.

“Nope.” He gives a small, dismissive wave, dashing those hopes entirely. “They’re just doing their job, so I can’t blame them. And Brave’s been doing her best to fill your shoes ever since the news dropped, so… yeah.”

I raise another eyebrow. “You were trying to replace me?”

“No, I said she was.” He chuckles languidly. “Don’t go putting words in my mouth. But don’t worry, there’s only room for one Fleetybee in my life, and Brave has two limbs too few.”

I scoff amusedly, welcoming a slight deviation. “You’re segregating based on tribe?”

“Well, hey, she may be cute in her own loyal-to-a-fault kind of way, but she’s not the one who starts behaving like a bird when they feel threatened.”

I blink, stunned. There’s a lot to unpack there, and I don’t know where to start. I give a small, breathless laugh, but stop myself and look away before I let anything else out, and I desperately try to keep the fur on my chest from puffing out. “It’s… not cute, Philip, it’s just… a natural reaction to something.”

“Which happens to be cute.”

I pause a little while longer, then return to him and shake my head with a bemused smirk. “What exactly are you trying to pull?”

“Just lightening the mood, I guess.” He shrugs again, a smile of his own coming through. “Shits and gigs and all that crap.”

“Well, stop.”

“Make me.”

I shut my mouth and think for a moment, and then a horribly perfect idea comes to mind. It’ll mean breaking our pact, but it’ll be worth it to see the look on his face. So, I exchange my bemused smirk for a smug one, shift in my seat to face him more directly, lean closer, narrow my eyes, and murmur huskily, “I fantasise about—”

“Okay, timeout!” he exclaims, slapping the table as he sits upright, and then points a finger at me as he grins wildly, somewhere between outrage and amusement. “That’s harassment.”

“Well, if you’re trying to make me uncomfortable, why can’t I do the same to you?”

“Because we’re both supposed to be put off by it.”

“And I am, but you forced my hoof.”

“I’m not the one who chose to take it that far.”

“Karma’s a bitch, huh?”

He snickers and hangs his head into a waiting palm, closing his eyes as he tries to contain his toothy smile. “Okay, okay, you win,” he giggles, waving me off, “no more cute comments.”

“Mm-hmm, damn right.” I nod to myself and sit back. “So, are we finally ready to have a decent, grownup, mature conversation?”

He titters a little more, but it eventually dies down and he sighs pleasantly, as if reliving a cheerful memory. “I guess,” he says affably, dragging his hand down his face and looking at me again. “But that peacocking thing you do is still objectively adorable.”

“Philip, I swear, as Celestia’s my witness, if you think I won’t slap you right here, right now, you’re dead fucking wrong.”

His smile shrinks.

Mine does too. Whatever she’s done, mentioning her name is enough to kill the mood.

“Your drinks, sir, madame,” a kirin waitress announces, trotting up to our table with a glass and a mug levitating beside her. Rare to see one so far north, even on the east coast, but life takes us all in unexpected directions. Or maybe it was exactly what she expected — I won’t pretend to know her. “Latte?”

“Me, thanks.”

The mug floats to my side of the table, and the glass to his. “There you go,” she says to herself, and once it’s in place, she offers Philip a warm, inviting grin. “And welcome to Equestria, Mister Montreo.”

He stares at her blankly. “Thanks.”

She seems oblivious to the fact and trots off, a spring in her step, no doubt thrilled to finally meet him face to face. A commendable effort at being friendly and keeping her excitement lowkey, but being reminded where he is — read: not home — isn’t what he needed to hear. Not that she’d have known any better.

I slide my mug away from the table and bring it to my lips, tasting the sweet nectar I’d come to depend on far, far too much the longer I’ve been in the Bolts. Some could say it’s an unhealthy obsession, and some have. I call it my bread and butter.

Philip, however, merely watches his drink from afar, how the ice cubes rest at the top and tiny bubbles catch on the glass and in small air pockets. I doubt his appetite’s gone, but he’s not in the mood to take a swig, and so the juice continues to warm.

“It was a portal.”

I lower the mug from an attempt at a second sip and raise an eyebrow.

“That magical artefact that broke — the one Celestia told your captain about?” He looks up to me solemnly. “It was a portal. A mirror to another world. My world.”

I blink. “Oh,” I say, and it’s all I can think to say.

“That’s why Sunset was at Twilight’s when you swung by — to help fix it. And the guards were there to provide extra security, because it’s a state secret; no one can know about it except Sunset, the royal family, the Bearers, Spike, and Starlight… Glimmer, or something like that.”

I pause. “They… haven’t been able to fix it, I take it?”

“They have.” He nods impassively. “That’s why all those storms cleared up and everything.”

I frown in confusion. “Then… why can’t you go?”

This time, he pauses, then picks up his glass and lets it hover in front of him, staring absently at my end of the table. “Celestia won’t let me,” he mumbles, and then takes a long, slow drink.

I blink again, ears twitching beneath my hat and wings tensing by my sides, a small pit of dread opening up. “She what?”

He relishes the taste for a moment, then returns his glass to the table. “Celestia won’t let me,” he repeats dispassionately, a little louder and more articulate. “My arrival here was an accident, and for that, she’s sympathetic. But… if she were to send me back… she’s worried about just how I’d pick up my life where I left off. How I’d explain my absence, how… people would view even after I’d somehow explained myself… or heaven forbid, what would happen to me if I mentioned Equestria. And if I can’t handle the situation on my own, she’d have to intervene.”

I pause once more, thinking about my response carefully. “That… sounds fair.”

“Yeah.” He looks at me with narrowed eyes and nods. “It does, doesn’t it? Except, if I hadn’t gone snooping, she’d have gladly kept this from me.”

“…I’m not too sure on the ‘gladly’ part.”

“I don’t care. She wouldn’t have said anything it if I hadn’t stuck my nose where it didn’t belong, and she’s doing all this to ‘protect’ me. So, my family, my job, my old life, it’s all on the other side of some mirror down in Twilight’s basement, but I’m not allowed to catch a train to Ponyville because it’d be too much of a bloody inconvenience for her to represent her own damn country, like a leader’s supposed to do.”

I shut my mouth and look away, thinking.

“I don’t care if it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie; she’s not giving me a choice in this. And the fact she wouldn’t have said anything about his — that she expected me to just get over it…” His voice quavers, and he’s sniffling. “Maybe she means the best, but… I just don’t want to live with her anymore.”

A harsh judgement, but not an unfair one, if everything he’s said is true for both sides. I don’t imagine him being one to misrepresent the facts, though. “Have you said anything to her regarding that?”

He sighs, glancing about the café. “She’s sorry I feel this way, but… she understands. And she’s not against the idea, so long as there’s a guard on my six, twenty-four-seven.”

“You think she doesn’t trust you?”

“I think she’s being a dick.”

I draw my head back slightly, eyes widening.

He notices and sags his head, sighing again. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, looking over the balcony. “She’s not completely heartless, or she wouldn’t give a damn about me, but… it just sucks. Like a… vacation you never knew you wanted, but there’s no wi-fi and all the toilet paper’s gone.”

My eyes half-close. “Charming.”

“Well, you have to admit, it’s a pretty shitty situation.”

I blink, then narrow my eyes to slits and limply point a hoof at him. “Did you just…?”

He looks at me askance and smirks.

“You son of a…” I flick my forehooves up in defeat, glancing about with my mouth hanging open in exasperation. And then I lean forward again and jab at him with my wingtips. “Screw you. Screw you so hard.”

“Well, I mean, what was I supposed to do? Pass that opportunity up?”

“And here I was thinking you were taking the situation seriously.”

“Oh, I am, I’m just… lightening the mood.”

I scoff, folding my wings. “Well then, funny guy, do you have any locations in mind?”

He breathes out through his nose in a wistful sigh, inspecting his surroundings fleetingly. “Fillydelphia’s pretty nice.”

“Oh, wow, so inspired.”

“Hey, cut me some slack.” He shrugs, returning to me with a small smile. “I’m making a hasty decision I’ll probably regret, and I’m not exploring the whole kingdom just to find the perfect place that’s not Canterlot or Ponyville. And from what I’ve seen of the city so far… no joke, it’s… neat.”

A master wordsmith as always. “There’s more to a city than just looks.”

“Oh, I know. But if the people are as delectable this glass of apple juice here, then it’s as good a place as any.”

I snort, amused, but then the full reality of his words sink in and I can’t help worrying for him. “Are you sure?”

He pauses for a while, looking away and skewing his jaw in thought. “No,” he coolly admits, returning to me. “But I could be persuaded with a tour around town. See the sights, do the… other things you do on a tour. The last train for Canterlot departs around eleven at night anyway, and it’s a full day trip, so we have plenty of time.”

I pause too. Is he being reckless? Yes, probably. Do I agree with his decision? I’m not entirely sure. But if it means spending the whole afternoon walking through these streets, making up for the time we weren’t able to spend together over the past year… then why the heck not.

“Is that something you’d want to do?”

My smile emerges from its shell without coaxing. “Yeah. I think it is.”

17 | Paying a Social Call

Twilight.

I can’t meet Celestia without scheduling ahead, even with my celebrity status, but if there’s one alicorn I can meet anytime, it’s Princess Twilight Sparkle.

I bring my hoof up and knock heavily on the door. The sound echoes in the hall beyond.

“I’ll get it!” a roaring voice cries from deep inside, and I feel the hard thumping of clawed feet on carpet and crystal as the dragon canters for the entry. Despite being a member of the royal household, he has a penchant for acting extremely unprofessionally. If Spitfire were in charge, she’d be fixing him right up.

But Spitfire isn’t here. I am. And I’ve my own bones to pick.

The door creaks open, and Spike sticks his head through the gap. He seems to have grown slightly since last I saw him. “Fleet!” he exclaims with a beaming grin, rising on his hindlegs and stepping aside as he widens the opening and bids me welcome. “Hot damn, girl. Long time no see!”

A similar line from yesterday, but with more enthusiasm. “Yeah, hey,” I greet as I trot inside from the midday sun, keeping my expression neutral, but hopefully not seeming like I’m purposely trying to distance myself from him. Setting hoof through the entryway feels like returning to some old, forgotten part of life — so many good memories — and I hate it has to be on pretence such as this. “You’ve grown again.”

“Oh, yeah.” He looks down at himself and admires his stature; the changes aren’t terribly noticeable, but he’s definitely half a head taller. At least, it felt that way, and his affirmation only confirms it. “Time flies when you’re having fun. Or helping Twilight. One in the same, basically.”

I somehow doubt that. “Yeah, about that…” I hum, quickly scanning the hall and briefly reminiscing on how much time had passed, and how little had changed. “Is she here?”

“Yes, of course,” he says as if I were on old friend asking to sit on his sofa — the answer is always yes. He pulls the way shut behind me and sits on his haunches, practically towering as tall as a minotaur. “You want to see her?”

“Yeah.” The fact I’d given the same basic response four times over makes me want to slap myself, but I’ve come here for a reason and I’m not going to let me making a fool of myself get in the way of it. “It’s about a friendship problem — a… a pretty serious one.”

His grin fades to surprise and a hint of disappointment. “Oh, so… you didn’t come just to see us again?”

I focus on him properly and hold his gaze, but don’t give anything away. “Where is she?”

Surprise and disappointment become wary curiosity, and his brows crease as he cocks his head. “Has something happened, Fleet?”

“Where is she, Spike?”

Wary curiosity turns to outright caution, and he hesitates a moment or two before responding. “Up the stairs, through the double doors to the map room. She’s a little busy at the—”

“Thanks.” I turn away and hop into the air before he has the chance to put up a fight, not that he’d be the confrontational sort. If somepony threatened his de facto sister, or any of his family as a matter of fact, including the Bearers, then sure, he’d get fiery about it, but not here and not with me; I don’t mean them any harm. I just don’t have the patience to deal with formalities right now.

I cross the hall, ascend the stairs and touch down on the landing before the double doors he mentioned — stained glass without any distinct pattern to it. Through their colourful façades, I spy the six white thrones surrounding the legendary round table, and a blurred form lounging in the furthest. Busy my hoof.

With a negligible grunt, I rear up and push the way open.

She stares at the magical hologram of a world map pensively, reclined in her seat with lowered brows and half-closed eyes. Somewhat dejected, I’d wager. “Spike, not right now,” she mumbles, waving a forehoof in my vague direction, the other supporting her chin. “I need some time to—”

“I’m not Spike.”

She glances up, and almost slips out of the throne with how fast she seizes up and tries to look more presentable. “Miss Fleetfoot!” she welcomes with a grin — a forced one to be sure, more out of genuine shock. “Hi! What a surprise! Didn’t expect to see you here so…”

I continue walking around the table, holding her gaze without expression.

“…Is something wrong?”

“We need to talk.”

“Oh.” She blinks, and then after a second’s hesitation, she gestures for the throne to her immediate right — Rainbow’s, judging by the mark emblazoned at the top. “Well then, I’m more than happy to hear anything you have to say.”

Maybe she misinterpreted what I’d said, or maybe she was trying to convince herself I didn’t mean to sound as accusatory as I probably did — I know I’ve had trouble with that in the past. Either way, as I cross the floor and hop into the crystalline chair, so smooth and cool on the rump, I get the feeling she’ll be eating her own words soon enough.

“I take it this isn’t you stopping by to see how we’re doing, is it?”

In a manner of speaking, I suppose I am, but I didn’t come here to trade pleasantries, customary as it may be, and especially with the Princess of Friendship herself. Instead, I stare at an indefinite point of air between myself and the table, caught on how exactly I should phrase the next line. Too harsh, and I’ll come off as vindictive. To light, and I’ll come off as uncaring.

“I think I heard ‘friendship problem’ from downstairs, now that I think about it.”

Of course she did. You can’t so much as whisper in the bigger chambers without it echoing throughout the castle halls, and she’s probably had more than enough time to train herself to pick up all kinds of secrets.

“If that’s the case, you’ve come to the right place. It’ll also be the first time you’ve sought my help, but there’s a first time for everything!” She leans closer in her seat expectantly and eagerly. “So, what’s the conundrum today?”

“You lied to him.”

She blinks again. “E-e-excuse me?”

I meet her gaze once more, but keep my face as neutral as I can manage. “You lied to him,” I repeat, adding more conviction. “You and Spike, you knew about humans the whole time and you said nothing.”

All her eagerness disappears with folded ears and widening eyes.

“While he was sleeping in this castle, you had a portal in the basement to whatever world he’s from, and you, Spike, the Sisters, your friends, you thought it was best if he never found out.”

She shuts her eyes and lowers her head, sighing as she sits more squarely in her throne.

“You told him to his face you’d never seen his kind before. But you knew all along and you kept it from him. You covered it up. And now you and the Sisters are telling him he can’t go home after he learned all this the hard way.”

“It wasn’t my choice.”

I frown and turn to face her properly. “You chose not to tell him.”

“Those were my orders,” she murmurs, already sounding somewhat weary by the conversation, as if she’d gone through several hundred iterations in her head. “And on the count of not initially telling him, I agreed, because the less he knew, the easier it—”

“You lied to him,” I hiss. “You, the Princess of Friendship. And you’re telling me what you did — what you’re doing to him is right?”

She shuts her eyes again and scrunches her snout, letting out a pained sigh. “Fleetfoot…”

“There’d better be a damn good explanation.”

“And I can explain,” she looks at me delicately, “but whether it’s any good is up to you.”

I pause for a short while, but eventually lean back and balance myself more comfortably on my haunches, my frown lingering on her as I roll a hoof urgingly. “Alright then, let’s hear it.”

She closes her eyes yet again, putting a hoof to her chest as she breathes in and sweeping it away as she breathes out. I remember Rainbow saying she learned this from Princess Cadance, as a way of dealing with unwelcome and unhelpful stress. In this case, unless I’m proven otherwise, I wouldn’t say the stress is undeserved.

“Philip’s Earth is… different to ours,” she begins, calmly, coolly. “Its past is more violent, its peoples more divided, and some countries more… fanatical than any Equestria’s ever come across. The United States, for instance — his home — has had a long history of contradictions. It was a nation founded on liberty, but exercised slavery. It despised empires, but wanted to be one. It shunned the crimes of others, but excused its own.”

“I asked for an explanation, not a history lecture.”

“And I’m getting to that,” she replies, glancing at me with a slight edge, “but you have to understand, things aren’t as simple as they may seem, especially when we’re talking about two whole worlds coming into contact.”

“Then why bother keeping the portal around?”

“To study humanity.”

My frown deepens, mostly in bewilderment. “You’re… studying them?” I wonder aloud, and then the pieces fall into place. “So, what, this is all just some big experiment to you, and he’s your little lab rat?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.” She shakes her head vehemently. “I’m saying… they’re a learning opportunity. Despite the rifts between their cultures and the rampant greed and bigotry among far, far too many of their leaders… friendship still manages to flourish. I know because I’ve seen it myself.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’ve crossed over to the human world?”

She nods.

“You can but he can’t?”

“Like I said, it’s complicated.”

“Then uncomplicate it.”

She pauses, then shakes her head again, but slower and more rueful. “I wish I could, but… it’s not up to me. I have friends on that side, yes — ponies… people who remind me of the friends I have here — and there’s another pony who practically lives there now, as a human, but none of them are in a position to help Philip reintegrate. If we can’t do it quietly — and after a year’s absence, I doubt his reappearance would go without question — then… we’d have to repatriate him officially. That means going to the authorities, and that’s where things get… risky.”

My head’s starting to spin, trying to keep up with her train of thought. “Risky how?”

Her gaze has turned apprehensive. “Diplomacy… isn’t to be taken lightly. Especially when we’re talking about a world so similar, and yet so diverse. There’ve been instances where certain individuals tried taking matters into their own hands, and sparked conflicts that didn’t need to happen. We’d naturally want to avoid that, but whether we like it or not, if we treat with one country, we’d have to treat with them all… And with hundreds of envoys at the table…”

The situation is starting to make more sense now, but the picture I’m getting… isn’t bright.

Twilight seems to notice the wind in my sails has slacked somewhat and she sighs sympathetically. “If we want a smooth transition for Philip, we’d have to reveal ourselves to and negotiate with an entire planet — eight, nine, ten billion people. I believe it’s worth a shot, but Celestia… doesn’t think humanity’s ready for us just yet.” She shrugs dejectedly and shakes her head. “I won’t go behind her back on this. Maybe I’ll be able to convince her, or something will happen on their side that’ll change her mind, but as it stands… my hooves are tied.”

My gaze has lowered to the space between us, and my frown has slackened to something less critical. Questions still need answering, but I have the sneaking suspicion I’m on the losing end of a very short debate. “That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell him anything.”

She sighs again. “I’ll be honest… that was my suggestion,” she murmurs guiltily. “I thought… if he didn’t know the truth, then maybe his life here would be easier. Like you said, myself and a few others can travel to and from, but he can’t, and if he found out about that… just how miserable do you think he’d be?”

“But he found out anyway.”

“He did.” She nods to herself. “And now we’ve paid the price.”

Had she, though? Philip might be pissed at her, Spike, and all the other perpetrators, but just because they feel bad that he’s angry at them doesn’t mean they know his pain — what they’ve all collectively denied him. Just thinking it over last night let me realise how bogus it all was; how dare they smile and pretend everything’s fine, while keeping his old life behind lock and key.

But put in this context… I’m not sure what to feel. If I stay on his side, that makes me vindictive, but if I concede the point, I’ll have betrayed him. A catch twenty-two if ever I’ve seen one, and I don’t like it. Not one bit.

With a soft groan, I turn away and find myself staring at the map. There’s Canterlot in the centre, Cloudsdale a fair way west of it, Ponyville south of them both, and Fillydelphia all the way on the east coast. He’s still over there, I’m pretty sure, having found temporary shelter in Seaford’s Riviera — a place I expressly recommended on account of the service and the views. The guards weren’t too pleased when they had to list their rooms under necessary royal expenses.

“You still lied to him,” I mumble, remembering the look on his face when he flopped on the bed and told himself it might’ve been the best decision he’d made since coming here. I try to stay peevish, but the memory and my current circumstance are working against me. “That wasn’t right.”

“It wasn’t,” she agrees, shaking her head, “but we… I thought it was necessary.”

I pause for a moment, continuing to jadedly stare at the map and its four key locations. “I thought the Friendship Princess would be more virtuous.”

She looks at me pointedly, but surprisingly, doesn’t give me a verbal warning. I suppose she’s wondering whether I’d meant it as an insult or was simply making a blunt observation, and I’m happy to let her wonder as long as she likes. “Magic’s my Element,” she says candidly. “Honesty is Applejack’s thing. I may be a princess, but I’m no Celestia.”

“She lied too.”

She pauses again, and then sighs once more, turning to the map as well and pursing her lips. “I need a drink,” she suddenly, dourly declares, twisting and hopping out of her seat, leaving me to my own devices. At least, until she stops strolling languidly around the table and peers across at me with an eyebrow raised in a blasé fashion. “You coming?”

I’ve never fancied myself much of a wine pony — too sweet on the tongue and I don’t like the aftertaste — but this vintage blend generously gifted from the Canterlot cellars isn’t half bad. But right now, the glass I’m holding isn’t what I’m focussed on; it’s the giant, oval mirror in the centre of the basement. “So, who invented this thing, anyway?”

“Starswirl the Bearded,” Twilight replies vaguely, looking down at her drink held in a magical embrace. “Just like everything before Nightmare Moon, it always circles back to him. Crazy old coot just couldn’t stop being amazing. Or bearded.”

I blink and glance at her. “This is over a thousand years old?”

“Yep.” She takes a sip. “He had a habit of dumping his problems on other dimensions, mainly Philip’s. Why he created and contained this portal in particular, he can’t remember, and surprisingly enough, neither can the Sisters. No records on it either.”

I turn my head to her fully and quirk an eyebrow. “This world has made contact with Philip’s in the past?”

“Technically, yes.” Another sip, and her expression becomes more brooding. “But never in any diplomatic capacity. Again, in Starswirl’s case, he treated it more or less like a massive, magical garbage can, sending monsters there when he and the Pillars couldn’t… dispose of them here.”

“Then what’s with this protocol of non-interference?”

“Because it was a different time back then, and now we know better.” She meets my gaze with a sombre one. “Better to learn from our mistakes than keep repeating them, wouldn’t you say?”

“I suppose.” I sigh through my nose and return to the mirror. “But that still doesn’t seem right to me.”

“It isn’t, but Celestia thinks it’s necessary.” She watches her wine as she swirls it around. “Of course, one could argue there’s no difference what’s right and what’s necessary, but I’m not opening that can of worms.”

My ears twitch and I look at her once more.

She pauses for a short while, then blinks and shakes her head. “Sorry, I’ve just… had a lot of time to think and read. I thought it’d help, but… it’s kind of done the opposite.”

I wait for a moment, mulling it over, then nod slowly and understandingly. The bookworm can’t find comfort in her books; that’d be like me no longer finding flight therapeutic — inconceivable. And if it were, a lot must’ve happened for it to reach that point. Whether or not she’s in the wrong here, I can at the very least respect when somepony else is beginning to lose their passion.

“So, you’re just studying them, are you?” I query, peering into the mirror and pondering what it’s like on the other side — just how big could his world be. “Check in, make a few friends, check out, jot down some notes, rinse and repeat?”

“That’s all we were doing initially, yes — myself and Sunset, that is — but with most of Equestria’s major friendship problems resolved… we’ve shifted focus.”

“To what?”

“Technology.”

I raise another eyebrow.

“Electricity, phones, TV, wireless communication, it all comes from there.” She wanders forward, gazing up and tracing the outline of the portal as she sips her drink. “We had some of these things before, but in a world without magic, humans have always had to go the extra length. I figured… why not learn from their achievements?”

“Did you ask them kindly?”

She stops before the small stairwell leading up to it, smirking at the ground and ears lowered slightly, then shares that melancholy smirk with me. “Unfortunately, no. And that’s another reason to keep the portal closed — so we don’t face the legal trouble of all the patents we… copied.”

I snort, offering a smirk of my own as I stroll to join her. “Naughty girl, Twilight.”

“I’ve never claimed to be perfect.”

“The whole world thinks you are.”

Her brows give a shrug and she turns away. “Then that’s their mistake,” she casually remarks, taking another sip of her wine afterwards. “I’ve made plenty.”

“Same,” I say, and then take a sip of my own. Sweet, but bearably so.

A long silence descends, and it affords me the chance to properly admire just how big the basement is. So much space, and so much of it unused. Granted, that description fits the castle as a whole like a glove. If Twilight were more mercenary, I bet she’d make quite a few bits running a hotel business on the side — the prestige attached to lodging in her home would be irresistible for many a noble with deep pockets.

But she has her limits, and I’m pretty sure welcoming strangers who’ve come to visit only to brag to their friends crosses them. She has enough troubles on her plate anyhow, balancing her duties to the school and the kingdom, and now with her connection with Philip on the line.

“Do you think he’ll forgive me?” she quietly asks, practically reading my mind and facing me with upturned brows. “Did I… screw up too badly?”

I meet her gaze but don’t answer immediately, and I hope I keep my doubt from showing. “Maybe,” I say with a sigh, and then I decide to be a bit more hopeful, while staying in the bounds of reality. “Probably. Just… give him time. You have the excuse of following orders, and Spike and your friends were just following your orders — that’ll wear on him eventually.”

“Can you say that for certain?”

“No,” I admit, figuring there’s no use in being dishonest, putting aside the fact I’d be a hypocrite if I were. “But that’s my educated guess. He’s not spiteful. A pain in the flank on occasion, but, hey, who isn’t?”

She pauses, and then a smile sneaks through. Demure and bittersweet, but welcoming. “You’ve become fast friends, haven’t you?”

I shrug. “He’s growing on me.”

“I can see.” She nods thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.”

I blink at that, but don’t change my expression, even as I slowly look away and stare at nothing in particular. And I linger on the fact — he hadn’t asked me to meet her, I just… up and left this morning. Had a good, long think last night, and told myself demanding answers was the right thing to do, especially if I couldn’t get the whole story from him alone.

My chest feels… heavier, suddenly. Warmer. Pride, perhaps? In what, myself? For doing something that, frankly, any good friend would do? That’s not something to feel proud about, is it?

A hoof rests against my shoulder.

I turn to look at her.

Twilight returns my… unsettled gaze with a gentle, empathetic grin. “You care for him,” she intones, each note radiating the pride I’m sure I don’t entirely deserve. “He cares for you. Right now, he needs all the support and all the friends he can get. And you… You’ve made big strides in helping him through this.”

Knowing her penchant for lectures and speeches, part of me wants to roll me eyes — at this point, as a princess, they’re practically mandatory. But the rest of me can’t help smiling; hearing this from her just feels… right, somehow. Earned.

“Maybe things will work out between us and maybe they won’t, but whatever happens… I just hope you two can make the best of it. There’s beauty in what you have already. Don’t let it go.”

And I guess that’s why she’s the Princess of Friendship. You don’t become an alicorn unless you’re worth something. But despite my best efforts to keep myself restrained, my smile grows wider and I shake my head amusedly, chuckling at the sappy nature of our exchange. “Never planned to, Twiggles. Never.”

18 | Head Over Heels

Parents.

Not a day goes by where I don’t roll my eyes at them, either while I’m with them or remembering some distant memory I’d rather forget, but can’t for reasons unknown to me. Maybe they’re events that shaped me into the pony I am today, or maybe they’re just plain traumatic. I don’t care. All I know is we’ve had our ups and downs, and today is looking to be an up day.

Hearth’s Warming has come and gone, but the stores here in Fillydelphia haven’t given their customers any respite — they’re already preparing for the next major holiday. And despite the gushy, sentimental nature of Hearts and Hooves Day, I’ve always appreciated the sweets they break out for the occasion. I know I’m missing the point entirely, but what can I say? I see chocolates, I get a craving, and I may as well share the joys of confectionary goodness with the two ponies I really should be spending more time with.

I stare at the box of rainbow truffles poking from Dad’s saddlebags with a ravenous hunger as we exit Sweet Talkin’ Filly. He’ll share them with me, I know, but if I’d gotten to them first, I’d be doing my best to keep them hidden. Selfish, sure, but I’d forgotten how much I missed their taste — that perfect blend of sweet and savoury with a hint of spice and crackling candy.

“Well, that was fruitful,” Mum croons, holding the door open for both myself and Dad. She wears a straw sunhat fastened by a lavender ribbon — our sense of fashion must be genetic — and a floral blouse with a maroon cardigan; prettied up for a stroll around an ‘exotic’ city. “We’ll be stocked with toffee for weeks to come.”

I roll my eyes and smirk as we pass through; of course she’d focus on the toffee. “You’re welcome, Mother dearest.”

“I most certainly am!” She flashes me a smile and lets the door close, following us out into the perimeter of a massive greenspace — Equinox Park, if memory serves me right. I wouldn’t have the foggiest as to why it’s called that, but there are sculptures and fountains dotted all over the place, and plenty of trees and lawn between. Even a skate park. Miraculously, Sweet Talkin’ Filly found itself in the middle of it all; a slice of heaven in paradise.

Clumps of snow lie here and there, reminding us that winter hasn’t completely gone. I’m dressed for the occasion in a red parka, and a white scarf and beanie. Not that a pegasus would need clothes to survive in air as cool as this — I’m just using the season as an excuse to switch up my disguises, and this one’s proving quite effective; it’s not so easy to see my cutie mark. I’d have kept my shades or worn a pair of phoney glasses for an added layer of anonymity, but today, I have to keep myself at least somewhat recognisable, and not just for my parents.

“So, where to next, Fleety?” Dad chimes in as he turns around and starts walking backwards. He’s carrying everything, as he always does, and wears only a flat cap and festive Hearth’s Warming sweater, long after its time has passed. “Didn’t you mention there’s a roller-skate rink somewhere around here?”

“Mm-hmm.” I nod, but then narrow my eyes at him in playful suspicion. “Wait, you’re not actually planning on going there, are you?”

He shrugs with a smirk. “You never know. Could be fun. Certainly wouldn’t mind seeing your mother try her luck at it again.”

“Oh, Slipstream, you stop that right now,” she scolds with just as much mirth. “You know those days are far behind me. Besides, it’s not like you fared much better. This pot shan’t be called black and let the kettle get away with it.”

“Except you let me get away plenty of times. I wouldn’t have gone to the hospital if you’d just kept a steady grip.”

“Hush now, honey. Let’s not bicker in front of Fleetfoot.”

“Oh, no, don’t mind me,” I defend myself with a genuine chuckle. “Just pretend I’m not here. The more dirt I have on either of you, the better.”

Dad cocks an eyebrow. “You’re planning some legal action against us, hey?”

“Only if the situation calls for it.”

Mum looks over her shoulder, nose up. “And what, pray tell, would that be?”

“Oh, you know, this or that.” I wave a wing dismissively. “I prefer to keep my evil schemes private, if it’s all the same to you. No use telling your victims the plan before it’s in action — ruins the tension.”

Dad snorts, then turns to Mum. “Mistral, honey, I believe we ought to sleep with one eye open from here on out.”

“Indeed,” she agrees, meeting his gaze. “She’s probably after the life insurance.”

“Transfer our savings to the offshore account.”

“The one in the Griffish Isles?”

“No. The one in Swayback Atoll.”

“Slipstream, darling!” She puts a hoof to her chest and gasps. “You hid this from me?”

“Love of my life, there are many secrets I keep. You have some of your own, I’m sure.”

“I’m quite certain I don’t know what you mean.”

“Is that so?” He cocks an eyebrow at her and smirks. By this point, he’s already gone back to walking forwards. “Then what was that magazine I found stowed away in the closet about—”

“Slipstream,” Mum gently warns, maintaining a smile while making it clear he’d almost crossed some kind of line, “we have company.”

I don’t need to connect the dots to understand this is something I don’t want to be hearing, and my pace slackens for a few steps as I cringe, instinctively glancing about for a distraction. Skyscrapers surround the park and there’s not a cloud in the sky; an almost perfect day if it weren’t for whatever these two had just cut themselves short of saying.

And then I spot the tell-tale glint of golden armour polished to perfection through the trees just ahead near the main fountain. Seriously, if they ever planned on being an actual military unit, they’d better learn from the other nations stat.

“Actually, why don’t we wander around here for a bit?” I suggest, glancing between my parents. “Maybe there’s an event going on and we missed it coming in.”

Dad looks at me unsuspectingly. Mum, on the other hoof, is clearly doubtful. “If there were an event, Fleetfoot, I’m sure it’d be clear to us the second we stepped out of the shop.”

I resist the urge for my eyelids to lower halfway. She knows full well by this point talking like that to me doesn’t do her any favours, but still she does it, and I imagine it’ll only get worse the longer she thinks I haven’t matured. And I know, deep in a dread-filled part of my heart, there’s only one way to convince her otherwise — a way I’ve made perfectly clear I’m not interested in whatsoever. And if I were, I could easily be convinced to pick somepony she’d never get along with, just to spite her.

Not that I actually wish to make things worse, or would ever take it to such an extreme. I don’t know. Just idle musings, I guess. Ones I really shouldn’t be wasting my time on.

“Well, a nice, idle stroll certainly couldn’t do us any harm,” Dad offers in my defence, a staunch defender of my sanity as always. “What’s wrong with a little solid ground for a change?”

“You say that as if we don’t go out often enough.”

“And we don’t. When was the last time we took a trip for ourselves, and not because we wanted to see Fleetfoot perform? We’ve never been here as proper tourists before, and if Fleety’s our guide, then what’s the problem?”

Their guide. Yes, that’s what I advertised myself as. It’s just a shame I’ll have to cut my tenure short as we approach the paved, circular clearing of the largest fountain in the park.

The marble statue of a mare in a chiton — some historical figure from the city’s founding, I reckon — pours an amphora down upon rolling hills and plains. Smaller ponies till fields and tend to their homesteads, gradually increasing in development the closer to the pool they come, like a walk through time. A humble monument, and I like the aesthetic; it reminds me of the dioramas you see in museums depicting scenes from ages past. I’ve always adored them, no matter what they’re about, and the attention to detail can truly be astounding.

But as much as I’d like to stop and admire the miniatures, there’s another sight that draws my attention: three members of the Royal Guard — two mares and a stallion — huddled around an ice-cream kiosk. Two stand on watch while the third deals with the vendor, alongside the VIP they’ve been guarding for the past few months. Their faces have grown as familiar to me as his, even if I don’t know them as well as him, and I can list their names off by heart: Brave, Phalanx and Stella.

The last one’s a fill-in from the Lunar Guard, meant to replace Ironside after he suffered a pretty bad case of gastro.

It wasn’t pretty.

The VIP in question turns away from the counter after thanking the vendor, hands her what appears to be a generous scoop of vanilla in a cup, and swings around a little further with three waffle cones; mango, strawberry, and cookies and cream. He wears a plaid hoodie patterned in various shades of grey, a festive beanie — a leftover from Hearth’s Warming — baggy, blue jeans, and a new, tailor-made pair of sneakers he’d commissioned for himself when his old pair finally gave out.

And a smile. He wears that too. Clean-shaven and back to his cheery self. A changed pony once more, and no doubt for the better.

“Fleetfoot?”

My ears perk up and I look away from the scene on my right to Mum and Dad just a few seconds ahead of me. Apparently, I’d stopped and fallen behind without noticing.

“What’s the matter, dear?” Mum queries as they stroll back to me, but briefly following my gaze answers her question immediately and she stops dead in her tracks, eyes wide and lips parting.

I return to the kiosk and those in front of it, and they’ve all turned their collective attention towards us. I start feeling quite exposed, even with the layers of clothing, but as soon as I see him watching me with a widening grin, I remember to keep a level head.

I am in control.

“Fleetybee!” he cries, standing up and striding forward, a look of very convincing disbelief plastered on his face. “Bloody hell, how long has it been? Fancy meeting you here!”

Indeed, what are the odds?

“Oh my stars, you?” I exclaim, trotting toward him and closing the gap, and as soon as we’re close enough, I rear up and spread my forelegs, and we embrace each other in a tight, welcoming hug. His arms wrap around my neck, my hooves link behind his back, and our heads hang over the other’s shoulder. And it feels nice. So nice it’s almost like we haven’t seen each other for weeks on end. I shut my eyes and press my cheek to the crook of his neck. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“Right back at you, sister.”

My smile widens further, giving him a gentle squeeze, which he returns in kind, and then we both let go and step back, and I fall to all fours once more. “So, fetching supplies for the troops, are you?”

He nods. “Absolutely.” But then he pauses and ponders the notion more deeply. “Well, I mean… they’re the ones paying for it, but it still counts, right?”

“Not on your life, dipshit!” Stella chimes in from behind the other two guards. Her muzzle’s already caked in white, in stark contrast with her grey coat and dark armour.

Without looking at her, he rolls his eyes with an amused smirk. “Don’t mind her, she’s just crabby I didn’t get her a cone as well.”

“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow. “Has she been naughty?”

He puckers his lips and narrows his eyes. Not at me specifically, but in an expression that tells me more or less all I need to know. He leans in, though, and whispers, “Let’s just say she has a rather… ravenous appetite and leave it at that.”

I sigh and roll my eyes in turn. Straight from one unpleasant imagining to another. But for all the distaste I feel, I know the rest of the day will more than make up for it. He’s not getting rid of me that easily.

“Mister Montero, I presume?”

Except he just might, if we don’t tie up a certain loose end.

We turn to look at Mum, and with a grace and ease that may seem to anypony else like confidence, but says to me he’d practiced for this moment all throughout the week, he bows forward and offers his hand. “The one and only, Fleetfoot’s mum.”

She glances from him to his hand, perhaps in mild hesitation, perhaps in quiet scrutiny, but after a moment’s pause, she accepts it with a hoof all the same, smiling diligently. “Mistral, please.”

“Of course, of course.” He lets go and stands to full height once again, the other hand still holding his strawberry gelato, having given the guards their own. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Nor I you.”

“Mum,” I preemptively interrupt, in case I’d heard something judgemental in her tone, “this is Philip. Philip, this is Mum. And that’s Dad over there in the silly sweater.”

“Guilty as charged,” Dad admits, strolling over to Mum’s side with a far more genuine smile. At least, it feels that way. I can’t tell anymore. Maybe I’m just being too on edge about it — this being the first time either faction has seen the other in person. “So, you’re this human we’ve been hearing so much about.”

“That I am, Mister…?”

“Slipstream.” He offers his hoof. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Likewise.” Philip accepts and they shake. “And if I may say, you raised her well.”

“Hey,” I whine, squinting with a smirk as give him a soft jab in the hip with my wing, “don’t make it sound like I had no say in anything. I’m my own mare now.”

“Not always, dear,” Mum corrects. “Why, I remember when I could still cradle you in my foreleg. You were so sweet an innocent back then.”

“Oh, and I’m not anymore?”

“You lost that privilege the second you swore in front of your father.”

I raise another eyebrow in jest. “Do I need to remind you where I learned it from?”

Her smile falls, unimpressed.

Dad coughs. “So, uh… Philip… has life been treating you well?”

“For the most part.” He shrugs. “People here are finally starting to get used to me. Press has died down, as you can see, or I’d be getting swamped by photographers and microphones. That, or my guards are doing their job.”

“Too bloody right we are, you piece of—”

Stella is suddenly shushed by a hoof to the mouth from Phalanx. By the deadly look in the her eyes, I don’t doubt she’d have broken his foreleg if they weren’t in public and trying to maintain a modicum of professionalism.

“What lovely company,” Mum deadpans.

“Yes, indeed, wonderful,” Philip quickly mutters like he’d dodged a thunderbolt, then gives his gelato a lick around the cone to clear up any melting dregs, and that appears to calm him. “Anyway, um… you wouldn’t mind if I steal your daughter for lunch, would you?”

She switches to him and blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, that’d be fantastic,” I gush with a sigh for extra emphasis. “Lunar Bean, like last time?”

He smirks at me. “As if there’s really a choice.”

“No, wait, hold on,” Mum interjects, blinking a few more times and drawing her head back a little way, lifting a hoof to silence us. And then her focus lands on me, and I detect a hint of betrayal in her gaze. “You’re… abandoning us already?”

I stifle an attempt to roll my eyes and turn it into a quiet huff and a petulant glance to the left. “No, Mum, it’s just… it’s been so long. There’s probably a lot we need to catch up on.”

“As a matter of fact, there is,” he confirms to my slight surprise. “Found a little something while browsing my phone — thought you might like to see it.”

“Browsing your phone?” Mum echoes.

“Oh, yeah.” Philip nods, but decides further explanation is needed upon seeing her blank expression and whips out the device with practiced precision. He presses a button on the side, and the screen lights up. “Mobile, see? Like a TV, but smaller, and it’s a phone, and a camera, and a bunch of other things rolled into one.”

Mum stares at it with a perplexed frown, blinks once more, and then returns to him with a curious squint. “What ‘little something’ do you want her to see, exactly?”

My smile falls and my ears point back. Is she seriously trying to coddle me, right here, right now, in front of him? Really? A friend she’s known about for more than a year, and now she finally gets to meet him, she basically tells him to his face that she doesn’t trust him, and I’m not even a yard away.

Philip seems caught off-guard somewhat. “It’s… nothing to worry about, Miss Mistral.”

“Then surely you wouldn’t mind showing me too.”

“Mistral, honey,” Dad plods a little closer, “let the adults have their space.”

“But Fleetfoot was showing us around,” she complains, glancing at me as she turns to him. “This was supposed to be our time.”

“And now she wants to spend time with somepony else.” He drapes a comforting wing over her withers. “We wanted the same when we were younger, didn’t we?”

I try forcing down a grin. Trust Dad to come to my rescue, and if I’m not mistaken, this is one of the boldest steps I’ve seen him take with her. Probably the public setting; there are still a few dozen ponies passing by the fountain, most looking our way as they go, and most giving us a decent berth. That’d be the guards’ doing, I imagine, and as Philip clearly said.

Mum doesn’t appear too convinced however, so I decide to help things along. “There’s a roller-skate rink down on Topaz Street, just by Farrington Square,” I announce, pointing south with a wingtip. “The hospital’s just around the block from there, if you need it. We shouldn’t be more than three hours, I don’t think, so what say we meet again at Farrington at four?”

Dad beams at me and nods. “Sounds like a plan.”

Mum shares an uncertain, apprehensive look between us all, but seems to know the argument’s swung away from her. She sighs, resigned, and returns to me with concern in her eyes, as if I’d volunteered to brave a twister on my own. “If this is what you want, dear…”

“It is,” I affirm, glancing up at Philip and trying to keep my enthusiasm from showing too much. “It’s been long overdue.”

She pauses, and then slowly nods and steps back. “Well then, I suppose this is goodbye.”

“Just for a few hours, Mum.”

“I know, I know, it’s just… I really hoped we could’ve spent more time together.”

And this is coming from the pony who wants me to me more socially active. “We will, Mum. Just not right now. Besides, there’s plenty of time before the sun sets, and we still have flight back to Cloudsdale. We’ll talk more, don’t you worry.”

Her expression shifts to a light smile. Not completely satisfied, but appreciative all the same. “I hope so,” she says quietly, and then pulls away from Dad and wraps me in a hug of her own. “Stay safe, Fleety, dear.”

“Mum, it’s just lunch,” I drone as I squeeze her in return, pressing my neck against hers. “I’m with a friend, and the Royal Guard will be just around the corner. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“I know, dear, I just… love you so much. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do.”

She snags a peck on the cheek before letting me go.

I thought we’d grown out of that, but apparently not. Not that it matters, anyway; our plans have been made, our destinations set, and all that’s left to do is bid my parents farewell. “See you later, Mum. You too, Dad. Have fun, and try not to break anything.”

“No promises,” Dad quips with a smirk, then turns away and starts wandering off. “Come on, honey, let’s leave them be. Maybe you can show me what moves you still have.”

Mum scoffs and rolls her eyes in amusement, but doesn’t follow or even look back at him, watching me instead. She seems almost overwhelmed by a sense of admiration and longing, as if she’s realising for the first time how grown up I am. She had the same look when I became a Bolt.

“Don’t worry, Miss Mistral,” Philip assures, “Fleet can handle herself. Take it from me: she has a mean right hook. Doesn’t know her strength half the time.”

“Excuse me,” I exclaim, peering up at him bemusedly, “since when have I ever slapped you?”

He raises an eyebrow at me knowingly, a hand on his hip. “Well, maybe it wasn’t a slap.”

Ah. Right. The Incident at Hole Eighteen. One of the few sore spots in our otherwise smooth history. I lower my gaze and suck on my bottom lip for a second, sighing through my nose, letting him know he’s made his point.

“Anyway, she’ll be fine.” He gives his gelato another lick and savours the taste. “We’ll just fetch some ice-cream here, go to the Lunar Bean, grab a coffee, maybe a chocolate croissant, talk a bit, and then she’s all yours. Heck, I might even be able to convince her to get a haircut for once.”

Mum snickers. As much as I want to take a jab at him for that, it seems to have done the trick. “No harm in that, I suppose,” she says with a smile, the sunhat shading her eyes and giving her a shy, reticent look. And then she brings her hoof up and clears her throat. “Anyway, yes, time to, uh… depart, as it were.”

“Four o’clock, Farrington Square.” I wave a casual salute and smile, then turn around and start walking for the kiosk. “Bye, Mum. I’ll see you soon.”

“You too, sweetie. I love you.”

“Love you too, Mum.”

And with that, after a short pause, I hear four hooves start trailing off, and a pair of sneakers striding across pavement to reach my side.

“Well,” he begins after another short pause, “that was interesting.”

“You’re telling me. Now, when does Ironside get back?”

“Not for another fortnight, I think. Why?”

“Nothing. Just… remind me never to swing round with Mum and Dad again before then.”

I sit in my chair with a stunned expression, staring at my equally stunned reflection in the blank phone screen; mouth open, eyes wide, brows slightly higher than normal, and I can feel my wings limp against my sides. I blink, and then, slowly, take the buds out from under my beanie, set them on the tabletop, turn my attention to the human on the opposite side barely keeping an idiotic grin from splitting his face in half, and blink again.

“Philip…”

“Mm-hmm?”

I hesitate, lowering my gaze and squinting at the tabletop, practically lost for words. I know what I want to say, but it just seems so ridiculous — so positively dumb compared to the horrifyingly beautiful work of art I’d just witnessed, if one could even call it that. But if there’s nothing else for it, then dumb will just have to do.

“…What exactly was that?”

His teeth show. I kind of want to kick them in. “That, dear Fleetybee…” he begins as he pulls the phone closer, switches it off, then rolls up the earbuds and stows them away, “was myself, Luna, and three of her magical clones… performing AC/DC’s Let There Be Rock in her personal suite. And besides getting to know you, that right there… is the single best thing to have happened to me since I arrived. Change my mind.”

I let out a breathless laugh, still squinting, and still trying to process everything. “But… she’s… a princess.”

“Yeah, and she likes rock and roll,” he chirps happily, and then cocks his head. “Considering she’s the most metal of the Big Four, I don’t see how any of this is surprising. I mean, Princess of the Night. How much more goth can you get?”

“But she’s old-fashioned,” I desperately defend, knowing deep down I’m fighting a lost cause. “A thousand years of isolation. Heck, she still addresses herself as ‘we’ from time to time, like… I don’t know. Since when has she ever have the privacy to warm up to that sort of thing, and how the heck did she learn to play the electric guitar, the bass guitar, and the drumkit without the whole kingdom knowing about it? And how in the world did you, of all ponies, convince her to let you make this video?”

“Actually, she was the one who suggested it.”

“Bullshit.”

“I shit you not.” He shakes his head and chuckles as he brings a tall, half-empty glass of apple juice from the table to his lips, then takes a gentle sip and savours the taste for a moment before continuing. “I can’t answer all your questions, Fleet, but you know I’d never lie to you. Luna is… a very unique character. And a talented musician, somehow, and has a majestic voice, and a sharp wit, and… just…”

I smirk as I listen, but his trailing off raises a question. “Do you miss her?”

He aloofly stares at the coffee cup on my end of the table, chewing his cheek as he thinks to himself for a while. “In a way, I guess,” he says with a sigh, sitting back in his chair. “Lady was like a living history book — a lot of interesting stories from ages past. Court politics aren’t what they used to be, let me tell you.”

“But do you think you’ll ever… you know…”

He looks up at me without moving his head, and with another sigh, he appears to understand what I’m getting at. He leans forward and runs a hand from his jawline to his hair —freshly shaven and recently trimmed, respectively. “One day, maybe,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. And then he shrugs. “I don’t know. I liked her as a person, but… not what she did. And as for her sister…”

I wait patiently. Months had gone by, but I’d only asked this question a hoofful of times, for clemency’s sake. The process would be slow for him, I always knew, but it’s healthy to leave him some breathing space — to make it clear that I'm not trying to rush him along.

“…I keep thinking back to that unicorn Spike mentioned — the one who’s still travelling… somewhere with her girlfriend. Longest honeymoon I’ve ever heard of. Anyway, she stole Twilight’s world, like… a hundred times over… and Twi stuck through it all, never once giving up hope of going home.”

My eyebrow rises curiously. He’s never made this comparison before, and although I’m slightly worried this might turn into a rant where I’ll have to intervene, I keep my concerns to myself. I want to see where this goes.

He pauses for a long moment, watching my cup again, and then rests his chin on a waiting palm and sighs yet again. “I don’t know where she found the strength to just… forgive her on a whim. Because if I’m having this much trouble dealing with my situation, I can’t imagine what kind of pressure she’d have been feeling.”

Still, I remain quiet.

“I’m not Twilight, I’ll say that much. Never have, never will be.” Another pause, and then he takes another sip from his glass. “I just wish things had turned out differently.”

“In what way?”

He shrugs again. “In a way where I wouldn’t have to be mad at anyone. But when I say that, that probably means never coming here.” He looks up once more and, after a beat, offers a small, subdued, but otherwise warm and inviting smile. “And we can’t have that, can we?”

I give a light snort and smile back. “Life would certainly be less interesting without you, that’s for sure.”

“You’re telling me.” He chuckles, glancing over the balcony to his left and at the rest of the café to his right. “An alternate universe full of talking, colourful ponies with magic and butt tattoos, and a whole heap of other races we humans thought were just myths and legends? This is a fantasy land come to life. You’d have authors from my Earth lining up in droves to get the full scoop on what makes this world tick, and I’ve been here for more than a year and I’m still learning things.”

But I’m only half-listening — hearing, but not processing; instead, I’m caught on a thought.

Life would be less interesting without him.

That’s a line I never thought I’d find myself saying about anypony else besides those I already knew before him: Spitfire, Soarin, Mum, Dad, Rainbow, Thunderlane, the rest of the team. It seems strange to think that, for almost seventeen years, my whole world revolved around myself and less than twenty other ponies, and I was perfectly happy with it. And now another’s been added to that circle, I can’t imagine how I’d react if this new routine suddenly… stopped.

Spitfire and I had come to an agreement: I’d do all the paperwork and nitty-gritty stuff for once in my life, if I were allowed a day in the week off. No exercise, no training, no anything of the sort, just some time for me to do me things. It took her by surprise at first — the workaholic athlete requesting a desk job in return for some free time — but I explained it away as me starting to take my leadership responsibilities seriously. After all, it wouldn’t do for the third in command to not know how to run the ship.

And each week, I spent the morning and evening of that day off flying to and from here, in Fillydelphia. I’d knock on his hotel door, or meet him at some predetermined destination, and no matter what we decided to do that day, we’d eventually find ourselves at the Lunar Bean Café.

In essence, it’s become a home away from home as much as the Academy, or the Wonderbolt airship, or Twilight’s castle ever was. This table and how it wobbles slightly, the railing to my right and all the mulberry vines growing along it, the wooden floorboards and how smooth they are on my hooves…

I like it here. I like the coffee, I like the food, I like the ponies, I like the company. It’s peaceful in its own way — provides an ambiance a stray cloud high in the sky lacks — and I’ve visited enough times that I’ve stopped being a sensation. Ponies know who I am, who I’m meeting, what I’m after, and they just… let me be. No requesting my autograph or a photo with me, just a few extra glances and whispered words.

Practically speaking, I barely need a disguise anymore. I wear one out of habit anyway, but…

I blink and return to him from staring off into the café interior, and I notice he’s watching me with a soft smile on his lips and a fascinated glint in his gaze. “Is something wrong?”

He doesn’t react immediately, but eventually, and gently, shakes his head. “Both your parents’ eyes are purple, but yours are green… and you hide them behind those contacts.”

I cock an eyebrow pryingly. “Turning into a critic, are you?”

He shakes his head again. “Not in the slightest.”

“Then what’s with the staring?”

For a long, long while, he doesn’t reply; he merely sits there and thinks, eyes slowly scanning me up and down, from beanie to parka and all regions in between. And as his attention wanders, his smile faintly widens. And then me meets my gaze once more, and he answers calmly, quietly, and as far as I can tell, truthfully, “You just… look nice.”

I blink, surprised to say the least.

Had he complimented my looks before? Yes, of course he had, just as I had done the same with him, and we’ve done that dance a dozen times over. But something… feels… different about this, somehow. It’s as if somepony had lightly brushed their wing over my shoulders, withers, and down my back all at once, but it feels neither warm nor cool.

“Thanks,” I mumble automatically, and decide maybe it’s for the best if I put whatever thought I’m having to rest with a nice mouthful of latte.

I pick my cup and saucer. Halfway finished, it seems, and milky design in the froth still matches my cutie mark — a ‘gift’ from the barista, Java Blend, who’s apparently taken a liking to me and ignored all signs of indifference. So long as he doesn’t get in my face about it and the coffee’s good, he can entertain his delusions to his heart’s content.

But then another thought strikes me, and I watch at my drink with creased brows.

As soon as I’m done with this, I won’t have any reason to stay. That is, besides the social norms all ponies are forced to abide by, chief among them in this context being you don’t leave prematurely. And I don’t want to. In fact, every time we’ve been together, I’ve found myself enjoying the occasion, and wishing I could’ve stayed longer. Every time, no exception.

We still have an hour and a half left, by my reckoning, but I already feel it’s not enough. I can almost guarantee it, actually; as soon as I get home from an outing like this, I check the clock, and the end of the next week can’t come soon enough. One hundred and forty-four hours later, I’d be up before dawn making my breakfast, warming myself up for the journey east, happy — or rather, glad — to meet him. I’ve never felt that way to anypony else before, even Soarin and Spitfire, great friends as those two may be.

It’s… an odd thought. One that begs further inquiry. And by some silly flight of fancy, I wonder if I’d find my answers by looking up at him. Which I do.

He peers over the balcony, watching the hustle and bustle of the street below; ponies dress in winter gear trot along the sidewalks, and carts trundle down the street itself. In the background behind him, distant and shimmering in the afternoon sun, is the ocean, and before it, the white sands of the shoreline. The light catches in his hair, trims his nose and brows, and picks out the details of a faint smile — small, yet enticing.

Once upon a time, it was rare to see him so outwardly cheerful. Not anymore. Now, he lights up like a firework anytime we see each other, and I can’t help grinning like an idiot alongside him. He makes a bad week good, and a good week great. And if this routine had to end…

I blink. I’m staring. If he’d seen me like that, he might’ve gotten the wrong impression. And that’s something neither of us need — the wrong impressions. No lies, deception, false pretences… and if I’m being honest with myself… this is the first time I’ve put somepony else on equal standing as my love for being a Wonderbolt.

I may not need his affection, but… I’m definitely starting to think I need him in my life.

Wait.

…

…

…

…

…

…Sweet Celestia…

Do I have a crush?

Author's Note

Stella is an OC loaned by Flammenwerfer. He's asked me to link this back to him so he can "funnel you into a bad decision".

Make of that what you will.

19 | Crazy Little Thing

Love.

It’s a difficult subject; so simple on the surface, yet so complex underneath, and then, somehow, simple again. And on and on it goes, switching back and forth, never making up its mind as to which end of the spectrum it prefers.

I love my family. This is simple.

I love my friends. This too is simple.

I love him…

This used to be simple. Now the word has another meaning, and it’s one I’ve been perfectly happy, and sometimes glad to wave off dismissively — not because I thought I never would’ve had a chance, but because I simply had no desire. Once upon a time, yes — almost every colt or filly goes through that stage — but when I joined the reserves, I found my lot in life. Nothing could’ve convinced me I needed, or would ever want anything more than that.

And then he showed up. One thing led to another, and now… here we are, seated in a booth in a trusted bar in the capital of the Crystal Empire, coming down from another birthday performance for Princess Flurry Heart. Spitfire and Soarin are sitting with us, the other Wonderbolts mingle about the establishment, and Brave, Phalanx and Ironside mingle with them. I try to focus on the conversation, but I keep drifting in and out with my thoughts.

We started the night off with a friendly introduction, took our seats, ordered our drinks and a basket of seasoned fries to share — apple juice for him, as always — and everything’s gone well. Music plays from speakers in all corners of the bar, and the chatter matches it in volume. He’s making friends, we’re all having a good time. This is fine.

I am in control.

“You okay there, Fleet?”

I stop the slow twisting of my glass of cider on the polished wood tabletop and turn my attention to Spitfire, diagonally opposite me in terms of seating. She wears her bomber jacket, but no cap or shades this time. Her expression is curious, not concerned, so I figure she hasn’t picked up on anything just yet. Best it stay that way.

“Yeah,” I reply coolly, then bring my hoof and the glass up to my lips to take a sip. “Just wondering why Philip here isn’t privy to a little liquor once in a while.”

“Excuse me,” he scoffs, patting the table as he leans against the cushioned backrest. “Since when were we in the business of shaming others for their drinking habits?”

“Yeah, cut the guy some slack, Fleet,” Soarin brays, slapping me on the back with a wing a little harder than he probably meant. “Let him be a wuss if he wants.”

“Oh, a wuss, am I? I’ll have you know I watched both Mortal Kombat movies start to finish without cringing once.”

“Is that so?” He nods in mock fascination. “Well then, I might be impressed if I knew what you’re talking about.”

Philip smirks and shakes his head. “Trust me, it’s better if you don’t,” he says, reaching over and snatching a chip, dipping it in a small bowl of sweet chilli before popping it in his mouth. “The nineties were a weird time, in some respects.”

“What decade isn’t?” Spitfire chuckles. “Believe it or not, Equestria’s gone through some phases of its own. Once upon a time, Starswirl the Bearded was considered an obscure historical figure, and Nightmare Moon was thought to be a myth by most people.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Most?”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, everyone. But what do you expect? Striking Luna from the history books and neglecting to mention her for a thousand years tends to make things seem… well, mythic. You can’t deny Equestria’s never been the best when it comes to keeping stuff recorded.”

“I’ll say.” Philip washes down the lone fry with a sip from his glass. “All the history books I read in the palace were either half complete or frustratingly brief, sometimes both. And this was Celestia’s personal archive.”

“Or what she let you read of it, at any rate.”

“True.” Another sip. “She probably hoards the darker stuff for herself.”

Spitfire snorts. “What, you’re fascinated by the prospect of people waging war and stabbing each other in the back?”

He shrugs. “It makes for good TV.”

Soarin baulks. “You watch that sort of thing for sport?”

“Hey, don’t act like you’re innocent. If stories have no conflict, they’re flat and boring. And sometimes, we want those stories to reflect real life events. You can’t shame me for liking what I like if I’m not hurting anybody.”

I peer down at the golden liquid in my glass.

If only it were so simple.

“Fine,” Soarin concedes, lifting a hoof in a small, dismissive wave, “I won’t kink-shame. Still, it’s interesting, don’t you think? The differences and similarities between our likes and dislikes. You know, you coming from another dimension and all.”

“Oh, yeah, Fleety and I have gone over that topic extensively. I’ve said it once, I’ll say it a million times, but I never imagined I’d be breaking bread with creatures like you. Or… should I say people?”

“Both are acceptable, but it’s more progressive to say ‘people’,” Spitfire informs with an encouraging smile. “Got to keep our image up to date, after all. And if it’s all the same, I don’t think any of us imagined we’d be sharing a drink with the likes of you either.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles to himself, and then turns his smile on me. “And we all know who to thank for that, don’t we?”

A lead weight drops in my chest, and it takes all my strength to keep it from showing — from letting my ears pin back or my wings tense up or my eyes to shift focus. I know he doesn’t know, and neither does anypony else, so all I can pin this down to is tragic irony and the will of whatever spirits that wish to mock me. I can’t bring myself to smile back, so instead, I watch him blankly and hope I come off as unsure on how to react.

It apparently works, because the next thing he does is raise his glass and beam a thankful grin. “A toast for my hero.”

Okay, now the universe is just plain torturing me.

“Hear-hear,” Soarin agrees, raising his own.

Spitfire does the same, but keeps her eyes on me, perhaps expectantly.

I suppose I shouldn’t disappoint, lest I rouse suspicion, so with a reluctant sigh that I hope sounds begrudging, I scoop up my glass and hold it aloft with the others. And there it hangs for a few moments while Philip does one of his exaggerated pouts as he thinks of the words. Despite his features being less… pronounced than a pony’s — especially the eyes — I’ve always liked how expressive he can be when he really lets himself relax.

I think there’s something endearing in the contrast.

“To friends newfound,” he finally announces, casting another smile to Soarin and Spitfire, before his gaze returns to me, “and whatever mistakes we’ll be making along the way.”

The lead weight morphs into a sack of bricks, and before I let it show, I clink my glass against theirs and tilt my head back as I guzzle the cider in a lengthy swig. The others do the same, and while they're distracted with their respective drinks, I seize the opportunity to wiggle out the tension in my wings and body. “Good,” I say for added protection, then clear my throat as if the stuff had actually burned going down. “That was good.”

“Mm, indeed.” Soarin nods as he replaces his cup on the table. “But before we completely move away from likes and dislikes, I have to wonder… what did you think of your first live Wonderbolts performance? Was it worth coming all the way up from Fillydelphia?”

“Of course!” Philip exclaims, replacing his glass as well. “Granted, you don’t see everything from the best angles in person, but… there’s something about being there that just…”

“You can’t describe?” Spitfire offers as she steals a chip.

“Yeah, yeah, that sounds about right.” He nods. “Hackneyed, but accurate. You don’t remember the rush of wind, for instance, or get to experience your popcorn spilling when Rainbow does a fly-by. Oh, and by the way, I loved that ballet-like segment in the middle.”

“That was Fleet’s idea,” Soarin answers, smirking at me and nudging my side. “Got a little inspired for this show, I think.”

Damn it, I’m in the spotlight once more, and his pause and expectant look tell me I’m supposed to elaborate. I clear my throat again and hope the alcohol kicks in at some point… though now that I think about it, perhaps I shouldn’t be drinking — it loosens the tongue and makes one more impulsive. Less careful. More liberal in their choice of words.

But silence won’t do either.

“Having a few months’ heads up helped a bit.”

“Where was that inspiration on the world tours?”

I glance at him, but his expression remains innocent, and not in the forced ‘whatever could I possibly mean’ kind of way. Which is good. So, I shrug. “Caught on churning out routines, I guess.”

“That’s it?”

I turn my head to him again and squint, tucking the closest wing tighter against my side. “What do you want me to say, that I’ve found my muse?”

“Well, have you?”

I hesitate. I’m sure the answer is no, because I doubt creativity is ever so simple — how can having somepony in mind motivate somepony else to paint a picture, or in my case, choreograph a show? If anything, wouldn’t that just be a distraction? That’s what I figured relationships are in this line of business, and while it wasn’t the sole reason I’ve denied myself the opportunity all this time, there’s no denying it was a big factor.

I look at Philip.

He looks back.

I force a smirk, and the small amount of bravery I’m showing puts a warmth in my chest. Surely he couldn’t believe what we’re all hearing either. “See, this is what I have to put up with every freaking day.”

Thankfully, much to my internal relief, and in a gesture that warms me even further, he smirks as well. “No wonder you complain as much as you do.”

I baulk and recoil, curling a foreleg defensively. “I do not!”

He quirks an eyebrow knowingly and angles his head toward me. “There we go.”

“No.” I point the same foreleg at him from across the table. “No, no, no, you don’t get to play that card with me. You can’t just make a claim like that and say I can’t defend myself.”

“All’s fair in love and war.”

I narrow my eyes and lean back, holding his gaze as I scrunch my snout to contain a grin. “You’re a cruel one, Mister Montero.”

“Maybe, maybe.” He nods as if reflecting on the notion, but then snickers and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t take you seriously with a face like that.”

I blink, sitting more upright and relax my muzzle somewhat, glancing to Spitfire and Soarin with an eyebrow raised curiously. “A face like what?”

“That — the thing you just did. It’s just… precious.”

I pause.

Precious.

Why does that word make me feel like I’ve had a blanket draped over my shoulders? Why does my chest tighten on the next breath? Why do my wings twitch in a subconscious effort to hug myself, and the corners of my mouth curl upward against my will? And is it just me, or is the air a little more humid?

“Do you have some kind of grudge against me, or do you pick on me just for fun?”

“What, it’s a crime to compliment you?”

I shake my head again bemusedly, then look to Spitfire. “Spitty, help me out, please.”

She snorts to herself before reaching over for another chip and glancing up at Philip while she dunks it in the chilli. “Alright, cut it out, big guy, or you’ll make her blush.”

He blinks at her with widening eyes. “You can do that?”

“Yep.” Spitfire nods once, returning her attention to me with a devious twinkle in her eye. “And on Fleetfoot, it’s the gosh darn cutest thing you’ll ever see.”

“You little shit.”

“Now, Fleetybee,” Philip playfully scolds, “is that any way to speak to your captain?”

“Oh no, we don’t pull rank in here,” Soarin interjects, leaning forward for a chip of his own. “All that business, we leave on the doorstep.”

“Not even as a joke?”

“Nah.” Shaking her head, Spitfire, lifts up her bottle to better see what’s left in the light. “Don’t get us wrong, we’re still professionals, and we take our jobs seriously — I know I certainly do — but as far as I’m concerned, if you’ve made the team, you’re A-okay in my books. No need to go flashing your badge in anyone’s face. If you have a problem with how I run my ship, we talk about it. I’m not shoving my decision down your throat if I can help it.”

Philip blinks, surprised. “That’s… different.”

She cocks an eyebrow at him. “It’s not the same on your Earth?”

“Not really. At least, not that I know of, and certainly not in any military unit.”

“Hmm.” She nods. “Well, technically speaking, we’re a branch of the military, but I’m no tyrant — that’s not my business. And it’s worked out for the last seventeen years, so here’s to that.”

I let my breath go, happy the conversation’s turned away from me for the time being. I peer out to the rest of the bar out of idle interest, perhaps for a distraction, and note how dissimilar it is compared to other establishments here in the capital.

Where most buildings were constructed almost entirely from crystal, the interior here is brick and wood, bringing to mind some of the more traditional pubs down in Equestria proper. The faint but distinguishable smell of liquor permeates the air, and the music playing is one of those bands that popped up as soon as the songs from Philip’s world hit the airwaves. The Kings, I think this lot calls themselves.

I see you climbing up my stairs

Just a few more steps to go

Laden with so many treats

And tickets for the show

Why can’t you see the honest truth?

It’s just so clear to me

All I need, I already have

My perfect honeybee

Typical. And of course, he and Soarin have started singing along while I’ve been lost in my surroundings. He has a nice singing voice, but if I listen too long, I might find myself getting carried away with the lyrics, so I try searching for something else to take my interest.

The Streak twins play darts against Thunderlane and Rainbow while Sun Chaser and Surprise watch on. Blaze and Wave sit by the bar itself and talk about something — probably the latter’s pen pals, considering how much Wave’s jaw flaps and Blaze nods. Misty chats with Brave, Phalanx and Ironside in the corner, as well as Hurricane, who was invited as thanks for her service on our second world tour.

As for Philip, Spitfire invited him after we met up when the show was finished. What compelled her, I don’t know, but I didn’t complain at the time. Maybe she wanted to size him up in person, and not rely on me or the news for an opinion. That still begs the question of why, though…

Sweeter (than nectar)

Than a breeze in spring

You never let go of my heartstrings

(You make) My heart sings

For your affection

I lack direction

I can’t imagine a world without you

My perfect honeybee

I shake my head to clear my mind, but when I notice I’m staring at a yellow foreleg, I trace my way up its limb to see her already staring back at me. Not with any particular emotion behind her fiery eyes, but there’s something about it that feels meaningful; she knows something. And the heaviness in my stomach tells me I already know what.

I look away, and the second I do, I know I’ve made a mistake; I should’ve asked her what was wrong, or made some witty quip — draw attention away from me and shine the spotlight on her.

Take back your chardonnay

Save it for another rainy day

Take back your roses red

The smell is only sweeter in your head

Oh, what other gift could compare

To the one standing before me?

Just hold my hooves if you’re in the mood

My perfect honeybee

And at last, it’s over — two more avenues of conversation have opened up, except I can’t bare to look one in the eyes at the moment. I clear my throat and glance over to my right.

“So, Soarin…” Spitfire beats me to the finish line — which is for the best, I suppose, since I wouldn’t have had any idea what to open with anyway, “if you could pick any of us to be your perfect honeybee, who would it be?”

My insides sink and a bolt of ice strikes right through me from neck to croup. She definitely knows, and I should’ve known better than to hide it from her. I can only hope she’s merciful enough to do me the small justice of not torturing me too much.

Soarin, however, seems positively gobsmacked, sitting completely straight with an equally straight face, like she’d offered to do something completely indecent with him in front of the entire team. “Uh… come again?”

“You go on a date with one of us. Who?”

He hesitates, blinking, his blank expression slowly giving way to uneasiness and embarrassment. His ears lower and he chuckles awkwardly, a gentle blush sneaking its way across his cheeks. “Why do you ask, exactly?”

“Shooting the shit.” She shrugs. “Still have a few boxes of chocolates leftover from Hearts and Hooves Day, and that song made me think about them. Figured I’d ask something random to spark another conversation — you get the drift.”

Fan mail candy. Yes, I have a box myself stored in the fridge, addressed from a secret admirer in Vanhoover. I don’t get them as often as other, more prominent members of the team do, so I still have a certain stigma around them; in a way, it feels like somepony’s stalking me. Spitfire merely rolls her eyes and accepts the treats for what they are: free candy. But I’m not that tolerant. And now I think I…

I glance at Philip.

He watches Soarin keenly, seemingly focussing on the now definite blush than whatever’s being said. His eyes are small, but they’re always so animated.

“Well, uh…” Soarin shifts his weight and taps the table with a hoof in thought, and no small amount of discomfort, “that’s a loaded question, Spits.”

“Why? You’ve stopped being an obnoxious flirt?”

“…Okay, firstly, ouch. Secondly… I’m not really sure I should be picking favourites.”

“Fine then, I’ll go first. You.”

His eyes widen. “What?”

“You heard me.” She plucks another chip from the basket and smothers it in sauce. “I think I’d enjoy dating you the most. Aside from a few kinks I could overlook or grind down with sandpaper, you have a personality I can get behind. We see each other often enough anyway, so… yeah. What’s the harm in giving it a shot?”

Yeah, she knows, and she’s twisting the dagger hard.

“Your turn.”

Soarin blinks again, more than a little flustered, but tries to swallow his pride and glances about to his left. I try to keep a neutral face and hold his gaze while our fourth companion picks out two more chips, now either lacking interest or trying to appear uninterested.

“I guess I’d have to go with Philip.”

If he’d been drinking something, I’m sure it’d have come out of his nose. He waits a moment, blinking at nothing in particular, then looks up at Soarin bemusedly. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Well, we, uh… barely know each other, and what better way to fix that than a nice chat over dinner? Or at the movies, or whatever you prefer.”

He blinks again, then sits back, leaving his chips in the dip, his expression turning from bemused to… something unreadable; troubled is the more appropriate word, with a hint of sympathy. “Well, I hate to break it you, Soarin, but—”

“He’s not being serious, Philip,” Spitfire interrupts, shrugging. “We’re just having some fun.”

“Ah.” His face and shoulders relax and he lowers his gaze, breathing a small, silent sigh of relief, which makes the sinking feeling in my gut bubble up. Then he returns to Soarin with a forced, but otherwise good-natured smirk and lightly shakes his head. “Well then, I’m flattered, bud, but unfortunately for you, I don’t swing that way.”

Soarin cocks his head, the blush now mostly faded. “Swing what way?”

Philip blinks once more, the smirk giving way to curiosity. “Males.”

Sorain blinks as well, and then his eyes widen. “Oh, you mean like the, um…” he taps a hoof on the table in thought, “the exclusive types, right?”

“…Yeah, I… think so.” Philip squints. “Wait, you mean to tell me it’s not the norm here?”

“Once upon a time it was,” Spitfire casually explains, plucking another chip. “Not anymore. It was even enforced in some of the more warlike city-states before Equestria was founded, to keep up the number of available troops. Now, like tribalism, it’s a dying belief.”

He retrieves one of the fries he’d left in the sauce and inspects it with a tiny, introspective smile before popping it in his mouth. “The gays have taken over.”

“Pretty much.”

He chuckles to himself, shaking his head wistfully.

“So, who’d you pick?”

I close my eyes, but try not to squeeze them shut. I let my ears angle back, but refuse to let them flatten. I breathe deep and slow, but try not to let it show. I pull my wings in, as if to shield me from some indiscernible blow. A long while passes, and no answer comes, and I begin to worry I’ve been caught out.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer not to play.”

“Still too out there for you?”

“Very much so.”

“But has it crossed your mind?”

Another pause; I can almost hear him frowning at her, and the silence is deafening.

“Not even as a purely romantic partner?”

“I’m not talking about this while sober, and not with you.”

My ear twitches, and I realise how hard my heart is beating against my chest. By my reckoning, that wasn’t a flat rejection, which means…

No. No, he couldn’t possibly…

“Okay, okay, I can respect boundaries,” Spitfire soothes, no doubt sporting a subdued, understanding look, judging by her tone. “Can’t help but wonder, though, now you’re settled in, what’s the next chapter in the life of this world’s first human?”

“Does there need to be?”

She pauses, thinking. “Not necessarily, but if I were mooching off Celestia’s payroll day in, day out without anything to show for it, I’d feel pretty aimless. And besides, the rest of your life is a long time to spend alone.”

“Well then, where’s your special someone?”

I wince, and my ears sink a little further. He didn’t say it spitefully, or with much hostility, but the point he made was… cutting. And I’m the one it was aimed at. I creak open my eyes and peer up at the scene cautiously, keeping my snout trained on the empty glass in front of me.

Philip sits with his arms folded and head angled toward Spitfire, a brow raised expectantly while his eyelids sit at half-mast. Spitfire holds his gaze with a blank stare, neither shocked, upset, nor insulted — the perfect poker face, not unlike him when he’s at his most stoic. Soarin, however, watches on with a stunned expression, ears pinned back and wings somewhat limp at his sides.

A new song comes on; I Love You Always Forever. I’ll have to remind myself to sock Rainbow one when tonight’s finished, being the pony who made the jukebox selections.

“I can also tell when I’ve crossed a line,” Spitfire finally states, and much to my surprise — though I really shouldn’t be, in immediate retrospect — there’s no offence behind any of her words; she’s dealt with worse and grown thicker skin from it. She turns her attention to Soarin and offers him a small, genial smile. “Care for a dance, Clipper?”

Soarin snaps to her and shuts his mouth, blinking as his perk up. “Me?”

“Of course.” She cocks her head innocently. “Would you like to?”

He blinks a few more times, glancing to Philip and I, then gives a grateful shrug. “Well, I mean, if you’re offering…”

“Come on,” she beckons, sliding out of the booth and ambling for an open section of the wooden floor. “Let’s leave these two be for a bit.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Soarin answers, hopping from his seat and eagerly trotting after her.

I watch them from the corner of my eye, and I feel hollow; Soarin’s doing this to take his mind off what he’d just witnessed, but Spitfire’s removing herself from the equation to give us privacy — to give me an opportunity. One I know I shouldn’t waste on her account, or on mine, and the second I discovered these feelings, I knew this moment was inevitable. It just sucks when the thing you’ve been dreading — and in some strangely unpleasant and twisted way, craving — finally stares you in the face.

Whether I’m craving a release from mounting pressure or something more definitive, like… an answer… I can’t be sure. And I’m not sure I want to; the air on my right feels cool, empty and uninviting, and on my left, the brick wall offers me no protection. I’m backed into a corner, and the out short of a bumbling, rushed excuse is forward.

Him.

Always him.

Every complaint, every boon, every new development, it’s all been shared with him.

Then what’s the harm in sharing this?

I blow a quiet, ragged sigh as I return to and toy with my glass. We’re at the point where nothing either of us could say would shock the other, but this is something else entirely, and considering how poorly Spitfire’s attempt at buttering him up had gone…

He deserves to know.

He does.

You need to tell him.

I do.

Then buck up, sister. You can do this. You’ve been through worse and you’ll go through worse, it just doesn’t seem that way in the now. Heck, you’ve put up with everypony else’s crap for long enough — it’s about time somepony put up with yours.

A gentle snort escapes me and a subdued smirk creeps its way across my lips. Arguing with myself is a pointless endeavour, but at least I have a good sense of humour. I think. For the most part. It’s tough to judge when I’m my own critic.

“I think I like you, Philip.”

“I think I like you too, Fleetybee.”

My ears twitch, and as the words sink in, I frown; he sounded as nonchalant as I had, and bearing in mind what I’d just declared, that wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. So, inquisitively, I soften my expression and slightly raise my snout, peering at him from behind upturned brows.

He stares off into the distance, watching the dart game with a neutral gaze, munching on the chip he’d taken from sweet chilli dip. Of course he hadn’t heard — nothing’s never perfect the first time, or we wouldn’t need rehearsals.

I shake my head. “No, Philip.”

He quirks an eyebrow, but lingers on the game a few seconds more before finally returning to me. And even then, he’s unsuspecting; he hasn’t picked up on the vibe I’m laying down. But I suppose I can’t blame him: if Soarin or Spitfire did this to me, it’d blindside me too. It’s just a shame I have to bring a mallet to hammer in this nail.

“I think I like you.”

He doesn’t react at first, as if the notion confuses him, but as he begins to process the information, his eyes widen, his brows rise, his lips part, and he leans back in his seat, all in slow-motion. And there he stays for a good, long, timeless while, stunned, his gaze almost vacant — empty, like the chilling whispering its way up my spine.

This was a mistake, it tells me. I’d spooked him, scared him off — realised his worst fears. He won’t want to talk with me anymore, and any interaction with anypony else will remind him of this very moment, and the dangers of letting another creature care too much for you.

But if that were the case, he’d be walking out of here right this instant. And so, the whispers remain just that: whispers.

Instead, and at long last, his eyes lower to the table.

“Oh.”

Genuinely surprised, he seems, but his response doesn’t feel directed at the fact — more so his reaction; he’s not forcing himself to be calm, he is calm. That’s what’s surprising him. But considering how many revelations he’s taken relatively well in the past, where other ponies would’ve kicked and screamed or given in to despair, I don’t see why. This is how he’s always been, and that’s the way I like him.

“Well,” he begins, swallowing and clearing his throat, “you know I’m not—”

“I know.”

He meets my gaze again, curious. “Then…”

“I just thought you ought to know,” I murmur, shrugging, then shake my head and look away. “You know, in case things got… weirder than they are. I don’t want to talk about it right now, but… soon, okay?”

He pauses, and I wait, but no response comes; even the shadow he casts on the edge of my vision remains perfectly still. Letting the question hang could be his way of saying yes, but in another light, he could be too afraid to say no. And if that’s the case, then I need to be sure — I need a definite answer. This is too important to leave to chance.

I slowly slide my hoof a little closer across the table and turn the frog up. And as I do so, I just as carefully lift my gaze.

He watches my hoof with faintly furrowed brows for what feels like minutes, but is probably only a few short seconds, before locking eyes with me. There’s hesitation in the air about him, though how deep it runs is left to the imagination, which is precisely what I don’t want.

“We’re still good, right?” I ask as loud as I’m able with the music playing over everything, while making sure I let my own trepidation show. Neither of us are certain about this — there’s no use hiding it. And if he knows we’re both new to this, then maybe we can take comfort in each other’s inexperience.

Another long pause as he thinks to himself, never wandering off or glancing away. His shoulders rise and fall in a silent, gradual sigh, and on the outward breath, his attention drifts back to my hoof. His lips press together and the corners of his mouth stretch to either side; a decision had been reached.

But just as I begin to fear for the worst, a hand falls to his lap as he leans forward from the backrest, and the other floats on over to hold my hoof, and gives me a gentle squeeze.

A toothless shiver runs up my foreleg and buries itself within my withers. A hug is more intimate, I know, but there’s something about this that feels… cosy — like I could get used to it. And as I peer up and into his eyes once more, that feeling only grows.

“Yeah,” he whispers, then meets my gaze again, and a soft, kindly, sympathetic smile sneaks through. “We’re good.”

A breath I didn’t realise I was holding inaudibly escapes me.

Calm acceptance. I wouldn’t have it any other way. And that’s the worst of it over; all that’s left is what comes next — in other words, the rest of my life. No big deal, really, so long as I break it down into itty bitty parts, starting with the immediate aftermath and the… unexpectedly comfortable silence between us. So, in reality, I suppose I don’t need to do all that much.

My attention — and his, after a quick glance — settles upon a pair of ponies dancing in the centre of the bar, one wreathed in the colours of fire, and the other in the colours of a cloudy sky. Pachata, by the looks of it — a lively but simple romp that matches well with the song — and neither can keep an amiable smile from their faces. Others watch from the sidelines, heads swaying with the beat and hooves tapping along, infected with a similar sense of delight.

I smile too. It isn’t anything big, and I’m not quite sure what spurs it, but I smile all the same. Perhaps, after two weeks, I’m relieved to finally say what I’ve been meaning to say, but this doesn’t feel like relief — that’s where a weight is lifted from your shoulders.

This?

It’s warm. It bubbles. And when I sneak another peek at him, it mellows.

I don’t know what’ll happen next, but come what may, I’ll take it in my stride.

Maybe there’s something to this romance business after all.

21 | One Slip

Presents.

Normally, I wouldn’t have to worry about them, seeing as all my closest friends are fairly rich, and superstars to boot — another reason we’re not considered a proper military unit by the common pony. We can buy pretty much whatever we want, so it’s really just our time and company that’s the most valuable thing we can offer. And even then, we see each other basically every day. As a result, birthdays have grown less and less remarkable the longer I’ve been a Bolt.

This one, however, is a little different.

The saddlebags feel slightly heavier than normal on my back, and that’s not just because one of the pouches carries something very special; this is the first time I’ll have ever actually given him something. Not like the photos of the snow mandalas up in Yakyakistan, which was me just sharing an experience — I mean a proper gift; something you give to somepony completely free of charge and any expectations, solely for their enjoyment.

I’ve dressed for the occasion as well, supposing that, even for a friend as close as him, I ought to make myself look presentable. Nothing fancy at all, just a little extra attention to my mane and tail and the casual Wonderbolt attire; black polo, blue jacket with a gold and white stripe around the base of the collar and a gold right sleeve. Cheap, frankly — one could and would correctly assume, if they put two and two together, that it was a last minute decision.

But anything more swanky and I’d probably stick out like a broken feather, and anything less just didn’t feel right. This is the perfect balance, I think.

I hope.

It probably wouldn’t matter anyway, would it? I’m showing up. That’s enough in his mind, right? I’m showing I care. Even though he already knows that. Known it for a whole year, and especially now that the cat's out of the bag.

I sigh, realising I’m overthinking this again. I’m not sure if it’s grown worse ever since I let him know, but I’m definitely starting to notice it more. Maybe that’s only natural, but then again, maybe it isn’t — this is new to me, so how am I supposed to know?

But no matter what the problem is, whether real or imagined, all I need to remember is that I’m still in control. And with that, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, hold it for a few seconds, and then let it go. And the world feels calmer.

A pub on the foreshore, The Tiny Dancer, just around the corner from Seaford’s Riviera — that’s where it’s being held. And as I continue trundling down the sidewalk toward it, I scan the windows along its side and see the interior appears rather packed. On the roof is an open-air seating area, rentable for private functions if one so desired, and that’s where I’m headed.

Word wouldn’t have gotten out about this small gathering, since only him, myself and the guards knew precisely where and when, so if I’d known this place was so popular, I’d have suggested somewhere else. The Friendly Card down in Baltimare, perhaps — quite a hike for a birthday, but I trust the establishment more, and if it’s ever my turn to talk, there are more memories I can recall.

Approaching the entrance, I can hear the eager cheering of hoofball fans — that explains the crowd; there’s a match being played up north between two international teams. Peering through the glass before I enter, the supporters seem overwhelmingly in Equestria’s favour, with one or two griffons sporting the colours as well, all fixated on the TVs in the corners.

I pull open one of the two doors and stroll through, pausing for a moment to test the water. No immediate change, though the air is a little more humid and drips with the bitter, somewhat tart smell of a noxious amount of alcohol, assorted nuts and salted pretzel biscuits.

Good. At least it’s not me they’re paying attention to — one of the rare few instances a crowd has already gathered and I don’t steal the show. Could’ve gone with more of a disguise, just to be safe, but that’s more baggage to carry and keep track of when I arrive. No time for that on anypony’s account, his least of all.

With a mental shrug, I amble onward, passing by two tables on either side, the one on my left looping a euphoric team chant that I get the feeling is going to spread like wildfire soon enough. With the right momentum, they might be singing it long after their cups stop refilling. The current bartenders — twin brothers, by the look of it — seem rather pleased with the number of patrons tonight, despite the noise level. No doubt the profit outweighs the potential damage to anypony’s ear canals.

Reminds me of the first time I ever had a fangirl squeal in my face, right after I signed her favourite book in Las Pegasus. Screamed so loud I found myself waking up with ringing ears three weeks straight. I won’t pretend to know how that worked, but it taught me to bring a pair of earplugs on any official Wonderbolt trip.

One of the players scores a point and the whole room lets out a massive cheer, some pounding on the tabletops and one spilling her drink in her excitement. She instantly lets out a hushed curse and looks about for a serviette to wipe up the mess, darting to the bar and cutting me off for a moment when she sees a stack on offer. I do my best to walk around, but she bumps into my flank on the way back.

“Sorry!” she blurts out fretfully, as if this is the latest in a long list of accidents. But when she looks at me to offer another apology, she stops and stares with wide eyes and an open mouth. “Oh my stars…”

I know that look anywhere, so I quickly turn and resume my course at a trot, heading for a narrow staircase towards the other side of the room.

“Fleetfoot! It’s… it’s Fleetfoot, guys! Over there, it’s her!”

Her calls are easily drowned out by the revelling of the hundred or so fans filed in every booth, sitting at every table, so numerous that some have to stand to be with their group. But if I don’t vacate soon, the more ponies will listen, the more eyes will spy me, and for all I know, a horde of half-drunk, hyped-up fanatics will be hounding me for a moment of my time; a photo or an autograph, or whatever else — I once had some sanctimonious type try debating politics with me, probably aiming to impress me and set himself above the rest. Not all fans are mindless, he said.

Absolute twat.

I reach the staircase in short order, where a lone bouncer — a tall and unusually powerfully-built mare, even by earth pony standards — halts me with an outstretched hoof. Kind of reminds me of that big, red stallion down in Ponyville, in terms of height and bulk. “ID, please.”

I blink, creasing my brows, sparing a cautious glance at the rest of the room to see that nopony else has seen me. Yet. “You know who I am, Miss…” I squint at the nametag on her protective vest — a favoured style of armour for law enforcement in the cities, “Apple Bloom.”

Behind dark shades and a black cap, an eyebrow quirks.

And then the reality heaps on me like a tonne of bricks and I do a double take. “Wait, hold on… you’re not the Apple Bloom, are you? Little sister of Element Bearer Applejack?”

The corner of her mouth curls slightly upward in a faint smirk and she gives a small nod. “Indeed I am, ma’am.”

“What are you doing out here, so far away from Ponyville?”

“Guarding.”

I blink again. “Well, I can see that, but I mean… why? Aren’t you supposed to be looking after the homestead, or something?”

The smirk fades; her face grows neutral. “I love my sister and everything she stands for, but that doesn’t mean I have to become her, if that’s what you’re implying.”

My eyes widen and I shake my head.

“Good.” She seems to relax, but it’s hard to tell. “Your friend’s guards asked for extra security, since they’re the guests of honour, and Princess Celestia saw an opportunity to mend certain bridges. I’m one of the builders.”

“You? Not Applejack?”

“AJ was part of whatever conspiracy that caused this rift to begin with — it’s not my place to know or comment.” She shrugs. “And since I was already pursuing martial arts, I figured why not.”

“As a job?”

“Hobby. Blame Rainbow — she introduced me to it.”

I nod, though I can’t help entertaining a small, unfortunately nagging sense of doubt; I lower my ears and lean closer. “I don’t mean to sound condescending, but… are you qualified?”

“I can handle myself. Celestia wouldn’t have let me come if I couldn’t.” She holds at an upturned hoof. “That’s also why I’m asking for your ID, ma’am — so I can verify you are who you seem to be.”

I pause, watching her, then with an accepting sigh and roll of the eyes, I dig a wingtip into my jacket for my wallet, then slide out the citizen’s card and pass it over.

She sits down to use both forehooves, checking it front and back for any signs of tampering and forgery. Then she compares the printed photograph and cutie mark with the real deal, paying close attention to the extremities. “Name?”

“Fleetfoot.”

“Date of birth?”

“Sixteenth of the sixth, nine-eighty-two, Celestial Age.”

“Parents?”

“Father: Slipstream. Mother: Mistral.”

“Occupation?”

My eyelids lower. “Are you serious?”

“Celestia’s orders, ma’am; no half measures.” she declares evenly, peering up at me over the top of her shades. “Considering how close you two are, I’m sure you’d agree.”

At that, Inside of me something tightens and recoils, put on the defensive like a startled cat. She couldn’t possibly know the whole truth, though, so it’s a feeling that’s easy enough to keep hidden. I slake the instinct to panic with a glance to my right, and see there aren’t as many eyes on me as I’d originally feared; maybe only five pairs out of the closest group of twenty.

“Occupation?”

“Senior Airpony of the Wonderbolts.”

She looks down at the card again, then nods to herself and returns it, offering me a tight-lipped smile. “Alright, everything’s in order.”

I slip it back into the wallet, and the wallet back into my pocket. “What, you’re not swabbing my gums and comparing DNA samples?”

Her brows crease and she looks up in thought. “Now that you mention it…”

“Okay, I’m going,” I announce, walking around and ascending the staircase as fast as I can without seeming too rude. “Good night, Apple Bloom.”

She chuckles and tips her hat. “You have a good night too, Miss Fleetfoot. And don’t worry, I’ll keep y’all mighty safe.”

That part, I don’t doubt; one doesn’t look upon a frame as solid as hers and not have second thoughts about whatever it is they’re doing. Even a completely wasted, victory-crazed hoofball fan would probably have to think things through before they tango with her. And taking into account the stories of how hard her sister kicks, I’m not sure I’d like to see the aftermath of whatever she decides to hit.

The stairs eventually end, I open the door at the top, and the cool ocean breeze welcomes me in a dry, salty embrace. Night creeps along the eastern sky, though dusk isn’t quite over, so not all the stars have come out to shine just yet. A brazier blazing in the centre of the rooftop patio draws my attention first and foremost, surrounded by benches and four distinct forms: three ponies, one human.

My entrance hasn’t gone unnoticed.

“Fleetybee!” the group calls out in unison, though his soars above the rest. And then they share a laugh at how predictable the greeting had become.

I look down for a moment as I smile, instinctively shy to be welcomed at such a small gathering. Even with friends, it can’t be helped.

“We were wondering when you’d show up.” Philip waves me closer, a grin on his face and a glass bottle of juice in his other hand — mango, banana and pear, judging by the label. Even on an occasion such as this, he’s denying himself the pleasures of a proper drink. Typical. “Come, sit, share my fire. We’ve much to discuss on this hallowed night.”

And then there’s his spontaneity shining through. I stroll onward, leaving behind the wooden pillars of the undercover area, cross onto the artificial lawn marking the firepit zone, and take my place on the circular bench, setting my saddlebags at my rear hooves. The world seems to darken in the warm glow of the flames, and what’s illuminated can’t decide whether it wants to be orange or yellow.

Phalanx, Brave and Ironside, now opting for more pedestrian clothing in lieu of their armour, have already laid claim to their own spots. Together, we form a fairly symmetrical line-up: the human in the centre, two stallions on either side, and both girls on either end. A collection of tinted bottles lie in a cooler full of ice behind Philip; beer, mixers, a flask of champagne, whatever takes your fancy. The guards have some in their hooves, half-empty.

Woodsmoke and salt, and the raw heat of the fire; that’s what I smell now. And maybe the faint hint of cologne — Ironside must’ve gussied himself up.

“Brave was about to head out and search for you,” Philip continues, gesturing to the mare, who nods and offers a light salute with her plastic cup of wine. She’s less physically imposing than the other earth pony downstairs, but for all the crap I give the Royal Guard, I’ll never deny their training is exemplary. “Phalanx thought you’d just drop in from the sky.”

“Even though that would be a clear violation of Fillydelphia’s airspace restrictions,” Ironside adds, angling his head toward me with an eyebrow raised in a gently warning look. His voice is gravelly, befitting a film set on the wild frontier; a stallion with no name. “Need I remind you of the last time you tried pulling that stunt around the local police.”

“What?” I playfully query, turning to him with a perfectly innocent smile. “Unlike you, I don’t keep track of every city’s legal differences down to the subsection.”

“Indeed. And you wonder why the Guard looks down on you Wonderbolt types.”

“Speak for yourself,” Phalanx chimes in, leaning forward just a tad to gain a better view. “You’re the one who didn’t make the cut.”

Ironside snaps back to him, wings ruffling in place. “If you think I still hold a grudge from being rejected, soldier, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Then don’t bring profession into it.”

“I’m only saying, as representatives of Equestria, we should all be expected to—”

“Okay, okay, enough with the histories and rivalries and who’s taking what far too personally,” Philip declares with a wave and a chuckle. “We’re gathered here to stroke my ego, thank you very much. And seeing as I’m the dungeon master, and all my little pawns have found their way to me, I think I can safely say this party has officially started.”

Brave tilts her head to the sky and howls.

“That’s the spirit!” He pulls out his phone, activates the screen, and then hovers his finger over a button of some kind — I can’t quite see at this angle. “But if I may, let’s hone that excitement into something slightly more lowkey.”

I snort. “Like what?”

“Like this.” He taps the screen, and then from all four corners of the patio, music plays: a trill of the piano, followed by a harmonica.

Billy Joel’s Piano Man.

I narrow my eyes and slowly turn from peering off into the dark back toward him.

That shit-eating grin is plastered on his face again — the kind I love but hate but can’t get enough of, perhaps because seeing him smile was so rare once upon a time. But also perhaps because I just like seeing him happy, even at my expense. “Humour me,” he says, shrugging.

What would the you from a year ago think?

Doesn’t matter. She isn’t here anymore. So, I smile, I roll my eyes, and I sing along.

“So, none of you have ever once considered pursuing any other career?”

“Nope.”

“Not really.”

“No, sir.”

Philip glances between all three guards curiously, bordering disbelief. The glinting reflection of the fire in his eyes is barely noticeable. “So, this business of finding your destiny and everything, it really is more or less preordained?”

“By what?” Brave asks, finishing her third cup for the night.

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Your parents named you, and your name pretty much always matches the occupation you seem to be best at, so does that mean… your parents literally determine your fate? Or do they have some weird power of foresight? Or… I don’t know. Does all of this cutie mark stuff happen by pure, highly improbable, extremely unlikely, basically zero-to-one chance?”

There’s a silence as the other guests share looks amongst themselves, Ironside slowly opening and closing his mouth as he tries and fails to offer an explanation.

I can’t blame him; I don’t have the foggiest on how to respond either.

“This boy’s asking the real questions,” Phalanx muses, levitating his glass and taking a sip. “Pretty deep stuff, and you’re not even off your head.”

Philip blinks. “None of you know?”

“Why would we?” Brave shrugs vacantly. “It’s just… something you accept as fact and don’t really think about — if nopony else does, why should you? Of course, if you come from another world where none of this happens, that grants you an entirely different perspective on things. I imagine it’s far simpler when you don’t have to worry about magic messing up your physics.”

“You don’t understand the science of magic either?”

“Science,” Phalanx scoffs. “Not much of that to it. Magic is a fickle instrument; so many different kinds, all related in a way, but never being consistent. Hoof magic is different to pegasus magic, which is different to unicorn magic, which is different to earth pony magic, and so on and so forth ad infinitum. Just when you think you have it figured out, you find an exception to the rule, and then several, until the rule may as well be Swiss cheese.”

Philip pauses, then sits up and folds his arms, staring into the fire, bemused. “Well then, that’s vexing.”

“Tell that to the scholars. I know quite a few have spent their whole lives coming up with a flawless set of laws, only to fail, and then become depressing poets in their twilight years.”

He huffs a laugh. “My world has those types too,” he says, peering over to Phalanx. But then a look of recognition crosses his face and he turns to his left, pointing at me. “Oh, that’s another one, Fleetybee: Swiss cheese.”

My ear twitches and I raise an eyebrow, confused for a moment, but then I realise our game of similarities hadn’t really ended. “You have that over there too?”

“Yep. Named after a country called Switzerland — famed for its mountainous terrain, staying neutral through two world wars, and being exceptionally rich.”

“World wars?”

“Indeed. With casualties in the tens of millions, most of which were civilians.” He reaches behind him and grabs a bottle of apple and black currant, twisting the lid. “This world’s history may not be as objectively interesting as mine, Fleet, but sometimes, I envy that.”

He didn’t say it in a sad manner, but it comes off that way. Last time I checked, Equestria was the most populated country in the known world, just breaching the forty million mark. So, to imagine more than half that number gone… and then imagine the world taking a similar hit…

“Sounds like the diamond dogs before their collapse,” Ironside ponders aloud, watching the fire. “This Swiss cheese place, I mean. The dogs kept to themselves, making their burrows and mines under the mountains, hoarding all the wealth they could find. But in the end, it was their own greed that led to infighting, and they’ve been scattered as a people ever since.”

Philip raises an eyebrow. “What’s got you so histrionic?”

“Oh, don’t mind him,” Phalanx says, rolling his eyes. “He just likes rambling whenever he thinks there’s some moral lesson to be had.”

“There’s nothing wrong in learning from past mistakes, even if they aren’t your own,” Ironside defends, peering across to his fellow guard. And then he looks to Philip. “As a fellow history buff, I’m sure you’d agree.”

“Sure, sure.” Philip bobs his head from side to side. “But I don’t think Switzerland was at any risk of collapsing when I left home, let alone the whole of Europe. In fact, humanity was living in its most peaceful age in the last twelve thousand years — it just didn’t seem that way because we had more widespread news coverage.”

Brave baulks. “Twelve thousand years?”

He smirks. “Is that really so hard to believe?”

She blinks, and then shakes her head. “No, not… terribly hard. It’s just… strange, I guess. I mean, to have records that date as far back as… well…”

“Records? No.” He lightly shakes his head and takes a small sip. “Archaeology: that’s the ticket. Twelve thousand years ago was when we started leading sedentary lifestyles, building villages and farms, and eventually temples and defences. You could argue that change is what led to us being so… prone to war, but without it, I don’t think society as a whole would’ve progressed as far as it has.”

“You’re thankful for your past?”

“Not thankful, just…” he drifts off, staring into the distance beyond the brazier with creased brows, slowly running the tip of his tongue along his teeth. And then he sighs and shrugs and lowers his gaze. “I don’t know. Things wouldn’t be the same if history happened any other way. People live, people die… people do great and terrible things. And if you go back in time and change the past, how do you know you’re not preventing us from landing on the moon?”

“The moon?” I ask incredulously. “Why would anypony want to go there?”

“Because we could,” he answers plainly, smiling again. “And also so the US could claim they won the space race, when the Soviets made all the big leaps.”

“Careful with the info dumps, Philip.” Phalanx gently waves a calming hoof. “Small doses, remember? Or else you may as well be talking to a brick wall.”

“Trust me, you don’t want me to elaborate.” Philip chuckles and shakes his head, lifting his bottle for another sip. “The Cold War is just plain depressing.”

Brave leans forward a little way and looks at him in morbid curiosity. “Stars above, how many wars have there been over there?”

“In twelve thousand years?” He shrugs. “Hundreds. Thousands. Plenty more undocumented, I’m sure, and all of them unnecessary. But at the same time… practically unavoidable.”

Another silence. More glances.

I decide to break the peace. “How so?”

His expression has turned pensive; brows knitted together in a soft, thoughtful frown, lips pursed in that pout he does. Even when I know I should be concerned, there’s something about simply looking at him that grants me a feeling of ease. “I don’t believe in fate,” he says rather flatly, giving myself and the others a quick, blank glance. “Not in the strictest sense. We’re programmed from birth to be more or less likely to do something, but the world affects us as much as we affect it. You can stack the odds all you like, but nothing’s one hundred percent guaranteed.”

A longer silence. I get the feeling either myself or one of the guards should speak up, perhaps, to maybe change to subject, but none of us do. I guess because we’re all too curious for our own good.

“At least, that’s how it was in my world; science can make sense of stuff, but really, everything happens by chance. No rhyme or reason to any of it. Here, though… who knows? Maybe coming here was my destiny all along.”

A pit opens up in my stomach. I didn’t need to hear that. I don’t need that guilt weighing on me now. Not when this is supposed to be a happy night.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Ironside soothes as best he can in a voice as gruff as his. “As Phalanx said, magic can be fickle at times. Some have even claimed it has a consciousness of sorts, seeing as ‘dark’ magic can trap its users in a state of psychosis. Nightmare Moon and King Sombra were both obsessed with darkness, after all.”

Phalanx groans and sinks his head into waiting hooves. “Again with the history lessons.”

“Princess Twilight Lite,” remarks Brave.

Ironside gives them both an unimpressed look, but drinks his whiskey without comment.

I keep my mouth shut.

Philip peers up at all four of us, assessing us from behind his reserved, stoic mask. And then he stares blankly at the ashtray beneath the brazier. “An exile by fate, or an exile by chance,” he murmurs to nopony in particular. “Which is the lesser of two evils, I wonder?”

My teeth clench and grind and I look away, hunching forward a little way and folding my forelegs in my lap, trying my best to keep my wings at my side and ears from sinking too far down.

Tell him.

Not now.

Then when?

I don’t know, but not now. Not with others around. Besides, what good would telling him that do? It won’t make things better.

Maybe not, but it’ll help clear your conscience.

Oh, great, so now I’m putting my own interests above his.

It’ll have to happen at some point if you want to keep seeing him without guilt. You can only put it off for so long. You know this.

“Let’s not focus on the hows and whys,” Phalanx says in a careful, pacifying tone, nudging Philip’s elbow, clearly picking up on the awkward air. “You’re here. You’re alive. And schmaltziness aside, I think I speak for all of us when I say we’re glad to have met you.”

“It’s true,” Ironside assures, tipping his head toward him in a gentle nod.

“I know I am, sir,” Brave agrees with a salute of her glass.

I look up cautiously, but try to appear neutral. That becomes difficult when all three guards soon take notice and turn their attention my way, and one by one share knowing glances among themselves, varying in degrees of cunning. And when Philip joins them, even if his gaze remains rather dispassionate, it becomes all the harder — the weights in my stomach and on shoulders grow heavier.

“And I think we all know who’s welcomed your arrival the most,” Phalanx says, returning to him, teetering on a knife’s edge with the definition of teasing. “Really, Philip, I don’t believe anypony regrets meeting you. Even those you… aren’t too keen on meeting again yourself. Whatever happened, whether it was destiny or an accident, it doesn’t matter; you’re here now and we’re here for you. Isn’t that right, guys?”

“Aye.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sure,” I whisper to myself.

“See?” Phalanx continues. “You’re a gift to us all, Philip. At this point, I don’t think any of us can imagine life without you. And on that note, I think it’s time for—”

“Presents!” Brave excitedly announces, flinging her forehooves in the air, lucky she’d already emptied her cup. She sets it down, leans back, and pulls out a canvas sack from behind the bench, which she lays in her lap and fumbles through the folds for the opening. The alcohol is probably making it harder than it needs to be.

Philip sits upright, glancing between the two other guards only to see them looking back at him, Ironside with esteem and Phalanx with enthusiasm. Instead, he turns to me with a quizzical eyebrow raised.

I shrug and shake my head; I’m as clueless as he is.

“Ah, here we go.” Brave finds the cords and tugs them loose, then shimmies the lip of the sack down to reveal something made of rounded metal.

Philip gasps, a hand rising in an instinctive attempt to cover his mouth, though it doesn’t reach that far. “You didn’t…”

“Mm-hmm, we did.” She pulls out the object and lets the sack slide to the floor; a bronze helmet, close to the colour of gold. It isn’t shaped for a pony, that much is clear, and it doesn’t appear to be styled the same as any armour issued by the Royal Guard, which means this was made as a commission — a custom order.

It has plume of black and white, standing tall as a zebra’s mane would, two curved cheekpieces for adequate face protection, a small flap to cover the neck, and a short visor to shade the eyes from the sun — much easier when they’re as small as his. It’s polished and lustrous, but doesn’t bounce light like a mirror, as I know some guard prefer their armour.

“Got your measurements from the hatter when you needed a replacement, sent them up to a blacksmith friend in the Canterlot armoury.” She passes it down to Phalanx, who passes it on to Philip. “This baby didn’t come cheap, sir, but we hope you enjoy it.”

He stares at the helmet in utter amazement, almost as if he thought it were a mirage. “Guys,” he breathes, “this… just… Wow…”

“What, you think we’d skimp out on you?” Phalanx nudges his elbow again. “Happy birthday, you big goof. And go ahead, try it on. We didn’t order it just for you to gawk at.”

Philip looks at him and blinks in apparent disbelief, but soon returns to his present, reverently flips it over, then slowly bows his head and fits it onto its rightful place. He sits up once more and casts his gaze around the group, trying to keep his mouth straight, but there’s an ecstatic glint in his eyes, so obvious despite his face being framed in bronze.

I could almost say it suits him quite nicely. Almost. I’m not wooed easily, and I’m no sucker for a pony in military garb… but there’s something about this image I like, and I can’t put my hoof on it. His joy must be rubbing off on me, I suppose.

“Look at you, a wannabe general.” Brave claps. “Ready to lead us into battle now, sir?”

“Oh, girl, you know I would.” He looks to her and smiles, giving a light shake of the head. “But what would we do when there’s no more world to conquer?”

“You’re that good, are you, that the world wouldn’t be a challenge?”

“A challenge, yes. But with my brains and your brawn, how could we lose?”

“Oh, stop it, you.”

He shakes his head again. “You know I can’t do that, Brave. But seriously, thanks. Always wanted my own set of armour.”

“Then we’ll make it a yearly thing,” Phalanx proclaims. “One piece every birthday.”

Philip snorts. “I’ll have to wait a decade, then.”

“Indeed you may. But that’s not all we got you.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Ironside reaches into his sweater pocket — a homemade jersey, knitted by his husband for their anniversary, if memory serves me right — and slips out a small booklet, which he lays in Philip’s lap. “Compliments from the house.”

Philip looks down and picks it up, squinting and examining the cover closely. Then he flips through a few pages before peering across to Ironside. “A Lunar Bean coupon book…”

“Won’t last long, will it?”

I snicker.

His attention switches to me and he breaks out into another smile. “Oh, and I suppose you had something to do with this, didn’t you?”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “All them.”

“Well then, where’s your gift?”

He means it in jest, I know, but I feel a guilty pang in my stomach all the same, remembering what I’d brought; it could all go so very wrong, if I’d judged things incorrectly. “It’s here,” I assure, bending forward and patting my saddlebags. “I’m just biding my time, is all.”

“Oh, well, now you’ve got me curious.”

“Trust me, it’ll be worth the wait.”

If only I believed it myself.

“And wait it can,” Brave agrees, though not in a meanspirited way, reaching behind her once again for third present, which she passes down the line to Philip. What this one is, nopony can tell: it’s packaged in purple gift-wrap and topped with a red bow. “This isn’t from us, just to be clear.”

Philip quirks an eyebrow at her, but it only lasts a moment, undoing the satin lace that binds the parcel, then searching for and pulling apart the wrapping at the seams. And when he finishes and lets the patterned paper slide from his lap, what he’s left with is a book. A tome. A veritable encyclopaedia from a bygone era, judging by the golden accents down the spine and illuminated text on the front. “An Illustrated Exploration of Pre-Equestrian History,” he reads aloud, clearly in awe, “by King Orion of Timbucktu, first of his name, son of the noble house of Urania.”

My eyes widen, and so do the guards’.

“Ooh, buddy…” Phalanx murmurs, fixated on the book, “that’s… that’s something special right there. You’d better hold it tight and never let go.”

Philip looks to him. “Is it valuable?”

“Priceless,” Ironside answers reverently. “Timbucktu was a floating city, destroyed a thousand years ago by the changelings, and Orion was its last king. That book must be the only one of its kind in existence.”

Philip switches to him and continues to stare wide-eyed, but eventually returns to the tome in his hands. “Whoa.”

“Understatement of the century,” Brave says, holding back an awkward giggle.

He slowly nods, carefully reaching across and lifting the cover open, as if making too sudden a movement would turn the pages to dust. Firelight sparkles off the gold leaf, decorative fragments of ruby, sapphire and amethyst; even though it makes no sound, it echoes with age and the tender hoof of an artist in love with their work.

But then he stops, his brows crease, his lips curl into a soft pout, and he picks up a loose note from the first page. He takes a moment to read it, and then he doubles over and bursts out in silent laughter, slapping his knee with the edge of his palm. And just like that, the magic was gone.

“What?” Phalanx asks, as curious as he is bemused. “What did it say?”

Philip hands it over.

Phalanx lingers on him for a second or two, but accepts the offer and clears his throat, holding the note out for his eyes to adjust. “Dear Philip. Happy twenty-seventh. We figured you might still want some time to yourself, so we won’t be attending this year. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be there in spirit. We know from our time together you’re something of a history nut, so Twilight pulled a few strings. Unfortunately, the original is far too precious to give away, but I’ve done my best to copy it in all its glory. I hope you’ll have more fun reading than I did writing.

“Best wishes, Spike and Twilight.”

I blink, and eventually, one by one, our collective attention falls on Ironside.

He glances left and right. “What’re you looking at me for? You all got conned just as hard.”

“We have to pick on someone,” Philip replies, suppressing a chuckle. Barely. “May as well be Mister Goody Two-Shoes.”

Ironside’s eyes narrow. “Perhaps I should take those coupons back.”

“No.” Philip’s smile falls and he hugs both books protectively against his chest. “Mine.”

“Good. Then maybe we can forget this little mishap and continue the presentation.”

Phalanx sighs heavily and ignites his horn, floating a lone slip of glossy paper from his own pocket — an unzipped jacket revealing a buttoned-up flannel shirt stitched with flowers. “Always the party pooper, aren’t you, Ironside?”

“I party when it’s appropriate, thank you very much.”

“Except when you’re the butt of a joke.”

“You’re the butt of a joke.”

Philip turns and squints at Ironside. “Did you seriously just pull a ‘no, you’ on him?”

Ironside blinks. “I won’t pretend to know what that is, but since it’s coming from you, I’m going to assume it’s nothing good.”

Philip smirks. “Clever girl,” he hums, reaching out for the paper slip without looking, but only grabs thin air. After two more hurried but fruitless attempts, he takes a proper glance and snatches it from Phalanx’s magical aura. “So, what’s this?”

“Booth seating for next month’s Wonderbolt performance in Las Pegasus,” Phalanx responds coolly, as if he hadn’t almost snorted at the pitiful display of coordination. “Captain Spitfire delivered this personally. There wasn’t a card to go along with it, but she wanted us to make it abundantly clear that you’re allowed a plus one.”

My ear twitches, and I feel an anxious nerve pluck at my core.

Philip nods to himself, but slowly arcs his gaze toward me. “A plus one.”

Again, I try to stay as calm and neutral as possible. This might just be a friendly and completely innocent gesture, but if Spitfire’s playing matchmaker, that’s the last thing I need. I’ll sort things out in my own time — I don’t need assistance from anypony else.

“Well, since Fleetybee’s in the show, that disqualifies her.” He looks between the guards. “And you three would be coming anyway. So, I’m stuck for a date.”

That’s not entirely true; I could, if I wanted, ask to be replaced by Hurricane for the show, and Spitfire would explain I’d sprained a wing, or something like that. But I don’t speak up. I don’t think I’d mind watching the performance with him, and especially not when it’s just us together, but again, help isn’t wanted, help isn’t needed.

I am in control.

“Rude, sir,” Brave complains. “You make it sound like our company’s not good enough.”

“Oh, please, don’t get me wrong, my friend, you’re all the apples of my eye. But you forget, you can’t do your job properly if you’re chatting me up. No, if I were to use that plus one slot, it’d have to be with someone who doesn’t have to watch my back twenty-four-seven.”

“Bifröst.”

Philip turns to me once more and quirks an eyebrow. “What was that, Fleet?”

It came out quiet, and part of me resents the fact I’m letting such a blatant opportunity pass me by, but there’s only one pony I know I can vouch for. “Bifröst,” I repeat, looking at him directly. “My local courier. She drops off my mail often enough that we’ve had time to talk, and… I’m just saying she might be available. You know, if you really want to go with somepony.”

Just because I’m too proud to accept Spitfire’s invitation doesn’t mean he has to miss out on having somepony else there. And who knows? Maybe he and Bifröst would both find it a pleasant experience.

He pauses, then glances away. “Well, I mean… if you think she’ll be interested…”

“Don’t worry, she already has a boyfriend and they’re perfectly happy staying a couple.”

He blinks. “I, uh… didn’t mean it like that, Fleet.”

“Oh.” I lower my gaze and feel my ears do the same. “Well… at least you know, I guess.”

“Aw, look at that,” Phalanx gushes, putting a hoof to his heart. “She’s so hopeful.”

“For the last time, I’m not…!” I begin, snapping back to him, but the words escape me before I can say anything of substance. So, I sigh defeatedly and shake my head to the floor. “Just shut up.”

“Yes, let the Wonderbolt be,” Ironside placidly commands, looking at Phalanx and Brave as he does so, then returns to me with a composed, if somewhat sympathetic expression. “I’m sure she’s worried about being judged enough as it is.”

I give him a meek smile. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” He glances down. “But now, I think it’s your turn.”

I follow his gaze to my saddlebags, and the tightness in my chest returns. “You’ve given him all his presents, have you?”

“Bar one,” Brave answers, “but we’re saving that for lucky last.”

No use arguing. The longer I put it off, the more expectation there’ll be, and if I don’t meet those expectations… I don’t know what I’ll do. Leaving would be rude and show how thin my skin is, but staying would have its own awkward air — one I’d forever regret, because everything hadn’t been perfect. So, I sigh again, I nod to myself, and then I lean over and unbutton the flap carrying my present.

Philip’s face falls to disbelief once more — less enraptured than he’d been with the helmet and the book, but a look of awe all the same. “Is that… a—”

“A ukulele, yes,” I finish, pulling it out and holding it just above my lap, admiring the sprigs of holly and oak leaves painted on a cream-coloured, lacquer base. “I know you like stupid little things, so I… you know. I thought I’d get you one.”

“…Fleet, that… You really didn’t have to. I don’t even know how to play it.”

“That’s okay,” I quietly assure with a soft smile. “I’ll teach you.”

I can practically hear his jaw drop. “You… learned the ukulele?”

“As well as I’ve been able to, against my better judgement.” I take a deep breath to steel my nerves and turn my smile on him. “And I thought I’d baptise it with a stupid little thing of my own.”

“You wrote a song too?”

“Yeah.” I giggle, looking down to the ukulele once again. “I, uh… tried to, at least. I think it turned out alright, but I guess that’s up to you. I mean… if you want to hear it, that is.”

He blinks, taken somewhat aback, then sweeps a hand in a permissive gesture. “By all means, please do. Grace us with your musical prowess.”

Or what little of it I have.

Shut it. He’s given you permission, and you’ve been eager to let it out all night.

Eager? No, I’m not completely sure on that count. Anxious describes it better — I’ve been both excited for and dreading this moment over the past week, ever since I finished composing the damned thing. I’m happy with it. What he’ll think, however, is another matter entirely. I just hope I’m not overstepping my bounds, because unlike all the performances I’ve choreographed since he arrived, this song, I can safely say, was definitely inspired by him.

“Just a quick warning,” I anxiously murmur, “this gets… personal. Fast.”

“Hey, Fleet.”

My ears perk up and I look at him.

He watches me with a careful, caring, kind… comforting expression. And his smile… Even with the helmet on, I can’t get enough of it. “All the best songs are.”

…Stars above, he’s perfect.

You’ve found a good one.

That remains to be seen. And I won’t be getting any closer to an answer by gawking at him. So, I lower my gaze to the ukulele again, take another deep breath, and prepare the tune in my head. I imagine it’d sound better with a whole band backing me up, but the music on the speakers has faded out, so it’s just me, my hooves, and my voice. And so, I begin to play; a short introduction of strings to start it off… and then an ad lib repeat of the same chords while I gather my wits. But then, finally, I find the courage to sing.

You steal my breath, you warm my heart

It feels so long, the time apart

I see you day, I see you night

And every second feels so right

Maybe there’s nothing to it

Maybe it’s all for show

Maybe I’m just kidding myself

But I don’t care to know

Tell me all, and tell it slow

As we sit by fire’s glow

I’ll listen close, I’ll hold you near

You sometimes bring me close to tears

Now the wind is in my wings

Now the ground is far

I wouldn’t change a single thing

Now the wind is in my wings

You take my fire, I take your pain

I give you peace, you give me rain

We’ll sing a song, we’ll watch the stars

We’ll dream of the night they’ll be ours

Maybe there’s nothing to it

Maybe it’s all for show

Maybe I’m just kidding myself

I’ll never care to know

Now the wind is in my wings

Now I fly through clouds

Who knows what the next day will bring

Now the wind is in my wings

Now the wind is in my wings

The last note of the ukulele hangs in the air, and when I look up again, everypony’s eyes are wide and on me, as if they’re watching a flower petal lazily drift in slow, sweeping arcs to the floor. Of them, Philip seems the most… absorbed. It’s the closest word I can think of; he’s clearly aware I’ve caught him staring, but he doesn’t shy away, paralysed with… emotion.

That sounds rather vague and cheesy, I know, but that’s how it is; his mouth hangs ajar and his brows are lifted, like he’s seeing me for the first time again, but with far more feeling. His lower lip slowly curls up to form a response, however feeble, but nothing comes.

I gently press one rear hoof against the other as my whole body bubbles with warmth and anxious anticipation. I try to keep a brave face, but with so much attention on me after such a… frankly heartfelt performance, it isn’t easy. “So, uh… what do you think?”

Still, nothing comes. He seems to barely even notice I’ve spoken.

“That was… amazing,” Phalanx exclaims. “And you wrote all that yourself?”

I linger on Philip for a moment, but soon switch over to Phalanx and nod, if somewhat languidly. “Yeah, mostly me. I mean… Philip’s music library helped a bit, since all my junk isn’t terribly… well, sappy. And I hope this wasn’t too sappy either.”

“It wasn’t,” Brave remarks, shaking her head, still in something of a daze. “That was really beautiful, Fleetfoot. Truly.”

A heat rises in my cheeks. “Thanks.”

“No,” says Ironside. “Thank you. I might just be speaking for myself, but I wouldn’t mind hearing that on vinyl. In fact, if you ever decide to record it, my husband might be able to hook you up with somepony who owns a studio.”

I blink at him in surprise, then let out a breathless laugh. “Oh, I’m not much of a singer.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

I blink again, then laugh again, and then pass the ukulele down to him, which he sets on the bench between himself and Philip. “I guess that depends on what a certain somepony thinks I should do.”

“Yeah, you’ve been awfully quiet, sir,” Brave observes, leaning around Phalanx. “Care to share your thoughts with us, birthday boy?”

Philip returns to the present and looks at her askance. No feeling behind it, except maybe a hint of hesitation, but that might be imagination. I hope it is, at any rate. “Yeah, uh…” he drifts off, his gaze lowering to his shoes. And then he clears his throat and glances up at me. “It was good.”

The bubbling inside me stops, and I stop smiling. I can’t tell what he’s thinking exactly, but the shortness of his reply has me on edge, and my wings tuck in closer.

Another silence descends, each of the guards quickly realising this wasn’t the reaction they were hoping for, if they even knew what that was, none more so than Brave. “Well, uh… speaking of vinyl…” she murmurs, reaching behind her once more for yet another gift — the final one; an album of phonograph records. “This comes from somepony very special to us.”

Philip watches as it makes its way from her to Phalanx, and when it’s offered to him, he carefully sets both books on the ground alongside his mostly empty bottle of juice, then accepts the album. It’s a very unassuming cover: dark and sleek, with a crescent moon in the centre. “Moonlight Serenade,” he reads aloud. “A Compilation.”

“You don’t have to be a genius to figure out who it’s from,” Phalanx says, floating a card from his jacket’s other pocket — a very stately-looking thing styled in blues and blacks and purples, complete with illuminated borders. “I’ll let her do the talking, though.”

Philip stares at the card for a moment or two, clearly quite hesitant, and perhaps, in a certain light, unsettled. But eventually, he reaches out and takes the card between a thumb and a finger, examining the front with soft frown. He carefully unfolds it, and after another moment to appreciate the artistry on the inside for all its worth, he begins to read again.

“Dearest Felipe. Mere words cannot express in their entirety how deeply sorry we are for what we have done. No gift or apology can make right this wrong, or replace what has been taken. Perhaps the year is still too young, and we would be better off waiting for another moon, but however far you are from us, we cannot ignore you. You have grown precious to us. As such, we would be remiss if we neglected to offer a token of our appreciation on this most auspicious occasion; a personal album of all our favourite native singers and instrumentalists.

“This will not make amends for what we or our sister have done, but we trust it is a step in the right direction. Perhaps one day, we would have the honour of making your acquaintance once again. Perhaps, for as one Alexander the Mediocre said, nothing is impossible to those who will try. And we shall try, dearest Felipe, and we shall hope.

“May your stars shine bright, Luna and…”

We all know the name that follows, even without reading it ourselves, and its absence chills the air despite the fire, which has dwindled and begs for an extra log or three.

“You okay there, sir?” Brave asks restlessly.

Philip doesn’t respond; his frown has grown disapproving and his gaze has grown weary.

The guards share uneasy looks amongst themselves, no doubt coming to the conclusion that this, too, was a mistake — they’d let the princesses’ prerogative come before their own judgement. Rank has its place, but when it’s not in a position to make an informed decision, that’s when you delegate duties. This hadn’t happened, it seemed, or perhaps they’d handled things poorly in their weekly reports, and now it had come back to bite them in the butt.

“Yeah,” he finally answers, little more than a begrudging murmur, setting the card atop the album in his lap and rubbing his eyes. “Just… tired.”

A classic excuse: when you don’t know the cause, or know it but don’t want to say it, blame your frustration on not getting enough sleep. It says nothing specific, but tells everypony all they need to know, and the general solution is to just leave you be.

“Do you need some time alone?” Ironside asks plainly.

Philip sighs. “I think so.”

Ironside nods, then looks to comrades, and in a single, almost premeditated move, they rise as one and fall to their hooves, taking what personal possessions they came with. “We’ll be on the ground floor,” he says to him matter-of-factly as Brave and Phalanx step over the bench — Brave a little clumsier than she probably should be — and head for the stairway. When he turns to make his exit own, he stops before passing me by and gives me a judicious look. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything silly while we’re gone, alright?”

Already bemused by how three members of the Royal Guard were simply choosing to shirk their duty, I can only vacantly nod.

He bows his head in acknowledgement, then continues past me, stepping out of the firelight and following the other two down the staircase. The door closes behind him, and all that’s left to fill the void is the sizzle and pop of smouldering timbers, the cheering of the mob below, the distant chirp of some lonely cricket, and the lapping of waves of waves on the shore.

We’re alone. Really, truly alone, for the first time in ages. But as nice as knowing that is, I didn’t imagine it would happen like this.

Philip grows tired of having to mind the brim and cheekpieces, so he slides the helmet off, placing it beside him on the bench. He cradles his head in his palms — despairing, but not crying, taking deep, calming breaths as time slips by.

No use beating around the bush, I suppose. “Still not over it?”

“What do you think?” he retorts, frowning at me. But the second he does, he regrets it, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing his temples. “Sorry. But no, I’m not. At least, I thought I was, but then… then she has to…”

“Can you fault Luna for trying?”

“She’s not the one I have a problem with.” He looks at me properly, without hostility, only upturned brows and a heavy sense of exhaustion, as if he’s tired of being angry. “This was Luna’s gift, and I love it. But then she takes credit for her sister’s efforts. Her signature’s even in her handwriting.”

My eyelids lower. “Just say her name.”

“Fine. Celestia. She’s trying to weasel her way into forgiveness by piggybacking on Luna’s attempt, and that shit won’t fly with me.”

A fair call, but not an assumption I’m eager to share. Time for me to play Grogar’s advocate. “How do you know this wasn’t her idea too?”

“Don’t you think she’d be more tactful than to just put her name as an afterthought?”

“Perhaps.” I bob my head from side to side. “But if you’re having this much of a reaction to her, maybe it’s for the best that she didn’t go all-out. Like… maybe she’s testing the waters. Seeing what you’re comfortable with, or something like that.”

Philip doesn’t reply, staring at the ash heap under the brazier with the same expression.

“It doesn’t pay well to assume the worst of ponies all the time. I can’t say what Celestia’s like in person — you’d know more about that than I would — but she doesn’t strike me as… well… bad, or uncaring. She’s just trying to balance your wellbeing with the kingdom’s—”

“Fleetfoot,” he lifts a hand and shuts his eyes, head hanging with a soft sigh, “I know you mean well, but… can we please stop talking about this? It’s just making me feel worse.”

I pause, processing his words, then quietly return to sitting in an upright, if slightly hunched position, forelegs resting in my lap.

“Two birthdays,” he mumbles, watching the floor gloomily. “Almost a year and a half, and I’m no closer to going home. All because she…”

Still, I make no response. If he needs to rant, then so be it. He’s listened to mine before, and I’ve listened to his — the context doesn’t make things any different; whatever we are, whatever I want us to be, we’re still friends and always will be. And friends are there for each other no matter what.

He continues staring a short while longer, then shakes his head and returns to me with an earnest look in his eyes. “I’m just happy to have you, Fleetybee,” he murmurs with a soft smile, brows creased as if he were readying himself for battle, or a deeper confession. “I’m not sure how I feel about… this… but you’ve been the one good, consistently positive thing in my life since I got here. And I can’t be anything but thankful for that.”

It feels like a blade, jagged and scalding, has been shoved through my stomach and up into my chest. And my bleeding heart compels me to put an end to its suffering once and for all, for its sake, for my sake, and for his.

“Lucky you flew by when you did, or I’d be six feet under right about now.”

You know it’s the right thing to do.

But, oh, how much I hate doing it.

“If I hadn’t flown out there that day, Philip… I don’t think you’d be here.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, that Mazda had a five-star safety rating, but I don’t that would’ve counted for much from a mile-high drop.”

My ears lower as I close my eyes and slowly shake my head. “That’s not what I meant.”

He doesn’t reply, waiting for an explanation, no doubt more curious than anxious.

I open my eyes again and meet his gaze from behind upturned brows. “I brought you here.”

Nothing changes at first, and while I take some small measure of comfort in that, all good things come to an end; his eyes widen, his brows rise and his lips part, all in one slow shift from interest to shock. Not the fearful kind, or the offended kind, or anything of the like — just shock, in the muted way I’ve come to expect from him. If ever there comes a day when he loses his temper, or otherwise lacks his stoic disposition, that will be a sore day for every party involved.

“When the storms were going on — the magical storms, if you remember — I was taking some time off for myself, just flying on my own. I was listening to some music too, and… in the spur of the moment, I did a rainboom through a cloud. Next thing I knew… that cloud had turned into a vortex, and you…”

He slowly turns away, staring at the ash heap again, and the dagger in my chest twists.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen, Philip, I just thought…” My eyes suddenly feel a little wet. “I didn’t think… How was I supposed to know that—”

“Fleet,” he interrupts, lifting his hand once more, then puts both the ukulele and the record album on the floor alongside his other gifts. “Enough.”

Oh stars, he’s leaving, isn’t he? I messed up. I shouldn’t have said anything — I should’ve kept my big mouth shut and played it safe, pretending everything was fine. He didn’t really need to know, did he? Now I’ve said it aloud, it’s only going to cause bad blood between us, like him and Celestia. He’ll isolate me from his life just like he’s trying to with her! “Philip, I—”

“Come here.”

I stop. And then my ears perk up, and I blink back the tears, my head rising in surprise.

He turns to me and opens his arms, tears of his own in his eyes, but he doesn’t seem terribly sad; he’s keeping it restrained for both our sakes, and wears an unsteady smile. “Hold me,” he croaks, voice catching in the back of his throat on the last word.

I slide across and wrap my forelegs around him in an instant, head to his chest and squeezing tight, not daring to question where this is coming from.

An arm drapes itself over my back and lays a palm flat against my barrel. Another holds my neck close and runs its fingers through my mane. He bows and rests his chin on the back of my head, smelling my hair on an inward breath, and then letting a stuttered one out. And in. And out. And in. And out. “I love you, Fleet,” he whispers brokenly. “Not like that, but I love you so, so much.”

My own breathing suddenly becomes ragged, and I shut my eyes as I break out into a wide, blubbering grin. I needed to hear that. Sweet stars above, I needed to hear that. “I love you too.”

And we stay like this, holding each other close, trying as best we can to fight back the tears and use the other for comfort and warmth. He doesn’t smell of perfume or cologne — most of his natural scent is covered up by the smoke and embers of the fire, and the salt in the damp air from the ocean — but I don’t need to smell him to know he’s here, and he won’t be leaving me; I would never leave him.

Time slows. It feels like hours before we finally calm down, and even then, we refuse to part; it’s perfect, this little world of our own, so quiet and peaceful, lost in the embrace. I could stay like this until dawn, but there’s no way of knowing whether that would be long enough.

But eventually, he gently pats my neck, and I give him another squeeze before I pull away, sidling across the bench a few inches as I rub my eyes clean.

He does the same and coughs and clears his throat. “That was nice.”

“Yeah,” I quickly, quietly agree, teeth chattering behind my lips and wings quivering at my sides — leftover jitters from the gratifying feeling of catharsis. “My mum always says it’s nice to have a good cry every now and then. I don’t understand it, honestly… but I think that’s as close as I’ll ever get.”

He huffs. “Sounds like quite the woman. Well, mare, or… You get the picture.”

“Sure.” I nod. “So… what now?”

He pauses, gazing into my eyes for a moment with a subdued smile, then looks down and pulls out his phone once again. He lights up the screen, scrolls through the list, selects an artist, and album, a song, and in an instant, the speakers are once again sparked to life, gracing the night air with the careful caress of acoustic guitars.

“Pink Floyd?”

“Wot’s… Uh the Deal,” he clarifies, stowing his phone away again and reaching behind him for the cooler. “Always gets me in a good mood, their early works. Between this and Fearless, I don’t know which song is my favourite.”

I smile at him and sigh wistfully. “You’re the kind of pony who wants to walk with a beat in their head everywhere they go, aren’t you?”

“Indubitably,” he replies, swinging back around with two beer bottles. He twists of caps off both and hands one to me, then lifts his and smirks. “Now, what say we get shitfaced?”

I snort, and surprisingly, I don’t feel the urge to roll my eyes. “Sure,” I happily agree, then clink my glass against his and raise it to my lips. “I’ll drink to that.”

22 | Buyer's Remorse

Now

Memories.

Blurred, fuzzy, distorted images, separate one moment, blending together the next; it’s all coming back to me now. Kind of. A year and a half passes me by in the blink of an eye, so much of it a slow burn of emotions, leading up to a marvellous crescendo, only to go dark for the last few hours. And in that short span of time, something terrible had happened — something irreversible. Something I’d give anything to change.

He continues staring at me, wide-eyed, lips apart, as desperate as the day I rescued him from his car. But the world isn’t spinning around us, so now I can truly appreciate just how terrified he seems, my foreboding words hanging in the air like the pendulum of a massive clocktower ready to strike twelve. We’re just waiting for time to start again.

And then it does; he screams.

With his mouth agape and features stretched as far as they’ll go, like a startled cat and just as spry, he springs back in a shrill, raspy shriek, yanking the blanket close as he scrambles away.

A piercing tingle like needles peppering the skin fizzles down my neck and back, and my wings, legs, tail and ears all tense up, wrenching me forward with wide eyes, a hoof raised to silence him. “What’re you doing?!” I hiss through grit teeth, resting an elbow on the mattress and leaning over as far as I can go. “Do you want the whole damn building to hear us?!”

He doesn’t seem to hear me properly and continues backing away, as distraught as ever. Until, however, he runs out of bed to scoot across, and his screaming comes to a sudden, choked end when the ground falls from underneath him. He flops back, one arm flailing for something to grasp, the other keeping the blanket close, and then disappears over the edge with a sharp, pained, winded grunt, his legs slumping on the now barren mattress.

With panicked strings tugging at my chest, I leap up and scamper across the bed to peer down at him, wings unfurled in case he’d hurt himself and I’d need to find help fast.

But no; he lies on the upper part of his back, the blanket covering his lower body while a hand nurses his forehead — no injury that I can see, just dazed and dizzy. His eyes are squeezed shut and he pants through his nose, whimpering with each shaken breath.

“Are you okay?”

His face scrunches up even more, probably trying to block me out as much as he’s able. “No,” he croaks, more likely to himself than to me. “No, no, no, no, no…”

My wings slowly glide back into place against my sides as some of my nerves are eased, but I feel like shrinking away, despite everything I’ve told myself to get from the bathroom to here. My tail tucks in as far as it will go, and my ears fold back, and my legs, flanks and neck tense up, but I refuse to budge. I’ve made it this far. We’re having that talk. “I’m afraid so.”

“NO!” he barks, shooting a finger and glaring at me directly, practically horrified. “Don’t you say anything!”

A perfectly understandable reaction, but it surprises me and makes me feel like I’m being accused of something, and I take a step back from the edge like there’s an icy spear aimed at my heart. “Calm down, Philip.”

“What did I just say?!”

I shut my mouth.

He continues glaring for a few seconds longer, before a new headache visibly wracks his head and his eyes loll back, and he slumps against the floor again. This time, he presses both hands to his temples and grimaces in agony, groaning. “Fuck me…”

Now every fibre of my being is practically screeching for me to cut my losses and book it, because that’s exactly what I’ve done, and if this is his reaction, what use is having a civil discussion about it? Who was I kidding? What’s there to discuss? What use would it serve? How could I have expected, let alone hoped, that he’d ever be open to discussing something so… lurid?

I feel naked. I am, technically, and most ponies go about their day without a single item of clothing or a second thought, and it’s so widely accepted that we just… let it be. Frankly, most every species does, in some capacity — not nearly as phobic of their own bodies as he is — but I feel naked. Exposed, vulnerable, like all the fur and hair had vanished and everypony for miles in every direction is watching me, if not in disgust then as an absolute joke.

Look at her, Fleetfoot the Wonderbolt, the mare who seduced an alien, and went all the fucking way with him. No washing that stain out, is there? She’s his now, just as he is hers, all because she got weak in the knees at a few kind words and the same company anypony else could provide. So much for that ironclad resolve everypony said she has — apparently, she knows herself as well as any old stranger would: not at all.

Merciful Sisters, this is won’t end well.

“Tell me we didn’t…” he mumbles, eyes still shut and voice shaky. “Please, please… tell me we didn’t just…”

There’s a pit forming in my stomach, sucking up all my innards and leaving only the rotten parts behind. My gaze shies away from him and my teeth clench behind my lips. “I wish I could lie to you.”

“Don’t give me that!” he snaps, scowling at me for a second, but his headache appears to be similar to mine, not liking any sudden movements or loud noises, and he slumps back and closes his eyes once more. “Just… yes or no, did we or didn’t we?”

I sigh, and my breath feels putrid. “Yes. We did.”

“GOD…!”

Another sharp response that cuts as deep as all the others — that icy spear is breaking the skin. “Philip, please, if you don’t keep your voice down, somepony’s going to—”

“What, they haven’t heard already?!”

“They will if you don’t shut up.”

His mouth slowly closes, and his eyes slowly open, still in a deep, resentful frown… and for the first time in the past year and a half, I can’t tell if it’s directed at the situation, or me.

But I can’t focus on that right now, and I look down at him properly. We need to get our stories straight. He needs to know this wasn’t supposed to happen. “Do you remember anything?”

His frown slowly deepens — just a tad, but enough to notice. “No,” he answers, bitter and decisive. “Should I?”

My gaze hardens. “Don’t go there,” I warn, secretly thankful I now have something else to feel that isn’t distress. “You know me, I know you, so we both know neither of us wanted this.”

“Then what’re you doing in my room, in my bed, telling me we—”

“Because I don’t know how we got here. The last thing I remember is us drinking on the roof of that bar on the foreshore, and then… nothing. Complete blank.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” I snarl. “I’d never do that to anypony, and especially not you. And I wouldn’t be dumb enough to stick around ‘til morning and hope you’re okay with how everything turned out. Trust me, I’ve heard enough horror stories to know what not to do with the ponies you care about.”

He doesn’t reply, staring at me resolutely instead.

“I didn’t want this. I sure as heck know you didn’t either. Not this soon, at least, and if it never happened at all, that would’ve been fine. But somehow, we’re here, and we did… that. And I feel horrible about it. Really, you don’t know how much I wish I could turn back the clock.”

His lips part and brows curl in an offended, disturbed sneer. “You feel horrible?”

“I do.”

“Try me on for size. Oh, wait, you did.”

I draw my head back and blink, staring at him in shock like he’d slapped me on the cheek. Hard. I can’t even summon the decency to feel ashamed at how objectively true his words are. “I told you, Philip,” I say almost breathlessly, “I didn’t want this to happen.”

“Yeah, sure, but that doesn’t change the fact, and you’re not the only one affected, are you?”

I pause, and my own brows knit together in confusion. “Where’s this coming from.”

“It’s coming from…! Gah!” He's shimmying on his back, away from the bed, and drags the blanket free from the mattress as he sits up and fashions himself a hooded cloak, careful to let nothing private show. “Do you seriously not understand what this means for me?!”

I blink again. I wouldn’t presume to know.

He begins to say something, but something chokes him up, and his gaze slowly lowers, and just as slowly fades from outrage to despair. His chest heaves with every breath; the panic is returning, and with a creeping vengeance.

I feel like interrupting would be the right move, but I can’t bring myself to do so — still too stunned, I suppose, and there’s that morbid sense of curiosity that I can never fully squash.

“…I fucked a horse,” he mutters to himself, barely louder than a whisper. And then his voice grows unsteady and his teeth start chattering. “I fucked a fucking horse…”

This time, it doesn’t feel like a hard slap so much as it does… a weight. A giant weight pressing into me from everywhere and nowhere at once, yet causing me no discernible pain.

Those words…

Maybe I expected something like them, or should’ve, but actually hearing them…

I’m not Fleetfoot.

I’m not his closest friend, or even a just friend. Barely an acquaintance.

What I am matters to him, not who. Not a year and a half of shared memories. Not when I saved him from falling to his death. Not when I met him in hospital. Not when I spent almost two whole weeks at Princess Twilight’s, slowly finding myself enjoying his company. Not those letters I craved. Not when we met again at the Lunar Bean and he said he missed my voice, lisp and all. Not when those meetups became a weekly thing. Not when I told him in private just how much he means to me. Not when he forgave me just last night for screwing up his entire life.

No, none of it matters — it’s all just dust in the wind. The real obstacle was staring me in the face when I looked in the bathroom mirror, and I didn’t have the heart to see it until now.

I’m a horse. Another species. Not really a… person, in his eyes — practically an animal.

A thing.

A blue and white, purple-eyed, cartoonishly proportioned biological impossibility. His words, when I asked him to compare me to the average pony-pony on his Earth.

Why’d I let myself think he’d ever consider me anything more than a sideshow gag?

He peers off to his right from behind upturned brows and sees his clothes scattered across the floor, and his despairing grimace deepens. “Oh my god, I did…”

Again, the weights crunch down on me, but now a solid punch in the gut has been added to the mix, and I feel my hindlegs growing weak, and my tail clamps down as the internal ache flares up. I did this to him. Me. Nopony else. Nopony I can turn to and nopony I can ditch the burden on. Just me and me alone, and whatever impulses led me to abandon all decency.

“I… I think I need…” He shifts onto his knees beneath the blanket’s veil, then unsteadily rises to his feet, slightly hunched, as if he were old and frail, and his bones would shatter at the slightest touch. “I think I need a shower…”

How defeatedly he says that… it tears apart what little of my insides are left. My hindlegs buckle and I flop to the mattress on my rear, mouth drooping open as I absently watch him slowly, tentatively shuffle his way across the carpet, muttering and cursing under his breath.

He bends low and carefully picks up his shirt and tucks it under his arm beneath the makeshift cloak, then looks about. “Where are my pants?” He swings about and scans left and right. “Where are they?”

I don’t dare speak. I’ve nothing helpful to say, and he might not want to hear my voice anymore. I can only watch on with a growing sense of disgrace.

“God fucking damn it,” he hisses, swinging back and continuing his walk of shame to the bathroom, so agonizingly heartbreaking to see, then closes and locks the door behind him. “Why’s my underwear in here?!”

I squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth, turning in place and slamming my head snout-first into the pillows where I let out the raspy moan of a stifled scream. This couldn’t have gone worse. Lashing out at me would’ve been better; at least then I’d have the chance to fight back. But this — seeing him so… wounded, so… damaged… not only in terms of trust, but broken down to simple phrases and mutters, thinking out loud as if I didn’t exist, or wasn’t worth acknowledging…

I did this. Me. And no matter how many times I headbutt and punch the pillows, wishing I could but never daring to shout my lungs out, that ache in my thighs and deeper inside doesn’t go away. It reaches into my chest with a vicelike grip and never lets go, not because it won’t, but because it can’t. It’s a part of me now, like a scar, or a phantom limb.

And the worst part is, he’s right; just because I say I wish it didn’t happen doesn’t change and will never change the fact that it did.

I was the one with the crush.

I was the one he trusted most.

I was the one who…

I did this. And that’s all there is to it.

Through the door we go, close it behind. Lock.

It’s so dark in here, now bright — blinding.

He’s toning it down. Mumbles an apology, slurred. Leans against the wall as he also recovers from the shock of it. Tries staggering for the kitchen, but can’t make it very far; too tipsy. Snickers a little at his predicament.

I’m steadier on my hooves. Four feet are better than two. Headache’s gone, saddlebags off, so I stroll over and help; use my head, I tell him, like a walking stick.

“You’re not a walking stick. You’re a horse, who flies for a living. A Wonderbolt!”

I laugh. He always makes me laugh. Yes, I’m a Wonderbolt. Was my dream when I was young, always will be to the day I die.

“No, don’t die! It’s against the rules!”

Rules?

“The rules… of life. Live long. Be good. Don’t die.”

Doesn’t make sense. Don’t care; it’s nice to have him close, his hand on my head, through my mane. He can talk nonsense and I’ll smile. Always, I’ll smile, because I love him.

“I love you too, Fleebee.”

There. He said it again. A warmth in my chest. Yearning? No, gratitude. Has to be.

We’re in the kitchen now, fetching water from the tap. His helmet’s in the way, so he takes it off — sets it on the counter. Had so much to drink he can’t take a sip from the faucet properly.

Use a cup, you numpty.

“I’ll do as I like, ma’am.”

Celestia, he’s impossible. How did she put up with him?

Doesn’t matter; he’s with me. I can.

“You look a little drowsy, Fleet. You okay?”

Of course. Had a lot to drink, like him. Just need to sleep it off.

“Inviting yourself over, are you?”

Am I? Don’t remember saying that. But Cloudsdale is far away… and you’re not supposed to drink and fly…

“Hey, hey, I don’t mind. We’re friends. Wouldn’t be the first time someone stayed the night.”

That’s good to hear. I think the guards said something like that before they went into their rooms. About the flying part, and staying here. Safety. Yes, I’ll be safe here. Safe with him. Food, drink, good company — all anypony can ask for.

“Besides, you’re adorable. Why would I turn away someone as cute as you?”

I’m not adorable.

“You are, Fleebee. And the more you say no, the more I’ll say yes.”

Adorable, he calls me. Cute.

Why do I hate it? Why do I like it?

Why do I love him?

Doesn’t matter; I do. And he knows it. Couldn’t ask for more.

Well, could, but won’t. I’m not…

“Are you blushing?”

Freeze. Fear. Excitement? Don’t talk; listen.

“Oh, isn’t that just precious?”

Hooves fidget, wings shuffle. Look away — hope he doesn’t see the smile.

“Come here.”

He’s kneeling, arms wide. Inviting, enticing.

A hug.

I take it. Warm and fuzzy. Bubbly.

Now he’s picking me up, holding me close. Moving.

I giggle. What’s he doing?

“Getting you to bed.”

I’m not a baby. I can take care of myself.

“Then stop me.”

I don’t; more warmth. Darkness as I lean against him, eyes closing, smiling.

Tile to carpet; kitchen to living room — same space, different flooring. The lights aren’t lit here; it’s dimmer. Cosy. And then we’ve stopped. He sits on something — there’s the weight of his lap beneath my rump — and then our angle shifts. Sideways.

Eyes open. We’re on the couch. Cushions behind, a clothed body lying in front. Forelegs folded, hindlegs over his hip, head on an arm resting down my back. Less than a hoof between our snouts.

He’s watching me. He’s smiling.

“Comfy?”

A pause.

Bubbles.

I nod.

“Everyone likes a nice cuddle, don’t they? Did this with my dog all the time, when he was still round. Best nights either of us ever slept. Even sang a lullaby every once in a while.”

“Kiss me,” I breathe. “Please.”

His smile widens.

“For those beautiful eyes… anything and everything.”

He leans in.

A peck on the nose.

A beat. Time slows.

Cheeks, ears burn. Wings fidget. Heart flutters.

Beautiful.

He called me beautiful.

Him.

So close, so near, so…

Perfect.

He’s watching me again. Smiling again.

…I need to try…

Not want, but need.

Not desperate, but…

I edge a little closer.

His smile shrinks.

Another pause. No rebuttal.

Closer. A hair’s breadth from his nose.

His eyes peer into mine, mine into his.

Anxious.

But I need to try.

Close eyes, press in, lips on his.

Hold.

Savour.

Break.

Assess.

Wide eyes, brows lifted, lips parting; stunned, but no outward aversion.

That’s not good. Not bad either.

Maybe I should…

Just one more go…

Close eyes again, press in again, teasing his lower lip. Braver, perhaps.

He doesn’t push me away; he’s letting me.

That’s okay, I guess. This one moment of satisfaction is all I need. So long as I can have it. Even seventeen years ago, I never knew it properly. Not like I do now. All because of him. Always him.

So, I kiss again. And again. And again.

Small, soft, tender, as he’s always been to me.

A kindness I can finally return.

How sweet it tastes…

And then I think I feel something.

I stop. Eyes peel open, barely halfway.

He watches my snout, eyes like mine; distant, transfixed. Entranced. Half-asleep, in a way.

Dreamy.

There it is again.

A nudge.

Lips teasing mine.

Small, soft, tender.

A shiver through me.

Delight. Yearning.

Eyes close a third time; I lean in again and whisper through my actions — beg him.

I want more.

Need more.

Please, more.

And he gives. And gives. And gives and gives, more and more certain the more I assure him.

Whatever this is, I want it. Whatever he has, I need it.

I need him.

Always him.

A hoof to his cheek, a hand on my nape, another near my croup.

I’m pulled closer, almost belly to belly. Discomfort; position’s too awkward. Find a better angle.

Hindleg pulls in, wedges in the gap between waist and couch. Foreleg props up barrel. Shift weight. On top now, straddling.

Our lips never part.

Sloppier, it becomes. Breath smells, but bearable — pales in the face ecstasy. Heated. Tongues too. No wrestling, just… meeting. Tasting. Not pleasant, but instinctive.

Somepony moans. Quiet, but audible. Not sure who.

Doesn’t matter; we both are now. And he’s getting handsy — searching for good places to hold. He settles on my shoulders. I settle on his.

And then my hips…

I stop.

I pull away.

I'm sitting up, as if on my haunches.

I peer down.

He stares up at me, still with that dopey, hypnotised look, but aware enough — he’s confused. Worried too. Eager, but scared. All of it somehow rolled into one.

No assurance this time, only a declaration. A statement. One I’m anxious to make.

I slowly, carefully bring a hoof to one shoulder, and gently slide off my jacket. One sleeve comes free, so does the other. A wing drops it on the floor. Next goes the polo, up and over.

He watches on. Awed, he seems. Not a word; he knows what I’m asking, and he’s not saying no. And when a hand gently caresses the side of my torso, running through the fur on my chest, tracing my neck, cupping my cheek… it implies something else entirely.

I hold the hand there, smelling his skin. Tension in my wings and tail. Every breath, warmer. Every breath, heavier. Rocking, swaying — motions I’ve not made in years — until I can wait no longer.

Bow forward, hooves to his cheeks, lips over his, his over mine. Hardly kissing, more like…

Doesn’t matter; it’s happening. Stars above, it’s happening.

Lips aren’t enough. Down his cheek, his jaw, his neck.

A shiver, a moan. A hand behind my head, another on my withers. A whisper.

“I love you.”

Who it comes from, can’t tell, don’t care.

I want him.

Need him.

Always him.

“Oh, I’ve missed this…”

I found his shorts at the foot of the living room couch, and my clothes and saddlebags not far away. They paint a picture I really, really, really don’t want to imagine, but memories tend to resurface at the most inopportune times, and it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s not.

I wasn’t myself. He wasn’t himself either. That’s the only solace I can find in this whole situation. We just got caught up in the moment — a moment that shouldn’t have happened. A moment I let happen, because I couldn’t control some stupid urge I haven’t felt in seventeen years.

But the stain won’t wash out. The scar won’t heal. The damage has been done, and that’s all I can think about as I sit in the armchair and sip my coffee, staring at the sofa like it’s a manticore holding his stinger to my throat, telling me to act natural. I’m trying as best I can, but it’s not good enough. The ache is fading, but the burden remains as painful as ever.

He’s been in the bathroom for about half an hour now. The crying stopped ten minutes in. The water switched off five minutes ago; he’s drying himself off, or standing about and gathering his wits. I know I did the same. Now I can only wait for him to follow suit, and dread his arrival.

Thinking this would end well was a fool’s hope. The longer I hang around, the more uninviting the air becomes — thick, heavy, cold, though I’m warm enough with anguish that I don’t feel a chill. No doubt I overstayed my welcome the second I woke him up.

Then why won’t I leave?

What do I expect to happen? That his time in the shower would’ve done him any good and he’ll have calmed down? After an initial reaction like that?

There’s always a chance.

Sure. A big, fat, morbidly obese chance on life support.

But still a chance.

For what? For a relationship? A friendship? How could either of those even be a remote possibility after a bombshell as colossal and earth-shattering as this? I’m a horse. He’s not. In his world, we’re never meant to mix, and that’s all that matters. A taboo like that doesn’t vanish overnight.

It did, though.

So what?! That wasn’t us — it came from out of nowhere!

Are you sure about that?

Yes! I know myself better than anypony else. I wouldn’t… do that. Not to him. Not unless…

Unless…?

…No, I’m not finishing that thought. It’s a dangerous thought — it assumes too much. And if he really did feel anything for me, I’m sure he’d say so. I let him know how I felt about him, so he’d very easily return the favour, wouldn’t he?

…Right?

The door opens. There’s a pause — a stillness in the air as I wait for whatever comes next; he’s probably seen his shorts folded on the carpet where I left them, and after a beat, I hear the drop of a towel and the rustle of clothes sliding over skin.

One gesture of goodwill down.

The towel’s picked back up and thrown aside — presumably into the bathroom — and then the lights and fan are switched off. He walks out from the short hallway and enters the joint space of the kitchen and lounge, but comes to a halt when he sees me in the far corner to his right. His hair’s frazzled and still somewhat damp, and his dark grey shirt and flaxen pants are wrinkled from a night of improper storage. He does his best to hide the surprise, fear and indignation behind a stoic mask, but his form’s grown sloppy, and we’ve known each other long enough to read the fine print.

I’m not yet brave enough to break the silence, though.

He turns to his right, marching into the kitchen, heading for the cabinet with the cups and mugs, but stops when he spies a glass of apple juice on the counter beside his helmet. He frowns, pointing to it, then looks at me from the corner of his eye. “What’s this?”

I blink, brows creasing in confusion.

“You bed me and then make me breakfast?”

I blink again, harder this time. “Excuse me?”

His lips pucker and he looks away, turning his back to me with his hands on his hips, then paces over to the fridge and takes out a carton of apple juice — the very same I’d used. “What’re you still doing here?” he grumbles, unscrewing the cap and taking a swig.

One gesture down, another rejected. Shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. Again. “We need to talk,” I say, my voice low, trying as best I can to not take offence. I’m in no mood to downplay how wretched this has made me feel, but I have to remind myself he objectively has it worse. Even though that ache hasn’t completely gone away.

When you compare suffering, nopony wins.

“We need to talk,” he scoffs to himself, then returns to me. “What’s there to talk about? You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want this. How many times do I need to say it?”

“None. The deed’s done. Good day.”

A tug at my core, like talons sinking into my chest and holding fast. My teeth grit. “I’m not going anywhere, Philip.”

“Why not?”

“Because we need to talk.”

“About what?” he snaps, taking half a step closer. “You told me you weren’t after that, and it’d be okay if I never felt the same way about you, or any other pony. I believed you. Next thing I know, I’m waking up with a wicked hangover, an aching crotch, a feather in my mouth, and you telling me we…”

I quietly gulp.

He continues frowning at me for a little longer, struggling with himself to find the words. And then he looks away again and huffs. “I trusted you to keep that crush of yours in check. This crosses the line by a longshot. You’re a pony, and not even the real kind. And you’re a friend, somehow, and it was on my birthday — my birthday.”

“I’m sorry, Philip.”

“Sorry,” he echoes, mumbling, closing his eyes as he bows his head into a waiting palm. “A simple apology isn't going to cut it. No way, no how.”

“I know.”

“Obviously not, or you wouldn’t be here.” He looks up at me again, scowling now. “Do you know what they’d do to me if people on my Earth found out about this? Bloody hell, what my family would say? It’s over. All of it. No point in going back now, is there? Not with this stain on my reputation.”

A stain.

It’s the truth, but hearing him say it aloud…

It hurts. Badly.

That icy spear has found its mark.

“Philip, please… I understand what—”

“No, you don’t,” he growls. “How could you? What do you know what it’s like to have the world you’ve known suddenly disappear? You’re not the one who nearly fell to his death. You’re not the one who was lied to for a full year by two horse demigods. No; you’re the little pony who stole my one chance of being accepted back home, if I’m ever allowed to go.”

My eyes widen. My jaw drops. The spear skewers my heart and twists.

“You want to turn back the clock? Fine by me. About two years should do.”

And then it runs right through me, a chill, from my chest to all my extremities; head, ears, neck, withers, back, wings, legs, hooves, croup, tail… everything. Colder than a blizzard in the north, and just as desolate. I feel as alone and defenceless as a bird lost in a gale, and the hostile winds are building here.

I’m not welcome.

I should go.

Leave.

Away.

I need to get away.

With an instinctual urgency and shallow breaths, I hop down from the armchair and trot for the door, the coffee mug spilling from my grasp. The latch comes free, I pull the handle, and then I’m out into the hallway, trotting still. A canter. A gallop. Into the air, down the spiralling staircase, through the lobby, outside. There were shouts — ponies reciting the rules — but they’re distant now, all behind, so far below.

I’m going home.

Nopony can hear me sobbing there.

23 | Learning to be Brave

Home.

It doesn’t feel very homely anymore — more like I’m trespassing on somepony else’s property. So high in the sky, cumuli are naturally cool, but for the first time in my entire life, I’m actually feeling the cold, and no amount of blankets or cups of hot chocolate are helping me warm up. It isn’t a normal chill; it’s one that stems from the inside, and the air around me only accentuates the problem.

I lie curled up in the nest I’ve made on my bed, chin slumped on a pillow, staring off into nowhere with half-closed, listless eyes. It’s a small comfort; I used to do this more often, once upon a time, whenever something didn’t go my way in school, like the other kids making fun of my stammer. Three years of speech therapy later, and all that remains is a lisp, which has slowly grown better with every passing winter, but never completely faded, and likely never will.

Nesting is something every pegasus does, whether they want to admit it or not — ingrained in the bird part of our brain, as instinctive as opening our wings when we fall. Parents usually wean their children out of it, in case they’re already, or planning to make friends with a family who doesn’t approve, and the same was true for Mum and Dad. But no matter how you try, you can’t kill an instinct. You can bury it, pave it over, build a beautiful temple of culture and refinement and learned behaviour, but it’ll never die; it’ll just lie dormant.

That’s what I’ve been finding out these past few… however many days it’s been. Yesterday, two days, five — it’s all jumbled up and blurred, like I’m the one motionless dreg of batter in a batch of cake mix while an eggbeater spins away. I’m hungry, but I don’t feel like eating. I’m thirsty, but I don’t feel like drinking. I’m filthy, but the dirty feeling won’t wash out.

Only the bare essentials earn my attention anymore — I still need to survive, after all. Tried watching the television at some point, but nothing took my fancy, and the background noise annoyed me. Switched it off the second I thought I heard somepony say my name. The last thing I need is news on what the world outside thinks of me; he made it clear enough.

And I can’t blame him. I don’t try to either. I should’ve just pulled the plug on the whole thing before I let it reach this far. Long before. The moment I looked up from that coffee cup at the Lunar Bean, in fact, if not sooner. Heck, if I’d just stopped replying to letters, he may very well have forgotten me in time — shrug off my memory as another jerk in a sea of assholes. Might’ve taught him a valuable lesson on how similar ponies are to humans too.

…Actually, that’s just cruel, and wouldn’t help his situation in the slightest. If he didn’t have me to vent at, there’s no telling how he’d have reacted to the news of his indefinite asylum. I wouldn’t have been there to soften the blow.

But if I weren’t there… none of this would’ve happened.

I shut my eyes and turn my head on its side, curling in a little more, trying as hard as I can to hide away from those thoughts — the same thoughts I’ve been having over and over; if only this, if only that. Thoughts that feed into an endless cycle, never going anywhere, always pulling me deeper and deeper.

I don’t know what to do anymore. Where to go, what to say. Who, if anypony, I could turn to. Haven’t even been able to muster the energy or the strength for an idle glide to the Mocha Club. They’d never have to know anything, just take my bits and brew me a latte. But being out there… so many eyes, so many curious glances, so many unspoken questions…

I’m scared. I’ve never been this scared in my entire life. And what scares me even more is how little I’m showing of it, as if this really isn’t as awful as I’m making it out to be — as it factually is.

The ache between my legs has gone. The one in my chest and stomach… not so much. For all I know, for all I care, maybe it never will. And maybe that’s the price of hubris — of tempting fate. Like a moth flying too close to the flames, thinking it’s the moon… or however the analogy’s supposed to go.

I played with fire, I got burned. I only have myself to blame.

A knock on the door. Despite cumuli being notoriously… whatever the opposite of soundproof is… it seems to echo through the house. “Fleetfoot?” Soarin calls. “You home?”

Great, it’s the fuzz. Missed too many calls, I guess, and spent too long away from the Academy. Should’ve figured it was only a matter of time before the hammer of reality came crashing down on me again. No rest for the wicked.

“If I bust through this wall, I’m not going to find you blackout drunk, am I?”

My ear twitches, and my brows furrow in an agitated frown. I swear, if there are any gods up there, at least one of them is purposely treating my life as nothing but a great, big joke. A sitcom, or something. I think Philip mentioned a movie like that, where somepony’s entire life is put on display for the whole world to see and be entertained by.

Well, if that isn’t my existence in a nutshell…

“Are you sick?”

If I were, I’d have a legitimate excuse to shoo him off; don’t come in, or you’ll catch my cooties. Perhaps the most prominent symptom of this sudden and mysterious illness is a loss of voice, or selective mutism, or something along those lines. It’d be the disease’s fault I don’t reply, not mine, and I wouldn’t feel the subtle but undeniably present tug of guilt urge me to answer him.

“You’re not dead, are you?”

Maybe it’s better if I were — I wouldn’t be around to witness the aftermath, and I’d finally stop being too tired have a proper night’s sleep. Because I wouldn’t be tired: I’d be nothing. And right now, being nothing seems a lot more appealing than… this. Whatever I’m supposed to call it.

“Okay, I’ll cut the crap,” he announces with a sigh — the kind that says he’s readying himself with a certain sense of grim determination. “I know you’re in there, Fleet. You couldn’t be anywhere else. I’ve searched all around Cloudsdale within a five mile radius, twice, and you don’t stay anywhere that isn’t your house for more than two days, unless it’s business. Either you open this door, or I’ll break it down.”

The wall would be easier, but frankly, I’m not in the mood to be doing the repairs myself, or calling somepony for a replacement door and frame. Soarin doesn’t make threats idly; when he says something like that in this context, even if he doesn’t sound deathly serious, he means it.

I heave a slow, heavy, reluctant sigh through my nose and shift my weight, rolling so I lie somewhat upright and stare over the foot of my bed to the entry down below, ears angled back. Leaving me without a choice isn’t very diplomatic, but diplomacy has its limits, I suppose. Knowing when to put your hoof down is just as important as leniency. And, hey, as much as I hate to admit it… it’s working, isn’t it?

“You want me to count to three?”

I contemplate what his reaction would be if it turned out I weren’t here, and he’d just wasted his time making this grand little speech and vandalising an empty house. The shock on his face would be priceless — doubly so when he’d inevitably have to explain things to me. But right now, that simply isn’t the case. Better to spare us both our feelings, or what little of them remains.

With the soft hiss of a laboured, unenthusiastic groan, I rock back onto my rump to get my forehooves in place, then lean forward and to give my hindlegs room to stand. Muscles strain against themselves after hours upon hours of inactivity, but it’s only a minor inconvenience. I trundle onward, hop off, and limply glide to the lower floor, where I misjudge the landing and stumble for a moment. Nothing serious. No pride to hurt anymore.

After a quick pause to steady myself and get my nausea under control — the last thing I need is another vomiting session over the toilet, or anywhere here, as a matter of fact — I ramble for the door. The latch unlocks, the bolt slides free, and then I edge it open and peer through the gap.

It’s him alright, and considering his gaze was ready to meet mine, he’d heard my approach. Standard-issue casual attire, as well as a pair of shades — rare for the likes of him. He smiles chipperly. “Hey, Fleet. It’s been a while.”

I don’t reply. It hasn’t really, as far as I recall, but I haven’t kept track of the date, so in the end, what do I know?

“Spitfire sent me — came to see if you’re alright.” He cocks his head and his smile shrinks. “You’re alive, at least.”

Again, I give him nothing.

He glances to his left and up at the rest of the house. “Listen, I, uh… don’t mean to intrude or anything, but… it’s not like you to be this reclusive, even with time off. And that’s led me — us — to think something’s changed. Not making any assumptions, just… concerned. For you, I mean, as a teammate and a friend.”

I continue staring, stretching out the silence. Not for any particular reason, strangely enough, just processing the fact he’s standing right there and talking to me, I guess. “Thanks,” I hoarsely mumble, then quickly contemplate and immediately dismiss the idea of slamming the door in his face.

“No sweat,” he answers chipperly, as if I hadn’t just attempted to brush him off like dust from the shoulder. And then he gives a meaningful glance to the space behind me. “So, if it’s not too much to ask… may I come in?”

Another few seconds of staring, expressionless as ever, though I feel somewhat more indignant, especially that, despite saying he doesn’t mean to, he is intruding. “I don’t have much of a choice, do I?

He shrugs, his smile never wavering. “Spitty’s orders, Fleet. Sorry.”

Yes, I’m sure he’s very sorry, and if it weren’t Spitfire backing this endeavour, who knows? Maybe I’d be sorely tempted to make sure he knows how sorry he should be. If anything, at least it’d be a welcome reprieve from this… funk, I guess I’m supposed to call it — a break in the storm, if violent and frankly uncalled for.

But he’s my superior, not just my friend, and he’s here under the authority somepony else, and if I know anything about her, it’s how much she cares for her team — treats us like family, because we are, in a way. This door’s opening one way or another, so the less fuss I kick up about it, the less blood, sweat and tears need to be shed. Besides, I’ve been meaning to fetch myself some breakfast, and although these aren’t the most ideal circumstances, it’s finally gotten me out of bed.

With another of those heavy, yet quiet sighs, I sidestep out of the way and pull the door with me, and the entire space seems to grow a few shades brighter. A shame, really, since it doesn’t do me any good myself.

“Thanks,” he says, taking the shades off with a wingtip as he strolls in and tucks them into the collar of his polo. “I like what you’ve done with the place — looks very… lived-in.”

That’s one way to describe it. An utter mess would be more fitting. At least three dirty bowls on the coffee table between the couch and TV, and an assortment of empty, crinkled foil wrappers — my lion’s share of rainbow truffles put to good use. A few empty mugs and glasses on the kitchen counter as well, and pillows from the sofa lie scattered about the floor, which seems wispier than normal. Not the worst it could be, but I really should’ve mustered the energy to clean up this place in case somepony arrived. And somepony has.

“Is this a new style you’re going with, or…?”

I flash him an unimpressed, disapproving look.

He snorts and smirks. “Yeah-yeah, I know, I’m being an ass. Still, if you don’t mind me saying… I’m surprised you’ve let it affect you this much, whatever it is. You don’t look much better than the house.”

My brows, ears and eyelids lower. “Smooth, Clipper.”

“Well, am I wrong?”

I hold his gaze for a moment, then look down at myself. Indeed, my fur isn’t as smooth as it could be, and my mane and tail could do with a thorough wash, and my wings itch with improperly aligned feathers. I don’t want to say I’ve fallen into a habit of negligence — merciful Sisters, that would make me such a stereotype — but I can’t deny I’ve let myself go.

Every single everyday task I’ve ever faced since that cursed morning, the question of ‘why bother’ came to mind, and in an instant, it all seemed so utterly pointless. Dusk was only nine hours away; not enough time to do anything meaningful.

“Would you like some help around here?”

I blink, then look up to him again. “With what?”

“Housecleaning.” He shrugs. “Anything you want, really — I don’t mind. I mean… it may be pushing the boundaries a little, but if you’re having trouble keeping stuff in order… I guess I could ask Spitfire to give me some time off as well. You know, to be close.”

I blink a second time, squinting. “You’re offering to be my maid?”

“If that’s what you need.”

A third, much slower blink, now incredulous more than anything else. “I can take care of myself, Soarin. I’m not in the business of using my friends. Not anymore.”

“You’re not using me if I know what I’m getting into, Fleet. At least, in regards to the workload. You don’t have to talk about what’s bothering you if you don’t want to, but if you do, I’m here to listen.”

I stare at him for a little while longer, then listlessly shake my head and walk around the counter for the kitchen. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“That’s what they all say until it’s out in the open. Trust me, I can be very understanding.”

“I don’t doubt you are, it’s just…” I grab a sliced loaf of bread from the freezer, butter from the fridge, and a plate from the dish cabinet, searching for distractions as I give myself time to think — something I wish I had less of in recent days. “I really just don’t give a damn anymore.”

“If you don’t give a damn, why aren’t you telling me?”

I wince, my ear twitches, and I peer at him from the corner of my eye.

“Not saying you should,” he defends, angling his head and lifting a hoof up in mock surrender, “just saying—”

“You can start with the living room,” I declare, then bring my attention to the bread, where I break off two slices and put them on the plate, and return the rest of the loaf to the freezer.

He pauses, but I see his figure give a nod and trot off around the couch.

As I pop the bread in the toaster and push the slide down, I retrieve a butter knife from the cutlery drawer, and all that’s left to do is wait. In fact, that’s all I’ve been doing — waiting for something to happen. I’ve just… resumed course, I guess.

But not entirely. Something has happened, courtesy of others’ concerns for me, and that something is in my house, collecting all the wrappers and brushing off the crumbs from the sofa. What I’m supposed to make of it, I haven’t a clue; having him in under the same roof as me feels off, somehow. Not because he’s seeing me in the state I am, or how I’ve let everything go to shit, but because… he’s here. Where I am. As if he were a piece of gum under the desk in high school, but I can’t bring myself to peel it off and fling it as far away from me as possible, where it belongs.

…Great, now I sound like a douche. He’s here and he’s helping. I should be thankful for that, not scornful. Shouldn’t let this mood twist my mind so much that I’m seeing enemies everywhere and spies in every corner.

“Reading some fan mail, were you?”

My ears perk up and I look over to him.

He holds up a small batch of neatly folded letters in a wing for me to see — no more than ten slips of paper, I reckon. “Scattered on the floor here, addressed to you. Reading them for motivation’s sake, or—”

“Give them here.”

He blinks, somewhat taken aback. “Oh, are they personal?”

“Give them here,” I insist, striding toward him with a frown and an outstretched wing, the other holding the knife close — though I don’t mean to, I suppose I must look like I’m liable to stab him. “They’re mine.”

His brows rise in surprise and he hesitates for a moment, but eventually complies, waddling closer and passing the papers to me. But not before, however, his curiosity gets the better of him and he takes a brief glimpse at the name of the sender on the bottom of the topmost letter. “From Philip?”

My jaw clenches in response, but I don’t let him see, turning immediately and hopping into the air for my ledge. With my wings carrying certain things, it’s tricker than it should be, but I manage with a few ungraceful flaps, then quickly stow them in the bedside table along with my contact case and fluid. Haven’t worn them in ages.

“Are they all from him?”

“Get back to work, Clipper,” I order, mustering what little biting power I can, then glide back down to the kitchen where the toaster pops almost on cue. “You’re not here to ask questions, remember?”

He pauses, letting my response hang in the air, and its blunt effectiveness soon wilts away. “That’s not a no, Fleet,” he says calmly, quietly, knowingly.

I don’t reply. I tell myself I’m too busy buttering the toast, but that’s a lie.

“Is this a friendship problem, or something?”

I want to grind the knife as far into the toast as I can, but that’d get crumbs everywhere and I don’t want to make it look like he’s actively getting on my nerves, or picking at a sensitive topic. Of course, the longer I don’t give him a direct answer, the more suspicious my silence becomes. Even I can’t pretend it’s not shifty.

“Well?”

“Don’t use that kind of language.”

He pauses again, expecting more.

“I’m not going to Twilight about this,” I grumble, frowning at and starting on the second slice. “She wouldn’t be comfortable with it, and it doesn’t concern her. Doesn’t concern you either. Or Spits, or the Bolts, or Mum and Dad, or anypony else. I’ll work it out on my own.”

“And how’s that been treating you?”

I stop and peer at him from the corner of my eye once more, still frowning, though it’s the hollow sort — forced, and without much weight behind it.

He cocks his head and purses his lips in a look of dogged sympathy, cutting through as much as he can of the wall of bullshit I’m spouting. And despite my best efforts, I’m honestly not entirely sure whether I believe myself or not. “I can’t promise you an answer to all your problems, Fleet, but keeping everything bottled up isn’t the key to solving them.”

I return to buttering the second piece of toast, and take a small amount of comfort in seeing the first had already grown golden. “I’m not bottling anything up.”

“You are.” He strolls toward me from the living room, essentially blocking my exit unless I wanted to leap over the counter or shoot through the roof. “If you weren’t, you’d either be at the Academy with the rest of us or training solo. You don’t sit by yourself and mope around your house all day — you take action. That means this isn’t any old ordinary problem. And if it’s too big for you, Fleet, especially you, then you really shouldn’t keep this to yourself.”

I toss the knife aside and take the plate in a wing, sitting on my haunches, facing away from him with folded ears, the other wing holding a slice ready for me to bite. But I let it hang there. I don’t feel like eating. I expect myself to, since I’ve already gone through the motions, but I don’t. This conversation’s taken a turn down a path I vainly hoped it wouldn’t, and whatever appetite I had when I started making breakfast has vanished. Once again, in that limbo of emotion and impulse.

“I care for you, Fleet. We all do. And we trust you enough to know what’s best for you. But doing this to yourself isn’t the answer — the world keeps moving, and so should you. If you need a little extra wind in your wings, I’d be more than happy to help, but I can’t do that unless you open up. Tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll do what I can.”

“It wouldn’t be enough,” I mutter, feeling the tension mounting in my chest, like a rope being tightened the harder it tugs away from him. My voice threatens to quaver. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then help me understand.”

“No.” I risk a proper glimpse of him, and when our eyes meet for a fleeting moment, I realise that was a mistake; now there’s a new string tugging at my core, and he’s pulling it, whether or not he means to. My ears fold even further back as I shift my weight onto my rump to hide my tensing flanks and clamped tail. “It’s… embarrassing.”

It’s the most succinct, most comfortably vague way of describing it I can think of, and I don’t try to correct myself, but putting it so simply makes it seem far less complicated than I know it is. I also hate how childish I sound, as if I were still at the age where calling private parts by their actual names was scandalous. But that’s the price of sparing him the details, and good riddance for that.

“Oh my stars…” he murmurs, pulling the string tighter a steel cable, finer than a fishing line.

I shut my eyes and cringe, bowing my head and letting my wings sag, bracing myself for the words I dread, and perhaps secretly crave — for the elephant in the room to finally be called. If anything, it would at least cleanse this rotten, festering, agitated feeling from my stomach.

“You have a crush on him!”

A pause.

A beat.

A silence.

The words sink in, my face relaxes somewhat, and my eyes flutter open into a confused squint. And then I look over my shoulder to him. “What?”

“It all makes sense now!” he exclaims, eyes wide in delighted realisation, running a wing through his mane as his gaze lowers to some indefinite space ahead of him, looking lost in thought. “The letters on tour, the weekly meetups, the extra time off… Sweet Celestia, why didn’t I see it before?”

I blink, and my ears start parking up as my frown grows less confused and more bewildered. “You seriously never knew?”

“How was I supposed to?” He begins pacing in a small, slow circle, always staring at that point in front of him, occasionally giving a glance my way. “I just thought he… I don’t know, intrigued you, I guess. Like he does me. You know, like… weird alien from another world; you want to get to know him, hear what he has to say, what life’s like on the other side. Nothing necessarily private, just… neat little titbits of info here and there. An exotic friend, more than anything. But a crush? You? I never would’ve guessed that. Not to say you shouldn’t, it’s just… surprising.”

I blink again.

“Does he know?” He spins about to face me, eager as a puppy for a juicy morsel. But then his grin fades as soon as another thought strikes him. “Oh stars, he knows, doesn’t he? You told him you like him, and he said he doesn’t feel the same way about you, and that’s got you in a funk, and you’ve been too embarrassed to face him or anybody else ever since.”

“No, Soarin, I—”

“You’re right; this isn’t a friendship problem — this is a… a heart problem! But not the medical kind. A love problem! That’s something you see Princess Cadance for!”

“It’s nothing like that—”

“Well, I mean, you can love your friends, but that’s not the same as loving someone you care about — someone you’re interested in. Yeah, this is a problem for Cadance. But a letter wouldn’t be fast enough, even through the express service…”

“Look, if you’d just listen—”

“Pack your bags, Fleet, and dress for cold weather,” he instructs, heading for the living room again, as casual as if he’d just asked a bartender to make his drink shaken, not stirred. “When we’re finished here, we’re going north and we’re sorting this thing out once and for—”

“WE BANGED, OKAY?!”

He freezes midstride, stiff as a statue, staring straight ahead, stunned. Almost as if I’d hit pause on the remote and it worked in real life. His forehoof and hindleg hang suspended in the air, which grows more and more frigid the longer he remains still.

The full weight of what I’d just admitted to now comes back to me like a rising tide, and I can find nothing to hide behind. Even my wings feel bare — a veil so fine there may as well be nothing there at all, like the fable of the Emperor’s New Clothes. My brows knit together and my ears droop along with my gaze, watching the floor as my teeth begin to chatter.

“Oh,” he says, letting his hooves fall, still focussed on the horizon beyond the walls of the house. And then he solely turns to face me side-on. Not disturbed, not disgusted, but still overwhelmingly stunned. “That, uh… That complicates things.”

“I didn’t mean to,” I affirm, though I hate that I have to elaborate, and I hate how meek and shaken I sound, even though I know I can’t be anything else. “We didn’t mean to. But… it happened. We’d been drinking, it was his place, and he was holding me close, and he… called me beautiful… and I kissed him… and… he kissed me…”

He waits for me to finish. Not expectantly, just patiently.

A kindness I don’t feel I deserve.

“And… and when I woke up, I tried telling him it was a mistake — that I didn’t mean for any of it to happen — but… he just… wouldn’t listen. I wasn’t his friend anymore. I was a pony — a… a horse. Something I can’t help being. And he knew I had a thing for him, but so long as I kept it in check, we could… we could still see each other.”

Again, more silence. He doesn’t mean to make it hostile, but it’s becoming that. With nothing to fill the void, I’m finally realising how truly pathetic my side of the story is, and my next breath is a ragged, shivering one. I barely notice I’ve dropped the toast.

“I… I took advantage of him, Soarin.” I look at him from the corner of my eye with upturned brows, a quivering jaw, and ears down as far as they’re can go. The hints of tears are starting to form. “I made him do something he didn’t want to do. Maybe it wasn’t rape, but it may as well have been.”

His eyes widen, his ears perk up and he canters over to sit behind me. “Don’t say that,” he whispers urgently, reaching forward with both forehooves and pulling me into a hug. “Don’t you dare say that.”

“But I did!” I shout, or try to — it’s a choked wail. I don’t deserve a hug after what I did. Don’t deserve anything. This house, my job, my fame… all built around a sham of a pony. “I asked him to kiss me, and he did, but I wanted more, so I kissed back, and… and…! I betrayed him! I’ve ruined his life, Soarin! Ruined it.”

“Hey, hey, shush.” He gently rocks me back and forth and softly strokes my mane. “It’s okay, Fleet. It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.”

“But it’s not,” I breathe, barely louder than a broken whimper. “I told him I wanted us to stay friends… and now look what’s happened. All because I… I let myself…”

He drapes his chin over my head and wraps his wings around my body, hugging me closer.

And that’s enough to tip me over the edge — break me down into a bawling, snivelling, blubbering mess. Everything that’s happened… everything I’ve been afraid was going to happen… like a massive weight slamming into the ground, and I’m in the centre of it all. I lean into him as much as I can, but I can’t bring myself to return the embrace — there’s too much effort, too much thought behind it. And he wouldn’t want to get his fur wet.

But he never lets go, always rocking and swaying, holding and stroking, making sure I know he’s near. And I appreciate it. I just don’t think I deserve it.

“I don’t know what to do, Soarin,” I confess when what little of my wits remain have been gathered. “I don’t know what to do…”

He nods in acknowledgement as well as he can while keeping his body close to mine, but doesn’t say anything. Not for a good, long while, at least. “I think I know where we can start.”

I swear, I’ve become no better than a child. I sat in the corner and pouted, feeling sorry for myself, then needed hugs and kisses to make the boo-boo hurt a little less, and now I’m here, sitting in my own bath as somepony else washes me from head to hoof.

Soarin rubs the shampoo through my mane with a hoof, and whenever a sudd get too low, I wipe it away with a wing before it reaches my eye. I appreciate the help. I really, really do. But a part of me — quite easily the majority, or at the very least a not insignificant part of me — can only take this as a sign of weakness; if I can’t even trust myself to do a task as simple as bathing, what am I good for anymore?

“Stop it.”

I give him a sideways glance. “Stop what?”

“Thinking like that. It won’t do anyone any favours, least of all you.”

Should’ve figured he’d pick up on that. Can’t trust myself to assess my reality without him assessing me. I return to staring at the bubbly water and the feathers floating across its surface like flower petals — he’d taken the liberty of preening my wings as well, which felt good at the time, but now it only threatens to confirm my fears.

I’m submerged from my midsection down, but despite the weightless warmth, I don’t really feel too comfortable; this isn’t a state he should see me in. Heavens above, this isn’t a state I’d want to see myself in. And no matter how well he scrubs my fur, or washes my mane, or preens my wings and… and basically does his best… I still know why he’s doing it. Why he’s here. Why I’m here.

There’ll always be that cursed reminder between my legs and under my tail…

“What did he say, exactly?”

I shut my eyes and sigh. “What does it matter?”

“It matters because I want to help. I can’t fix everything for you, but at the very least, I can offer you another perspective — a fresh set of eyes. But I can’t do that if you don’t give me details.”

“Well, I told you. I have… I had a crush on him, and I told him about it. He trusted me to keep it contained, because… I’m not like him — not… not a human. So, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever feel the same way.”

“Because it’s taboo on his world, right?”

“Yeah.” Him saying it aloud and my acknowledgement weighs on my stomach even more — to be reminded of how I’d crossed a moral boundary. “He still wants to go home. And now, he’s worried I’ve stolen any chance he has, because if somepony over there finds out what he’s done… what I’ve made him do…”

“But we’re not on his world, are we?”

My ears twitch, but I open my eyes, angle my head toward him and give a warning frown. “That’s beside the point, Soarin; it’s about what he wants. And he made it… abundantly clear he doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

He quicks an eyebrow as he pours a cup of water down my neck and wrings the soap from my mane. “Then why didn’t he shoot you down and cut you off when you told him you liked him?”

“Because we hadn’t done anything physical at that point.”

He takes a break from washing my hair to bob his head from side to side. “Sure, but what I’m trying to say is… he wanted to be around you, despite knowing how you felt about him. He knew you were a pony, but he valued your company more.”

I blink at him, then look away and shake my head. “This is different, Soarin.”

“Of course it is. I’m not denying that. But the thing about alcohol is that it doesn’t fundamentally change someone — it just… lowers your inhibitions.”

An ear twitches again, and after a beat to process his words, I return to him, afraid he might be assuming too much, but curious to know where exactly he’s going with this.

“Now, I’m not saying he’s harbouring some deep-rooted affection for you that he’s in denial over, or that anyone’s to blame, because as far as I’m concerned, neither of you are. But what I am saying is that… you liked him a certain way, and he liked you a certain way. And without certain factors telling you how you should or shouldn’t like each other… maybe you found some common ground.”

He’s… not wrong, I suppose. But I feel like there’s still more he has to say — more wisdom he can dispense — so I wet my mouth and continue to listen, ears now rising to almost full-mast.

Soarin gently pulls his hooves away and folds his forelegs on the bath’s edge, looking off to his left as he chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking to himself. “I don’t want to make it sound like I don’t sympathise with the guy, but… Philip’s problem is that he’s too stuck in the past. He’s holding out hope for a future that, frankly, is never going to happen. It sucks ass, totally, and he may not agree with Celestia’s reasoning… but that’s the way his cookie crumbled. He needs to make do with what he’s been given.

“And if he ever comes round… I’d say he’s found himself quite a catch.” He returns to me and smiles humbly. “But that won’t happen unless you talk with him. Not at him or to him, but with him. Find a quiet spot, sit him down, and have a healthy conversation.”

More than a little bold of him, presuming to know I still want Philip in my life. But as much as I hate to admit it… he’d be right. Or at the very least, extremely close to being smack on target. I wouldn’t be skulking around my house unless I lost something special, but thought it possible to find a way to get it back. Otherwise, like he said in the kitchen, I’d be moving on.

But then I realise he’d come to that conclusion before I did, and my eyes close, my head droops, and I sigh once more. Again, somepony else had proven they know me better than I know myself. “I tried talking with him, Soarin,” I mumble gloomily. “He wouldn’t listen.”

“Then give him space.” He reaches over and pulls me in for another hug, dampening his fur in the process. “Give him time. Organise a meeting and tell him when and where, and don't hold back when you get there. But whatever you do… don’t let him say you’re not worth loving because of what you can’t help being.”

The embrace catches me off-guard, and the words of encouragement even more so, but it’s what I need to feel and what I need to hear, and I lean into him as my lips pucker and my eyes squeeze shut. I wish I had words to speak — something to prove I’m stronger than this — but my imagination’s failing me, so I remain quiet. No more tears to cry, no more asking why; he’s here for me, and I can only be grateful.

“You’re braver than me, Fleetfoot. Braver than I’ll ever be. And if I need to say it more times than there are stars in the sky, then that’s what I’ll do. Now and always.”

I can’t help grinning. It’s cheesy, but compared to the living nightmare I’ve gotten myself into, I’ll take cheesy any day of the week. “What makes you say that?”

He huffs a gentle snort, and I can tell by the tone of it that he’s grinning as well. “Let’s just say… you’re not the only one with a crush.”

There’s a pause as the words sink in, and when they do, my ears perk up, my eyes shoot open and I pull away from him, sloshing water over the edge on accident as I look at him bemusedly. “You’re not talking about me, are you?”

“What?” He blinks with widening eyes, stunned, and perhaps a little mortified. “No, of course not. Well, I mean, you are attractive — really, an absolute stunner, sometimes — and I’d have no problem dating you whatsoever, if that’s what you wanted. Like, maybe it could be a kind of three-way deal, if your heart’s set on somebody else, and they’re cool with us seeing each other on the side, or—”

“Soarin, shut up,” I interrupt, lifting a hoof to silence him, trying to put an end to the image of me sharing a candlelit dinner with him and Philip. Stars, even after everything I’ve been through, he’s still in my fantasies. “Just… who, then?”

“Oh.” Soarin slowly settles back down, unfurled wings folding at his sides and shifting in place. “Well, uh… isn’t it obvious?”

I squint. “Philip?”

“Oh my stars, no!” He breaks out in awkward laughter, which quickly dies down to an uneasy smile and anxious eyes. “It’s… Spits.”

I blink. And then my jaw drops. “Spitfire?!”

“Yep.” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away in earnest. “She’s, uh… really something, don’t you think?”

I continue staring at him for a few long moments, then try to compose myself as best as I’m able, clearing my throat. “Well, I mean… ‘something’ is definitely the word for it.”

“Says the mare who did the do with this world’s first and only human.”

My ears fold back and I snap my gaze to the water beneath me, tucking my wings in as close as they’ll go and clamping my tail as well as I’m able.

There’s a pause — a silence as he realises just what he said and how tender that nerve was. “Sorry, I…” he begins, but soon drifts off and lowers his gaze, shaking his head. “Look, in any case, you plan on doing something about it. Maybe I’ve helped a little. But me and Spits? I’ve kept that under wraps for the past… five years, I think. Haven’t told anybody, haven’t made a move. Scared I’ll somehow screw it up, because… you know, she’s a friend, and we work together. I don’t want to say you have it better, but… at least you and Philip have distance on your side.”

I look up at him from behind wary brows, though I suspect my gaze has become more outwardly sympathetic. We’re not exactly in the same boat, but we’re in the same ocean, and we’re braving similar storms — storms we both seem to have accidentally found ourselves in.

“Anyway, we should finish up here, shouldn’t we?” He beckons me closer with a wing, returning to me with a smile, and I genuinely can’t tell whether it’s feigned or honest. “Still haven’t done the fur conditioner.”

I hesitate for a moment, but quickly realise I’m being edgy over nothing; it was a passing, poorly phrased, poorly timed attempt at a friendly jab, not an actual attack. So, I breathe out through my nose, evicting what tension I can with it, and quietly wade toward him on my haunches. And when I feel his hooves press into my shoulders, spreading the lotion and massaging me at the same time, I close my eyes and rock with the motions, allowing myself this one interlude of peace — of bliss — before I brave the storm again.

“So, is everything set?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Good.” Soarin nods to himself, inspecting the living room and kitchen a final time, pulling out his shades with a wing and holding that at the ready. “Well, I can safely say the work of a maid is sorely underappreciated.”

I give a light snort. “While true, I think you’re a far cry from truly understanding the horrors they sometimes have to deal with.”

“Oh really?” He slides on the shades with practiced precision and turns to me with an eyebrow raised, a good-natured smirk playing across his lips. “And what makes you an expert, dearest Fleetfoot? You’re not hiding a secret past from me, are you?”

I snort again. “I wish, but no. Just some stories Philip shared, back when he was working at his dad’s motel. Smashed mirrors, writing on the walls, clogged toilets… or maybe they just didn’t aim correctly.”

He baulks, but chuckles all the same. “Yeah, well then, let me rephrase: I’m glad I caught you before you reached that point. Last thing I need burned into my memory is the image of me reminding you how to go potty.”

I chuckle as well, but him saying that makes me wonder how long I’d have let that mood go on for, unchecked. How many more days I’d have stayed cooped up on my bed, or lounging on the couch, or sulking in the bathroom, feeling sorry for myself, slowly letting the ever-shrinking world go to waste. What would I have done when the food ran out? And it wouldn’t have happened for another full year at least, but if a hole had formed in the floor, would I have really cared?

It’s not exactly a scary thought, but it is a troubling one. And one I shouldn’t spend any time on; while I’m not completely out of my funk, I’ve come far enough that I don’t want to regress.

“Hey.”

I look to the voice again.

Soarin gives me a small but undeniably hearty smile, an eyebrow quirked in calmly confident curiosity as he drapes the same wing over my withers. “You know what you’re going to do, right? Regarding him, I mean.”

Being reminded there’s still another mountain to climb stings a little, even though I know he means well. But in the relatively short time I’ve had between the bath and all this extra cleaning, I believe I’ve cobbled together a plan of sorts. “Yeah,” I answer, nodding absently, surprising myself by how sure I sound. “I think so.”

“That’s my girl.” He pats my back, then pulls away, turning to face me properly instead of side-on. “Oh, and, um… don’t feel too bad about the, uh… you know… the ‘embarrassing’ part of your story — happens to everyone eventually, I swear. One time, I—”

A wing to the back of the head shuts him up good.

“Right, sorry. Deserved that.” He readjusts his glasses and clears his throat. “Anyway, uh… yeah. It was a mistake. You know it, he knows it, and if he doesn’t, then make sure he does. And if he still doesn’t get the message, just give me a call — I’ll spell it out for him loud and clear.”

I pucker my lips and lower my gaze, sighing. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Yeah, let’s hope,” he resignedly agrees, nodding again, then sweeps his mane back and cracks his neck. “Well, this was certainly an experience. Unexpected, but hopefully a little cathartic — nice to get things off your chest every once in a while, and I’ve been sitting on that doozy for five years. Less weight, fly straight, as they always say.”

I cock an eyebrow of my own. “Who says that?”

He pauses, and if it weren’t for the light bouncing off his shades at just the right angle, I’m sure I’d be seeing him shiftily glance left and right. “People.”

I nod thoughtfully. “I see…”

He lets out another, more singular and quiet chuckle, smiling again, but with an awkward tinge, knowing he’s been caught out. But then there’s a convenient cough and he clears his throat once more. “So, if there are no more dishes to do, DVD cases to put away, rubbish to toss out, or xenophilic pegasi to emotionally repair, I think my job here is indeed done. In which case, I’d best be heading off.”

Whether the humour’s in good taste or not, I can’t tell. Can’t bring myself to care anymore either, frankly. So, I nod yet again, though this one’s more wistful. “Well then, I’ll see you around.”

“You too, Fleet.” He gives me a quick peck on the forehead — just a friendly thing I let him do, as recompense for all the times I slap him, I tell myself, and not because I like them — then he turns and trots for the door. “Oh, and don’t worry, Spitfire won’t hear a word about this. Well, I mean, so long as you don’t tell her anything about… you know… that.”

I follow him from where I stand and give him a salute. “Gotcha. Consider me blackmailed.”

“Sweet.” He opens the door and turns to give a salute of his own. “You have a good one.”

“You too, Soarin. Fly straight.”

He smirks at me, and then he’s gone. A few seconds later, he hops off the porch and zooms away. And then there’s silence in the house once more.

I look around. Everything’s so pristine. You’d hardly guess how much of a mess I’d let become. I can scarcely believe it myself. It’s been so long since I could able to see the details in the reliefs I’d carved into the living room wall — decorative things without much personal value, but pleasant works of art all the same, if I do say so myself. Oftentimes, I couldn’t be bothered. Now, however… I promise I’ll pay them special attention when next I do house maintenance.

But basking in my past achievements will have to wait; I have a scheme to set in motion, and I don’t want to do it while wallowing in complete silence. So, I trot over to the couch, pick up the remote, and switch on the TV, then select the music library from the function menu, and scroll through for something appropriate. A, B, C, D, E, F…

George Michael.

Perfect.

I select the track and crank up the volume. Perhaps it’s a little on the nose, especially considering my situation, but the instantaneous strumming of a guitar soon reminds me why Waiting For That Day quickly became my favourite of all his songs. Since when did breakup music learn to get this groovy?

When the keyboard and drums kick in, I hop into the air, then flap my way up to the bedroom. I need a pen and some paper, and I need to jot down my thoughts; calling in some favours needs to be planned out.

24 | The Show Must Go On

Favours.

It only took two: one from Spike, and one from Twilight. They may not have owed me directly, but we could all agree we cared for his wellbeing, so it stood to reason they’d help me smooth things over with him. Or at least help facilitate the process. Everything else was able to sort itself out from there.

Champion Stadium in Las Pegasus comes from an age when the city was airborne, and valued martial prowess above the casinos and extravagant parties it’s now famous for.

In fact, if I recall correctly, there was a brief time shortly after Equestria’s founding where gladiatorial sports were still carried out here, before the Sisters caught whiff, and that’s where its name comes from. The architectural style matches, even if the cloud it was originally made from has long since been replaced by more earthly materials; marble, concrete and the like. It’s still a sight to see, and the largest stadium in the whole kingdom if you exclude the Crystal Empire.

I begin my descent toward the eastern landing pad on the sixth tier. Though the show itself hasn’t started, I can already hear the eager muttering of thousands of ponies in their seats, and many more yet to be funnelled through the gates. It’s a clear sky today, neither too hot nor too cold, but so is every day or night of a Wonderbolt performance, unless the routine demands otherwise. Less of a convenience for the audience, who’d have to dress appropriately, but what’s life without a little spice?

Of course, if you shake stuff up too much, you might end up doing things you never wanted to do, and being sick over the toilet about them.

Which is why I’m arriving presently, and not with the rest of the team. Can I fix my mistakes? That largely depends on how you interpret the word ‘fix’. I’ve definitely come to make amends, though — to set things right, or as well as I’m able — and considering he’s agreed to make use of that plus one slot, I’d hazard a guess to say he’s at least receptive.

Quite the reversal since last we talked, but it’s been a month. Something might’ve changed. For all I know, this could just be him saying goodbye and disappearing from my life altogether. I doubt it, but now I’ve thought about it, the image won’t go away. Brains are frustrating that way.

Touching down on the pad at a trot, I fold my wings and continue into the stadium complex. Stylishly opulent, as most older Las Pegasus buildings tend to be, but it’s lacking the one thing the city is also known for: activity. Instead, members of the Royal Guard stand watch. Not many — only four by the entrance proper — but their presence alone is enough to alert anypony that somepony under their protection is in the vicinity.

Officially, they’re here as a supplement security detail, courtesy of Celestia, at Twilight’s behest. Ten thousand ponies are a bit much for just three guards to handle, after all. But unofficially, if the lack of would-be spectators isn’t any indication, their actual task is a bit more nuanced; keep any and all prying eyes turned away.

I give one guard a small nod as I pass him by, and he watches me go for as long as he’s able while never moving his head. Recognition and confusion, I sense — he knows his orders and he’ll carry them out to the letter, he just doesn’t understand them.

That’s okay. For now, all I need is their silent obedience. The less word gets out about this meeting, the better. Enough rumours are already circulating about why the weekly get-togethers at the Lunar Bean had suddenly stopped, up to and including some disturbingly accurate theories.

Of course, being the respectable pony I am, I’ve put them out of my mind as much as possible… but those thoughts are never far enough away. They linger beneath the surface — a reminder to what’s happened. To what I’ve done. What I’ve broken.

Focus.

I blink hard and shake my head. Now’s not the time to feel sorry for myself — I’ve had a whole month to do that and get over it; now’s the time for action, and that’s what I’m doing. I woke up determined and I’m staying determined. Dreading how terribly things could go, naturally, but determined to see it through regardless, and not run away with tears in my eyes and my tail between my legs like last time. I’m stronger, wiser.

I am in control.

Past the salad bar, the actual bar, and both their unoccupied counters. Past the seating and dining areas where audience members can have a proper conversation without shouting over everypony else. Past two guards flanking the double doors — which is a similar situation for all the visible exits — a few twists and turns later, and I’m at last ambling down this section’s walkway for the private booths. Glowing signs denote each entrance’s letter and number, but I don’t need to look at them to know where I’m headed.

A pair of guards stand by R35; one’s familiar, the other isn’t. He stares at me coldly as I approach, almost judgementally, like I don’t belong here; it threatens to prod at my fight-or-flight response, and my track record easily favours the latter.

But I’m not backing down.

“Halt,” he orders, holding out an armoured foreleg. He seems young for a Royal Guard — early twenties, I reckon — and although he doesn’t sound exactly hostile, there’s certainly something… guarded about his tone. Pun intended. “State your business.”

I slow myself to a standstill and blink, ears attentive as I turn my gaze from him to Brave, silently asking where this is coming from and whether she could please help me.

With a quick, subtle roll of the eyes, she strides to his side and gives him a nudge, knocking him off balance just enough that he has to put his forehoof down. “Cut it out, Able. Give her a break. We know who she is and what she’s here for.”

He looks at her almost as if she’d uttered something incomprehensible. “But, ma’am, protocol dictates—"

“Protocol can shove itself where the sun don’t shine if we’ve been through the same routine over and over and over again. I know Fleetfoot when I see her.”

“She could be a changeling.”

Her eyelids lower to half-mast, and then she turns to me. “Are you a changeling?”

I hesitate for a moment, but quickly shake my head.

“There,” she says with an approving smile, face brightening, glancing over to the other guard. “See, she’s shy around new ponies — tends not to talk when she doesn’t know them well enough. So, why don’t you introduce yourself?”

He stares at her a short while, almost blankly, but then blinks and returns to me, clears his throat, and gives a practiced salute, looking off to some indefinite point above my head. “Able Hooves, ma’am, at the ready. Forgive my prudence, I’m just not used to things being so lax, especially considering the, uh… singular nature of our mutual friend.”

“He’s a newbie,” Brave explains, rolling her eyes and angling her head toward me, which earns her a sideways, somewhat sour glance from Able. “Phalanx took some time off about a week back, to be with his aunt while she’s in the hospital, and this boy here’s acting as a stand-in. Another Stella situation, essentially, but more uptight and less boorish.”

“I’m not uptight.”

“Fine; you’re eager,” she corrects herself, making sure he knew just how little distinction there could be between the two. And then she returns to me once more with a small but undeniably amicable smile. “But don’t worry, ma’am, he’ll get the memo eventually. And if he doesn’t? Well… it’s been ages since I’ve had the chance to knock somepony’s teeth out.”

“You do that, and I’ll report you.”

“You’ll try.” She chuckles, stepping aside and beckoning me through with a gentle sweep of the foreleg. “Anyway, we shouldn’t keep him waiting, should we?”

Again, I hesitate, though I don’t quite know what I’m unsure of. But I lift my head, fluff my wings, and try not to let the tension show as I walked toward the entrance.

“Oh, and also, one other thing; I’m sorry about what happened.”

I freeze midstride and feel a cold emptiness sink blunt but vicious teeth into my side, urging me to jerk away from her, even if it meant bowling into Amble on my right. My ears angle back and my tail clamps down, and my mouth seems a little drier than normal.

“He told us.”

I stiffly angle my head just a little way to the left and peer at her from the corner of my eye. “What?” I utter mutely, and the itch in my wings for me to fly out of here now feels like a legitimate option.

“Yeah.” She nods, more sombre than she was only moments ago. “You know, the storm. How it started. I can’t imagine what that feels like, knowing you’re… well… responsible for all this.”

I blink, staring at her, and as I finally process the words, I suddenly find myself almost overcome with relief — my legs threaten to buckle underneath my own weight; not shaky, not woozy, just weak. “Oh, yeah, yeah, right,” I reply, trying as best I can to keep myself steady and not sound like I’d just had a sequence of terrible flashbacks, and succeeding for the most part. “Thanks. I’m, uh… I’m sorry for that too.”

She smiles again, modest and sympathetic, then steps closer so she stands by my side. It’s a little intrusive, but for whatever reason, also welcome. “I won’t lie, ma’am: you telling him this? It hit him hard. But what hurt him even more was… well…”

I remain perfectly still, now steady and slightly reassured, but find an eyebrow rising on its own, and my ears perking up.

Brave puckers her lips and lowers her gaze for a moment, clearly wondering how to say what she wants to say, but returns to me with an earnest look. “He missed you, Fleetfoot,” she finishes, quiet and heartfelt, the smile shrinking to only the faintest of upward curls. “He never said it out loud… but he missed you. We all did.”

I continue to stare, and the empty sensation spreads throughout my body, somehow weighing me down. I don’t know what to expect, so I don’t want to get my hopes up, but part of me can’t help wanting to believe her, and I know she’d have no reason to lie.

Part of me also doesn’t want to believe her; why would he miss me, considering everything he’d said about what I… what we…

About what happened.

About what it meant for him.

Focus.

I blink again, and the thoughts are gone. I’m standing between two guards, one of whom I know, and the pony they’re guarding is just through those doors. I know where I’m going, I know what I’m saying, and it won’t end like it did before. I’m stronger than that. I know I am.

I don’t get stage fright.

“You good?”

I gently nod.

“Good.” Brave strolls back to her post beside the entrance, and Able follows her lead. “Well then, he’s all yours. Break a leg, ma’am.”

I nod once more, then amble onward, step by step, closer and closer.

The doors are an extremely pale shade of blue, almost totally white, trimmed along the edges in the swirling patterns of stylised clouds, echoing the city’s heritage. No glass and no way to see through — private booths are designed to be private, after all, magically or otherwise. Quite an unsuspecting view, really — nothing pegs it as something I should be timid about, and yet it may as well be the gateway to Tartarus itself.

But it isn’t. I have to remember that. Things are only as bad as I imagine them to be; with the right mindset, anything is possible. It worked for the Pillars, it worked for the Sisters, it worked for the Bearers, so why wouldn’t it work for me?

…I shouldn’t even think of trying to answer that.

I glance left and right at Able and Brave, who respectively return my looks with recognition and assurance; they can’t speak for me, but they’ll be nearby as a safety net.

That’s all I can ask for, I suppose. It’s time to trust myself enough not to fall.

I take in a deep, quiet breath, then pull open one of the doors and slip inside.

Silence.

I trundle down the darkness of a short, relatively narrow hallway, then up am equally short flight of stairs. The space opens up as I enter the booth proper; a miniature movie theatre, in its basic design, with three rows of cushioned seats facing a giant window, and two more windows on either side offering a wide view of the stadium’s interior.

I’m not focussed on the stadium, however; I’m paying attention to something far more important. Something in the first row. Something looking directly ahead. Something who couldn’t possibly have failed to noticed my arrival.

It’s difficult to gauge his expression, let alone the air around him; his brows are creased and his lips are straight, staring out at nothing in particular, purposely avoiding me. Whether this is him giving me the cold shoulder, I can’t say: he doesn’t appear hostile — or at least, not outwardly. I’ve been wrong before.

You’ve been right before too.

Let’s not hedge our bets today.

Acutely aware of the sound of my hooves on the carpet, and how they seem to drown the rumble and vibrations of the crowd assembled below, I carefully make my way toward him. It’s a delicate affair, neither keen for the coming engagement, but not hesitant either — somewhere in between is the perfect balance, and my nerves straining to walk that fine line.

It’s just us in here — me and him. Nopony can hear us, nopony can judge us. He accepted my proposal, which means that even if he doesn’t want to listen, he has something to say himself. It’s my responsibility to hear him out. Nopony else’s.

I am in control.

Reaching the seat next to him, I hop up and sit on my haunches, presenting myself as dignified as I can manage, for what little that’s worth to either of us anymore. But I have done both of us a service by clothing myself, at least: the silver and white tracksuit that covers my body from collar to fetlocks. No way I’ll ever not be conscious of just how exposed I am compared to him from now on.

He’s wearing a rust-coloured shirt with faded lettering, olive cargo pants, and the only pair of sneakers he owns. His jaw, chin and mouth bear a familiar shadow — unshaven again, but not as unkempt as he’d once let it grow. One hand grips the other’s thumb — a habit of his, I’ve come to realise, whether he knows it himself or not.

He hasn’t moved in any meaningful way since I entered, but he isn’t exactly stiff either, so I’m no closer to figuring out what his mood is or what he’s thinking. I could just ask, but that wouldn’t be tactful, and this situation demands a lot of it, especially knowing how poorly it could go. A direct approach, therefore, is an unwise move.

But I’ve never been known for my wisdom.

I shut my eyes and hang my head, ears lowering as I sigh at my own foolishness, bracing myself for the inevitable backlash. “Philip, I—”

“I’m sorry.”

I snap to him, surprised, but not in wide-eyed shock.

He continues staring ahead, the air around him taking on a distinctly uneasy quality, and the grip on his thumb tightens. He glances away to the right for a long moment, breathes deep, and then angles his head to the left, peering at me with a somewhat forlorn look. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, just slightly louder than before, but no less fragile. And then he lowers his gaze to the floor. “I didn’t… I mean… I wasn’t…”

I feel my ears slowly rise as I wait for him to gather his nerves. He’d prepared for this, I can tell, but right now, the words were failing him. If I’d been allowed to talk first, I can easily see myself in his shoes, because beyond his name, I honestly don’t know what I’d planned to say. So, I let him think.

His teeth clench behind a closed mouth and he shuts his eyes, still breathing deeply, coming to terms with himself. I don’t want to compare suffering, but objectively speaking, he’s dealing with a lot more baggage than I am.

I shuffle in my seat as the rotten feeling from a month ago begins taking root, and my hindlegs and tail bring themselves in.

“I wasn’t thinking straight,” he finally says, glancing at me as he does so, but he can’t hold my gaze and returns to the floor. “I was… scared… and confused, and hungover and angry. But not at you. I mean, I took it out on you, but I just… It wasn’t you I was angry with. Not really. In the moment, yes, but afterwards…”

I know the feeling. Not to the same degree, as I’ve never been in this kind of situation before, pony or otherwise, and certainly not with a being from another dimension, but it isn’t unfamiliar. You hate yourself because something you couldn’t control happened, or didn’t think to control, and that bad mood gets passed on to others; offered help seems condescending, idle queries become invasive probes. And then when you think back on it, when your head’s clearer… you hate yourself even more.

“I’m sorry about what I said,” he continues, murmuring. “I’m sorry about how I said it. How I acted… Everything. I wasn’t thinking about you — how you felt. And… that wasn’t right. At all. I was in shock, sure, but… that’s not really an excuse. It can’t be, at least — not… not with you.”

An ear twitches, and my eyebrow quirks.

“Like, I don’t want to say it was inevitable, or… or anything like that… but there was always a chance, wasn’t there?” He turns to me, still uncertain, but this time, his eyes stay locked with mine. “A chance that, at some point… I just wouldn’t be able to help myself.”

And now my brows crease.

It almost sounds like he’s trying to say…

“I don’t know who kissed who first or who asked for what, but… something just… snapped, I guess. But that makes it sound like there’s some kind of switch you can turn on and off, which there’s not, and…” He shrugs, shaking his head to the floor once more, closing his eyes and sighing quietly. “I don’t know anymore. I guess I just needed space and time, but... didn’t know how to ask it. Didn’t think to either.”

Although it pains me to realise it, I think I know what he’s trying to say. “Do you still need some time by yourself?”

“No.” He looks to me again, desperate. “Please.”

I blink and shut my mouth, surprised.

He turns away and chews on his cheeks, breathing deep again, taking his time. The grip on his thumb tightens even further as he begins to gently rock back and forth.

The urge to wrap my wing around him and pull him close bubbles to the surface, but I force it down and let him process things on his own. It wouldn’t be appropriate, and it might even make him feel belittled, as if he were a child and big, grown-up Fleetfoot would make everything better. Made worse when I’m partly responsible for pushing him down the stairs.

“I really don’t know what to think anymore, Fleet,” he states dispassionately, a subtle but definite quaver in his voice, staring straight down at the floor again, glancing at me on occasion. “I mean… you’re a pony… and you can’t change that. You can’t change how you feel about me either.

“But despite all that, we are — or were — friends. Brave, Phalanx and Ironside are my friends too, but they’re not you. And every time I thought back on why I drove you away, all I could think about was… well… us. Me and you, together. At the hospital, Twilight’s, my study desk in Canterlot, the Bean, the bar, the beach, the…”

Part of me begs myself to keep quiet and listen to the rest, but his pause offers too good an opportunity for me to pass up my two bits. “We don’t have to stop being friends, Philip.”

He looks to me and pauses, apprehensive, restless. “Then what does this mean for us? Aren’t we, like… friends with benefits now, or something?”

“No,” I answer decisively, but it lacks any real weight behind it, and I lower my gaze as my legs and tail pull in even closer. “It was a mistake — an… an accident. One we’ll be careful never to make again. We’re still friends, just with…”

“Complicated feelings.”

I hesitate, but eventually nod.

He turns away again, biting the edge of his lip, thinking. Always with the thinking and the waiting — a necessary but altogether dreadful evil for all the ultimate good having a talk like this might do for us. “So then, what?” he wonders aloud with a small, crestfallen shrug, then peers at me from the corner of his eye. “We’re just going to sweep this under the rug as if nothing happened? Pick up where we left off?”

“Is that what you want?”

He pauses, staring at me for a moment, then looks off toward the entrance behind me, slowly casting his worried gaze across the entire stadium outside, or what’s visible over it.

I watch and wait, and every passing seconds feels like an eternity; the silence is deafening, practically drowning out even the crowd. The familiar weight of dread blankets my withers and seeps down into my stomach, gradually dragging my wings with it. I don’t know what I’m expecting, but I fear the worst.

How is it that my emotions can accept so many contradictions?

I look to the left, neck sagging, ears flattening, searching for something, anything to take my mind off the situation at large, and finding nothing. I can’t even summon the energy to guess at the faint reflections in the windows.

“I want to go home.”

A beat.

The words sink in, and they sting.

My head droops and I shut my eyes; of course that’s what he wants. It’s always been what he wants, and there’s no way I can argue with that — I’d want the same if I were him, and so would anypony else I know. And there’s no way on Earth, mine or his, that I could ever ask him to choose between staying and leaving.

“From the second I got here, that’s all I ever wanted. My old life. The motel. Minigolf. Mum, Dad, Anita… They weren’t perfect — they had their ups and downs — but if nothing else, then at the very least, to just see their faces in person again… To say a proper goodbye… I would’ve been so happy.”

A silent, defeated sigh escapes me and I turn my head toward him a little way, peering at him from the corner of my eye. I can’t and don’t blame him for feeling how he feels, and that’s the worst part about this — it’s a matter of circumstance, and nopony here, there or anywhere is at any direct fault; if I point a hoof at one, I may as well point a hoof at all.

He’s reclining in his chair, head slumped over the backrest, gazing up at the ceiling with closed eyes and faint, nostalgic smile playing on his lips, reminiscing. But then he looks to me, and while the smile doesn’t completely fade, it shrinks.

I can’t help feeling responsible.

“But sometimes what we want… isn’t always what we need.”

An ear twitches, perking up, and the other soon follows, and my head turns a little further.

He looks up to the ceiling again and gives himself time to think, seeming to grow more sombre by the second. “How did you know you liked me, Fleet?”

I blink, snapping to him fully, and my lips part. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He returns to me, solemn. “How did you know?”

I blink again, then shut my mouth and recompose myself as best I can, staring at the seat beneath me. No assumptions — it could be an innocent query. “I’m, uh… not sure, honestly,” I confess, glancing up at him. “There just reached a point where… you were as important to me as being a Wonderbolt. And whenever I wasn’t training, or hanging out with the team, or meeting with Mum and Dad… I…”

He waits patiently.

I meet his gaze, and I feel a part of me wither, both at how pathetic it must sound and the fact I’m saying it to his face — a face that looks more empathetic than it has any reason to be. “I just missed being around you. I missed talking with you, and… and laughing with you… and I missed your smile.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “My smile?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding, then lower my gaze and my ears as I feel warmth rise in my chest and cheeks, an upward but bashful curl in both corners of my mouth. “You have a nice smile.”

He snorts, and the smile breaks through again. Not as wide as I know it can be, but an appreciative gesture, for whatever it’s worth. “And you have beautiful eyes.”

I shrug. “They’re just contacts.”

“I know.” He gently shakes his head. “I’m not talking about your contacts.”

I look up at him once more. The warmth becomes a simmer.

His eyes stay locked with mine for a long while, his expression amiable. But as with everything, the good times come to an end. Slowly, of course — a gradual transition from friendly to neutral to pensive, his gaze drifting off to the right. And he makes no sound as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

My smile, too, fades.

“When Spike convinced me to see you… he helped me see things more clearly,” he says, giving a small, reluctant shrug. “I missed you too, Fleet. A lot. More than I cared to admit, even to him; for all I know, maybe even to myself. Whether that’s the same as what you’ve been feeling, I can’t say, but I know I’ve missed… well… knowing someone cares for me. As more than just a friend.

“And I guess that’s why I’ve been so placid with this one-way crush of yours — why I played with fire for so long. But then you wrote that song, and…”

Once more, I give him the time he needs, and my chest burns with the memory of that night — how he looked at me from across the fire, how speechless he was. And to think how even now, he’s choking up over it.

He continues staring off into nowhere for another long while. At first, I think he’s gathering his thoughts, but then he takes a short, sharp breath in through his nose, and a second, and he blinks quickly as if something’s irritating his eyes, and I realise that he’s fighting back tears.

“I need you in my life, Fleet.” He returns to me with a look of genuine heartache, his voice unsteady and quavering. “I don’t know if what I’m feeling for you is what you feel for me, but… I don’t want to be alone anymore. Please.”

There’s an overwhelming twinge in my stomach, and while I’m tempted comment how dramatic a change this is from when we last saw each other, I can’t help reaching over in my seat and wrapping my forelegs around his neck. I hug him close, I hug him well, and when I drape my head over his shoulder and shut my eyes, a grin sneaks through as much as it’s able. “You never will be,” I promise, my breath stuttered as I pull him closer, tighter. “Never.”

He welcomes the embrace with one of his own, shifting in his seat for a better angle, a hand in my mane, the other on my back, pressing his face into the crook of my neck. He doesn’t cry, but he whimpers, his body shuddering on the next breath he takes, heavy and ragged.

He needed to hear that. Heavens above, he needs me. And by the sound of it, as much as I’ve come to accept that I need him. We weren’t made for each other, and if there’s such a thing as destiny, I doubt it’s powerful enough to cross between dimensions, or even consider my pitiful life worth toying with.

No, this was an accident. All of it. From the rainboom that summoned him to that moment in the Lunar Bean, every point in between and every point going forward — it was all and continues to be a massively tragic, wonderfully enthralling accident. A contrary notion, to be sure, but I don’t know how else to describe it; once I started down this path, I never stopped.

And despite its hiccups, part of me — the majority — doesn’t want to.

“Would you like to give us a shot?”

He doesn’t react immediately, and as his silence stretches on, I feel his grip on me loosen. Not that he goes limp, but that the weight of my words have sunk in, and he’s having trouble finding an answer.

I can easily understand why; I’m having a hard time believing I’d said those words myself.

He gently pulls away and looks me in the eye, his face a little flushed, though the tears have gone away. His gaze is tender, caring, but with an undertone of apprehension.

“I’m not sure what I want from this,” I admit, settling back down in my seat with a shrug and lowering my eyes to the floor. “If we stay friends, that’ll be fine. I can live with that. But if there’s a chance that, maybe… we do feel the same… then maybe that’s something worth exploring.” I return to him, anxious to be putting some raw, unfiltered thoughts on the table. “Does that make any sense?”

He hesitates, shifting his weight as he glances to his right. “It… makes sense, Fleet,” murmurs uncertainly. “It’s just… not easy for me to accept. I mean… in a sense, I live here now. I have friends, a life, and maybe at some point, I don’t know… a job. But the more of a future I build for myself, the more distant my past becomes.” He shrugs and shakes his head, turning away to the stadium. “What happens if I find love? Is that the last straw? Does that mean I’ve… given up?”

“Of course not.” I reach over and take his hand into my hooves. “If going home means that much to you, I’ll gladly let you be. That’s a promise. But I think it’s best for us both if we… test the waters, so to speak. Nothing official, just… we see if we can… I don’t know… look past certain barriers.”

He peers at me from the corner of his eye; he knows what I’m talking about, and he’s not sure if he should feel ashamed.

“And if you find you want somepony, but not me… then I can live with that too.” The words feel acrid on my tongue, like I’m denying myself a once in a lifetime opportunity, but they’re the truth, and I pull his hand close and hug it to my chest as I lean over and rest against his shoulder, looking up at him. “I love you, Philip. I just want to see you happy.”

He lingers on me, turning his head somewhat, to the point where our snouts are only an inch or so apart. Kissing distance. Intimate. An inappropriate thought, but one I can’t help thinking. But then his hesitancy slowly fades into a small, tight-lipped, appreciative smile, and his free hand reaches across to lay itself just behind my ear, gently stroking his fingers through my mane, down my neck.

Not what I’d been expecting, and some part of me was anxious for, but welcome, and I close my eyes and relish the burning warmth within me.

“I know you do, Fleetybee. And I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

25 | Way Down in Kokomo

Dating.

I don’t want to say that’s what I’m doing, but that’s essentially what it boils down to; for the first time in seventeen years, I’m going on a date.

Goodness gracious, that sounds tacky as fuck.

I close my eyes and bow my head with a sigh, rubbing my brow at just how low I’ve let myself sink. My standards haven’t changed, I tell myself, this is just the next step in something greater — something I’ve probably been meaning to ask in some capacity sooner or later, but never had the courage to.

Courage, or motivation?

One in the same, really.

Not quite. This is happening only because you—

I shake my head and stop that thought dead in its tracks. I’m not thinking about that today. As far as we’re concerned, it never happened. Clean slate. Not quite, or we wouldn’t be at this point, and he wouldn’t be meeting me here, in Baltimare.

If we were different ponies, I’d suggest any number of locations within the city itself to visit — to take in the sights of a city he wouldn’t be staying in for too long. But we aren’t different ponies, so we’ll just have to make do with what’s possible, because as much as this place is quite a boon to explore, especially the harbour and all its fine dining options, we’re too famous for our own good. I can get away with a new disguise every so often, such as the one I’m wearing now, but he’s the only one of his kind and practically impossible to miss, even in a crowd.

His timing could use a little work, however.

“Excuse me, miss,” the tram driver beckons from the doorway, “we’re due to depart right about now.”

“I know,” I answer, glancing at him from behind purple shades and the shadow of a finely woven straw sunhat. “Just a few more minutes, please.”

A sympathetic look crosses his face. “I do have other passengers.”

“None like him.”

He lingers on me for a moment, then brings up his foreleg and examines the watch. “Five past five, no later.” He sighs, returning to me. “But that’s only because I’m a sucker for romance.”

My teeth clench and I glance away, folding my forelegs against my stomach as I shift in my seat. I don’t like being figured out so easily and I want to refute him, but complaining won’t do me any good, especially if I’m relying on his generosity at the expense of the… fifteen or so travellers already aboard. One or two of them give me dirty looks when they think I’m not looking.

Baltimare’s famous for its connection with the past; the architecture, the décor, even the streetlamps here echo with more personality than the featureless, efficient designs in some of the more modern cities, like Manehatten. Piccadilly the Northern Horseshoe Tram is no exception, and neither is her station — relics of an age when art deco was all the rage, now maintained well into the modern era, and there’s no sign they’ll ever slow down.

Unless you count right now, when I’ve thrown a spanner in the works.

But such is the price the world must pay for me to find some closure. Maybe things will work out, maybe they won’t, but I know what I want, and some part of me needs this. And by the way we were talking the other day, I think I can safely say he feels the same, or darn near close enough.

I just hope, whatever happens, this doesn’t turn out like…

…Great, now I’m starting to consciously think about it.

It’s never going to go away.

I can try my best.

Trying isn’t the same as doing.

My hindlegs come a little closer together as I distract myself with another scan of my surroundings. It’s a U-shaped platform cradling the tram, with two pairs of benches sitting back to back under shelters on either side. I’m on the one closest to the park just across the road, and there’s plenty of traffic today, on hoof, on the wing, and by towed cart. Not nearly enough that one can’t pass through with ease, just… more than normal. It seems that way, at any rate — I suppose my nerves inflating the numbers somewhat.

Being the southernmost coastal city of Equestria, Baltimare’s no stranger to diversity. Maybe one out of every ten ponies isn’t an actual pony — a comparatively high figure when taking into account the rest of the kingdom — and with certain borders becoming more porous, that figure’s set to grow. I’ve seen Abyssinians, Saddle Arabians, kirin, griffons, hippogriffs, and even the very occasional dragon, though only the younger, smaller varieties.

Even so, he’d stand out.

And when I hear the honk of a horn from down the street and turn my attention toward it, I blink in surprise; he’s not making much of an attempt to blend in.

Cars are everywhere on his Earth, or so he says. Every inch of asphalt is dedicated to them, and even though pedestrians normally have the legal right of way, everypony makes room for them. So integral they are to the average human’s life that houses are often built with something called a carport, like a land version of a boathouse. It would be unthinkable to live in the ‘developed world’ and not own one.

On my Earth, they’ve only been around since the start of the year, and are in extremely limited supply. I’ve seen some on the news, about how they — the unknowable, omnipotent they — had been able to reverse engineer what remained of the crash into a working prototype, with trials to be conducted towards the end of the month. I don’t doubt Twilight, the portal, and Sunset What’s Her Face had something to do with it.

But never have I seen one in person.

Functionally, it’s almost exactly like an open-air, pony-drawn carriage, but where there would’ve been a team up front is instead replaced by a compartment for the engine, and a seat for the driver on its left. Spoked wheels with white hubcaps and rubber tyres. The body is painted black and polished to a shine, with yellow checkers running along the sides — the colours of the local taxi service. The driver seems pretty proud of herself.

Behind her in the passenger section… him. He sits between Brave and Ironside, the newbie on the opposite seat facing him, and he watches me steadily. I can’t see his eyes, covered by custom-made sunglasses — at this point, it’d be easier to list what isn’t custom-made — but I can tell he’s seen me. He wouldn’t be smiling otherwise. Not overjoyed, just… pleased to make my acquaintance once more.

Trailing the vehicle on the walkways either side are a number of photographers and journalists, constantly snapping pictures and jotting down notes, and some shouting out a question or six, all going without an answer.

If I weren’t so stunned… I don’t know what I’d do.

The car rounds the corner of the park and pulls into a parking space, where she then turns back and tips her hat, saying a goodbye that’s drowned out by the distance and the mutterings of a gathering crowd. The guards dismount and form a perimeter as he shakes her hoof and pays the fare, then dismounts in turn and crosses the street while the guards spearhead his path and keep the press at bay. He ascends a short flight of steps with the newbie, the other two blocking the entrance off, and they proceed toward me.

I feel the sudden urge to back away, for whatever reason.

“Fleetfoot, ma’am,” Able greets with a dutiful salute. “We’ve arrived.”

I slowly nod, shifting my gaze from him to Philip. “Whatever happened to subtlety?”

“Well… there was always going to be a crowd, Fleet.” He shrugs uneasily. “And I’ve always wanted a car from the nineteen-twenties, so… when I saw that beauty pass by the train station, I figured why the hell not.”

I roll my eyes and shake my head. Of course he’d pick today of all days to be spontaneous.

He sighs, peering over his shoulder with his hands on his hips. “Look, I don’t like it either, but we’re not going to be here long anyway, are we? I just thought… maybe I could have some fun. I mean, not that I think this won’t be — it’s just—”

“I get you,” I interrupt, but not mean-spiritedly; I’m just wary of what company we have, and don’t want him saying anything incriminating. Things look bad enough as they are — we don’t need to confirm it for all to hear.

As far as everypony’s concerned, myself and him included, we’re just two good friends finally managing to reconnect after some major disagreement, the details of which aren’t for anypony but us to know. And if this really does lead to something… more… then that’s for us to know too, and nopony else. They’ll question and theorise, they’ll gush and judge, but this isn’t their life and this isn’t their day.

Today is ours.

His.

Mine.

Ours.

He knows it well enough; he’s dressed for the occasion too. A white, button-up shirt with maroon roses patterned in the fabric, and the faint outline of a singlet beneath. Stylishly faded blue jeans, neither baggy nor tight, and not a hole to be seen. The same pair of sneakers, but I suppose it would’ve taken too long to commission another, less worn couple within the schedule we’d set. Not that I mind, to be perfectly clear.

Or does the very fact I notice it mean I mind?

…I hope he doesn’t mind how I look…

I don’t normally dress up myself. For occasions? Yes. For ponies? No. Not until he dropped into my life, at least. Consequently, my wardrobe has been really quite small for the majority of my life, even before I became a Wonderbolt, so I had to do a bit of shopping when I got back home. What I ended up buying was pretty slapdash, considering my limited sense of fashion and experience, but I hope I did alright; a plain, long-sleeved, pale pink blouse, and an equally plain, hock-length skirt.

I’m not ashamed to admit I’m also wearing undies for the first time ever. For obvious reasons. And it makes me feel dirty, in a way.

But if he doesn’t ask, I won’t have to tell.

He wouldn’t be looking down there anyway.

Shouldn’t.

I shift in my seat a little more just in case. “So, uh… we’d better get going, shouldn’t we?”

“Not so fast,” Able chimes in with a stalwart tone. “I’ll need to check the ID of everyone we'll be travelling with, just to be safe.”

The two of us give him confused, curious, slightly troubled looks, but Philip’s the one who speak up first. “I’m not sure that’s entirely necessary.”

“If it concerns your safety, then yes, it’s entirely necessary.” Able looks defiantly at us both. “Celestia chose me to take care of you and that’s what I intend to do. You’ve already attracted enough attention as it is. I may be new to this little clique you’ve established for yourselves, but I’m not new to my job, so please, let me do my job.”

Philip blinks and draws his head back, surprised, glancing to me for some kind of assurance, but only finds a similar expression on my face, or what little of it I’m allowing the world to see. “Uh…” he begins, returning to Able, but soon cuts himself off with a sigh and rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Okay, fine, bother them to your heart’s content, just make it quick.”

Able salutes and swivels about, marching to the closest tram door and the driver still staring at the scene with his beak agape. He’s brought back to the present when he’s asked for his citizen’s card and licence to operate the vehicle, however.

Philip sighs again and walks closer, taking a seat beside me. He pulls his sunglasses up and sets them in his hair, gazing out toward the eager crowd with a squint and a slow lick of the lips. “So,” he says slowly, quietly, almost aloofly, as if talking to himself, “this is… actually happening.”

“Yep,” I simply reply, trying not to let myself worry too much about how our audience only seems to be growing.

“And you and I are…”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And… this is fine.”

I listlessly nod and peer over to my right, spying Able proceeding down the carriage, inspecting the other passengers. Those dirty looks have all vanished. “As far as relationships go… I guess there’ve been worse arrangements.”

“You speak from experience?”

I shake my head, returning to the onlookers. “Just general knowledge.”

“Hmm.” He nods in a similar fashion. “Well, this’ll certainly be one. An experience, that is.”

“For both of us,” I remind, daring to sneak a glimpse at him… and the second I do, I linger, and the urge to punctuate that statement by giving his hand a squeeze overwhelms me. But we’re in public and the cameras are out. It wouldn’t be appropriate. My head tells me I should be relieved I caught myself in time, but the twinge in my chest and the odd, empty feeling in my hoof say otherwise. “I’m… new to this too, remember.”

He angles his head to his right and peers at me from the corner of his eye, and he offers a small, discreet, but undeniably appreciative smile. Less a smile, really, and more like pressing his lips together with the corners of his mouth in a strained, upward curl, but it’s heartfelt enough.

It makes me want to hold him again.

But then his expression morphs to something far less reassured, and his graze drifts off into the distance behind me; a sudden thought has struck him. “Speaking of new…” he murmurs apprehensively, scarcely audible over the clicking of shutters and the shouting of a few overzealous journalists, “There’s no risk of us being… you know…”

My ear twitches. I get the feeling I shouldn’t like where this is going, but I honestly can’t tell what he’s on about.

“I mean, like, there’s no way you could ever… well…”

I squint at him, genuinely confused.

He continues covertly watching the tram driver — a middle-aged, darkly-coloured hippogriff — but eventually meets my eyes again, sharing his hesitant gaze. And then he leans a little closer.

I take the hint and meet him halfway, warily bowing my head toward him so he can whisper.

“We’re not… compatible, are we?”

I blink, processing the words, but as I’m about to ask for a little more clarity, the meaning smashes me over the head like a rubber mallet and I lurch away and baulk at him. “Oh my stars, you did not just…!”

His barely restrained expression of panic silences me as he glances urgently, meaningfully at the tram and the street, and all who may be listening.

With my mind still reeling from the notion, I do my best to bring myself back into a more manageable state. But seriously, couldn’t he have asked me somewhere more private? “No,” I answer quietly and decisively, adding an irritated growl. “And please, don’t… ever mention that again.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but… I just wanted to be sure, you know?” He shrugs uncomfortably. “Can’t research it myself without looking suspicious, or just feeling plain… wrong. I mean, it wasn’t easy spending a whole month apart and thinking that, maybe—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” I frustratedly dismiss with the flick of a hoof as I close my eyes and shake my head to the floor, crossing my hindlegs. “Just… please… we’re not thinking about that today.”

He takes a deep breath in and out, and I can feel him nodding in compliant agreement. “So long as you didn’t have to do anything because of me.”

“Merciful Sisters, Philip, what did I just say?”

“Sorry.”

I huff a sigh and open my eyes to half-mast, looking at the tram.

Able works fast — he’s almost checked the entire cabin; just a few more passengers to go, and then we’ll be clear to leave. Less than a minute, I reckon. Which means I have about that long to turn the tone of this conversation around if I don’t want the whole trip to pass by in awkward silence.

“We’re going on a date,” I unsteadily announce, as much an admission as it is a statement, and as much to Philip as to myself. And then I slowly turn to him. “It’s going to be nice. It’s going to be fun. And we’re going to see if this is indeed what we really want.”

“Well, we already know what your answer will be.”

“Oh, shut up,” I sneer, folding my forelegs as I roll my eyes and shake my head in disbelief. But I know, deep down, he’s only telling the truth some dithering part of me doesn’t want to accept. Why it’s in denial, I can’t say; perhaps it’s still holding out hope that this really is just a crush, and I’ll be back to normal in the next few days or so, exercising daily, spending more time with the team, being a Wonderbolt.

But even after that fateful night, and the raging dumpster fire that was the morning after, and a month spent apart and a week to ourselves to prepare… he knows me as well as I know myself. And I can’t help feeling the fuzzy warmth of gratitude simmer inside of me, or the bashful smile sneak its way across my muzzle.

“God, you’re adorable.”

I scrunch my face as I tilt my head lower, the sunhat hiding me from both him and the press in case I start getting red-faced. I cup my hooves around my cheeks and temples for good measure. “Stop making me feel things,” I groan. “I don’t like it.”

“Oh, but I do.”

I peer up at him through a narrow gap between the shades and the brim.

He’s watching me with upturned brows and another of those smiles I can’t ever get over. And when our eyes meet, it stretches wide, he puckers his lips and he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, it’s just… you make it too easy sometimes.”

“The date hasn’t started yet, Romeo. Let’s ease it up, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” I let a heavy breath go and sit more upright, hooves flopping to my lap, but the warmth remains, much to my satisfaction, and it steels my nerves against the hundred or so onlookers. “Don’t want to be blushing for the whole world to see.”

“Oh no, we can’t have that, can we?”

I pause, turning my head and squinting at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be nervous?”

“Are you kidding?” He chuckles with an awkward shrug. “Of course I’m nervous.”

“Then why act so casual?”

He looks at me and quirks an eyebrow, his smile falling. “Should I not?”

I pauses again, blinking at him, then avert my gaze as my brows furrow in realisation. “No,” I reply aloofly, then shake my head and turn a little further away. “Sorry, I don’t know where I was going with that.”

“It’s fine,” he assures with a small, nonchalant wave. “Can’t all be—”

“Sir, ma’am.” Able steps out of the tram and marches toward us, the shifting of segmented armour announcing his presence as readily as he does. “The driver and passengers are verified; the tram is secure. I recommend we leave immediately.”

An expression of disappointment flashes momentarily across Philip’s face before he looks up and acknowledges the declaration with a nod and a forced smile. But then he returns to me, and although the smile shrinks, it becomes genuine. “I guess our time here’s up.”

“Seems like.”

“Only one thing for it.” He pulls his sunglasses back down and stands up, taking a step away to face me, the gestures for the tram. “Shall we?”

A flutter of hesitation threatens to shiver through me, perhaps spurred by the crowd, but I quash it with a brief nod as I slide onto my hooves, then drag out the wicker picnic basket I’d stowed underneath the bench with a wingtip. “Indeed we shall,” I answer, grinning up at him as I settle it on my loin.

He huffs a little air from his nose in a small laugh, shaking his head at it amusedly. “Always amazes me how you can do that. The balancing act, I mean.”

“You’ll get used to it. Just don’t stare too long, or it’ll get weird.”

“True, true,” he replies, glancing over at the tram once again. “Well then, lead the way.”

“Certainly,” I say with another nod, and immediately question myself over how out of character that sounded, coming from me, before dismissing the thought with a quick roll of the eyes as I stroll onward.

Able steps aside for both of us, then stamps the floor. “Brave, Ironside! They’re ready!”

Philip and I are through the door before I can see their reaction. Instead, what I see are the stunned looks of the ponies already aboard, as well as three griffons, all of whom watch us intently as I guide him down the aisle to a vacant booth on the right; four cushioned seats made from varnished redwood and violet velveteen, with carved accents and highlights of polished tin.

Really, they don’t make them like Piccadilly anymore.

I sidle in and take my place by the window, setting the basket between myself and the wall.

Philip moves to follow, but catches the guards entering the cabin from the corner of his eye, and that seems to remind him of something. “Oh, uh…” he begins, lifting a finger and looking to all the other occupants, “I know I’m not terribly camera-shy anymore, and Fleetfoot here’s been in the spotlight for far longer than I have, but… if we could please not have anyone photograph us for the time being, that’d be great.”

Silence. Some glances are shared, but nothing more.

“Thanks.” He gives them a thumbs-up and slips into the booth beside me, staring ahead with a seemingly straight face and patting his knees idly. “Cool beans.”

“Sweet mother of Celestia,” I mutter to him, hopefully not loud enough for anypony else to hear, “subtlety really has gone up in smoke for you, hasn’t it?”

“Well, excuse me for putting a little faith in the goodwill of the people.”

I roll my eyes and sigh, resting my chin on a hoof and looking out the window. The ride itself would only take about thirty minutes, tops, but at this rate, it may as well be forever.

He leans closer.

My eyelids lower to half-mast; I’m not sure I want to hear what he has to say.

“You look nice, by the way.”

…Okay, maybe I kinda-sorta do.

The clinking of armour yanks me from my confusedly overjoyed reverie as Able walks past for a seat of his own, while Brave and Ironside shuffle into the booth and settle themselves on the bench facing us. But contrary to the newest member of their band of three, and despite carrying themselves with an air of professionalism and devotion, sitting on their haunches, ready at a moment’s notice, they’re not nearly as stoic.

Ironside looks between us with an appraising, sincerely appreciative look.

Brave, however, watches me through narrowed eyes and grins a wide, sly, indulgent grin.

I bow my head and pull the sunhat a little lower. Yes, the ride may as well be forever.

But that’s only because I’m beaming and blushing like an idiot.

“Redcliff,” Philip reads aloud as we descend the wooden platform, which is surprisingly well-maintained for an out of the way coastal village posing as a town, and the last stop for the tramline up the northern point of Horseshoe Bay. “Let me guess: it has red cliffs.”

“Supposedly,” I answer, looking to the couple dozen houses scattered about the gently rising slope. “Alternatively, you could believe the rumours and say it was named for how dangerous the shoals were before they built the lighthouse.”

“Grisly,” he observes, bobbing his head with his hands on his hips as he stops alongside me. “But you can’t fool me, Fleetybee: Equestrian naming conventions forbid grisly titles.”

“Curses, foiled again,” I mockingly concede as I centre the picnic basket on my loin with a wingtip. “Whenever shall I outwit you, dastardly fiend?”

He shrugs. “Not that hard, I suspect. All you need to do is come up with a zinger that’s zingier than whatever zinger I have in stock.”

I snort. “In other words, when pigs fly.”

“No need to be so pessimistic.” He turns and shares another of his smiles with me. “You’ve surprised me before.”

I look away before I break into a smile of my own, finding my gaze drawn over my shoulder and to the guards following us. Two out of three have all but verbally confirmed they know what’s really going on here, and I’d be ever so thankful if they kept their suspicions to themselves; the last thing I need to know is how far they think we plan on taking this, or have already taken it.

Able either doesn’t care or is just plain oblivious. Honestly, both options are fine by me — one less opinion I’ll have to worry about and live with for as long as he sticks around.

“Why do you always do that?” Philip asks.

I swing back to him and cock quirk an eyebrow.

“You look away when something makes you happy.”

“Oh.” I pause, staring blankly off into the distance, then shrug and begin ambling along the cobblestone path leading up to the village proper. “Just a habit.”

He follows at my side. “It’s an easy tell.”

“Well, I’ve never claimed to be a master of deception, have I?”

“No, I suppose you haven’t. As a matter of fact, neither have I.”

“I’ll say. Your tell is that you stop and gawk.”

“When have I ever—”

“Tiny Dancer, on the roof, after the song.”

Even behind his shades, he blinks at me in surprise — they’re not so dark that I can’t see through from certain angles. “You… knew?”

“I knew it affected you, but I didn’t know how much.”

“Affected is one word for it.” He emits a chuckle, but it quickly dies down and he clears his throat, probably realising the implications. And then he returns to the way ahead. “I was, uh… actually thinking about bringing it, you know. The ukulele.”

I raise an eyebrow to myself, pondering the notion, assessing my personal feelings on the matter. “That would’ve been nice.”

“You think?”

“Yeah.” I shrug, glancing away. “Maybe.”

“I just thought, well… I didn’t think it would’ve been very appropriate, given the context.”

I sigh. “Philip…”

“Look, I wasn’t sure, okay? I didn’t know if it would’ve sparked some bad memories, but I didn’t want to disturb you, so I didn’t say anything. Better safe than sorry.”

“The gifts weren’t the problem, Philip,” I reply, looking up at him earnestly. “We were. Now, can we please try to relax and enjoy what we’re doing?”

“Okay.” He slows his stride to heave a deep breath, then nods to himself and matches my pace again. “I just want everything to go well, you know?”

“I know.” I nod to myself as well, my gaze drifting off to scan our surroundings. “Me too.”

Redcliff is a quiet place, as somewhere so relatively isolated naturally would be — almost indistinguishable from a ghost town if it weren’t for two stallions sharing tea at a small café, or a mare escorting a colt along another path to our right. I get the feeling nothing much happens here, and the fact both pairs of ponies have indeed noticed us, but aren’t staring… is actually quite refreshing. Certainly a welcome break after the pandemonium at the station in Baltimare. I’m sure the guards would be thankful too.

Quaint comes to mind as a perfectly adequate description, although that describes a great many Equestrian villages, towns, hamlets, and even some cities. What this place reminds me of are the cosy little settlements up in the Griffish Isles, surrounded by hedgerows and fields. I passed through some of them, once upon a time, while stretching my wings on a leisurely flight when the team had finished training for the day in Trottingham, preparing for a show.

Here, though, things are more dynamic: there are older buildings, of course, made from cobbled stone and plastered white, some built into the earth itself, but the further down the slope, the more modern the dwellings become. However, nothing seems particularly out of place, and as we continue strolling up the winding trail, it’s a little like walking through history.

The houses are quite comfortably distanced from one another, affording plenty of privacy, and most of them have a garden of some description out the front, marked by a fence of the owner’s choosing. Surprisingly, I spy only one dwelling with white pickets, which sits on a small ridge toward the southern end of the village. Slate roofing, plastered exterior with rounded corners, a green door with a knocker, a flap for the mail, and the address nailed to the wood: 18.

I’ve always liked white picket fences.

But I gently shake my head and resume course, leading us past yet more dwellings until, at last, the slope levels out. The lighthouse stands tall and proud a fair distance to our right, and a griffon sits reclined on a picnic blanket to our left, reading a book. She glances up when she hears us approach, which then turns into a curious stare, but I pay her no mind — I’ve grown used to it, and I can allow at least one exception to the rule of a peaceful, quiet town where everypony keeps to themselves. She’s not harming me anyhow.

Another, altogether different sight has caught my attention, however. And no matter how many times I see it, sunset on the ocean is marvellous; how the light catches on countless ripples, shining like a shattered chandelier. Not exactly the prettiest metaphor, but I’m sticking with it because I can say I’ve seen the real deal, courtesy of Thunderlane having too many drinks at the manor of a lesser Abyssinian noble.

My time’s better spent relishing the moment anyway, and with him no less, rather than wondering how best to illustrate how beautiful the golden sky is, or the magnificent pinks, purples and reds of the clouds are.

I feel myself sag a little on an outward breath, captivated by the scene.

Perfection.

“Wow…” Philip breathes, putting a hand to shield his eyes. He should’ve brought a hat as well as sunglasses. “Some view…”

“You should see it on the winter solstice,” the griffon suggests. “The snow’s a bitch, but you’ll get this glorious green flash every time, I swear.”

We turn toward her.

She props herself up on an elbow as she lowers her book, close to midway through. A basket of her own lies within her reach. Her fur is a shade of ochre, her plumage a near flawless white, and her folded wings are tipped in black. Blue-grey eyes watch us from behind frameless reading glasses, which she lowers just a touch to gain a clearer view.

A subtle shiver of aversion runs through me, urging me to find some other place, or come back another time, when the cliffside isn’t so crowded.

A crowd of one.

But of course, the voice in my head is already on top of things.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” She chuckles with a small, apologetic wave. “By all means, sit anywhere you like. Don’t mind me, I’ll just be reading.”

I blink, somewhat stunned. I consider saying something in response, but can’t think what, and decide it’s better not to question anything and take the offer while it lasts.

“Good evening to you too,” Philip replies with an upbeat tone and a courteous nod. Of course he’d have other ideas. “Not the usual welcome we’re used to.”

She snorts — an odd thing, coming from a beak. “I don’t doubt it. Whether you like it or not, you two do make an interesting duo. Not that I mean to imply anything.” She nods over to the rest of the village behind us. “Welcome to Redcliff, by the way. Not often we get big names like yourselves out here — never, in fact; you’re the first. Please, enjoy your stay.”

“Thanks, Miss…”

“Gytha. It’s a pleasure. And it’s Missus Gytha, for future reference. My husband’s down at the café with his brother.”

I blink again. Hard. “Your… husband?”

“Yep.”

“Dark grey coat, black hair, yellow eyes?”

She smirks. “Lucky guess.”

Once more, I blink. Harder. “You’re married to a pony?”

She rolls her eyes and looks out to the ocean, her smirk widening to a smile. “If I had a bit for every time someone said that…”

“Well, sorry, it’s just…” Now I’m struggling to find words for an entirely different reason, feeling a certain heaviness in my chest and a lightness in my head. “Well…”

“Fleet didn’t mean anything by it,” Philip interjects. “It’s just rare to find one of your… disposition, dare I say?”

She clasps a claw over her beak as another, more guttural snort escapes her. “That’s rich, coming from you, Mister Montero, I’ll give you that,” she says, bobbing her head as she returns to us. “My disposition. Good gods, you make it sound like I didn’t have any control over it.”

“Did you?” I ask, and immediately wish I hadn’t.

Her gaze turns to me, and whether it’s my nerves poking needles down my spine or I really did see it, I think I spy a glint of recognition. “Yes and no,” she hums, lowering her book and she shifts focus to Philip. “There were others in my life, and particular cards I could’ve played differently… but the heart wants what it wants, and so did his. One thing led to another, and… here we are.”

I seriously can’t tell if I’m reading too deeply into this or there’s a hidden message here.

“Fate and free will.” She reaches into the basket and pulls out a chocolate-chip cookie, eyeing it fondly. “Two sides of the same coin, if you ask me. We’re brought together by things beyond our control, make a decision, and then we have to live with it, for better or worse.”

…Okay, there’s a message here, she’s not being subtle about it, and she’s savouring the role of sagely mentor far too much.

Gytha looks at us once more and beams a shrewd grin. “Now, I don’t wish to presume anything, so please correct me if I’m wrong, but I somehow get the feeling this little picnic of yours isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

I look up to Philip.

He looks down to me.

We’re both thinking the same thing.

It’s rash, it’s foolish, and it may be usurping the entire point of this expedition, but we might not get another chance. Not without more publicity.

“Do you mind if we sit with you?” Philip asks.

The shrewdness fades to kindliness. “By all means,” she chirps, setting down her book and folding her reading glasses on top of it, then shimmies into a slightly more attentive pose. “Question is, what about your guards? That earth pony there seems raring to go.”

We turn and look to see Able staring intently at her, with Brave muttering something reassuring to him and Ironside standing close by.

“Only packed lunch for two, unfortunately,” I coolly explain, swinging back to Gytha and tapping my basket with another wingtip. “Wanted to keep it a lowkey affair. They can’t keep the press away if they’re gorging themselves.”

“Fair call.” She nods, then gestures to the patch of grass before her. “Well then, make yourselves at home.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Philip happily remarks, obliging and sitting cross-legged, just off the side of the blanket.

I follow suit, resting our basket between us and unveiling the plastic container holding the first of a planned three-course meal.

“Fleet, you shouldn’t have!” he exclaims with a hand to his chest as I take off the lid. “Homemade, crosscut PB&J sandwiches? You spoil me, girl!”

“Shut up,” I mumble, shyly glancing at him as I offer him his serving. “I’m a terrible cook and you know it. You’re lucky I didn’t ruin the curry.”

“You made curry too?”

I look away, and that warmth I’ve come to crave bubbles up in my barrel. “For you, yes.”

He snorts amusedly, and I can feel him return to Gytha. “Would you believe she’s still not sure if I’m right for her?”

“Completely.”

I snap to her, my restrained smile falling, and Philip doesn’t look so hot either.

Gytha, however, watches us with a sense of calm. “I wish I could say otherwise, but… the fact is, unless you’re that one in a million who can commit to something without a shred of doubt… there’ll always be some part of you that thinks ‘what if’. What if it doesn’t work out? What if my needs are different to theirs? What if I’m too different?" She scoffs with an eye roll. "It’s utter bullshit, really, but most people can’t help it — the healthy amount of scepticism they have refuses to shut itself up; the trick is to not let it become an unhealthy amount of scepticism.”

“And how do you do that?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow, setting the container on the grass in front of me and picking up the first half of my sandwich.

“Take a step back. Limit the amount of stress in your life, if you can. Don’t let others project their concerns on you — or more rarely, their prejudices. You know what you want, you know what you need, and only you can discover them. And when they both line up… you can’t ever go wrong.”

I feel like we’re treading old ground — that this is basic stuff I should and do already know. But hearing it from another mouth, and one who I suspect has quite the story to tell… it somehow does the trick. Less about sharing wisdom and more like sharing the load.

“Communication is key,” Gytha continues, calm and composed as ever. “Never stop talking. Any concerns you have, you share them; no exceptions, and you don’t wait to share them either.”

“Oh, I think we’ve already learned that lesson,” Philip murmurs, puckering his lips and nodding as he glances at me. “It… wasn’t the proudest moment of our lives.”

“I won’t ask for details,” she assures with a wave of her cookie, which seems to remind her to take a bite, and proceeds to talk with a half-full mouth. “Trust me, anyone who lives here will tell you they’re sometimes glad the houses are spaced so far apart; makes the arguments harder to hear. One’s up for sale, actually — nasty divorce left a sour taste in the owner’s mouth, and now she’s moving to be with her family up in Vanhoover.”

“Ouch.” Philip winces. “That’s a long way to go.”

Gytha shrugs. “Some people come here to escape their woes, but your woes follow you until you resolve them. Can’t say I knew her well, anyway, so… that’s that.”

“That’s the way her cookie crumbled…” I muse to myself.

“Ha!” She pats the blanket with a clenched claw and swallows. “Not the best application for the phrase, but hey, points for effort.”

I look up from my sandwich and blink at her, startled I’d let my thoughts come to the surface. “Sorry, I, uh… I didn’t mean to—”

“No worries!” she exclaims with another casual wave. “Seriously, stop acting like everything’s such a massive deal. You have nothing to apologise for. Well, I mean, some smalltalk would’ve been nice before we got into the heavy shit, but considering we’ve only just met, I’m not sure what there’d be to talk about.”

“How was your day?” Philip offers.

Her expression turns neutral. And then she chuckles coyly. “Yeah, that… that’d be a start, I guess.” She clears her throat. “Well, uh… my day was relatively uneventful until you two arrived. Woke up, had leftover spaghetti for breakfast, then spent the entire afternoon out in Horseshoe Bay, fishing with the other teams.”

“You fish?” I query.

“Coastal griffon, born and raised,” Gytha states with a claw to her chest. “I don’t want to say it’s in my blood, but I can’t deny the sea — and by extension, seafood — is a big part of who I am. Surprisingly enough, the ponies here in Redcliff aren’t that averse to the occasional trout or founder, my husband included.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “I’ve tried salmon once.”

“Only once?”

I shrug and take a bite from my sandwich. “Not sure how I feel about it.”

“Understandable.” She nods idly. “Embracing your inner omnivore isn’t easy, is it?”

“Neither is going vegetarian,” Philip comments, taking a bite from his as well. “Took me a while to get over my thirst for bacon.”

“And scrambled eggs, yes!” She shuts her eyes to savour the image. “Marinated pork chops with orange and lemon zest rubbed in… Lamb pilaf with chickpeas and flatbread… So many good memories from way back when.”

“Don’t remind me, please.”

“Lamb?” I echo. “As in, they’re not even a full-grown adult before you…”

Her eyes open again and she gives me an understanding look. “It’s a different land, Griffonia. And although I’m comfortable living here now, that doesn’t mean I’m fundamentally different from when I left my old home.”

“And what, pray tell, persuaded you to leave?” Philip chimes in again.

“Wanderlust. I wanted to travel the world — see all there is to see, experience all there is to experience.”

We stare at her straight-facedly.

“You don’t believe a word of that, do you?”

We both shake our heads.

“Thank the gods,” she mutters good-naturedly, rolling her eyes. “It was a troubled childhood, frankly speaking. Don’t want to be going into details yet, but let’s just say it’s really not that different from a lot of other griffons still on the continent. The kingdoms themselves may have healed, but not all family bonds have.”

“I understand,” I say with an idle nod of my own, and feel a little hollow at the prospect of bringing up the subject of Philip with Mum. “In a sense.”

“Now, that, I’d ask for some details on, but I’d be a hypocrite if I did. And I don’t do double standards.” She smirks, but then a thought strikes her when a silence begins to settle between us, and she sets the cookie down, leans over and reaches into her basket once again. “Oh, and by the way, I need to ask you for a favour, if you’d be so obliged.”

Philip quirks an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

She pulls out an old-fashioned analogue camera and gazes up at us in a silent, apologetic plea; the opportunity’s too good to pass up. “Sorry, it’s the GK in me. Consider it payment for whatever help I’m able to provide.”

“Oh my stars,” I scoff amusedly. “And here I was thinking you were different.”

“I am!” she protests, rising to her haunches and turning her attention to the dials. “We’re kindred spirits, us three — got to look out for—”

And then she disappears in the blink of an eye as Able leaps out of literally nowhere and tackles her to the ground.

“Sisters!”

“Jesus!”

“NO PHOTOGRAPHY ALLOWED!”

26 | Something About Us

Routines.

My life is full of them, some more enjoyable than others. Familiarity is always welcome, because it encourages a sense of security — something I suppose my nerves will forever say I can never have enough of. And I’ll admit, returning to the Lunar Bean after about a month and a week is nice, especially sitting at the same table we always would, a latte in my hoof and him just across from me with a glass of apple juice.

The circumstances, however, could do with some improvement.

“Well, that was a bust,” I say, bringing the cup to my mouth for a sip, finally breaking the minutes-long peace between us, if one could call it peaceful.

“Yep.” Philip twists the glass on a coaster, the ice in his drink having mostly melted by this point, and the liquid threatening to overflow. “Good thing she’s not pressing charges.”

I cock at eyebrow at him as I finish a mouthful. “Why would she?”

He looks up at me like I’d questioned the most flawless piece of logic in the world, but more curious than flabbergasted. “Well, she was assaulted, wasn’t she? By a Royal Guard no less. A lot of money in it if she won a court case over it, I bet.”

I turn my head to look at him more directly and gently frown in confusion. “That’s what you expect her to do?”

He shrugs, glancing over the railing to his left. “She seemed nice enough so… I guess not. But in my world, and in the States in particular, you can’t always trust the cops to police themselves. Sometimes an asshole gets the protection of the entire department, either because they agree with the guy or they want to save face. So, if you want justice for excessive use of force, you’d have to take it up with a judge yourself, and out of your own pocket.”

I blink at him. “Seriously?”

“It’s the way things are over there.” He takes a long sip of his own, relishing the flavour as he returns his drink to the table. “I’ve never experienced anything like that myself, thank the gods, but listen to the news often enough and you find patterns. Black kid picking up trash in a white neighbourhood gets asked by a cop if he belongs there, then threatened with violence for refusing to comply. Unarmed Latino shot and killed while running away from a potentially minor offence.”

I draw my head back in shock as my frown deepens.

“I don’t know.” He slouches in his chair and cradles his head with a hand to his temple, staring at his glass. “Maybe I’m just still not used to this place, and a world that’s so… perfect, I guess.”

I huff a small, soft, admittedly somewhat amused laugh, then shake my head lightly as I take another sip. “Honestly, the more I learn about your Earth, the more I wonder why you’d ever want to go back.”

He looks up at me again, pointedly.

A cold tingle shoots through my chest as I realise exactly what I’d just said and who I’d said it to, and I almost choke on the latte as it passes down my throat. “Sorry,” I quickly splutter. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He lingers on me, his gaze still deliberately interrogational, but eventually folds his arms and slumps his head over the backrest, staring at the cloudless midday sky with a sigh.

I sigh as well and my eyes lower along with my ears. That was a stupid thing to say and I should’ve known that the very instant I thought of it; we’d been over the subject more than enough times already to learn the boundaries, and here I am perpetuating the problem.

I look over to my left, to the interior of the café, to see who’s watching us. Not many, it seems, thankfully, or else I’d have to pay close attention to how I act around him, lest the rumours seem even more credible. Word of the incident at Redcliff hasn’t spread — and likely never would so long as Gytha did as she promised, recognising it was a simple, if jarring misunderstanding — but the very fact we went there raised more than a few eyebrows.

We knew they’d whisper and speculate — inevitable, frankly, given our status as celebrities — but we tried anyway. But since the whole endeavour started taking a turn we didn’t mean to take, and was then cut short before we could get anywhere meaningful… I can’t help feeling this was yet another mistake. Perhaps I couldn’t have helped things, but they happened to me — to us.

It sticks with you, like a stain you can’t wash out.

Brave, Ironside and Able sit at a table of their own, and against his own code of conduct, the newbie is having a conversation with the veterans, not keeping watch as dutifully as his occupation demands. I can take an educated guess as to what they’re discussing themselves.

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” Philip murmurs, listlessly shaking his head at the heavens as if they’d disappointed him.

“Dating?” I ask, ears rising to their normal positions.

“Yeah.” He lets his answer hang in the air for a moment, and then shrugs once more. “Well, trying to date, at least.”

I nod, agreeing on the surface level, but I somehow get the feeling there’s a little to his comment. So, I offer some bait. “Neither can I, really.”

“It’s not the same,” he counters, returning to me, still with his arms folded — not hostile or confrontational, just speaking his mind. And then he gestures to me. “I mean, bluntly speaking, you’re… you know…”

And there it is: the elephant in the room. “Yes, I’m a tiny horse,” I finish, eyelids at half-mast, punctuating the statement with a third sip of coffee. “Didn’t see you complaining too much yesterday, though.”

“Well, no, but…” He glances away with another sigh and gathers his thoughts. “I don’t know. I was in the moment, I guess. I mean, it’s easier to overlook… certain aspects when I’m in a good mood, and when I can pretend it’s just like any other outing we’ve been on.”

My ear twitches as I feel the slight pang down my nape, and I quirk an eyebrow as I angle my head inquisitively. “So… that picnic didn’t really count as anything special?”

“What?” He blinks, taken aback. “No, of course it did. I mean…”

I wait for his full answer, legitimately keen to hear a full explanation, but maybe something inside me enjoys throwing him for a loop. Just a bit.

His brows furrow and he casts his attention to the rest of the café, having another, lengthier sip of his juice to buy himself a little more time. “I like this,” he says almost calmly. Almost. His expression and a very faint but altogether very familiar tension in his voice tell a different story. And then he motions to the building with his glass as he turns to me with a sentimental look. “This is nice to me. Because here, I’m not chatting with someone I’m dating, or trying to date — or court, as you once put it way back when at Twilight’s place.

“Here, I’m talking with a friend. Someone I’ve known for a whole year. Someone I can be comfortable around. Maybe even confide in if things get rough. Which they have, multiple times. So, aside from that one morning—"

“Philip…”

“—Which never happened, as far as we’re concerned…” he assures, raising his free hand in mock surrender, but soon drifts off into an uneasy pause. He breaks the relative silence with a shake of his head and a shrug of his shoulders, his gaze troubled. “Look, I just don’t know how else to behave around you. Or even if I’m supposed to behave differently, or what’s acceptable, or… anything, really. And I know we need to communicate — to talk about our fears and feelings — but the more thought I give it…”

Aside from the brief warning, I really am listening to what he’s saying, and I think I understand. Maybe not in the same way, and perhaps I’ll never truly fathom how difficult a process this is for him, but the effects are clear to see.

“I know I’m not making much sense, but I’m new to this, okay? Not to dating specifically, but, like… I don’t know. I don’t want to say the species barrier is making me act this way, but… I kind of feel like this is my first time all over again, or something.”

“It’s not a barrier,” I affirm in as supportive a tone as I can manage. “It’s an obstacle.”

His focus returns to me from staring off into the distance and he shuts his mouth, seeming no less disturbed. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Fleet, but when you say that… I feel like you’re pressuring me into this.”

…Oh jeez, yeah, that… that actually does sound like I’m pressuring him, if not to abandon his old self then to at least speed things along, like I’m impatient for something more official. I lower my gaze and fold my forelegs, teeth clenching as my ears pin back a little way; no hat or shades to hide behind now, only a silvery blue polo and a pair of black shorts. Today may not be a special occasion, but the stigma of exposure has remained, and it’s given me an excuse to broaden my wardrobe.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he implores, leaning in with an uncertain but undeniably empathetic look. “I… I love you, Fleet. More than anything. But in what way, I don’t know. And as much as I want to give you and me a chance, because that’s fair and the right thing to do… I guess part of me prefers not to know. It’s worried that You Know Who might change her mind in the next few days, and I’ll be able to go home again, and if I’m just that bit more resilient…”

A fantasy I can’t blame him for having, and one for which I feel guilty whenever I think I should tell him to let go of the past; it’s never so easy, and especially not when he has so much to lose, and I likewise stand to gain so much. If anything were to happen between us, that is, and not like…

My ears lie flat against my scalp and the rotten feeling take a tender nip at my insides.

“I probably sound like a broken record at this point.” He sighs and shakes his head, looking off to his right as he sits back and slumps in his chair once more. “And here I am, turning this into a rant and talking about it like it’s some irresistible urge. But that’s clearly not true, or else you wouldn’t have…”

I peer up at him from behind anxious brows, trying to flash him a warning look in case he’s thinking back to Seaford’s Riviera and the morning he’d just agreed to never discuss.

He stares vacantly at one of the wall-mounted decorations inside, not exactly deep in thought, but caught on something very specific. Something that makes him return to me restlessly. “That wasn’t your first time, was it?”

I look at him more directly and blink, ears rising slightly as a new chill runs through me. The rules dictate I shut that line of thinking down for treading dangerously close to the no-go zone, but this is a new train of thought I hadn’t considered, and I’m none too eager to explore. “Are you sure you want to know?” I ask apprehensively.

He lingers on me, then sighs again and lowers his gaze. “I guess not.”

“Nor I with you,” I mumble, helping myself to yet another soothing mouthful of latte, and hoping that didn’t sound meanspirited. I should add something to that, just to be clear. “Sorry, it’s just… difficult enough as it is, you know?”

“Yeah.” He nods to himself, drifting off to the café proper once more. “I know.”

I follow his lead, hoping to find something to hold my attention during the inevitable lull in conversation, where we gather our thoughts and think of a new topic that won’t take us back to square one. But I find my attention caught on one of the guards approaching the table.

Able watches the floor as he ambles toward us, head angled in such a way that I can’t see his expression as clearly as I’d like, there’s a slight slump in his normally quite orderly, cadenced gait. This walk of shame isn’t as downtrodden as I know they can be, but I recognise it well enough, having witness a number at the Academy as a reservist, when the captain helped somepony realise how badly they’d screwed up.

A quick glance to Brave and Ironside reveals that they’re observing from the sidelines, blank expressions hiding what specific role they’ve played in this.

Able soon comes to a halt before us, head still angled low and his ears only very slightly tilted back — a rare sign of reticence from one as unwavering and outspoken as he. And after a few long moments of relative silence later, he looks up and salutes. “Sir, ma’am,” he greets respectfully, but doesn’t meet either of our gazes and stares straight ahead to the building across the street. “I hope I’m not interrupting something, but if it’s not too bold of me to ask… may I have permission to sit with you for a while?”

“Why?” I question, a little sharper than I’d meant. Yes, it was his fault we had to cut the trip short, because I didn’t want to have a picnic on the same night where somepony I’d just met had been assaulted, but I thought I’d gotten over it.

Evidently not.

“A personal matter, ma’am,” he declares, seemingly unmoved, still with his eyes on the apartment complex. “There’s something I wish to say, if I may speak freely.”

I look to Philip, perhaps asking him to back me up on this.

He looks to me, and he tilts his head, puckers his lips and hardens his brows in just the right way, telling me without a word to ease it up and let the poor kid be — he’s been through enough already. “I don’t see why not,” he answers coolly, switching back to Able.

Of course I’m sceptical of the wisdom regarding this, but since I’m only being testy for the sake of being testy, I oblige him by shifting my weight and resisting the urge to pout.

Able nods and marches to the next table over, taking the outermost chair and returning to us in, frankly speaking, the most well-balanced two-legged walk I’ve ever seen in a pony. He sets it down, hops aboard, and sits with his forehooves in his lap, staring introspectively at the empty space on the table between us. I don’t imagine the armour is terribly comfortable when sitting down like that, but he somehow makes it seem like any other piece of attire — no more cumbersome than what I’m wearing.

He’s short for a stallion, though he maintains the natural bulk of an earth pony. Not all that long ago, his brown coat and tan-coloured blaze and socks would’ve been dyed grey or white, depending on personal preference, as part of Royal Guard dress regulations. As much as I’m not exactly happy to see who they’re attached to, I’m glad he doesn’t have to hide his true colours anymore; uniformity doesn’t affect how well you do your job.

He remains silent for a long while, thinking very carefully about what it is he’s going to say and how he’s going to say it. Again, I can make an educated, but I didn’t think it would be this difficult for him to swallow his pride and own up to his mistakes — that’s part of being not just a good soldier, but a good pony in general.

“I’d like to apologise for my behaviour yesterday,” he finally announces, sharing a reflective look with myself and Philip, emerald eyes meeting ours. “It’s come to my attention that I wasn’t as observant as I could’ve been — as I should’ve been. I was overzealous — too focussed on doing my duty, both to you and the Sisters, that I didn’t spare a thought for how it would affect your…”

I wait for him to finish.

So does Philip.

Able has gone back to the empty space again, seeming a little more apprehensive, but only in the fact he’s taking so long to fully respond — outwardly, he appears pretty much the same. Maybe his brows have creased further, but if they have, it’s only a very marginal change. “Put plainly, I didn’t realise you were on a date.”

My ears perk up.

Philip’s eyes widen and his brows rise. “Excuse me?”

Able shares a curious look with him. “Unless I’m mistaken?”

Philip blinks, stunned, snatching a brief glance at me before shaking his head. “No, you’re… you’re not mistaken, Able, it’s just… well… it’s kind of obvious, in retrospect. I mean, we’re playing it dumb for the media, but considering how close you, Brave and Ironside are to the action, metaphorically speaking, I guess we figured you’d catch on pretty quick.”

Able nods to himself, the segmented plates along his nape bending and constricting with his movements. “Fortunately and unfortunately, I’m not sure that’s something I’d have done.”

“What makes you say that?” I ask, keeping my expression and tone relatively neutral.

He peers at me from the corner of his eye for a long moment, then lowers his gaze with a soft sigh through his nose and bows his head, taking off his helmet and resting it on the table. A short, neatly trimmed mane reveals itself, silvery like mine. “I was chosen to be your stand-in because I’m efficient,” he declares evenly, looking to me once more, but now with a faint sense of dejection. “I’m efficient because I don’t know where I’d be if I weren’t part of the Royal Guard.”

“Meaning?”

He drifts off to the table again, and the corner of his mouth curls slightly downward — the first time I’ve seen any sort of expression cross his lips, I soon realise. “I don’t get along well with… people,” he mumbles, unsure of himself. “I’ve just never been able to click with others. All these social cues and matters of context… it’s hard to keep track of it all.”

“And being a guard gives you structure?” Philip suggests.

Able nods, his ears lowering a tad further. “I’m good at my job because my job is all I have. I’m proud to serve the Sisters, and the rules in the palace are static — they don’t change. I put myself forward to join your personal detail because I wanted to show how dependable I can be, and I thought there’d be rules to follow here too. I didn’t expect to be a… a friend as well as a guard.”

“I don’t expect you to be a friend, Able,” Philip replies, brows creasing in a sympathetic look as he shifts in his seat to face him more directly. “Brave, Phalanx and Ironside? Yeah, they’re friends themselves, but I didn’t expect to get along with them. It just sort of… you know… happened by accident. Same with me and Fleet, I guess.”

I snap to him with a warning frown.

He notices and slowly bows his head as he lifts his hand in a defensive, calming gesture, his expression straight and unwavering; he knows how close he was to saying too much, but he won’t take back his words — he spoke the truth and he meant it.

I linger on him, then try and settle back down as much as I can. Learning from your mistakes is the right thing to do, but for whatever reason, using mine, his, ours in this context feels like a step too far, even and perhaps especially if it’s for somepony else’s benefit.

Able glances from him to me and back to him, intrigued by the silent exchange, but doesn’t comment, preferring instead to stare thoughtfully at the top of his helmet. “I envy that, in a way — being able to accidentally make friends,” he muses impassively, turning it in his lap to check for any imperfections on its polished exterior. “But I’m often far too removed for some people’s liking.”

“Doesn’t come naturally to everyone.” Philip shrugs. “Stick around long enough, I’m sure you’ll find your mojo.”

“But I won’t be around for long, will I?” Able says, stopping his inspection to meet Philip’s gaze, lacking in expression but with a meaningful tone. “Phalanx will return at some point, and I’ll be back in Canterlot. Business as usual from then onwards.”

Philip snorts and smirks. “You could at least make it sound like you’ll miss us a little.”

Able blinks. “Did I make a joke?”

Philip pauses, and then gently shakes his head. “Never mind,” he says with a casual wave. “Point is, you’re not a bad guy, and like you said, you just got carried away with rules and regulations that you didn’t think about us — it’s an honest mistake. No harm done in the long run.”

“Except we didn’t get to have that picnic,” I murmur to him, despite my instincts telling me I shouldn’t discuss something so private while somepony else listens in. “And if the press finds out about Gytha, they’ll shine a spotlight on her whether she likes it or not. Forget the fact Able piledrove her, think about what she and us have in common.”

He pauses again, then breathes deep as the realisation dawns on him. “Right, right,” he hums, taking a long sip from his glass, now down to halfway and with plenty of condensation on the outside. “So, no more Redcliff for the next month or so?”

“No more Redcliff ever,” I affirm, swiping a hoof through the air to stress the point, then slump back in my chair and sigh. “It’s a nice place, granted, but for the good of everypony involved, I think it’s best if we just stay away from there.”

“Suit yourself,” he says with a sigh and a shrug of his eyebrows, then turns to Able. “What about you, my dude? Any thoughts on where to take our next romantic liaison?”

He blinks once more, then puts a hoof to his chest. “You’re asking me?”

“Sure.” Philip gives an actual shrug and smirks again. “Come up with something good and maybe Fleet will forgive you for barging in on her special day.”

“Oh, sure, throw me under the carriage, why don’t you?”

“Well, if you don’t have any better ideas and the lad needs some encouragement, why shouldn’t we dangle the promise of redemption over his head?”

I groan, head slumping over the backrest. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re only saying that because I’m making sense.”

…Bastard’s got me there.

Able, now the most confused and hesitant I’ve ever seen him, which isn’t saying much, glances between us uncertainly before settling on Philip. “You do realise I have no experience in this field whatsoever, right?”

He shrugs yet again. “I’m not asking for experience, guy. Go ahead, fire away — where would you go if you were to meet someone for a date?”

Able lingers on him, then looks to the table, brows furrowing in deep, ponderous thought.

I’m not expecting much. I know giving him a chance is the right and fair thing to do, like how Philip knows the same regarding me, but assuming a socially awkward, possibly maladjusted guard holds the key to the salvation of our courtship is foolish. No harm in trying, I suppose, but my hopes aren’t high — haven’t been for the past twenty-four hours.

His gaze shifts to the buildings across the street, east down Mulberry Lane to the shoreline, up it to the northern tip of Equinox Park, behind him for the undercover area of the café.

A familiar kirin waitress serves Brave and Ironside a slice of mud cake each, exchanging pleasantries before she starts heading back for the counter. She catches me watching and waves hospitably, as if we’re two old friends who can’t talk right now, too busy in our own lives to mingle just yet. The notion would’ve been a suitably nostalgic one if she hadn’t already served our drinks about half an hour earlier.

“This is nice,” Able thinks aloud, smiling the first smile I’ve ever seen from him as he returns to us, small as it may be, though undeniably sincere.

I quirk an eyebrow. “Fillydelphia?”

“No.” He glances and gestures over his shoulder to the café proper. “The Lunar Bean.”

My brows crease. “You’d go to here for a date?”

“Why not? It has a cosy atmosphere, I guess, and a nice view. Food, drinks, friendly service, all reasonably priced. Maybe not the most easily defensible, but I’m not supposed to be thinking about this like I’m a guard, aren’t I?”

“But we come here every day. Or used to, at any rate.”

He cocks his head at me. “What does that change?”

“Well, dates are supposed to be special, aren’t they?”

“To a certain degree, yes, that’s what I hear,” he concedes, nodding. “But to my understanding… it’s less about where you are and more about who you’re with, and whether both of you recognise the occasion to be, categorically, a date. Besides, isn’t it a common suggestion, to bond over a cup of coffee?”

I peer down at my mostly empty cup and my mystified frown deeps. “Well, that’s just silly,” I remark with a very soft and uneasy chuckle, looking up to him and then to Philip. “That’d be like saying we’ve…”

He watches me curiously for a while, but then, slowly, his lips straighten, his eyes widen, and he sits somewhat more upright, a revelation of sorts coming to him like a whisper from afar.

Warm feathers run down my back as I think I hear the whisper too. “Have we…?”

A brief silence descends as we soak in this new information.

“You’ve been courting each other this whole time without properly realising it?”

We both turn to Able and my eyelids lower halfway. “Yes, Able, that’s exactly what we’re thinking,” I deadpan. “Great detective work, ten out of ten.”

He looks to me with upturned brows and flattened ears. “Did I misread the situation again?”

“No, no, you’re fine,” Philip soothes with another wave. “Fleet’s just being a B-word, getting crabby over nothing. And maybe a little butthurt that she now has to accept your apology.”

“Ah.” Able nods to himself. “Well then, I hope I’ve proven useful.”

“You have.” Philip finishes off his drink in a lengthy swig, then wipes his hand on his shirt after replacing the glass on the table. “It’s all on us now, I guess.”

With another series of thoughtful nods, Able slowly turns to face me. “I really am sorry, by the way,” he quietly intones. “I didn’t mean to ruin things for you.”

“I know,” I say with a sigh, bowing my head and rubbing my brows. “You were just doing your job. Can’t fault you for that.”

“So… we’re cool now, as they say?”

I look up at him.

He watches me with a stalwart gaze, but his eyes betray a sense of hope.

I pucker my lips and blow another sigh. Temperance is a virtue I’ve long sought mastery over, and whether or not Philip has had anything to do with it, I feel I’m more in control of my less constructive impulses than I’ve ever been before. So, swallowing whatever pride is at risk of being tarnished, I reach out and offer my hoof in solidarity. “Yeah. We’re cool.”

He stares at it blankly for a moment, then tentatively claps his own against it.

“Aw, isn’t this just sweet?”

We snap to Philip.

He leans forward with his elbows on the table and his hands pressed together in front of his mouth, beaming a wide, joyous grin. “Look at you two, making up. You’re going to bring me to tears at this rate.”

“Good heavens, Philip, you really know how to kill the mood, don’t you?”

“Sorry, Fleet.” He shrugs. “Like Able, I just get swept up in the moment.”

“At least he has an excuse.”

“Fair, fair. But let’s face it: if I were that much of a killjoy, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

As much as I wouldn’t mind giving him a solid slap upside the head, I really can’t argue with him; he speaks the truth and he speaks it well.

“So, if casual hang-outs are now on the agenda, do you have any idea what we could do?”

I lower my gaze in thought, but I don’t have to think long — there’s something I’ve been meaning to share with him for a while now, but our chats always wandered down a different path. Now the ball’s in my court, and I don’t have to worry about what counts as a good and proper date, or the press breathing down our or anypony else’s necks, I finally have the freedom to suggest it.

I return to him with a smile.

“Movie night.”

27 | Between the Lines

Rain.

Of course it had to be raining. I’ll be indoors soon enough, but of all the days we could’ve chosen, it had to be the one a storm was scheduled for Fillydelphia. And this one is a doozy; it buckets down like a tropical squall, with winds so strong I can almost mistake it for a cyclone. If I hadn’t taken the saddlebags off my back and clasped them to my barrel, I’m sure they’d have been lost the second I flew into this absolute shocker of a storm.

Glad I had the foresight to bring my goggles. Now all that’s missing is some windscreen wipers, or whatever they’re called — my foreleg can only clear away so much, and it’s already drenched.

At least there’s no lightning. This package is too precious to lose over something as trivial as a thunderbolt. All I can hope for is that he’s ready with all the comforts at his disposal, or this will have been a trip for nothing.

…Well, not entirely nothing, I suppose; the company would be nice, as always, even if he’s the reason I’m enduring these horrendous winds to begin with.

Despite the elements, a snort escapes me and a smile sneaks through. I’ve faced worse conditions for other ponies before, usually for a team or family event, but this is the first time since Soarin and I had sleepovers during Junior Flight Camp where I’m doing this solely for myself and somepony else. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s the case. The me from two years ago would be scratching at the walls and rattling her chains at any rate, if she hadn’t already been put six feet under.

So, here I am, braving another tempest. And I’m almost giddy with excitement.

Gosh, it’s been forever since I had that feeling — that sense of nearly boundless enthusiasm, It’s like I’m a preteen all over again, rushing to school for show and tell, if not to share something cool with the class, then to lord my bragging rights over everypony else. Kids are ruthless if left to their own devices. I know because I was one, once upon a time.

And now I’m thirty-three, and how the times have changed.

I weave through the skyscrapers, over the empty streets and squares, navigating the city as well as I’m able on the wing, but it isn’t easy; everything looks different from a bird’s eye view, even though it really shouldn’t matter how high you are, logically speaking. But sometimes the brain has a hard time sticking to more logical trains of thought — I’m only mortal, after all. Finding Equinox Park is easy enough, however, seeing as it’s the largest greenspace in the city, but I can’t remember if his new place was in the northern or southern apartment complex.

That’s the trouble when architects insist on going completely utilitarian in their designs — they lose their individuality. Or maybe I’m just being overly cynical and not bothering to look much deeper than the surface level. The rain must also be a factor, I suppose, since I don’t want to be soaked to the bone for a single second longer than absolutely necessary, and especially for the sake of ruminating on something so fundamentally boring as the finer points of modern architecture.

I decide on the northern building, remembering that it’s closer to the foreshore, and how he said wanted as clear a view of the ocean as possible if he were ever to sit on a balcony. So, I veer a little to the left and descend toward what I think is the twenty-first floor. Through the waves upon waves of water crashing over me and in my face, it’s almost impossible to accurately judge anything, but I’m pretty sure I’m at the correct level as I circle round to the eastern side.

And there it is, that lustrous, bronze helmet and its black and white plume sitting on the corner of a kitchen counter — I spy it through the windows and sliding door making up the way out to the balcony. The lights are on, and there’s movement inside. I think I should be right on time.

Well then, how about that? I may not be as naturally gifted in the art of navigation as an earth pony is, but I can do alright for myself. At least I’ll finally be out of this atrocious weather. Seriously, whose bright idea was it unload this much water at once? Are they testing the city’s drainage systems? What for? Why even have drains when the Bureau controls everything?

Questions I can’t answer, nor should I concern myself with. I’m here. That’s all that matters.

I straighten up and break mid-flight, flapping against the air in front of me to slow myself to a stop, then return to a more comfortably horizontal angle and turn for the balcony. A strong gust of wind threatens to blow me wide, but I grunt and flap harder, then finally pass over the glass railing and touch down on the timber deck, a foreleg still keeping a form grip on my saddlebags.

The rain continues to pour. Two wooden armchairs flank a wooden table, and a small, pineapple-looking palm tree of some description grows from a large pot in the corner; the standard decorations. He hasn’t had the chance to make this place his own, I’m guessing, not that he’s lived here long to begin with.

I wipe my eyes and brows as well as I can with a wing, then stroll forward, flicking water from my hooves with every step I take; a fruitless endeavour so long as I’m exposed, but cathartic. When I reach the door, I sit on my haunches and give it a careful knock.

Ironside and Able look to me from whatever conversation they were having in the lounge, connected to the kitchen — a similar layout as the old place in Seaford’s Riviera, but more expansive. Homely, if one allows it. They both begin to move toward me, but a taller, lankier, less armoured form jumps out from the kitchen, unlatches the entrance and slides it open. The upbeat sound of ‘Latin rock’ grows clearer; in the face of his so-called heritage, he’s admitted to not being a fan of the genre as a whole, except for the one song he brought with him on his phone.

Adouma by Santana. I know it well from when I switched the radio on during a lazy day of paperwork at the Academy — gave me the energy to finish everything early. It may not be my cup of tea either, but some things just stick with you, no matter which way or how hard you shake it.

“Fleetybee!” Philip cries, chuckling bemusedly as he beams another grin that just about makes my current condition bearable. “Sweet Jeebus, girl, you know you could’ve just walked here, right? You look like a drowned cat!”

I smile back, water dripping from every overhang imaginable, from my chin to my brows to the sleeves and legs of my white and silver tracksuit, my mane plastered down along my neck. “Would’ve taken too long,” I answer, pulling my goggles up and resting them on my forehead with my wingtips. “Besides, what’s a monsoon between friends?”

“A little more than you’d like to admit, I think.” He leans against the door with an outstretched arm and puts a hand on his hip. “As much as I appreciate you coming round, I don’t want you catching pneumonia on my account.”

“Nah.” I have him off good-naturedly. “I’m a pegasus — we live and breathe the weather.”

He snorts and cocks an eyebrow. “Next you’ll be saying you fart clouds and poop rainbows.”

“Oh, grow up. And let me in already, or must I drown some more for your entertainment?”

“Alright, alright.” He pats the doorframe and backs away, still smiling, then gestures for a doorway inside to his left. “There’s a spare towel on the rack in the en suite if you want to dry yourself off. I’m just finishing up the popcorn and snacks.”

“We’re finishing up the popcorn and snacks,” Brave counters from the kitchen, peering around him, and seemingly markedly less armoured than she usually is. “You’re the one who insisted popcorn is all you two need.”

“On the contrary, my dear,” he says, turning to her as I trot through, leaving wet hoofprints in the carpet. Better make this a quick trip. “I said no movie is complete without it, whether in the cinema or home theatre.”

“Six in one, half dozen in the other. This is a special occasion, sir, and I’m not letting you skimp out on her like some have on me.”

“Stop projecting, and stop playing matchmaker!” I call over my shoulder as I reach the bedroom, then head immediately for the en suite. “If Philip screws up, it should be his fault and his alone! We’re not your toys and this isn’t your dollhouse!”

“Well, the s’mores are already in the oven, ma’am, so I’m not leaving ‘til they’re done!”

I sigh heavily as my hooves go from carpet to tile, setting my saddlebags down between the sink and the bath. They mean well, I tell myself, and I truly appreciate their efforts despite it being nowhere in their job description, but I sometimes wish things were different. I don’t know how or in what way, though, so I don’t think on it too deeply for that reason. I should just be thankful for their support.

The en suite is a rather spacious place, the floor checked in squares of cream and vermillion, and the walls painted a complimentary blue-grey. Plenty of room to stretch, but I shouldn’t relax just yet. So, I step into an open shower, swing the glass door shut behind me, take off my goggles as my wings unfurl, then shake hard and fast, spraying water left and right like a dog after a swim. I’ve twisted a muscle a few times doing this, but I don’t want to keep anypony waiting and a towel wouldn’t do the job fast enough — best to get the bulk of the work out of the way first.

Next, I wring what I can from my mane, and then do the same with my tail, but more carefully. Deeming myself sufficiently dry — or not as wet as when I came in, more accurately — I step back out, grab the least used-looking towel from the rack, and rub it up and down my face, over my head, along my neck with vigour. And then I look at myself in the mirror.

Drowned cat my arse; I’m more like an excited pup overjoyed from their first trip to the beach, and eager to have their owner throw the ball into the ocean, just so I’d have an excuse to dive in again. My fur is matted in all the wrong ways that it almost looks intentional, and my hair is so lank and damp that I could very easily shape it into anything I see fit. A ponytail, for instance, tied up with a bow that compliments my eyes — I lack the length for something more flamboyant, and it wouldn’t be my style anyhow.

It’s a shame about the rain. I’d bought some vanilla-scented perfume just for him.

But perhaps it’s for the best. Maybe rocking up with pearly whites, minty breath and a box full of chocolate and roses would give him the wrong impression. We’re not here to woo each other, we’re here to… relax. Take our time. Ease into things. See if we can consciously be more than just friends, rather than…

Nope. Not thinking about it. Not today, when we’re so close to sorting everything out.

How I look is fine, and in the big picture, it’s neither here nor there; a minor blemish he’ll be happy to and easily overlook, as he has with so many incidents. I know him, he knows me. We’re petty in only the best of ways.

I nod at my reflection and turn for the saddlebags, wiping them down before I swing them over my back again, hanging the towel on the rack once more as I exit the bathroom. The music is still playing. If memory serves me correctly, it’s close to the end, and as I make a right for the joint lounge, kitchen and dining area, I behold a sight I never thought I’d see.

Brave carries the tray of s’mores from the open oven to the island counter, stepping in time with the beat on her hindlegs with a sway in her hips. And when she sets the tray down beside an assortment of snacks already laid out, she begins dancing solo — poised, precise, as elegant as any professional; this girl’s had training, and even half-dressed in armour, she’s making herself look damn fine. And judging by her low-hanging eyelids and tight-lipped smile, she knows how good she is, tail waving this way and that with the flow of her body, burnt orange mane dancing like silk.

Philip claps, stomps and whoops from the sidelines, taking a break from the action for the time being to watch on and encourage her display. He seems genuinely impressed more than anything, caught in the thrill of the moment to look elsewhere.

And then the song comes to a close, and with a last few sways of her hips, Brave strikes a pose and holds it, before finally resting on all fours, huffing with a smile, both at Philip and at me.

“My sister from another mister,” he applauds with gusto, “where the hell did you learn to move like that?”

She shrugs and chuckles. “Oh, you know, here, there and everywhere. Took it up as more of a hobby, really, for my own sake, though I’ve heard I have the tendency to turn heads.”

“I’ll say. I mean, I put Fleet to shame in terms of sheer flexibility, but I’m nowhere near that level of grace.”

“Grace,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes amicably as she retrieves her helmet and forelegs guards from the far side of the island counter. “Watch that tongue of yours, sir, or you might make our mutual friend here jealous. I’m trying to make this romance happen, not join it.”

Philip snorts, glancing back to me. “Yeah, right. Trust me, Brave, she ain’t the jealous type.”

She quirks an eyebrow at him, then peers at me with a smirk. “Is that a challenge, sir?”

“As much as I’d like to see you try, it’s probably for the best if we don’t.”

“Shame. Could’ve been fun. But alas, duty before pleasure.” She fastens the second brace and peers up at him with a sly look. “Those boundaries of yours are as strong as ever, aren’t they?”

He pauses, then squints at her and angles his head. “Am I being called out on something?”

“Oh, no, no, nothing at all, don’t you worry.” Brave chuckles again as she trots him by, going from white tile to khaki carpet. “Just having a little fun.”

“…Right…”

She comes to a halt in front of me, a shrewd, playful glint in her jade eyes — the kind that almost makes me think she’s sizing me up as a worthy opponent. “Buttered him up for you,” she says at a whisper’s pitch.

I blink at her with widening eyes and draw my head back.

“Go get him, tiger,” she adds, leaning in and gnashing her teeth with an audible clack right beside my ear, then turns away and strolls for companions. “We’ll be taking Able out to his farewell party now. You two play nice, you hear? I expect good news when we return.”

I gawk at her with a lingering shiver through my side, too absolutely gobsmacked by the sheer audacity of what she’d done to tell her off for playing matchmaker a second time, much less in a fashion completely out of left field. A Royal Guard batting her eyelashes at him while technically on duty in the hopes of… what? Making me seem more desirable by making herself seem…

I just… have no words.

“Sir,” Able heralds and salutes, snatching me from my thoughts, though not entirely. “It’s been an honour serving you.”

“It’s been a pleasure knowing you,” Philip replies, giving a small salute of his own.

I look at him absently, and then back to Able, and then feebly wave goodbye, spurred by the one part of my brain that can still focus on civil niceties. “Yeah, uh… ditto, guy. See you round.”

He turns his head slightly toward me, lowering his hoof, but his expression doesn’t change, nor does he comment. “It’d be nice seeing you again too, ma’am.”

“And if you leave before we return, please follow the law and refrain from flying,” Ironside implores, turning and heading for the door out of the apartment. “I understand there are no other ponies about in weather such as this, but just because there’s nopony around when a tree falls in the forest doesn’t mean it makes no sound.”

“Okay, okay, she gets it,” Brave interjects, ushering Able to follow. “The last thing she needs is you killing the romance dead with another one of your lectures.”

“Yes, romance, that’s exactly what you were stoking.”

“There’s nothing wrong in wanting to feel a little appreciated every now and then.”

“By your own VIP, and in front of the very mare who’s courting him.”

“I’ve never claimed to be perfect, Ironside, and neither have you.” She cuts in front and opens the door, cordially waving them through. “Now, shut up and let’s go.”

I can’t hear it, but I feel him deflate with a huff as he trots through, Able a few steps behind.

Brave nods to herself once they’ve cleared her field of vision, then swings around and backs out, pulling the way shut behind her, but not before giving us both a schemer’s grin. “Remember, you two: good news. And plenty of details.”

I blink once more, but can still hardly think of anything to say.

The door closes, and she and the other two guards are gone.

It’s just the two of us in the apartment now.

Me and him.

He and I.

Us.

The silence stretches as the rain continues pouring outside.

“So…” he begins, looking to me with an eyebrow quirked, “is it just me, or was that weird?”

“It’s not just you.” I meet his gaze as straight-faced as possible. “It was weird.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing you’d want to hear.”

He gently nods. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Yes, better that you do.” I amble over to the other side of the island counter and stand up, folding my forelegs on the ledge and resting against it, perusing the food on display and eager to change the topic. The less time I have to think about what just happened, the better. “So, what do we have here, and which of these haven’t been prepared by somepony else?”

“Hey, I can hold my own,” he protests, hands raised in his defence as he strolls forward from the kitchen bench and faces me from the opposite end. “Brave just happened to ask if we had any favourite foods between us, which reminded me of the stuff Spike used to make, and it just so happened that I had the same ingredients. She took matters into her own hooves.”

“So, none of this is your doing?”

“On the contrary, my dear.” He pats the white, polished granite surface and grins as he sweeps the same hand from left to right, gesturing to everything on offer. “Granted, most of it’s all store-bought, but fear not! When the time comes, I shall be as loyal and diligent as Spike is to Twilight. Starting us off, we have rosemary crackers and cheese — a staple snack from my younger days, which means you can’t criticise it ever.”

“Aw.” I pout, ears folding back. “But it’s so basic.”

“Hey, what did I just say?” He points at me and angles his head, brows climbing high in a half joking, half serious manner. “Rule number one of nostalgia, Fleet: don’t go dunking on someone else’s. I won’t tolerate kink-shaming under my roof.”

I snort and smirk. “You’ve been talking with Soarin a lot, haven’t you?”

“Your Wonderbolt buddy? Nah, not really. Only every other day.” He shakes his head and gives a long slow, exaggerated shrug. “But I have to admit, the guy’s got a way with words.”

“Yes,” I deadpan, “a bona fide poet. He never ceases to amaze.”

He hums amusedly, but soon returns to the food. “Anyway, we also have a fruit platter to share, which includes seedless grapes, watermelon, strawberries, cherries, mandarin pieces, apple, pear and orange slices, and assorted nuts.”

“Nuts aren’t fruit.”

He pauses, hand hovering limply above the dish, then leans forward and whispers, “They’re going through a phase at the moment, so let’s just hunker down and be supportive.”

I nod understandingly, though I’m not entirely sure what he’s getting at.

“Continuing on, we reach something that may appeal to the devil inside thee, madame: chocolate chip and coconut oatmeal biscuits. Secret Montero recipe, made with a healthy dash of tender loving care. Melts in your mouth — absolutely wonderful.”

My eyes widen and my ears perk up, looking to the biscuits at first and then to him. “For little old me?” I question in feigned disbelief, putting a hoof to my chest. “Philip, you shouldn’t have.”

“Oh no, don’t give me that.” He waggles his finger and angles his head again with a smirk. “What I should or shouldn’t do is neither here nor there. I’m the host, and you’re my guest, and I shall flatter you however I see fit. You know why?”

A small huff of an amused laugh escapes me as I prop my chin up on my forehooves, elbows on the countertop as I lean a little closer and smile, eyelids lowering playfully. “Enlighten me.”

His expression grows less cocky, his smirk shrinking into a smaller, but far warmer and more sincere smile of his own. “Because you’re worth it.”

A familiar ember ignites in the darkest depths of my barrel ignites; we’ve been through these motions before, struck the same chords, and I really shouldn’t expect anything more or less from him, but now I’m more… aware, for lack of a better word, the ember stays an ember. “You’ll have to do better than that, Philip,” I advise, gently shaking my head. “Romance is more than pretty words.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Says the girl who hasn’t gone on a date in how many years?”

“Don’t you dare,” I gasp, trying and failing to suppress a tickled grin. “That’s a low blow and you know it. And if you didn’t already have the food out, I might be so inclined to fly back home.”

“But you aren’t, and here the food is.” He stands up straight and folds his arms with another smirk, shrugging. “Take the bad with the good, Fleet. Yin and yang. And you may hide behind this mask of faux indignation, but you can’t take back what you said, and I can’t unhear it.”

“And what, pray tell, would that be?”

He pauses, I suppose for dramatic effect, and his smile grows almost imperceptibly wider. “Do you love me?” he asks in a soft, knowing, yet somehow authentically curious tone of voice.

My smile falters, stunned, and the ember inside catches light on the kindling in my chest. He knows the truth and so do I, and I’ve said it out loud for both of us to hear any number of times, but saying it would give him the satisfaction of winning whatever game we’ve started. And I only have myself to blame for this pickle. I purse my lips and stare at him through narrowed eyes, taking a deep breath through my nose at what an admittedly excellent play he’d made.

“I want to hear it again, Fleet.” His smile turns cheeky. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

I lower my gaze to the left, forelegs crossing on the counter as my wings shift in place and my ears flattening out to the sides, huffing once more. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“…Yes, I love you.” I frown up at him. “Happy?”

I expect him to rub it in. I expect him to beam an idiotic grin and gush and hang it over my head as his victor’s right dictates — woe to the vanquished and all that jazz. It’s not fair, but that’s how such things go.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his brows upturn and his lips slightly part, and he takes a deep breath of his own as he looks at me like I sometimes do at him: adoringly. “More than you could possibly imagine.”

It takes everything I have to not let my frown unravel, or the warmth in my chest to spread any further up the neck. Flames lick my ears, though, and tug at the corners of my mouth.

He blinks a few times, looking down as he gulps. “So… yeah, those are the biscuits, specially made by yours truly,” he says, rubbing his nose with a thumb as he returns to the food, mostly breaking out of whatever spell had caught him up. “And, uh… further along, we have a giant serving of popcorn, buttered and salted to perfection. In the fridge back there, there’s water, juice, soda, and milk if you want to make a cuppa for yourself.”

I blink as well, and my frown fades as I face him again, clearing my throat. “Sounds nice.”

“Indeed.” He looks over his shoulder, seemingly without knowing what to focus on, if anything. “Though I… suppose I could go one better and make us some milkshakes during the intermission, if I have the ingredients.”

My ears perk up somewhat, glad the subject has gone back onto a more manageable track. “What’re you thinking?”

His brows crease in thought, skewing his jaw as he returns to me. “You might have to settle for a plain old smoothie tonight, but if I manage to get everything together for next time — if there’s a next time — there’s this one formula I’ve been dying to replicate: vanilla, whipped cream, and caramelised popcorn, served warm.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “That’s different.”

“I know. But trust me, it’s magical. Had it once at this cosy little place on the backside of a pub at the end of a hiking trail I took with the family. I was eighteen at the time, I think. We’d just finished up, it was midday, and we had plenty of time to kill before the bus arrived, so we decided to do some exploring. Found the place, settled down on upper deck, and I remember ordering it because I like salty stuff, and it was so out of left field. I mean who puts popcorn in a milkshake?”

“But you liked it, didn’t you?”

“Oh, Fleet, it was ambrosia.” He shuts his eyes and sinks into the memory for a moment. “The vanilla was top-notch and the cream was the perfect substance. Seriously, I’ve never had a drink as good as that before or since, and that includes this world’s apple juice. And I promise, if I brew it for you, I’m making sure it’s exactly like the one I had.”

I smirk. “You talk the talk, Philip, but can you walk the walk?”

“That, Fleetybee, remains to be seen.” He gives me a small, humble bow, then stands with his hands on his hips, smiling brightly. “So, what did you bring, if anything?”

I shrug. “Potato chips.”

“Salt and vinegar?”

“You know it.”

He reaches his hand over the counter and holds it up for me, smiling approvingly. “My girl.”

My smirk grows wider as I clap my hoof against it. “As for the movie, I brought a classic.”

“Oh?” he queries, taking the bowl of popcorn and the fruit platter with him around the table to the lounge proper. “Are we talking black and white, early days of cinema, or something far more epic, like pony Lord of the Rings?”

“I don’t know what Lord of the Rings is, but let’s go with epic,” I reply, reaching with my wings to snatch up the biscuits and cheese and crackers. I pause briefly when I notice the state of my feathers, however, twisted and battered from the storm. They need some pretty heavy maintenance, and I’ll want to do it before I head out again, whichever way I decide to go. But I turn back and stroll for the sofa, balancing everything on my plumage. “Remember what you said about rule one of nostalgia?”

“Yep?”

“This applies.”

“Ha!” He sets down his items on the coffee table and begins fiddling with the entertainment system, ignoring the entire purpose of having a remote. The DVD player and television initiate their start-up sequences. “Shoe’s on the other foot now, isn’t it?”

“I guess.” I set my food beside him, then take off my saddlebags and fling them into the corner of the L-shaped couch — a rich crimson in colour, and made from a smooth fabric I can’t be bothered labelling. It holds its shape well, though, and there are small pillows resting against the backing. I hop up and get myself comfortable, lying on my stomach on the part that just out — the peninsula, or whatever I’m supposed to call it. “Hey, do you mind if I preen?”

He looks over his shoulder from a kneeling position. “Sorry?”

I spread a wing and glance at it meaningfully.

His brows rise. “Oh, like you were doing at Twilight’s place, once upon a time.” He goes back to the TV and flicks through the settings, searching for the right input source. “Yeah, sure. Really don’t see why you need to ask permission, though.”

I gently nod as I lay the wing flat, giving it a visual examination first. “It’s a… matter of etiquette, I guess. You don’t normally do it unless your around people you trust.”

He stops his meddling, slowly straightening his back and turning in place to face me properly, an eyebrow raised curiously. “You make it sound vaguely intimate.”

“Well, it kinda-sorta is.” I lift the wing to inspect the underside. “It’s not easy to explain, but sometimes, you treat them like you would any of your legs, and others… they’re something else. More private, in a sense.”

“One of those taboos you don’t understand, but accept all the same, right?”

I pause, wondering if there’d been a double meaning in his words, but dismiss the thought and nibble through my secondaries, straightening a few, plucking a few more. The relief is instantaneous and immensely satisfying. “Sure,” I confirm, perhaps sounding too spaced out for my own good as I swing back to him with three feathers in my mouth, which I lay to rest before me. “Like I said, it’s complicated. Some of the more traditional pegasi save every primary they lose because it’s like losing a piece of their soul.”

“That important, huh?”

“Wings are what make us who we are.” I nibble through another section; nothing to pluck this time. “Me, personally? I do it because I just… take pride in them. They served me well, so I keep them around. Like mementos, but… a bit more meaningful.”

He stays quiet for a long moment.

Too long.

I look to him.

He watches me carefully, and with a faint, open-mouthed smile. But then he realises I’ve caught him staring and he shuts his mouth and glances left and right. “Sorry, I, uh…” he clears his throat, “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be.”

He blinks, surprised.

So do I. It came out hastily, but calmly, as if I really meant it. Which, now that I think about it, I suppose I do. I just hadn’t expected it to be so… what? Fluid? Natural? Instinctive? Is there even a word to accurately describe it? Doesn’t matter; I said it, it’s out there, and the longer I take to explain myself, the more explaining I may need to do. “Don’t… be sorry,” I say quietly, lowering my gaze and ears as I feel a slow, shy smile sneak its way across my lips and a vague warmth develop in my cheeks. “I don’t mind.”

“…Oh.” He blinks again. “Okay, so, uh… does this mean—"

“It means I trust you.”

He nods to himself, seemingly content, but soon gives me another curious look. “With what, exactly, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“My safety,” I answer nonchalantly, though in immediate retrospect, I kind of worry that makes me sound like an automaton, or at the very least, incredibly basic as a pony. Being reduced to explaining what body language means doesn’t feel entirely comfortable, in any case.

“Ah,” Philip remarks, nodding to himself in confirmation again. “So, it doesn’t… imply anything, does it, if you catch my drift?”

“Not directly, no.” The warmth threatens to grow into a blush and I cross a foreleg over the other, looking away once more. “But it’s a step in the right direction.”

He pauses, blinking for a third time with widening eyes and parting lips. “O-o-oh,” he mumbles, glancing off to nowhere in particular, unusually lost for words. “Well, uh… that’s definitely something, isn’t it?”

I angle my head, but decide not to comment; considering my history of not understanding what he means and finding out the hard way, asking for elaboration seems like a particularly unwise move. Best to change the subject before it gets the better of me. “Have you finished setting up?”

“Hmm?” He returns to me. “Oh, yes, it’s all good to go. Now we just need the movie and a little less light.”

“Movie’s in one of the saddlebags,” I say, pointing behind me with a wing, which I then bring closer and tug out another secondary, which prompts a sudden, fleeting, relieved moan from me. “Go ahead and rummage around, this’ll take a while.”

“Righto.” He stands up and strolls past me for the corner, where he does as I suggested, unbuckling the flaps to each pouch and pulling out what he finds. In the first, three packets of those salt and vinegar potato chips. In the second… “Fleet?”

I straighten out a few extra feathers and stop before moving onto the next section. “Yeah?”

“What’s a glasses case doing in your bags?”

My ears and neck stiffen and I snap to him, a chill running through me with no real reason for it; I know what he’s seen — what he’s holding — and I know it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m as much a pony as the next. I accepted the facts long ago, and all the other Bolts know about it too.

Even so, a part of me worries what he’ll think. An irrational fear, yes, considering how much shit we’ve put each other through and how much of it we’ve survived as well as can be expected, but the mind isn’t always a rational thing. Mine especially — that’s something I’ve discovered about myself since this whole adventure started.

“They’re prescription,” I reply, doing my best to keep my anxiety from showing, either in my voice or my features. “They keep the strain off my eyes for long stretches of time.”

“So, you were going to wear them anyway?”

I glance away and smile uneasily. “I was…”

“Then there wouldn’t be a problem if I asked to see them on you?”

The smile fades as I return to him. “Well, now that you’re making such a big deal out of it…”

“Don’t play coy,” he says in a sing-song voice, sauntering over and kneeling beside me, offering the case like a knight would a sword. “Would you do me the honour, milady?”

I remain quiet and still for a short while, flicking back and forth between the case and his hopeful gaze, which seems to grow more and more beseeching the longer I wait. And the longer he suffers, and openly admits to such, the more I smirk.

Until I decide enough is enough.

“Alright, give it here,” I groan light-heartedly, sitting up on my haunches and snatching the case from his grasp with a wing and flipping it open with the other. I take out the frames and rest them on my snout, and the would instantly becomes a little less fuzzy, not that there was much to begin with. As I make a final adjustment using the edge of my hoof, I share that wicked smirk with him again. “There. Does this please you? Are you pleased?”

His brows upturn and his mouth droops open, an upward curl in his lips as his hands hover between gesturing to me and covering the lower half of his face. I almost order him to pick which side of the aisle he want to walk before he beats me to the punch by folding his arms on the edge of the couch, blowing a small sigh of satisfaction as he leans slightly closer. “My dearest Fleetfoot,” he hums, his nose within reach of mine, “no milkshake in the world could ever be as sweet as you.”

My teeth clench as I try and fail to keep my smirk from turning into a genuine grin, and I feel the shameful burning in my chest, begging me to close the distance and steal a kiss from him. It would be easy, and he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. But my wings tuck in tight as I force my urges down, lifting a hoof instead. “And you…” I say, gently tapping him on the nose, “you’re still as ugly as the day I met you.”

His smile widens oh so delectably, and I hardly notice a hand travelling from the sofa up to the back of my head before it’s already firmly scratching behind my ear.

I lean into it automatically as a moan escapes me, snapping my eyes shut as the sudden, oddly comforting feeling sends a soft wave of warmth down my neck.

“Care to rephrase that?”

I’m sorely tempted, but I have my standards, and as much as my body yearns for more of this affection, a wrap a hoof around his forearm and gently push it away, meeting his adoring gaze with half-closed eyes. “Movie, Philip.”

He huffs a laugh, but bows his head and stands up, returning to the bags.

I tidy up my mane, neatening it as much as I can into its original shape, shuffling my wings and ruffling my feathers to dispel whatever tension may or may not have gathered in them. My next breath is heavy — sorry I’d denied myself something that was actually quite pleasant — and I set aside the glasses case as I slide back down to my stomach and resume my preening.

“Second Wind, Volume One,” Philip comments, strolling over to the DVD player once more. “A classic, you say. Part of a series, I take it?”

“A trilogy,” I answer, straightening a loose primary. It might be coming out soon. “Trust me, it’s good. I’ll bring the next one whenever we do this again.”

“Bursting onto the scene with all guns blazing, and wielding the immunity card of nostalgia.” He inserts the disk into the tray and leaves the case on the cabinet, then returns to me with another of his smiles, now appraising as well as affectionate. “Whatever have I gotten myself into?”

“Only the biggest mistake of your life.”

He gently nods, sitting on the section of couch just behind me, pulling the coffee table closer. “That may be, Fleetybee,” he replies in a low tone, picking up the remote in one hand as he watches the other lay itself over and hold a rear hoof, looking at me earnestly, his smile now smaller, more precious. “But if that’s the case… then I’m glad I’m making it with you.”

I bring my hindlegs in, as well as my wings, and before he can ask what the matter is or protest, I turn about and press into him with a hug, closing my eyes and nuzzling my head under his chin. I beam another grin and sigh contentedly. Preening can wait. “I don’t deserve you.”

He doesn’t respond, but he breathes deeply, and his free hand slowly comes to rest upon my back, gently pulling me closer as he angles his head takes a deep, slow whiff of my mane. The warmth of his outward breath travels down my neck and through my body to the core. “Right back at you, girl,” he whispers, almost as if he didn’t mean to, but was thinking aloud. “Right back at you.”

I squeeze tighter, but eventually let go and turn around, leaning back, anchoring myself between him and the backrest, facing the screen. I smile up at him, the back of my head perched on his shoulder.

He smiles in kind, but more… admiringly.

We share a moment.

It’s a special moment.

And then we watch the movie.

28 | A Display of Passion

“No.”

“I’m telling you, Fleet—”

“No.”

“—Second Wind, all three movies—”

“You’re not taking this from me.”

“—They’re literally Star Wars, beat for beat, set in feudal pony Japan.”

“They’re not!” I slap the counter, grinning. “They’re completely original in every way!”

“Is that so?” He returns to me from the kitchen bench with two vanilla milkshakes topped with whipped cream and caramel-smothered popcorn, an eyebrow raised and a haughty smirk playing across his face. “Then tell me if this sounds familiar: roll of text explaining the current state of affairs; the big bad, who we later find out is the parent of our main protagonist, is hunting down plans information regarding their master’s doomsday device; the damsel in distress, who’s also related to the protagonist, sneaks out two envoys to find—”

“Where’s your proof?”

“Oh, you want proof, do you?” He sets down the glasses and whips out his phone, booting it up and swiping through a few menus. “If you recall, I was coming back from a convention in San Diego when I got sucked in through the portal, and if anything but what I had on my person survived the crash, I’d show you. But since nothing did, I implore… you look… at this.” He offers the phone to me.

I snatch it from his grasp and hold it close.

A human encased in black robes and armour poses with some kind of plastic, red-bladed sword — more like a poorly designed baseball bat — in the middle of a street. He stands flanked by other humans, clad in similarly ridiculous-looking costumes, almost a hundred strong, or possibly more.

I narrow my eyes and look up at Philip again. “Is this you?”

He shakes his head. “Kishore Tamboli. My roommate for the con. We’d been talking online for almost three whole years before meeting there for the first time. But that, dear Fleetybee, is beside the point.” He leans over and lays a finger on top of the phone, beaming at me in smug satisfaction. “I defy you to tell me Victoria Vanity isn’t Darth Vader, when she’s armoured up.”

I blink, hesitant. “You’re bluffing.”

“On any other occasion, you might be right, but just look: black armour, kabuto-like helmet, and although a lightsabre isn’t exactly a flaming sword, it also cuts through almost anything.”

“Victoria Vanity isn’t a cyborg.”

“That may be, but she is ruthless.” His eyelids lower to halfway in a sly manner, like a fox toying with a rabbit. “One could say… heartless. Efficient. Not unlike a machine, in fact. I mean, she isn’t above disposing of any incompetent subordinates.”

“She isn’t him,” I affirm, pouting.

“Deny it all you want, Fleet, but sooner or later, you’ll have to face the music: our favourite movies are almost carbon copies of each other. And you know what that means, don’t you?”

“What?” I challenge, folding my forelegs.

“Humans did it first.”

“I don’t believe you,” I state, shaking my head emphatically. “Nuh-uh, no way. Second Wind is ours and ours alone and you’re not stealing it from us like you did with Stockholm syndrome and Swiss cheese.”

“Scotch comes from Scotland.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!”

“And that’s a biblical reference.”

“STARS ABOVE, SHUT UP!”

He backs away from the counter, laughing so hard he’s practically begging for a slap, and this time, I’d make sure it hits where it’s supposed to. “Calm down, Fleet,” he implores, still giggling as he stumbles back into place, then slides one of the milkshakes across to me. “Here, have a snickerdoodle. You’re not you when you’re hungry.”

“You don’t eat a milkshake.”

“True.” He nods and bringing his own glass up — a mug that looks more like a jam jar with a handle — and takes a bite from the cream and popcorn, briefly closing his eyes to savour the taste. But then he returns to me with a finger raised, as well as his brows. “However, I could make a dessert out of this, if you’d like. And it’d be, like, no effort at all.”

I roll my eyes and lean forward to sip from the straw, figuring this little treat might be the one good thing I can take away from this visit. Third time’s the charm, and we’re already bickering over our preferences. Might as well call the whole thing off with this new revelation — nopony ruins my childhood and gets away with it, and they certainly don’t win my affection that way either. I don’t dig abusive relationships.

But as soon as the drink hits my tongue and fills my mouth with its aroma, the world goes black and I’m swept away on a sea of milky bliss; this beats the rainbow truffles by a hundred miles at least. Vanilla has never been my favourite flavour, to be honest, but I suppose that’s just because I hadn’t tasted perfection, and this is it. It has to be; I only ever hum contentedly with food whenever I know I’ve found something worth coming back for.

“Good stuff, ain’t it?”

I gently nod, slowly opening my eyes and licking behind my lips for whatever dregs I can find. He may wish for land full of ice-cream and apple pie for an afterlife, but me? I’m thinking of adjusting my outlook to include vanilla rain. “Sisters, Philip,” I breathe absently, “where did you learn to cook?”

“Mum, mainly.” He shrugs. “But for this one in particular, thank Phalanx. Dude’s a magician in the kitchen — knows the right amount of everything. It’s like he has a sixth sense.”

I huff a soft laugh, taking another sip, and I hum contentedly once more. “That’s a unicorn for you,” I say with a satiated sigh. “With enough training, they’re the best and just about everything. No joke, they can control the weather, raise the sun and moon, fly, farm, navigate… Basically every single thing us pegasi or the earth ponies are naturally talented at, a unicorn could do just as well, if not better.”

“Oh?” He quirks an eyebrow and has himself another mouthful of cream and popcorn. “Got a little tribal dysphoria going on, do we?”

“Pfft. Yeah, no way, Jose.” I flex my wings. “These babies aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, and no amount of magic lasers are changing my mind.”

“But lasers are awesome!”

“I didn’t say they aren’t, but if I had to choose between parlour tricks and loop-de-loops, I know which one I’d pick.”

“Not even for a day?”

At that, I pause, but then shake my head and smile. “Not even for a day.”

His brows rise. “Really?”

I nod.

“Because if I had the opportunity, I’d love to be something else for a day.”

“Such as?”

He pauses, then wraps his free arm around his stomach as he frowns in thought, staring off to the wall far behind me, his breathing slow and reflective. “A woman, I guess.”

I blink and sharply draw my head back in surprise. “A female human? Really?”

“Sure.” His sips through the straw and licks his lips, but doesn’t return to me just yet. “Nothing too outlandish — still within my comfort zone, I guess — but I wouldn’t mind being a girl for a day. I doubt it’s much different, but… you never know. Could be fun.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Fun, huh?”

His head angles toward me, his eyelids lower, and the corner of his mouth stretches in an unimpressed kind of way. “Shame on you, Fleet. Here we are having a perfectly innocent conversation about ‘what if’ scenarios, and then you have to stick your head right into the gutter. Not even the decency of a ‘how do you do’, just… ram it on in there.”

“Fine, fine.” I look away and wave my hoof dismissively. “But here you are, asking what tribe I’d be for a day, and when I ask you something similar, you go and gender-bend yourself.”

“Are you implying that I’m confused?”

“I’m implying that you should’ve given a less suspicious, more topic-friendly answer.”

“Like what? Which human tribe I’d prefer to be a part of?”

“More or less, yeah.”

His eyes widen and his mouth hangs open, somehow both bemused and disturbed at the same time. He blinks once, twice, then lets out a stifled laugh, and then shakes his head with a look of bewilderment. “There is so much wrong with what you’re asking that I’m not even sure if I should bother explaining.”

“Well then, fine!” I exclaim with an exasperated shrug. “What pony tribe would you prefer to be a part of?”

“Oh, nuh-uh, I’m not opening that can of worms either.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t just pick a favourite ethnicity, Fleet! That’s how racism starts!”

“Oh, for the love of…!” I roll my head in a circle and lay it with and audible thump on the tabletop, but not hard enough to actually hurt, or damage the glasses I still haven’t taken off. I shut my eyes and groan. “Sometimes, Philip, I wonder why I even try.”

“You try, Fleetybee, because the pain is worth it.” He takes another sip, relishing the flavour for a moment before continuing. “By which I mean you feel the pain is worth it, or so I’ve been led to believe, and not that I mean to say I think I’m actually worth all the hassle I put you through. Honestly, I think it’s a bloody miracle you’ve survived this long.”

“No kidding,” I grumble, then lift my head just enough so I can peer up at him from behind weary brows and over the tops of my frames. “So then, let me rephrase: of the pony tribes, which wouldn’t you mind being for a day?”

He nods again, satisfied, then goes back to looking off into the distance as he contemplates the question.

I snort and take the opportunity to have a proper drink, and almost melt like the caramel itself from just how delicious it is; it’s as if the milk itself was made of pure vanilla concentrate, not unlike a shot of espresso, or tequila, but less affecting in the sense that I won’t be coming down from a high or a hangover. Unless I count this mild state of euphoria. I could definitely get used to this being a treat for us to share.

And here I am, talking as if we’re a couple already. We’ve only had three of these pseudo dates, each watching a favoured movie of mine, then of his, then switching up the order for the next occasion. That’s not enough to actually consider ourselves a legitimate relationship, is it? I mean, shouldn’t it be longer?

You’ve admitted you’d been courting longer than you realised. Perhaps you already are.

But shouldn’t it be more concrete than that?

What were you expecting?

…I honestly don’t know. To be fair, I’d never expected any of this — to have come so far, and not only be comfortable with how this whole thing has developed, but to enjoy it. An inconceivable, quite probably damnable notion that my past self would’ve delighted in watching burn.

But my past self isn’t my current self; my current self is sitting on a stool at the island counter of her crush’s apartment, wearing a plain white singlet, black shorts and a nerdy-looking pair of spectacles, drinking a vanilla milkshake with him and relishing every second of it. The evening sun is getting low, shining its bright, golden light through the sliding door to the balcony, and the air inside is warm and cosy, and it smells like freshly baked bread.

That last part is probably from the Anzac biscuits he’d made — which he distinguishes from cookies by size, strangely enough, and I can kind of get behind; instead of one or the other, combine the dialects and make it work. But as for the food, the biscuits sit half-eaten on a platter to the right. I’m not terribly fond of how tough they are to chomp through, so he said he’ll save them for himself and the guards later, and try to make them softer next time, even though it ‘ruins the charm’.

Sentimental ass.

Look who’s talking, O seeker of the perfect date.

…Okay, fine, we’re both sentimental, so sue us. But I always knew if I were ever to find somepony to be with, I’d want to do things right. Doing things right means taking it slow, especially in unfamiliar territory. I don’t want to look back and wish I could’ve done anything differently, or for it to turn out any other way; forget the movies exemplifying the ideal romance, is it so bad to wish nothing bad ever happened?

It’s not bad, but it’s unrealistic.

Rhetorical question.

To which there was an answer.

I skew my jaw and frown at the glass mug before me. Of course I have to make this difficult for myself. Nothing is ever as simple as it seems.

“An earth pony.”

My ear twitches and I look up at him. “Sorry?”

He sips his drink and continues staring into the distance, as if he were the captain of a ship contentedly having himself a morning coffee as he watches the sunrise. “If I were to be a pony for a day, I’d be the earthen kind.”

I blink, then realise I’d asked him a question a minute or so ago, and he’s finally answering it. How time flies when you’re in a midlife crisis. “Not a unicorn?”

“Nope.” Another sip, and then he returns to me with a neutral expression. “Magic’s a tricky thing to learn, Fleet. It would take more than a day to master it, or maybe I never would — heck, I’ve seen unicorns who prefer using their hooves over levitation, and very few who can do summoning spells.”

Fair point. “Alright, but what about pegasi?”

He smiles and gestures to me with his mug. “No offence, Fleet, but learning how to walk on four legs would be hard enough; I don’t need an extra two limbs making it even worse. They’d be more trouble than they’re worth, really.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Trouble?”

“The upkeep. You know, preening.”

I roll my eyes amusedly. “Preening isn’t any trouble, Philip. It’s relaxing. And if somepony helps you out, it…”

He waits for me to finish, then cocks raises an eyebrow of his own and waves an encouraging hand. “It… what, Fleet?”

I don’t reply, an ugly epiphany dawning on me — one that makes my wings constrict, my ears flatten, my eyes widen, and my tail pulls in as close as possible while dangling over the edge of the seat. The rotten feeling appears once more, nibbling away at my core like mice in a cupboard full of mouldy cheese. Every time, I promise myself I won’t think back to that accursed night, and especially not to the morning after, but somehow, I always do; pretend as we may, the very simple fact remains that the only reason this started is because…

We missed the good parts.

A mistake was made, and we’ve been doing our best to rectify it.

We can’t wash out the stain, but we can paint over it — create newer, better memories. And perhaps, in time, the knowledge of its existence will fade away into nothingness. And then it would really be as if nothing ever happened.

I suppose now’s a time as good as any to apply another fresh coat.

“Actually, uh…” I begin, then realise how quiet and hoarse I’m sounding and clear my throat, looking up at him. My wings and tail are still tucked in tight and my ears are still folded back. “Do you think you’d, uh… want to help me this time?”

“With preening?”

I hesitate, but manage a small, shy nod before my gaze lowers to the tabletop.

He blinks, glancing past me, no doubt to the feathers piled neatly on the couch’s peninsula. “Didn’t you already do that?”

“Well, yes, but…” I pull my forelegs away from the counter and fold them over my stomach, eyes to the floor, scrunching my muzzle at how difficult I’m letting this be for myself. “It’s what pegasi do. Assisted preening, I mean.” A wing twitches at the thought as I shrug, an anxious shiver running through me to the core. “Maybe we could practice a little.”

He pauses, an air between us that tells me I’ve caught him somewhat off-guard — not entirely surprised in the fullest sense of the word, but definitely stunned. “Practice?” he echoes slowly, vacantly.

“Yeah.” I dare to snatch a brief glimpse of his perplexed expression. Stars, it isn’t easy talking about this, like I’m explaining the odd behaviours of a problematic dog. “I mean… if you’re dating a pegasus, you ought to know what makes us tick, right?”

Another pause, and then he rubs the back of his neck. “I suppose…”

“Not that I mean to say what works for me applies to everypony else,” I quickly add. “We’re all individual. I just think that… it might be nice, you preening me.”

A longer silence. “Are you sure?”

“I’ll guide you.” My wings are starting to itch with apprehension; I don’t like being so forward, especially when this is out of his comfort zone as well as mine. “It’s not that hard, really.”

This silence stretches on even longer. But eventually, he sighs through his nose and answers with… not quite an upbeat tone, but definitely not a disheartened one, “Alright, let’s have a go.”

I slide from the stool and trot from the tiles to the carpet, then scoop up the feathers already on the couch and transfer them to the coffee table, hopping up and lying down in their place. All of this happens in quick succession, and I stare straight ahead, trying to keep my mind from actually processing what I’d just done.

“Well then, aren’t we eager?” Philip remarks, strolling around the counter.

“Yeah,” I say automatically, then stifle and anxious giggle and quickly readjust my glasses. “It’s a special moment, I guess.”

“Is it really?”

And now my mind decides to process everything, and my chest tightens as my gaze drifts off a little way to the left because of it. “It’s… something we should’ve done a long time ago, I think,” I murmur, that rotten sensation taking another tentative nibble.

“Oh.” There’s a break in his stride, which turns into a complete halt, leaning into my vision. “An intimate thing, is it?”

I don’t need to say yes or no; the hesitant pause is all the confirmation he needs. “You don’t normally let others touch your wings unless you know them well, and you don’t preen somepony else unless… well…” My wings shuffle at my sides as I look to him directly, and I’m sure he can see just how uneasy I’m feeling about this. “Yes, it’s intimate. Our wings are our lifeline in the air, so if you let somepony take care of them… you’re trusting them to keep you safe, even when they aren’t there.”

His eyes widen, his brows rise, and he draws his head back slightly. But then his brows crease and he squints as a thought hits him. “Hold on, but… if they don’t do a good job, can’t you just fix it yourself later?”

I sigh. “That’s not the point, Philip. The point is that… it’s a part of growing close with your partner. It’s something you do with the pony you want in your life — like a… a metaphor; you trust them to keep you safe, in every respect. And traditionally… it’s a way of making sure you’re the right ponies for each other, and you’re supposed to do that before…”

“Marriage?” he cautiously proposes after a beat.

“…Your first night together.”

He shuts his mouth and stiffens, eyes widening once more, but he doesn’t look away. His gaze grows apprehensive and, in a certain light, sympathetic; he feels bad and would prefer not to think about it, but he also knows how much it pains me to bring it up. He’s through with ignoring how I feel — a month apart has taught him that — and he wants to do better, both for himself and I.

Us.

Merciful Sisters, we are a thing.

“I’m a pragmatist,” I confess, lowering my attention to the floor. “I’m not huge on tradition for tradition’s sake — that’s more Mum’s thing. But if I were to find somepony to love… I really would’ve liked to have hit all the right notes at just the right times. To… I don’t know, relish it all, I guess. Mutual preening would’ve been a big part of that. And instead, what happened was…”

He slowly nods, and then carefully walks closer, resting on his knees at the foot of the peninsula, focussing on my hoof, which he just as slowly and carefully lays a tender hand over. He holds it in a loose but reaffirming grip, letting out a soft, quiet sigh, and then looks me in the eyes understandingly. “You wanted the perfect romance.”

Again, he doesn’t need to hear a yes or no: he already knows the answer. All I can do is feel guilty that I don’t have the courage to say anything aloud, and my extremities all pull in a touch.

“So did I.” He gently nods, lowering his gaze to the same hoof. “So did I.”

“And we both ended up disappointed.”

“Yep.” He gives the hoof a squeeze and pats it idly. “You always are.”

The response seems innocuous at first, but the longer it I’m allowed to ponder on the words, the more unusual they seem, and eventually, my brows furrow and I cock my head inquisitively.

He takes notice with a fleeting glance and stretches his mouth, puckering his lips as he takes in a deep, calming breath, steeling his nerves for whatever he’s about to say. “You’re my first pony, Fleet,” he murmurs, though I’m sure the rueful tone isn’t directed at the fact, but at something buried a little further beneath the surface, “but you aren’t my first.”

I quirk a wary eyebrow. “Your first…?”

He looks up at me meaningfully.

The realisation stares me in the face like a cockatrice.

“Spike once asked how many crushes I’ve had.” He goes back to the hoof, rubbing a thumb up and down its length, brushing with and against the flow of my fur, so soft that it’s pulling at a cool, fuzzy nerve running up my foreleg and into my shoulder. “Nine, I answered. What I didn’t say was that… of those, three became actual relationships. And they were, at certain points, and to varying degrees… physical.”

I blink, stunned, feeling that cool, fuzzy nerve radiate from my withers to the rest of my body in a tingling wave. This is hardly the conversation I expected to have today, or any other day, frankly. But as much as I don’t feel an overwhelming desire to hear about his history, I know telling him to stop is completely out of the question; if he feels the need to speak his mind, I’ll let him speak. This isn’t the kind of information you share with just anypony.

“There was also another girl, who was… just a fling.” He shrugs listlessly. “It was a fun little romp, I guess… but when I look back on it, now that I have actual standards… I don’t know what I was thinking.

“But that’s beside the point.” He sighs again, looking up to me once more. “I don’t know what experiences you’ve had, Fleet, and I’ll never ask you to tell me, but I will say this: things hardly ever work out the way you want them to. And it doesn’t matter if it’s your fault, or theirs, or both parties’, or something neither side could’ve controlled or ever seen coming — it’s always disappointing in the end. And if what happens does ruin the relationship… then that makes you feel even worse, because all that time and effort… you feel it’s all gone to waste.”

I wait for him to continue, but he seems too lost in thought, which is a little disconcerting considering his eyes are still on me. So, as much as I don’t want to be the one to interrupt, I think some extra encouragement is in order. “Is this the part where you tell me it isn’t?”

He blinks, returning to the real world and to me, but as my question sinks in, his expression shifts into something more crestfallen and he lowers his gaze to my hoof yet again. “I’m not sure I should, Fleet, because… I’m a slow learner myself.”

“How do you mean?”

He sighs for a third time. “I mean… regarding relationships, it’s taken me ten years and three failed attempts to get to where I am now, in terms of knowing how to handle one. And now I’m starting to worry that, if I weren’t stuck here, I’d very easily have left you on the hopes of finding somebody else, because that’s the kind of person I was, once upon a time.”

I quietly gulp, swallowing the pain of an old wound reopened, now rubbed with salt. I can’t fault him for being honest, though, and the what precious few moments I’m given to ponder on it, the more I realise how much more difficult it must’ve been, for him to swallow his pride and see me in Las Pegasus. But I can’t let my opinion of the past cloud my judgement of the present; we’ve moved beyond all that, and we’re different, more resilient ponies because of it.

“I’m sorry if that hurts you, Fleet, but it’s the truth.” He bows and gives my hoof a kiss, then stays there, resting his forehead against my foreleg as he gathers his wits. “I never thought I’d feel this way about someone as different as you. It scared me. In some ways, it still does. But if there’s one thing my life has taught me, it’s that love takes compromise. And I love you, Fleet. I really, really do.”

My teeth clench as I fight back a smile, that coolness in my body becoming warmer by the second, heavier with every beat of my heart.

He plants another kiss on my hoof, lingering there as if he’s afraid I’d leave him the moment he looks up. But when he does, I see only… gratitude and… adoration… eyes brimming with them, threatening to bring out some tears. Whether they’d be his or mine, I can’t tell. “I don’t—”

I shut him up with a kiss on the lips; words can only say so much, and he’s gone on for long enough. I need a release from this sudden wave of ecstasy.

He remains stock-still for a moment, no doubt surprised — something I take no small delight in, knowing I’ve rendered him speechless — but soon relaxes, and then leans into it, nose pressing against mine. He hums a satisfied hum, and I feel a smile creep its way beneath my muzzle as a hand leaves my hoof and threads its fingers through my mane, the palm resting on the point between my jaw and nape.

I grin and open my eyes, pulling back just enough to speak. “You talk too much.”

“Oh, Fleet…” he breathes huskily, as if waking up from an intoxicating dream, “if this is the punishment, what must I do to be rewarded?”

I hum to myself, my expression turning somewhat sly as I pretend to think harder than I need to. Poorly, I might add, and intentionally so. “Well, preening would be a start…”

“Mm-hmm, naturally.”

“Then maybe a back massage…”

“Of course.”

“Scratching behind the ears…”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Under the chin…”

“Practically mandatory.”

“Some cuddling…”

“Wonderful.”

“Belly rubs…”

“Scandalous.”

“Holding hooves…”

“Completely degenerate.”

“And then you could make me another one of those milkshakes.”

He snorts, his grin sliding into a smirk. “That’s a rather short list, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.” I press my nose against his. “I suppose there’s room for one more.”

“And what’s that, my dear?”

“This.” I shut my eyes and lean forward, lips to his in another kiss, and then another, and then another, each one punctuated by my legs shuffling further and further along the peninsula, steadily advancing.

He leans further and further back, easing his descent by slipping the hand on my hoof away and propping himself up on the floor. The hand on my neck pulls me closer.

It was already my intent, but I oblige all the same, letting him dictate how fast or slow he wishes to recline, my forehooves running out of cushion to waddle across and falling to the carpet. My barrel comes free, and next my hindlegs, the latter of which made me hobble awkwardly for a step or two, but never once do I stop peppering him with all the kisses I can give, nor does he with me.

Oh, this is magic. My body feels as light as a kite right now, so very far away from anything of any bother, so very easily rapt in something as simple a peck or ten hundred on those wonderful lips. And the hand on my neck, now practically massaging my nape… it threatens to send welcoming shudders right through to my withers. I probably wouldn’t have minded something like this on the first or second movie night, and maybe even down in Redcliff, where we wouldn’t have been interrupted if we’d just found somewhere more private.

It’s just me and him right now. He and I. Us, and this little world we’ve created for ourselves. I’d stay here for hours if I could, long after the sun sets, long after it rises, just… lost in time, savouring how wonderful it is that I’ve found somepony I can unequivocally say I adore. And I’d marvel at myself for sinking so low.

Now that he’s lying on the floor, his free hand searches for something to do, and finds my back vacant, gently pulling me by the loin to lie on top of him. I indulge him, hindlegs lying either side, forehooves resting on the collar of his shirt, still not daring to part our lips but only for the briefest moments to plant another kiss. This is one storm I don’t want to stop.

But then something happens that I can’t help but shrink away at, looking at him in a puzzled, somewhat startled manner. “What the heck was that?”

He frowns, confused. “We’re making out, aren’t we?”

I blink. Yes, that’s what we’re doing, now that I’m forced to put a label on it, but still… “I don’t like tongue,” I state quite blandly. “It feels weird.”

“Oh.” He blinks, his features relaxing. “So… no tongue?”

Telling somepony how you want to be kissed feels incredibly nit-picky of me, as if I’m some kind of assessor — or perhaps a captain — but I know what I enjoy. Feeling something wriggling between my lips and into my mouth isn’t one of them. The only things that ever go In there is food and drink, neither of which move of their own free will. “No tongue.”

He nods, sighing. “I can live with that.”

“Good.” I lower my muzzle to his once more, a small, appreciative smile sneaking its way across my face. “Stick with me and you’ll have to.”

“That vaguely sounds like you’ve made your mind up about me.”

I kiss him again. “Haven’t I?”

“Oh, Fleet…” the hand on my neck glides up through my mane and massages the back of my head, “I think we both know the answer to that.”

“Indeed we do,” I hum, leaning into it, peering down at him with half-closed eyes, almost lost in a blissful stupor. “And what about you? What’re your thoughts on the matter?”

The massage slows.

An ear twitches, and a subtle, uneasy shiver runs down my neck, all the way to my tail; I’ve asked something I might’ve been better off never asking, at least for the time being. We shouldn’t concern ourselves with the future, or the past — this moment is ours and ours alone.

“I think…” he begins, lowering his gaze to my snout as he licks his lips, then returning to me, “that you and I make each other very happy. And I would be remiss if I denied myself that.”

“I want to know, Philip. For certain. Do you or don’t you; yes or—”

“Yes.” He kisses me. “Absolutely.”

I stare at him blankly, my expression as stunned as the tingling feeling inside. “You… do?”

“Yeah.” He kisses me again. “I do.”

And he kisses me again, and again, and again, and again, each reassuring peck sending a warm, fuzzy flutter through me. Had he really, finally, after all this time, finally said that he likes me… in that way? Not only as more than a friend, but as… well, a potential partner? A girlfriend? A special somepony?

How long have I been waiting for this? How many hours, days, weeks, months have passed me by where I wouldn’t have had a problem with it, if only one or the other had made the first move? Why am I so frozen in shock? Why aren’t I just going with the flow and listening to the urges that beg me to melt at his touch?

So, my eyes glide shut once more and I press into him again, humming relievedly as a tension I never knew I had filters through my legs, my hooves, my ears, my wings. The fur on the back of my neck stands on end, and my withers prickle with a tantalising chill.

Oh yes, this is magic indeed.

But then something else interrupts me as he slides the hand on my lion up my singlet to sit between my wings — a sharp and sudden ripple that almost takes my breath away as my eyes snap wide open. I pull back and stare at him. “Philip, stop.”

He blinks once more, confused and perhaps a little annoyed, but I think the latter is just my imagination.

“Where your hand is, between my wings,” I anxiously glance in its direction, but don’t actually move my head. “Careful. I’m… sensitive there.”

“Did you injure yourself?”

“No, no,” I reply, shaking my head, though I’m secretly quite glad he’d ask whether I’m okay, “it’s just a… a quirk pegasi have.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Quirk?”

“A zone.” I gulp. “A very… sensitive zone.”

“Oh.” He pauses, and then his eyes widen in realisation. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” I give a small, stiff, anxious nod. “It, uh… it activates when you’re in a comfy setting, and… I’m pretty comfy right now.”

His lips part, caught on a feeling of awe. He’s not blushing yet, but I’m sure there’s some heat rising in his cheeks. But then his expression morphs into a sly one, though his eyes never leave mine. “So, if I were to do this…”

I whimper as his fingers push into the region like daggers, face scrunching as warmth flows to my cheeks, brows, ears. My whole body tenses up at the feeling, from wings and tail to legs and neck, hooves gently grinding into his chest and the carpet either side of his waist.

But it’s only for a moment — he lets go barely a second later. “Oh, wow…”

“Please…” I beg, peering down at him through eyes narrowed to slits, still riding out the frustratingly stimulating sensation, “please don’t do that. We don’t want to go there just yet. I’m not ready for it.”

He lifts his hands up holds them up before him in mock surrender, a dopey smile still on his face. “Hey, girl, I was just curious.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve had your fun.” I stand up and stretch my wings, working out the tension in them as much as I can and trying to get my tail under control. Then I turn about and hop onto the peninsula again, sitting on my haunches with my back facing him, looking over my shoulder peevishly. “Now let me have mine.”

He sighs elatedly, heaving himself to his knees once more. “Preening, am I?”

“Yeah.” I hold out a wing, consciously suppressing the shivers to the point where they’re nothing more than a barely noticeable quiver — completely natural to the inexperienced, which he most certainly is. “I need you to listen close, Philip. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” I take a moment to calm myself — this is actually happening, after all — then point to each part with a hoof, albeit awkwardly from this angle. “You have your primaries and secondaries — furthest and nearest respectively — and then your coverts on top of them and running along the wing.” I turn my attention to him. “With me so far?”

He candidly nods. “Simple enough.”

I nod in turn, going back to my wing. “There’s also the fluffy down closer to the shoulder, but we don’t normally focus on that — it’s mainly there to keep us warm, anyhow. So, what we’re searching for is anything that’s misaligned or loose. You can usually tell by sight alone, but sometimes you need to use your mouth and hooves — in your case, your fingers. You start at the primaries and work your way in, and if they’re out of alignment, they should just kind of… lock together, like a zipper.”

“So, you’re using me as a living, breathing comb?”

“Something like that, yeah.” I silence another anxious giggle, then shrug. “If I brought my preening kit with me, I’d show you how to use that, but I only break it out for special occasions — Grand Galloping Galas and such. It has some specially designed brushes and an oil and powder you can massage into the feathers, which help them stay zipped up for longer.”

“Feather conditioners…” he muses to himself, sidling closer and laying a hand over the wing, gently raking his fingers through toward himself. “First feather-fingers and now feather conditioners.”

My breath almost hitches; stars, that feels good. “Don’t blame me,” I hum, finding it harder to keep my wing from tensing up again, an enticing tingle shivering through it to my withers. “I’m not the one who discovered what works best for us.”

“I suppose not.” He starts again, every minute motion detected and craved by the part of my brain that can’t help wondering why I’m denying myself so much satisfaction, whatever form that may take. But then his fingers brush up against an itch, and no sooner than I notice and I’m about to say so, he steals my line: “I think you missed a spot.”

My mouth hangs open, so I quickly shut it and nod. “Yeah, that’s a loose one.”

“It won’t go back in?”

“No. Just pluck it, and it’ll grow back eventually.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

He pinches the quill and tugs.

I grunt, the whole limb straining and then instantly relaxing.

“Did it hurt?”

“Yeah, but in a good way.” I let out a sigh of relief and flex the wing to its fullest extent. “Sometimes there’s blood, but not usually. Mostly, it just feels wonderful.”

He inspects the primary front and back with an appraising look and a gentle smile. “The most wonderful things happen when you least expect it,” he says in an unmistakably feminine impersonation attempt, pausing his inspection to peer at me smugly from the corner of his eye.

My ears perk up and glare at him from the corner of mine. “Don’t you dare…”

“But madame, are we not on common ground?”

“Don’t you fucking dare…”

He snorts, bringing his hands away from my wings and giving an exaggerated shrug, a shameless grin plastered on his face. “I won’t apologise for liking Broken Love. Really, it’s a decent movie.”

“No, you don’t get to say that,” I retort, shaking my head with an open-mouthed smile. “You have two main characters doomed to die falling in love, sure, but they never actually die. What’s the purpose of having that plot point if nothing ever comes of it?”

“But it’s so tragic!”

“It’s a tragedy without tragedy; a cheap trick to raise the stakes with absolutely zero payoff.”

“Watch that tone of yours, Fleetybee,” he warns, looking at me pointedly, then glances for my withers. “I could very easily go for that pressure point again.”

“Do, and I’ll buck you.”

“Tough love is my kind of love.”

I groan and hang my head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you, my sweet, are simply irresistible.”

I smile. I try my hardest not to, but he always, always manages to bring it out of me, no matter how deep I bury it. And I can’t fault him for that either; in the face of any and every situation I find myself in with him, I like smiling for him.

“So, this officially means we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, does it?” he wonders, starting up his ministrations once more. “That you trust me with your life?”

I remain silent for a little while, processing just how simple, yet so heavy the next few words would be. “Yes, it does. And I do.”

He nods to himself, watching himself work his way along my wing. “Well then, if we’re officially a couple… should we make it known?”

I freeze. I wasn’t already moving much, but now I’m stiff as a statue.

Listening to him talk about his past lovers was one thing, even if it was in a completely passing and not at all detailed capacity, but that is a topic I never thought either of us would bring up today. And maybe, if I was lucky, for a good, long while after — a few weeks, a month, a year, even. Granted, we’re not much of a secret to anypony with half a braincell, but actively coming out and announcing it to the world?

But now that I think about it… looking back on past experiences…

The nurse in Ponyville? She seemed pretty casual about it.

The press? More concerned with the will-they-won’t-they side of it more than the morality.

The guards? They just want Philip to be happy.

Soarin? He knows, and he’s fine with it.

Spitfire? She’s been doing everything in her power to make it happen.

Dad? He’d be okay with it, I think.

Mum?

…That’s where things get iffy.

But that’s the opinion of one against… how many? Surely she wouldn’t be that steadfast, to not bow to public pressure, and not with somepony like Dad on my side, right? She’d be happy I finally have a pony — a stallion to call my own. It just so happens that… he wasn’t what she may have expected.

Even she could overlook that for my sake, right?

…Right?

I retract my wing and crane my neck around to plant another kiss, this time on his cheek, then turn my body a little further and wrap him in a needy hug — forelegs, wings and all — and nuzzle under his chin. “Yeah,” I mumble uncertainly, hoping that hearing the words come out of my mouth would help steel my resolve. “I think we should.”

I’m not sure if it works.

29 | The Lost Art of Conversation

Summer.

If Equestria were to truly have such a thing as an official religion, summer would be the most sacred season of them all. It’s the time of year when the sun shines brightest, the days are warmest, and the whole world breathes a collective, contented sigh as it kicks back and relaxes on a massive, global holiday. Even before Celestia ruled alone for a thousand years — the defining feature for what historians call the Celestial Age — ponies revered our closest star as the bringer of light, and likewise, the bringer of life.

Since the early days of civilisation, its importance was never lost on any of the tribes. Pegasi revered it as a beacon by which they could sail the skies and claim the heavens and highest mountains for their own. Unicorns idolised it as a symbol of their magical abilities. Earth ponies worshipped it as a herald of friendlier times to come, and gave thanks to it for driving the snow away and that their crops could feed on rejuvenated soil.

As time progressed, however, and the longer Equestria remained stable, the world didn’t seem so uncertain anymore, and the need to find hope slowly dwindled; the commonfolk were content with their rulers, their living conditions, their general wellbeing, and so it was that icons such as the sun took on a lesser role in everyday life. They never faded completely, or else we wouldn’t thank the stars whenever something goes right, but they’re not as significant as they once were.

That’s not to say certain traditions from way back when haven’t survived; the longest day of the year witnesses the Summer Sun Celebration, after all, which dates to the beginning of the Celestial Age. To my reckoning, the princess herself hadn’t intended for the festival to happen, really — it more or less sprung up on its own, as a collective effort to cheer her up. Banishing one’s only family to the moon must’ve been quite a heavy burden, naturally, so the kingdom’s citizens pooled themselves together and did their best to make her feel appreciated.

Like so many ancient icons, the original purpose was lost in time, condoned by Celestia herself as she gradually came to terms with what she’d done, and what a prophecy assured would happen. Now, it’s less a show of solidarity and more an excuse to kick one’s hooves up and bask in the afternoon glow. Not that I’m complaining, or anypony else for that matter.

In fact, I’m probably reminiscing too much — curse my fascination with history — as I inspect the stall and all its souvenirs: pendants and charms made from gemstones and other precious minerals. They’re shaped so finely and detailed so intricately that I can scarcely believe they’re real, let alone that they’re not in a Canterlot jewellery shop. I’ve always known there are treasures to find in unlikely places, but some of these are simply beyond compare.

“That one’s nice,” Philip comments, pointing to a necklace in the centre, featuring a golden sun held in a silver horseshoe, both of which are set with tiny squares of amethyst. “Even matches your cutie mark.”

I nod idly. I could easily afford it, I just don’t have the bits on me at the moment — we’re simply browsing out of curiosity to pass the time. Even so, I’m sorely tempted to flaunt my celebrity status and promise the mare behind the counter that I’ll pay her back. I wouldn’t be hard to press charges against if I didn’t comply.

“Twenty bits,” she announces.

I baulk and snap my attention to her. “Just twenty?”

“Yep.” She smiles at me keenly. Not so much in the hopes that I’ll buy something from her, but more in the sense that she’s happy somepony considers her stock worthwhile, though there really shouldn’t be any doubt in her mind whatsoever; this rivals a diamond dog jeweller in terms of quality. “My auntie’s sister finds gem deposits all the time, and she passes on what she doesn’t need to me, so the materials are never hard to come by.”

“And you make these all by yourself?” Philip questions, less openly surprised as I am, but curious all the same.

“Mm-hmm.” The mare nods, her pink and purple curls bobbing with as much enthusiasm. “My sister has an eye for fashion, and it’s kind of rubbed off on me. I’m more of a singer, personally, but I try my hoof at this from time to time.”

“You’re very talented,” I observe, perusing the items on display again, this time spying a pendant of the Sisters bounding after one another in a circle, one a black opal, the other white. “I just wish I had the money to pay you right here and now.”

“Oh, that’s fine, I’m doing well for myself anyhow. This is more of a hobby. So long as I can make ponies happy one way or another, I’m happy.”

“That’s a very positive attitude,” Philip remarks.

She shrugs. “I do my best, Mister Montero. That’s all a pony can do.”

“And humble too.” He looks to me and quirks an eyebrow with a smirk. “It appears we’ve found a gem of a different kind.”

“Oh, don’t you start.” She giggles, covering her mouth with a hoof. “You two taking the time to stop by and browse is flattering enough already — no need to make me blush.”

“Yeah, he’s a real charmer, this one.” I give him a light-hearted nudge with a wing as I cast my gaze around to the rest of the wide, open square.

We’re back in Ponyville after… gosh, it’s been so long. More than a year, I think, and so very little of it has changed from what I remember. As far as Rainbow has told me, it rarely ever does; the latest addition was Twilight’s school, which came after the Castle of Friendship, and both of those are at least a decade old by this point, or thereabouts. Time flies when you’re flying all over the place, and have experienced so much of the world that news from your home country feels pretty benign.

Celebration decorations adorn the streetlamps and some of the houses, the setting sun in an orange, darkening sky sharing its last two hours or so of direct light with the world. We met at the Fillydelphia train station just after the break of dawn, catching one that put us here late in the afternoon — perfectly timed to miss the morning festivities, and whatever crowds came with them. Most of the stalls have either packed up and left or are in the process of doing so. This little souvenir stand is one of only five that haven’t, as far as I can see.

It shouldn’t be long before we’re needed elsewhere, but for now, I’m appreciating this quiet time; just me, him, the guards forming a small perimeter, and the hoofful of ponies who wander the streets. Phalanx slid back into his role with ease, almost as if he hadn’t been away for several weeks. I suppose his mother recovered from whatever illness I never concerned myself with asking about — something about it felt improper, or perhaps insensitive.

I’m not sure why. I hope that doesn’t make me insensitive.

“Philip!”

We crane our heads around to see another mare approaching us at a trot; white coat, pink mane, blue eyes. She seems familiar, but I can’t quite put my hoof on where I’ve seen her before.

Ironside moves to intercept.

“Redheart?” Philip queries, his brows creased bemusedly, but them his face brightens and he strides closer. “Reddy!”

Oh, right, this is the nurse from Ponyville General I saw exactly twice before. She seems incomplete without the cap. But part of the reason we’d come here was to reconnect lost connections, and even though she isn’t who we’d intended to see, I suppose we shouldn’t turn away a friendly face if we can help it. May as well make the most of what the day can offer, before we’re summoned to a meeting that might or might not go as smoothly as I expect it will.

I follow behind at a leisurely stroll.

Ironside steps aside and lets Redheart through, which she thanks with a courteous nod, and when she’s close enough, she rears up and wraps her forelegs around him in a generous hug. “Oh, it’s so good to see you again.”

Without much hesitation, Philip returns it as best he can, patting her back. “Likewise.”

“How dare you stop talking with me for half a year, you big dope, you.” She gives his chest a light punch as and pulls away somewhat and looks him in the eye with an enthusiastic smile. “If I hadn’t heard there was some beef between you and the princesses, I’d have thought I said something wrong!”

“Sorry about that.” He chuckles, lifting his hands in mock surrender and glancing at me briefly. “I got a little preoccupied, as you can probably tell.”

“I’ll say, moving to Fillydelphia, being guarded twenty-four-seven, fending off reporters. I don’t know how I would’ve coped with it.”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on,” I interrupt, waving a hoof at her to slow down as my brows wrinkle in confusion, then share a look between them. “You two have been in touch for how long, exactly?”

They blink. Philip stares at me, seemingly quite dumbfounded, but Redheart peers at him from the corner of her eye. “You didn’t tell her?” she asks in a surprised tone, quirking an eyebrow.

My ears stand a little more upright, attentive.

He returns to her, but still doesn’t answer. Not for a period of time that feels much too long, for whatever reason. “It… must’ve slipped my mind.”

Redheart rolls her eyes with a sigh and leaves him, falling to the floor on all fours and turning to face me. “We were pen pals while he was staying in Canterlot,” she explains in a polite, cordial, diplomatic manner, and it doesn’t appear forced; both our occupations require us to interact with the public, which sometimes requires a lot of patience, and tends to have the side effect of gifting you the ability to smell a fraud a mile away. She may have learned how to be one, but she’s no liar in the here and now. “Emphasis on the were part.”

I blink, and even though I’m sure it’s practically an impossibility, I can’t help wondering if she said that last part for my benefit. I doubt it. Probably nothing. “So, while he was writing to me, he was also writing to you?”

“And Spike and Twilight, let’s not forget,” Philip adds intently. “I didn’t mean to forget, Fleet, it just sort of… you know, never had its moment to be brought up.”

“When did this start?”

“When he left Ponyville, same as you,” Redheart answers chipperly, then offers a friendly hoof. “Speaking of which, it’s good to see you again too, Miss Fleetfoot. If you don’t remember me, I’m Nurse Red—”

“Nurse Redheart, Ponyville General,” I finish, accepting the offer and shaking on it, holding her gaze as I do so. “Yeah, I remember. Hard to forget the pony who told me about her experiences with yaks giving birth.”

“Ha! Still haven’t lost your sense of humour, I see.”

“Still traumatised, more like.”

“Understandable.” She chuckles. “I’ve been told I can be too descriptive for my own good.”

“Too damn right you are.” Philip folds his arms, flashing a conflicted smirk, perhaps recalling a sour memory that seems more funny in retrospect.

I can only begin to imagine, and I’m not sure I want to.

“Don’t you start,” she playfully reprimands, letting go of me and taking a few steps back so she can face both of us with ease. “You wanted more of those ugly stories, so if anypony’s to blame, it’s you. I supplied the sword, but you’re the one who fell on it.”

“As if that vindicates you.”

“Don’t start this, Philip. I’m warning you. Or should I ruin Fleetfoot’s lovely day with some of those completely family-friendly tales?”

His eyes narrow to slits. “You wouldn’t dare.”

She grins at him fiendishly, then turns to me with the same look.

“Oh, nuh-uh.” I firmly shake my head as I retreat, feeling the very sudden and quite logically sound urge to shoot straight for the nearest cloud and spend the rest of the evening there, and a decent chunk of the night as well. “Don’t rope me into this.”

“In war, Miss Fleetfoot, collateral damage is practically inevitable,” she smugly intones. “It’s all a matter of who’s more desperate to win.”

“I’ll make sure nopony wins if you keep this up.”

“I call your bluff, Wonderbolt.”

Despite the awkward situation I’m being put in, and the fact it wouldn’t have taken somepony of her calibre to see it, I can’t help admiring how quickly she’d seen through the threat. It’s like I’m revisiting some long-lost part of my life, or meeting an old friend by chance, even though we both knew we’d never been more than acquaintances.

“Okay, alright, leave her be, Reddy,” Philip soothes, stepping a little closer in an effort to come between us. “There’s enough on her plate already that she doesn’t need something else weighing her down.”

I raise an eyebrow at him and open my mouth to ask him what exactly he means, but by the time I do, I’ve already answered the question on my own. And indeed, it weighs on me like a weighted net, and I shut my mouth again and look away, hoping I look more embarrassed than I do apprehensive. Though what I could be embarrassed about, I haven’t the foggiest.

“Oh, so you didn’t come all this way just to see me?” She turns to him and pouts, ears drooping. “Philip, you wound me.”

“You’re a medic, aren’t you? Patch yourself up.”

A snicker escapes me and I shrink back, covering my snout with a forehoof.

“Oh, ha-ha, how very considerate of you,” Redheart retorts good-naturedly, taking the blow in stride, then turns to me. “And you, my dear… I expected better. How can you call yourself a servant of the realm when this foreign invader is harassing an Equestrian citizen right before your eyes?”

“Diplomatic immunity, ma’am,” I reply, shrugging. “Only the Sisters can revoke it.”

Her expression hardens like tempered steel. “Right, then. It’s settled. If taking matters into my own hooves means defeating them in mortal combat, then so be it.”

In the background, Philip hunches over and clasps his hands to his mouth, eyes wide and wild, a giddy squeak escaping him.

I’m tempted to ask what’s got him so excited, but dismiss the idea with a shake of the head. “As much as I’m sure everypony would like to see that, you ought to realise that if you did plan on doing that, then you and I would have to come to blows.”

Her ears perk up and she cocks her head, brows high with interest. “Is that a challenge I hear, Miss Fleetfoot?”

I snort. “Not in the slightest. If what you said when we first met taught me anything, it’s that you’re way too much for me to handle. No, I’m simply lamenting the fact that we’d be enemies. You seem like a decent pony.”

“One can only try, Miss Fleetfoot. One can only try.” She gently nods at me, then at Philip, and then to the jewellery stand behind us, and the mare behind it. “So, I see you’ve met Sweetie Belle already. Is that why you’ve come here, to peruse her world-renowned finery?”

I blink at her, and then swing back to the mare whose cutie mark I couldn’t and still can’t see — not with the stall in the way.

She gives me a coy smile and a small, shy wave. Demure, she seems, and more so than her sister, as I’ve been led to believe — the kind of pony to know exactly when enough is enough, and what information need or needn’t be shared. Her name, for instance, was something she hadn’t disclosed, and if I’d asked, I supposed she’d have given me an alias — a simple but effective ruse for outsiders such as myself.

“Unfortunately, no,” Philip answers, sparing Sweetie Belle, the younger sister of Element Bearer Rarity, only a respectful nod, which she respectfully returns, then looks to Redheart once more. “We’re awaiting our escort for the evening to Twilight’s place — a little-known lady of culture and refinement who goes by the name of—”

“I don’t think she needs to be bored by the details,” I interrupt, giving him another nudge, this one with a little more urgency behind it. What we should or shouldn’t disclose, I can’t say for certain, but I’d rather play it safe and keep our lips as tight as possible, and hope we somehow come off as civil despite it. If anypony’s doing the talking, it should be me; if anything that happens should be anypony’s fault, it should be mine and mine alone.

I am in control.

“Oh, so it’s kind of like a dinner of truce, is it?”

I blink at her again. “What?”

“You know, he got mad at Twilight, Celestia, Luna, maybe some others, and stopped communicating with us and them for half a year, or thereabouts.”

I blink at her a third time.

The longer our silence stretches, the more her brows crease in thought. She lifts a hoof and points to us limply. “Or did he make up with Twilight behind the scenes, and you two are going to hers for something else?”

My teeth clench and my ears stand to attention as a chill darts down my neck and through my body to my hooves, but those are the only signs of anxiety I allow; the compulsion to tuck in my tail, widen my eyes, shift my weight, or shuffle my wings would be too much. I can trust myself to keep my nerves hidden, but I feel more comfortable sharing my discomfort with Philip, however hidden I may keep it.

He meets my gaze, but isn’t as shy about expressing himself as I am, brows and lips tense.

“Come on, out with it,” Redheart excitedly implores, letting her hoof return to the cobbles and dancing on them in anticipation for a second or two. “It can’t be that bad if you’re seeing her.”

“Sorry, Reddy,” he says, sharing his uneasy look with her as he straightens himself and puts his hands on his hips. “I wish we could tell you, but I don’t think either of us really want that. This is, uh… Well, it’s just different than what you’re used to.”

“Oh.” She blinks a few times in confusion. “Sounds… delicate.”

“That’s one way of putting it. I mean, not that I don’t appreciate your company, or that I’m trying to shut you down or anything, it’s just…” He sighs and looks to me again. “We don’t want things blowing out of proportion. And that could very easily happen if we say too much to the wrong people.”

She cocks an eyebrow at him. “And I’m not trustworthy enough, is that right?”

“No, wait, hold on,” he quickly interjects, “that’s not what I meant to—”

“It’s okay, it’s okay!” She waves him off and laughs. “Don’t worry, Philip, I understand. Believe me, I do. I’ve been there before, wishing I left a certain announcement until later on.”

My ears stiffen once more, and I barely resist the almost overwhelming urge to tense my feathers, ready for flight. Her tone and body language doesn’t give anything away, but that word echoes through me as surely as a bolt of lightning — announcement. She doesn’t know it, but she hit the nail on the head with that, and it’s only weighing on me even more, like how you hammer in a wedge to split a log. And I think I’m starting to feel cracks appear.

“So, you’re enjoying the peace while it lasts, huh, before the coming storm?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Am I intruding?”

He hesitates.

I pick up the slack, stepping forward with my neck bowed, holding her gaze as my ears lower in an apologetic look. And I really do feel bad for what I’m about to say. “We don’t want to say yes, Redheart… but we can’t really say no either.”

“Yeah…” Philip agrees without much conviction, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like you said, calm before the storm and all that jazz. It’s great seeing you again, Reddy, don’t get me wrong… you just happened to catch us in a bit of an awkward spot.”

She huffs through her nose and rolls her eyes to the right with a good-humoured smile. “Figures. Well, then, that settles it, I guess, doesn’t it?”

“You’re not upset, are you?”

“No, no, heavens no,” she calms, returning to him with a shake of her head. “Just the luck of the draw. Can’t fault you for things out of your control.”

“Thanks.” He lowers himself to his knee and gives her an apologetic look of his own. “Sorry about all this. And for not contacting you after… you know.”

“Stars, Philip, think nothing of it.” She returns his look with a kindly, reassuring one, almost motherly in quality. “Whatever it was, I’m sure you had your reasons. Besides, what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t respect boundaries?”

He shrugs. “You tell me, Red; which suits you better: pervert, or stalker?”

“Neither, thank you very much. I get enough claims of both by my patients when I’m on the job that I don’t need your sorry hide—”

“Hot stuff coming in!”

All three of us turn our collective attention skyward to see Spitfire gliding down from above, landing on the cobblestone just in front of Brave and Phalanx, who pay her no mind as she trots by. Like me, she wears casual Wonderbolt attire — a blue jacket with the trademark golden sleeve and a black polo underneath — sleek enough to be considered formal, and formal enough for the occasion we’re attending. Unlike me, she has a pair of aviators shielding her eyes, which grants her an air of confidence I sorely need. Maybe not right now, but almost definitely in the near future.

“Spitty!” I cry, closing the distance at a canter and enveloping in a hug so sudden I nearly knock the shades from their perch. “You’re here!”

“Of course I’m here, Fleet.” She chuckles, patting me on the back with a hoof as her wingtip pushes the aviators up her snout, flashing a bold smile. “What, you thought I’d refuse a completely out of the blue, not at all suspicious invitation to a dinner such as this?”

I squeeze tighter. It’s in her nature to hang things over others’ heads, so I can’t fault her for that, and I knew she’d be the first to figure it all out, out of anypony attending, but I wish she could curb her antics just this once. Be less outspoken. Choose her words more carefully. Not to say she’s always recklessly self-indulgent, which she isn’t, but if there’s one thing this night needs, it’s tact.

I know she can be tactful, and I know she knows that’s what she needs to be, so I don’t doubt she’s more than capable. But impressions mean everything here, and I’m worried that if she doesn’t tone herself down, we may be starting off on the wrong hoof.

“Nice to see you too, Philip,” she greets, nodding over my shoulder to him. “Doing good?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose.” The shrug is practically audible. “Yourself?”

“Aside from being choked to death by Fleet here, I’m fit as a fiddle, clean as a whistle.”

“Sorry.” Damn it, I must be underestimating how nervous about this whole thing I really am. I break away and back up with a discomfited giggle. “I guess I don’t know my own strength.”

“Clearly.” She chuckles again, giving me a knowing look — of course she’d see through every excuse I make — then shifts her focus to the other two mares with us. “And I see you’re finally making a few extra friends, is that right?”

“Oh, don’t mind me, Miss Spitfire,” Redheart says, bowing her head somewhat in respect, “I was just leaving myself — don’t want to get in the way of whatever you three have planned.”

“Heh. Yeah, sorry, Miss…?”

“Redheart.”

“Redheart. We’re due there soon, and we’d better get there before the rest.”

“Fair enough.” She turns to Philip. “Take care, Philip, and try not to fall from any more high places from now on, alright?”

“Oh, believe me, Reddy, you don’t need to tell me twice.”

“I thought as much.” She giggles, then looks to me. “And you, Miss Fleetfoot… keep him safe. He’s too good a creature to lose.”

Again, I’m struggling to keep my features in check, especially when she’s unwittingly tugging on a nerve — a little piece of information I already know and have come to appreciate. I want to smile, but that might be too obvious a sign, even though it would be a perfectly natural reaction; we are, after all, in her mind, just friends. And you’re told your friend is indeed a good friend, why wouldn’t you smile?

Curse the mask I force myself to wear.

“Oh, don’t you worry, Redheart, she knows what to do,” Spitfire says, playfully batting me on the shoulder. “I know this girl like the back of my hoof, and there’s a special place in her heart for ponies who win her affection.”

I snap to her with wide eyes and a mouth as taut as a steel cable, and if we weren’t in public, I wouldn’t think twice about biting her ear off, or at least smacking her upside the head. This is the first time in recent memory that I can legitimately say she and Soarin deserve each other.

“I see.” Redheart nods idly, her tone and expression difficult to decipher, though she seems rather genial. And then she bows. “Well then, I’ll take my leave. It was nice seeing you all, and especially you, Philip.”

“Yeah.” He snaps his fingers at her as a thought strikes him. “We’ll write to each other some more soon, yeah?”

“Sure thing.” She smiles as she turns away. “You’ll have to send the first letter, though, and when you do, don’t forget to include the return address, okay?”

“Too easy, sister. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye and goodnight, Mister Montero. And stay healthy!”

He chuckles and waves a final farewell, then lowers his hand to his hip and sighs, returning to myself and Spitfire. “So, we’re all set, are we?”

“Just about,” Spitfire says, strolling past us for Sweetie Belle’s stand. “I brought a couple of bits myself, and I spy with my little eye something that would suit our dear Fleetybee quite nicely…”

Like everything else about the town, the Castle of Friendship hasn’t changed a bit. At least from the outside. And I have to admit, at dusk, I might actually consider calling it a pleasant sight — how the light of the setting sun catches on the edges and twinkles with even the slightest of movements.

It’s not as imposing as I thought it would be, now that I’m standing so close. I thought it would seem like a malicious fortress of impending doom — a monument to insurmountable odds everywhere and in any form they take. But this just feels… calming, in a strange way — how the purple crystal looks against the darkening sky, and how its walls seem somewhat translucent at this time of day. Not that I can see anything inside.

“You coming, Fleet?”

I blink and refocus on the entrance.

Philip and Spitfire are facing me from the top of the short staircase. How long they’ve been waiting for me to come to my senses, I don’t want to imagine. The whole situation is embarrassing enough when my captain knows why I’ve invited her, and neither myself or my boyfriend have made a formal declaration.

…Sisters, my boyfriend. If the saying is true, that the bigger they come, the harder they fall, then I must be an absolute unit, because I’m sure everypony can attest they’d have thought I’m the least likely to fall for this romantic crap. Yet here I am, buried up to my neck and sinking deeper still.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” I reply with a sigh, turning my attention to the path ahead and climbing languidly up the steps. It’s an easy enough journey that only takes a few seconds, but each hoof feels heavier than the last on the polished surface. I’m drawing ever closer to a momentous occasion I don’t see going too well, even though I hope with all my heart that it does.

“Getting cold feet?” Philip queries, doing his best to make it sound like something he’d ask anypony, regardless of his connection with them or lack thereof, but I hear the unmistakeable hint of genuine concern.

It’s yet another sign I feel he should keep hidden, but it warms me to the core all the same, and I can’t help smiling in return. “Me? No.” I chuckle as I reach the top and stand by him. “I never get stage fright. Just ask Spitfire.”

“It’s true,” she affirms, nodding. “Some shows, even I need some reassurance. But Fleetfoot? Nah. This girl’s rock solid — literally nothing phases her.”

Oh, if only she knew.

“So, you ready now?”

I look from her to Philip.

He looks from her to me.

He seems… attractive enough. I’m not sure if I’d go so far as to say handsome, but… his is the face I’ve come to appreciate in all its alien ways. The lack of fur isn’t an issue, and neither are the better-defined eyebrows, or the misplaced ears, or the way his features can’t stretch as far as I’m used to, or the more earthly tone of his skin. The eyes, however…

I don’t know what my dream stallion is supposed to look like, but he’ll do. He’ll have to. We’ve come too far to turn back now, and he’s all dressed up — the same flowery shirt and jeans he wore to our first and last official date, freshly shaven and neatly combed, while still keeping it windswept. And besides, I know that when he puts his mind to it, whether I like it or not, and whether I ever want to admit it or not, he can and frequently does make me swoon like a… a…

Well, something that swoons a lot. I may be able to compose a decent song or two, but that doesn’t mean I’m an on-the-spot wordsmith.

I love him. I love that he loves me. I love the way me makes me feel.

That’s all I can ask for, and that’s all I ever will.

“Yeah,” I finally answer, returning to Spitfire with a nod. “I think we are.”

She nods in turn, then steps closer to the door and knocks heavily.

There’s an echo in the hall beyond.

It echoes within me too.

The very subtle tap and tremor of clawed feet padding toward the entry rises through the crystal floor and up my legs.

We’re almost there. Just a little longer.

I look down at myself and over my shoulder. I seem underdressed. Or am I overdressed?

I swing back to Philip. “How do I look?”

He turns from the door out of curiosity, but once he locks eyes with mine, his gaze grows empathetic and he faces me and kneels, resting an arm on his leg and a hand on his hip. And when he inspects me, it’s with sympathy and compassion. He reaches out, straightens the collar of my jacket, gives my forelock a few gently brushes, lifts up and examines the amethyst sun and horseshoe pendant hanging from my neck.

The footsteps approach the doorway with a calm sense of urgency.

“Delightful,” he replies, smiling at me — such an addictive sight — and pinches and gently rubs the tip of my ear. “Completely and utterly delightful.”

My eyes glide shut and I welcome the gesture, as fleeting as the moment will have to be. Another small act of consolation that I worry I’m growing more and more reliant on as the weeks roll by. Or perhaps it’s just this new territory that’s got me so skittish.

Either way, I’m so glad I found this boy. I’m so glad he’s chosen me.

Stars above, he chose me.

“I love—”

The doors open and I’m snapped out of the spell, a startled chill dashing through me with the speed of lightning as I break away from his embrace and face the entry, shocked at how I could’ve let my guard slip so readily.

“Well-well-well, who do we have here?” Spike inquires, practically a giant as he stands on his hindlegs — easily twice Philip’s height with room to spare if he stretched. He shares his toothy grin with the three of us, going from left to right. “Captain Spitfire of the Wonderbolts, Fleetfoot, her third in command, and Philip the Human. What an honour it is to make your acquaintance.”

Philip, who didn’t have the mind to stand in time without raising suspicion, swivels about and slides his leg back so he rests on both knees, then lifts both hands and bows to the floor. “The honour’s all ours, Spikey-Wikey-san.”

“Get up,” I hiss, slapping his hip with a wing.

He scrambles to his feet and gives me a playfully warning look, rubbing the point of contact. “Careful, Fleet. A little further south and that wouldn’t have been very cash-money of you.”

“Shut up,” I growl, as irritated as I am bewildered, baffled, mortified, and perhaps a little entertained. “We’re their guests, remember? Be presentable.”

He scoffs light-heartedly and with an underplayed roll of the eyes. “We’re at Twinkle Sprinkle’s place, not a fifteen-star restaurant in Canterlot where they charge you for the napkins — we know these people. And Spike here has seen me at my worst, so there’s not much of a bad impression to make.” He looks up to him and offers his hand. “Greetings, by the way. Long time no see, big guy.”

Spike blinks at him — well, more likely the display as a whole — and opens, then closes his mouth. And then he lowers his gaze to the outstretched hand and slowly, confoundedly places a single talon within its grasp. “Dōmo… arigatō?”

Philip pauses, his brows rising, then laughs and shakes then talon calmly. “Colour me impressed, you remembered. How long has it been since I taught you that?”

“Eight, nine months, I think — your sixth letter.” Spike shrugs. “I’m also good with languages, so that helps. As well as, uh… being privy to certain snippets of information about your Earth and its cultures, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Philip slowly lets his grip come loose, his hand falling by his side as his gaze goes from enthused to… something else. Still positive, to be sure, but the air has been soured, and his mood with it. “Let’s just not talk about that, okay?” he requests, huffing a sigh. “Not a subject that needs digging up.”

Spike nods and sits on his haunches. “I can respect that.”

“Good.” Philip claps and rubs his palms together, glancing behind him to the three guards waiting diligently at the foot of the stairs, all of whom have their backs turned on us, looking out for trouble. “Now, you’re not going to leave six weary travellers out in the cold, are you? We’ve travelled ever so far to share this dinner with you.”

“Oh, no, of course not.” Spike waddles aside and beckons us through with a sweep of the arm. “Please, come in. Twilight and I have been cooking all day, and we’re just about done.”

“Twilight and you?”

“Okay, mostly me, but she helps, I swear.”

“I’m sure she does.” Philip pats Spike’s chest in mock condescension as he passes by and enters the castle. “But alas, we’re all creatures of habit — her more than most.”

Spike puckers his lips and gives him a sideways look, but doesn’t respond, turning to Spitfire and I and waving us through as well.

I trot inside and nod my thanks, and Spitfire does the same, and once the three guards have clambered up the steps and joined us in the entry, Spike closes the doors behind us all.

Gosh, it’s been so long. And nothing has changed. Of course, why would it? There’s no reason to, and as far as I’m aware, no excuse to either — no renovations to file a stylistic makeover under.

For nearly two whole weeks, I walked through that doorway and stood in this exact space, marvelling at the wonders some freak force of the magical ecosystem could produce. For nearly two whole weeks, I came to check up on and enjoy the company of somepony I was slowly starting to grow more and more comfortable calling my friend. For nearly two whole weeks, I started thinking the same of the princess who lived here, including her assistant. And my oh my, how things have progressed since then.

I don’t care to reminisce about what’s changed, nor shall I pretend to know whether they were better the way they were, but I find myself yearning for a time when everything seemed so much simpler; when I didn’t have to maintain a ruse for longer than the next interview, or force myself through unpleasant scenarios unless they were absolutely necessary.

Finding a special somepony was never on the agenda.

And what a special somepony I’ve found.

He’s talking with Spike now, the lumbering yet surprisingly nimble hunk of scales, claws, teeth, spines, wings and fire having snuck past me while I was lost in thought. By the sound of it, they’re recalling some of the good times they’ve shared within these halls, and somehow quickly segueing into the subject of what’s for dinner with ease. It’s easy to forget that, at one point, he was quite happy to cut this entire place and those who live within it from his life. Now, here he is, behaving almost as if nothing happened.

He isn’t the most resilient boy around — a fact to which I can attest — but I think he’s getting better. He’s doing his best, anyhow, and like Sweetie Belle said outside, that’s all a pony can do. Even if they aren’t, strictly speaking, a pony.

My ears perk up at the sound of a dreamy sigh and I swivel my head to the right.

Spitfire watches me with a knowing look, her smile as tight-lipped and genuine as her eyes are narrowed and smug. “You almost touched his butt.”

My teeth clench and my eyes widen, a sudden warmth rising in my cheeks as I lean toward her. “Spitty, I swear…”

She lifts a hoof defensively and shakes her head, still beaming. “Hey, I’m just saying you’re cute together. It’s nice to see you smiling more — loosening up.”

That dreaded phrase again. The whole reason I got myself into this mess is because I dared to let myself fantasise a little too much. And on top of that, I’m cute. One of my two oldest friends now thinks that me telling my romantic interest to behave himself is cute. It’s not enough I have to endure that kind of torture from him, but now her as well?

And why the heck am I fighting back a grin?

“You’re as bad as Brave,” I grumble, turning away before that grin breaks through, but when I refocus on Philip and Spike , I notice they aren’t chatting anymore, but looking up the main staircase. And when I follow their gaze, the urge to grin fades instantaneously.

Twilight stands at the top, facing the foyer and watching him closely. She doesn’t seem outwardly nervous, but the fact she’s refusing to show much emotion is pretty telling, especially since almost everypony here knows what she was a part of, and how Philip felt about it. She wears no regalia, only a plain, butter-yellow frock — as casually formal as the rest of us.

I don’t need to see Philip’s face to know he’s donned a similarly inexpressive expression.

“Philip,” she greets, and her tone betrays how tense she is. She may try to hide it, just as we may try to hide our mutual connection, but try as we may, we can only ever do so much. And she hasn’t been a practiced liar for as long as I have, and certainly not as long as the Sisters.

Philip doesn’t respond.

If she expected him to, she doesn’t show it, and begins descending the stairs, glancing down to check her pace, but otherwise never diverting her attention from him. “It’s been too long.”

Still, he offers no reply.

She continues descending. “I know things have been… difficult between us, but I hoped I’d be able to say something before we start.”

Again, nothing.

She leaves the final step and waits a long moment at the foot of the staircase, staring at the long, wide carpet beneath her hooves with a somewhat troubled expression. Her teeth clenched behind a forcibly relaxed mouth — the kind of look you wear when you’re convinced there’s no easy way out, but have already come to terms with the fact, and all that’s left is to do it, whatever it is.

But there’s no fooling anypony here. We all know what she’s trying to say.

“I’m sorry,” she declares, voice quivering slightly, looking up at him and meeting his gaze with upturned brows. “It’s my fault you’re here. It’s my fault you’re staying here. I never… wanted or meant to hurt you. Ever. What I did wasn’t right, and… it was wrong of me to assume I know what’s best for you. I can’t speak for… her, but if it were up to me, now I know how strongly you feel about it, I—”

“Twilight.” Philip raises a hand. “Stop.”

Her mouth hangs open, hesitant, but then she blinks and slowly closes it, ears angling back.

He takes a deep breath in, then exhales, and then steps forward a few small paces.

She gulps.

A tingle dances between my withers as I feel the urge to follow, in case he does something everypony would regret in five minutes’ time. He may be aware of his short temper, but that doesn’t mean he’s any less likely to fall victim to it. My wings loosen in preparation.

“I’m going to tell you what I told Spike,” he announces, slowing to a halt and folding his arms. I can’t see his expression from this angle, but his tone doesn’t sound critical. Warning, perhaps, but not hostile. “Let’s just not talk about that. We’ve said some things… done some things we both regret. Maybe they could’ve turned out differently, but… I’m tired of being mad at you.”

Her upturned brows curl downward in surprise.

Philip glances over his shoulder at me, but it becomes a longer, more meaningful look, accentuated with a small, sincere smile. “This isn’t the life I imagined for myself,” he admits as he returns to her, though it’s less of an admission and more of an obvious statement, “but I’m learning to live with it. Like it, in some respects. I’m working with what I’ve been given, at any rate… and I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to realise I’ve been dealt some really… really wonderful cards.”

If this could be considered cliché, I honestly can’t tell and frankly don’t care — if we were alone, I’m not sure whether I’d slap or hug him, and I know he’d love it either way. It makes me smile, and my chest feel heavier. Swooning in secret, I suppose.

“You lucky duck,” Spitfire whispers in my ear.

I gently push her away with a wing, my smile growing shamefully wider.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you, Twilight,” he continues, stepping a little closer, then lowering himself to a knee, arms unfolding, one resting on his thigh as he holds his thumb, “but acting the way I did wasn’t right either. Not to you. And yeah, it has been too long. So… what do you say we bury the hatchet? Let bygones be bygones. Mend this fence together.”

She blinks, stunned.

“I’m willing if you’re willing.” He spreads his arms and offers a tight-lipped smile. “Hugs?”

She darts forward and wraps him up in the blink of an eye, awkwardly balanced on her hindlegs, forehooves locked around his back, snout pressed into his shoulder.

Philip pats the back of her head and smells her mane — another habit of his, I realise, and I assure myself that I shouldn’t take it personally when he does it to somepony else. He’s allowed to be friendly. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

She mumbles something into him, muffled by his shirt and softened by the distance.

“I know,” he replies. “Me too.”

Another apology, I bet. It’s the way of things — once, twice, three hundred times never seems to be enough. And considering it’s the Princess of Friendship this is coming from, I can only imagine how much it means to her, to finally hear that there’s still a place for her in his future, from his mouth, in his words, face to face.

I knew this was coming. It was inevitable the second I proposed the location, and both he and Twilight agreed, but it warms my heart to actually see it happen. And to see him improve — to know how unlikely it is that he’ll ever repeat…

…Best not ruin the moment.

He gives her a squeeze, then lets go. “Better?”

She falls on all fours and looks up at him with a grateful smile, rubbing at an eye with the back of a forehoof. “Better.”

“Cool. Now, what say we get this party started?”

Calling the event a party is a vast overstatement. We’re sitting around a long dinner table in the dining hall — a room that’s seen very little use for as long as Twilight and Spike have lived in the castle. Most of their meals, as well as mine and his when he was staying here and I came to visit, were eaten wherever was most convenient, as opposed to wherever is most appropriate. State visits and the occasional overnight friendship client slash patient are the sole exceptions, or so they’ve said.

This is neither, and as such, would be the first time it’s ever seen any unofficial use, in the literal sense. And so far, the conversation has been rather casual as we munch on appetisers; carrot and celery sticks with various dips, salad plates, spring rolls, all homemade by a certain drake. Though most of it is rather basic, admittedly, as far as food goes.

“Rarity,” Spitfire answers, sitting back in her crystalline chair while chewing a cracker with a small slice of cheese. “She’s best pony, for a number of reasons.”

“Really?” Philip wonders aloud from the seat beside me, brows high as turns to face her a little more squarely. “Not Rainbow?”

“Probably doesn’t want to be nepotistic,” I remark, knowing full well the irony of the statement, and where her favouritism has got me.

She shrugs from her side of the table. “That, and… well, her track record isn’t that great when it comes to what she’s supposed to represent.” She looks to her left. “No offence, Princess.”

Twilight cradles her head in her forehooves with an expression I can’t quite see from this angle, but it’s clear she isn’t at all enthused about the topic at hoof. No doubt she’s heard enough of it for a thousand lifetimes, not only from the masses but possibly among her friends as well. The space beside her is empty while Spike continues preparing dinner.

Nearly done, my ass.

“But yeah, Rarity.” Spitfire looks back to us. “Don’t get me wrong — as a captain, loyalty is important, but it isn’t everything, and it’s certainly not all there is to being a good friend. Generosity is the way to go, and I’m sure you two can attest that I’ve been pretty generous in letting you have time to yourselves.”

I give her a warning frown and glance meaningfully to Twilight, who’s still stuck in an ever-deepening state of self-pity.

She gives me an understanding, but also playfully condescending smile, as if I were crazy for thinking she’d ever let the cat out of the bag, then shares her look with Philip. “But besides her Element, let’s just face it: she’s prim and proper in all the right places without coming off as poncy, and she’s drop-dead gorgeous.”

“Are you sure you want to rub salt in the wound?” I question, motioning to Twilight again.

“Oh, please, spare me,” Spitfire scoffs, waving me off dismissively. “She’s mature enough to not let any of this get to her. Isn’t that right, Princess?”

“Enooooough,” Twilight groans, head sliding from her hooves to the tabletop with a soft thud, where she looks at us all and begs with tired eyes. “Why can’t everyone agree we’re just six parts of a greater whole?”

“Because life doesn’t work like that, Twiggles.” Philip shrugs. “We all have favourites, like vanilla, chocolate and strawberry; you can say Neapolitan is the best of all three worlds of ice-cream, but everyone’s going to dig into one side more than the others.”

A silence descends as she, Spitfire and myself stare at him.

“What?”

Spitfire slowly shakes her head. “How the heck do you make philosophy so digestible, and yet so delicious?”

He pauses, then shrugs again. “It’s all a matter of taste, I suppose.”

I smack my head against the table. The pain doesn’t hurt so much as my ears do.

“Spike!” Twilight shouts in a somewhat aggrieved fashion. “Can you make something deep fried for desert, please?! And smothered in chocolate?! I think I’m going to need some comfort food when this is all over!”

“Make that an order for two,” I grumble.

“You two are so thin-skinned.” Spitfire laughs. “So, anyway, yeah, back to Rarity—”

And then there comes the echo of a knock at the door.

It’s loud. Unusually so. I’ve heard it from the inside once or twice when I was visiting the place while he was staying here, but this feels different. Each hammer of the knocker seems too far apart, the tremors in the air and walls seeping into me through my wings and tingling with cold, sharp pinpricks. My body feels hollow like an echo chamber, and I stiffen and sit up straight in my seat, ears perking looking behind me as far as I can without moving my head, as if any sign of movement would attract the attention of a manticore.

For a split second, I wonder if it would be healthier to face one instead of this.

“Perfect timing,” Spike comments from the kitchen, though whether he’d actively taken on board our orders for later tonight is unknown. “Don’t worry, guys, I’ll get it.”

The padding of his clawed feet leaving for the entry signal his departure, and I’m left to my own thoughts as a newer, less welcome silence settles in. Just like the apology and the acceptance, I also knew this was coming, but I’d hoped… I don’t know, that maybe I’d be as prepared for it as he was. Why? Well, I’ve been in the spotlight for longer. I know how to deal with situations like this.

…Except I’ve never been in this situation before. Not really. Not with any amount of certainty like I know I have with him.

Merciful Sisters, this is a lot of things, but easy is as far from it as you can launch it with a trebuchet, and then some.

My wings, tail and ears all tuck in, hoping to make me as small as possible, even though I know it won’t do me any good, especially when I’m stuck frozen in place. Whether it’s fear or some misbegotten sense of duty, I don’t rightly know. I look to my left to Philip.

He meets my gaze with a neutral one, but I can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s putting it on for my sake — there’s fear within him too, as well as some misbegotten sense of duty of his own. He lingers on me for a moment, then lowers his attention to the closest hoof.

I look at it too. I know what he’s thinking, and there’s nothing I want more right now than to feel his hand over it, his thumb tenderly caressing the skin beneath my fur. To know he’s close, and that he’s there for me, because although seeing him there should be enough, now the option for added closeness is on offer… it doesn’t feel like it.

I need more.

I need him.

“No,” I mouth despite myself, moving my lips as little as possible.

Yes, there’s nothing I want or need more than him… but now isn’t the time. Of the six ponies we planned to tell, four are present, and two already know. I’d rather not blow the lid off this thing prematurely.

Voices waft through the halls. All four are familiar, but the mare among them is the noisiest. At least it seems that way — could be my nerves again. Probably. I hope. Stars above, why does everything have to happen so slowly, so… I don’t know what the word for it is. I just know I don’t enjoy it one single bit.

The gentle thud of clawed feet returns, and the sound of hooves on carpets and crystal floors comes with it. Every click, every clop, I’m keenly aware of, but only in the sense that they bring something I need to face with them. It’s a step every pairing must go through, whether they like it or not, but that doesn’t make the fact any easier to digest.

And then, with very little ceremony and soft but heartfelt laugh, Mum, Dad and Soarin appear from the archway on the left, soon followed by Spike’s much larger figure. They halt almost immediately upon entering the dining hall, taking in the view, as well as those who are already seated. The three guests all bow to Twilight in varying degrees of genuine reverence, who accepts it with a small, gracious nod, though it’s clear enough to me that she’d rather they not do that.

“Announcing Senior Airpony Soarin of the Wonderbolts and Mister and Missus Slipstream and Mistral,” Spike heralds behind them, sticking his head through the arch and smiling at us all brightly. “Welcome guests one and all.”

“Oh, stop it, you big charmer,” Mum says with a flattered giggle, looking up at him and doing her best to give a dismissive wave, then returns to Twilight. “But yes, Your Highness, it’s truly an honour to dine with you tonight.”

“Believe me, Missus Mistral, the honour is all mine,” she replies, nodding again, then gestures to me. “But please, you have your daughter to thank for this. It was her idea, after all.”

A small part of me wonders for a split second whether I’m being thrown under the carriage, but it’s a brief thought with absolutely zero evidence and I dismiss it entirely in the blink of an eye. I turn from her to Mum, Dad, Soarin and Spike, all of whom have already turned their attention on me. I put on a brave face, which doesn’t nearly feel convincing enough, and wave at them a greeting, which doesn’t feel welcoming enough.

Mum is clothed in a white top and a loose-fitting black dress — the kind she saves for only the most formal of occasions while not looking overly fancy; a common pony with aspirations for the upper crust of society, in essence. Pearls dangle from her ears like miniature stars, shining in the light of the room, and her blonde mane has been brushed with the utmost care and thoroughness, underscored by a purple flower that matches her eyes.

Her expression is gentle and warm when I meet her gaze, but she stays on me for only a moment before her focus shifts to my left, her right, noticing for the first time, it seems, the odd one out. “Mister Montero,” she greets in a tone that I can only hope isn’t cold, “we meet again at last.”

“It’s good to see you again too, Missus Mistral.” Philip nods. “And Mister Slipstream, and you too, Soarin.”

“Please, Philip, no need for any titles,” Dad says. “I thought we made that clear last time we met. Which was… how long ago?”

“Oh, uh… almost six months, I think, or thereabouts.”

“Too long, regardless.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Anyway, please, come, sit,” Twilight beckons, waving them closer and motioning to the seats on the opposite side of the table and beside Spitfire. “I trust all went well on your journey here?”

“Yes, indeed, rather swimmingly,” Mum answers and begins trotting around the table in my direction. “It’s not every day you’re invited to the Princess of Friendship’s castle, no less escorted by a high-ranking Wonderbolt.”

“Hey, I’m still third in command,” I protest.

“Oh, I know you are, sweetie.” She sweeps around and gives me a hug from the side furthest from Philip… which might be a red flag. Or it might simply be that there wasn’t enough space if she were to do it from between the chairs. “But you’ll always be my little girl to me, first and foremost.”

Sweet Celestia, she never stops with the babying, does she? I return the embrace as best and willing as I’m able, avoiding eye contact with anypony other than Spitfire, who only holds my gaze a moment before she looks to her left and watches Soarin side into the chair beside her. He wears a similar outfit to her and I, with the exception that he may have gelled his hair. And is that… cologne?

No; perfume. Mum has doused herself in it.

“Thank you so much for this, Fleety,” she whispers, pecking me on the cheek.

“Don’t thank me yet,” I murmur, then realise I’d said that out loud and quickly try to think of something to add so it sounds less suspicious. “I mean, we haven’t had dinner yet, so… you know… maybe I brought you to the wrong place.”

“Hey,” Spike whines from the archway, “I’m a great cook, I’ll have you know. Which you should, because you ate everything I ever made for you and Philip while both of you were practically living here.”

“Correction, Spike: I was living here.”

“Whatever you say, Philip.” He shrugs, backing up and turning away to disappear down the hall. “Anyway, make yourselves at home, I’ll be bringing through the first course shortly.”

“Ooh, exciting,” Mum chirps, letting go and trotting around to the two empty chairs on the right side of the table. “Served by the princess’s own assistant. That doesn’t happen every day either, does it?”

“I guess not,” Twilight replies, though I can’t tell if her warm, inviting smile grows just that little bit smaller, or if it’s just me. Stars above, why does everything have to be so… on edge — so close to seeming like it’s all mere seconds from disaster? “I’m just glad to finally meet you two.”

“Oh, please, Your Highness, you’ll make me blush.”

“And wouldn’t that be a sight, ma’am,” Soarin remarks with what might be a sly smirk.

I snap to him, but Spitfire’s the one who takes action and whacks him upside the head.

“Hey, watch the mane!”

“Cool it, Casanova. Keep it civil.”

Dad stops by and hugs me as well before I can catch what Soarin mutters under his breath in response. “Hey, Fleet,” he says, giving my cheek a similar peck, “missed you.”

“Missed you too, Dad,” I reply automatically, offering him a brief smile before I switch back to watching Mum take her place and make herself comfortable.

“Everything okay?”

“Sure.”

“Now, I don’t mean to be a nuisance, Your Highness,” Mum begins, “but I have to wonder, how exactly do you keep a place as large as this so clean?”

Fixating on the little details to make for small talk. Typical of her. At least it’s a sign that she’s feeling comfortable, so she hasn’t caught onto the true purpose of this meetup. I think. I hope. I can normally tell when something’s up with her, but for whatever reason, I don’t feel entirely confident in myself tonight. Perhaps my nerves are catching up to me.

Perhaps? No, I’m certain. It’s going to show, she’s going to see, she’ll ask me what’s wrong and I’ll hesitate for a second like I tend to when lying nowadays, and she’ll figure it all out. She’ll notice the extra attention I’ve put into my hair and fur, the way he’s dressed, the fact we’re so close together, and she’ll put two and two together and see us for what we are — what we came to tell them. And then she’ll… she’ll…

“Hey, Fleety.”

I snap to my right. Not desperately, but fast enough to count as surprised.

Dad watches me closely. “You’re sure you’re okay, sweetie?”

“Yeah.” I nod and avert my gaze to the table. “Just hungry, is all.”

He lingers on me, then slowly nods in turn, letting go and sliding off to the floor, swinging away and following Mum to the crystalline chair beside her. She and Twilight are in deep conversation. Spitfire and Soarin banter between themselves. Spike returns about a minute later bearing the appetisers, setting them at each place on the table, then sits by Twilight’s side.

I look to Philip.

He looks to me.

He knows what I’m thinking.

This is going to be quite a long Summer Sun dinner.

“Spike, if you don’t mind me saying, I wish you could meet my dad right about now.”

He quirks an eyebrow at Philip as he finishes sipping from a large glass of water — a small bucket in size, almost definitely custom-made, not unlike Philip’s requirements in a way. “What makes you say that, friend?”

Philip continues chewing on his meal, eyes closed until he swallows, sharing a smile with him. “Because my old man used to make shepherd’s pie all the time, but never have I ever in all my years ever tasted a serving quite like this.”

Spike’s other brow rises to give a look of pleasant surprise.

“Stars above, Philip,” I groan, slumping my neck somewhat and peering up at him from the corner of my eye, a smile of my own sneaking through, “why are you always so obsessed with food?”

“Hey, give me a break.” He shrugs, returning to his meal and cleaving another chunk from the cheesy potato layer. “This is good stuff.”

“Yeah, I don’t think anyone’s complaining here,” Spitfire comments, finishing her own mouthful. “I may be captain of the Wonderbolts, but that doesn’t mean I’m in control of what we eat at the Academy — that’s the Ministry of Defence. With the exception of holiday meals, most everything you’ll find in the cafeteria is nutritious, not delicious.”

“Are you kidding me?” he remarks, moderately bewildered. “There hasn’t been a single bite I’ve had in this world that I haven’t enjoyed. You calling some cafeteria food tasteless slop seems bizarre to me at this point.”

“Was your father a chef?” Mum queries.

“Motel owner,” he replies without missing a beat, showing absolutely no signs of the brief chill that strikes me every time she opens her mouth. If he’s afraid, he’s better at hiding it than I feel I am. “But I understand you don’t have those around these parts. Think of it like an inn, or a carriage rest stop, but with an extended staying period — a hotel, really.”

“Like the one you were staying in? The… Riviera, if I’m not mistaken?”

I shove down the urge to prick my ears to the deepest, darkest parts of my psyche where I hope they’ll never resurface. He told me later he moved to an apartment complex because he didn’t like living in the same place, sleeping in the same bed where… that happened. Which was and still is perfectly understandable. I’d probably have done the same, but for all I know, I might very well have soaked the whole room in oil and lit a match, blame it on a faulty appliance.

To hide my shame further, I begin eating my dinner anew.

“Seaford’s, yes.” He nods, sparing me only a single, fleeting glance, which I’m sure is meant to be empathetic. “The difference there, though, is that they’d normally have a set limit for how long you can stay in a hotel.

“Normally.” He brings the fork to his mouth and chews. “I’m not normal, relatively speaking. The way I think they saw it, I was the honoured guest of Princess Luna and her sister, so on top of the fact I had access to an almost limitless supply of cash, people want bragging rights. They want to say they stayed in the same hotel as me, and that brought a lot of business to the place. So long as the princesses paid, I had free range to do whatever I liked.”

“Scandalous,” she remarks with a smirk. It’s barbed, I’m sure of it. “Were your guards impartial to certain shenanigans? Or dare I say, were they co-conspirators?”

The image of Brave’s smug grin flashes before me, echoed in Spitfire’s, and basically everypony else who knows about us to whatever extent.

“Kind of. Some took a little more breaking in.”

“Ah, a drillmaster.”

“On occasion. I don’t plan on making a habit of it.”

“What a shame. Perhaps you’d make an excellent addition to the Royal Guard.”

I burst into laughter, covering my mouth with a hoof in case anything comes flying out. It’s loud and probably uncalled for, but my nerves need an outlet. “Really, Mum? Him? A guard? He can’t even beat me in a game of fisticuffs!”

Philip angles his head toward me. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Oh, come on,” I roll my eyes at him, “don’t tell me that’s what you really want to do.”

“Yeah, as much as I’d like to see you try, it really isn’t for everyone,” Spitfire adds. “You’d be protecting the Sisters. This kingdom doesn’t take that duty lightly.”

“The sisters, huh?” He quirks an eyebrow at her. “I don’t get a choice in my posting?”

“Like I said, not for everyone.”

He lingers on her, then carves up another bite-sized piece of the pie. “Evidently so.”

“Anyway,” Twilight interrupts, no doubt sensing the conversation was starting to head down a path nopony wanted, judging by the look on her face, “you’ve been living in Filly for almost a year now, haven’t you?”

He looks up at her while he chews. “I have.”

“So, how is it?”

“Fine,” he answers, then waits until he’s finished his mouthful before continuing. “By which I mean it’s better than I expected. Never thought city life would suit me as well as it has. But I suppose that has something to do with the fact that everything has to be within walking distance, since there aren’t any cars and whatnot. Until recently, that is. But honestly, I’m kind of glad they’re not so common anymore.”

“Is that so?”

“Surprisingly, yes.” He nods. “Don’t get me wrong, I miss my RX-8 — spent a good chunk of my savings on that beauty — but there’s something strangely… I don’t know, liberating about using your feet for once. But then again, maybe it’s just me getting used to the way things are done around these parts — osmotic Stockholm syndrome, let’s call it.”

“You also meet our dear Fleety once a week, we’re led to believe,” Mum mentions in a tone that sounds both curious and accusatory. “The Lunar Bean, if I recall correctly.”

“Indeed we do,” he replies, nodding again, seemingly unphased. “Sometimes more than once. Depends on when we’re both available, really, but Spitfire’s helping us out in that regard.”

“Oh really?” She turns to Spitfire, brows high. “And here I was thinking you were the one pony who took her job seriously in your unit.”

Spitfire’s lips curl and tighten, taking in a sharp breath, ears almost flat and parallel with her twitching wings. “Ooh, you’re lucky we’re in polite company, ma’am, because there’s nothing I take greater offence to than having my team called unprofessional.”

“Testified,” Soarin adds, lifting a hoof and letting it hang for Spitfire to bump her own against, and when she does, he lets out a satisfied snort. “With all due respect, Missus Mistral, and if you don’t mind me saying, but there’s a big difference between taking it easy and being unprofessional. We just prefer not to have a stick up our asses twenty-four-seven.”

“Soarin!” I gasp.

“Language!” Twilight hushes.

Spitfire hits him on the shoulder. “Tact, dude.”

Mum merely watches our reactions and giggles to herself, the edge of a hoof covering her mouth demurely. “Don’t worry, Mister Soarin, Miss Spitfire, I understand well enough. It was only a friendly jab, as they say, I’m still very proud of my daughter for serving alongside you.”

I resist the urge to frown at her as I settle back down into my seat. That’s not what she was saying when I returned from my first world tour, and I don’t see any reason why she’d have changed her mind since then. She’s hiding something. I can feel it. She’s going to ask a question sooner or later and everything will step out into the light.

“But yes, anyway, back to you, Mister Montero.” She clears her throat and shifts her weight to face him a little more squarely, her expression delightfully pleasant, and therefore highly suspicious. “Were you pressured out of the hotel, or did you decide to buy your own apartment on your own?”

She’s probing him, testing the exterior. I can’t exactly be sure what she’s after, but it can’t be anything good. It never is with her.

Philip seems to sense it too, glancing at me before answering. I think I see an anxious glint in his eyes. “What’s Fleet told you about how I wound up here?”

Everypony else’s collective attention falls on me, four in surprise, two without any discernible emotion behind them. Mum’s is the heaviest of them all, boring into me like a diamond-tipped drill. “Very little, admittedly,” she says, casting her attention back to Philip, her expression still impassive. “I suppose you’re about to enlighten us.”

He slowly nods, solemn but resolute as he looks to Twilight, on whom he lingers, taking a deep breath and quietly sighing. “Barring a few details. For matters of national security.”

Her gaze grows solemn in turn, and she nods in kind. It’s as much a sign of approval as it is a sign of recognition.

“Perhaps you remember the magical storm that brought me here two years ago.” He sets his cutlery down and sits with his hands folded in his lap. “Fleetfoot started it.”

They all snap to me again, this time in shock.

“I didn’t mean to,” I insist, raising my hooves in defence, knowing how bad simply stating the fact must sound. And no, I’m not being thrown under the carriage or needlessly dragged into the archery range, because this needed to happen at some point if we were ever to be completely honest with everypony. This is as good a time as any. “I was on my own, fed up with everything, hoping an idle flight might take my mind off it all… and the next thing I know, after I do a rainboom through some clouds…”

“Of course!” Twilight exclaims, focussing on some indefinite point of air before her. Lost in her own little world, it seems. “If the thaumatic discharge from breaking the sound barrier is enough to shatter light, then it stands to reason that it might be enough to act as a focal point for other forms of magic! Ugh! Why didn’t I think of this before?!”

“Twi,” Spike mutters as he bows his head closer, “quit being a nerd. We’re not alone.”

She looks at him, and then to everypony around the table, then lowers her ears and chuckles with an awkward smile, curling a foreleg in front of her as if she’d been disrobed against her will. “Oh. I see. Uh… Yes, anyway, please continue, Miss Spit— Fleetfoot. Please continue Miss Fleetfoot.”

A faint whisper from ages ago resurfaces, when Spitfire and I were in Junior Flight Camp, and somepony claimed we had to be sisters because of how similar our manes were. Truth is, one of us copied the other, but we’ve both long since forgotten who the original was. When I mentioned this to Philip, he said something about ‘Agent Smith’ and laughed and trailed off into a series of quotes that were completely lost on me. I just stood there are stared, not sure if I was being made fun of.

Right now, I’m taking too long to respond, so I open my mouth to continue my answer.

“Point is, she told me this secret of hers, and that kind of… well, soured things for a long, long time. From my perspective, that is” Philip leans forward and rests his elbows on the table, holding a thumb in the other hand as he watches me carefully from the corner of his eye. “I didn’t handle it well. At all. Moving out was supposed to be like a… a cleansing. Burn it down, start again — that sort of thing.

“But that’s not how you deal with your problems. Spike helped me realise that, and what I was missing out on. And I have to say… giving her a second chance has been one of the best decisions of my entire life.”

I have to be mindful not to let my smile spread too wide or else I won’t seem at all like myself. Fleetfoot is a reserved mare, only showing her true colours to those she really, truly considers friends — callous as it may sound, family doesn’t count. She doesn’t let something as pathetic as a small, heartfelt speech get to her. She doesn’t want to hug the pony responsible and hold him close and wish the world would freeze on that moment forever. She doesn’t do romance, plain and simple.

And yet my chest is fluttering all the same, and I’d kiss him from the tip of his fingers to the tip of his nose and every point in between. I’d take him to see a sunset from above the clouds, and share banana pancakes and sip orange juice while the sky turns purple, crimson and gold. I’d buy a house just for us, where we could cuddle up by the fire and sleep in, pretending it’s the weekend.

He offers his hand.

I hesitate only for the barest fraction of a second before placing my hoof in it.

“And look at us now,” he muses aloud, giving me a gentle squeeze, “so close that she’s letting me preen her wings.”

And then my heart stops, and not in a good way.

The whole room goes deathly quiet, like the final brick in a tomb has been laid and set, and I’ve only the grim reality that is my immediate fate for company. It’s so silent that you could hear a needle fall in the far corner, and it would echo with the loudness of a clocktower bell, each chime hammering an ice-cold nail down my spine.

Philip realises his mistake almost as soon as the words leave his mouth, staring through me with wide eyes and without a hint of a smile. It’s clear he’s in a similar state of shock as I am. After a while, though, he stiffly cranes his head toward the rest of the table and casts a cautious eye over his shoulder.

Spitfire watches us with a comparable expression, the weight of her hoof slowly lowering her fork to the plate before her. Soarin puckers his lips and bows his head, rubbing his brow uncomfortably as he stares at his half-eaten meal. Twilight covers her mouth with a hoof, ears attentive. Spike shifts his weight in place and shuffles his massive wings, glancing at the others out of some sense of vigilance. Dad appears blank. Mum, however, gawks with ears angled back and a mouth so wide open you could stick a hoof in it and have room to spare.

The air has grown frigid and unwelcome, tight in the throat and restricting on the chest, every breath a conscious effort and noticeable to all who’d even spare a single thought in my general direction. Whether I like it or not — and I most definitely do not like it — the time has come to do what needs to be done, what we’d invited everypony here for. Answers must be given. For my sake, for his, for us all.

“Maybe we should elaborate,” I say, sounding far less certain than I’d like before I clear my throat. I consider taking my hoof away from his hand, but decide it’s better where it is; I’m not ashamed of us, merely concerned for our future prospects. Everypony else will just have to deal with it. I add my other hoof and look to my parents. “Mum, Dad… we’re… well…”

“You’re courting each other?” Twilight interjects, leaning closer, then throws her forelegs high and beams a grin as bright as the sun. “That’s wonderful!”

“Sweet stars above,” Spitfire breathes, a light-hearted smirk forming across her muzzle, “it took you two long enough, didn’t it?”

“Is it all that different from dating a human, Philip? Ooh, ooh, are there any special needs you have to consider? Did you make the first move, or did—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold the bleeping phone, Twilight,” Philip interrupts, raising a hand and waving her down from her rambling. “One question at a time, and please don’t make such a big fuss about it like you usually do. There are… still some things we haven’t sorted out yet, and a lot of issues we need to address.”

“What issues?” Spitfire wonders aloud with a shrug. “You like each other, don’t you?”

He angles his head at her and gives her a look. “It’s not as simple as that, Spits. We promised we’d take it slow, and that’s what we’re doing. She hasn’t dated anybody in a long, long while, and as for me… Well, let’s just say this is alien territory for the both of us. There’s a lot of learning, unlearning and relearning to be done.”

“Sounds like you’re overthinking it, if I’m being honest.”

“Perhaps, but that’s our mistake to make. And believe me, we’ve made plenty enough of those already.” He turns to me and offers a small, sincere smile. “Yet here we are. And I couldn’t be happier.”

If this were another time, I’d probably feel a sense of gratitude, or swoon at his words again and long for another mutual hug, maybe even a kiss on the lips in full view of everypony here. But this isn’t another time, and I’m not entirely focussed on the conversation at hoof; I’m frozen stiff and tense as can be, watching Mum with all the care in the world, searching for any and every sign of hostility.

But she doesn’t say anything. And as the discussion drags on, her gaze lowers to the table with a baffled frown, squinting now and then as she mumbles to herself. Private thoughts she wishes she could express, I expect, but can’t in a setting such as this, and especially not when the current company seems rather supportive. This is exactly what I wanted.

And yet, somehow, it isn’t.

Did I want her to glare at me? To judge me? To shout and rave and demand that I change my mind, or that Philip stay away from me? No, of course not. But I can’t help feeling this isn’t right. The air should’ve cleared, but it hasn’t. It lingers. Festers. Hangs above my head like a sword ready to fall at any moment. It’s heavy to breathe, sickly to smell, foul to taste and even worse going out.

I’ve put her in a position she hates, just like I did with Philip on that dreaded morning.

Merciful Sisters, I never learn, do I?

“Excuse me,” I mutter to nopony in particular, slipping from my seat and walking with a sense of urgency for the main hall, hoping to find my way through the winding passages to the balcony overlooking Ponyville. “I need a minute.”

Whether anyone calls out for me, I don’t notice. My heart is pounding too hard and fast.

The night wind is cool against my fur and feathers — refreshing. Not at all like the atmosphere inside; out here, the cold only goes as deep as the skin, rather than all the way to the core. Natural defences against the weather can only do so much.

Not having the walls and roof around me also helps. I hadn’t planned on leaving and still don’t, but pegasi thrive in open spaces. Knowing the sky is above you and just as expansive as ever is always a welcome comfort, like some ponies have their favourite toys or blankets they cuddle with when they need assistance sleeping. I grew out of mine when I reached Junior Flight Camp, pressured by Mum so I wouldn’t be picked on by the other attendees. That’s something I can thank her for, because if she hadn’t, I’d have joined Thunderlane in having an absolutely atrocious time.

But yes, the sky has always been an encouraging sight for me, and seeing it so full of stars, twinkling like sunlight on a black sea…

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, and the tension in my body dissipates. So relaxing, in fact, that my wings droop enough for another idea to come to mind — one that would give me some actual purpose out here, rather than simply calming my nerves.

I back away from the railing and let my forehooves fall to the crystal floor, then assess the space I have to work with. Large enough that you could host a small party here, I reckon — fifteen ponies, maybe more. Perfect.

With another breath, I open my wings to an idle state and slowly begin trailing across the floor my routine’s path for an upcoming show. Only a week away, if I’m not mistaken, which means that now’s the time to ensure everything on my side of this is in working order. I should know because this was a joint project between Rainbow and I — a secret that, if the press found out, would pretty much confirm the long-standing rumours that she’s out for a leadership role. Replacing me was never on her agenda, though, and never has been nor will be. I’m safe for now.

It starts off high and simple: a glide over the stadium, followed by a steep, rapid descent. Some pirouettes here, which I listlessly perform by briefly hopping into the air, some flips there, executed in a similar manner, and… Wait, no, it was a flip then a pirouette, wasn’t it? Or was that something entirely different? A routine from years ago.

Shit, it probably was. Is. Gah! Words are hard.

I rear up and twirl my way back into my original position, hoping to keep the momentum going.

“Practicing for a show?”

I practically jump and land on all fours, facing Dad side-on with wide eyes, attentive ears, a clamping tail and a wing held out defensively while the other tucks in close against my side. He’s always had a way of sneaking up on me, usually when I’m deep in thought or trying to distract myself. “Yeah,” I reply, forcing myself to lower my guard. “I just kind of realised I haven’t sunk as many hours into it as I usually do, so… I thought I’d catch up.”

He snorts and teases a smirk while he leans against the balcony entrance. It’s a good-natured gesture, but there isn’t much humour behind it. “Not a whole lot you can do from the ground, don’t you think? Unless the Bolts have decided to do something a little more down to earth.”

I quietly chuckle, more out of politeness than sincerity. “Yeah, well… we don’t practice our routines outside Academy airspace. You know, so word doesn’t spread and the audience walks in blind.”

“Of course, of course.” He strolls idly toward me, looking up at the night above as he leaves the incandescence of the castle interior behind, framing him in a soft light. He wears a white button-up shirt patterned with pale green palm fronds and simple khaki chinos — if tropical were formal, I guess. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I follow his gaze. I’d been watching it for the past few minutes, so there’s no need for me to make another judgement when I already concur. But I also know he’s here for something, leading into something, and I know what. I sigh and turn away. “Dad, don’t do this…”

“Do what?”

“Beating around the bush.” I wander to the railing and hook my forelegs over them, looking out across the lamps in the streets of the town ahead, and the lights within the windows and under the awnings. Some are fireflies, some are electric. Ponyville is sleepy. Tired. So am I. “I’m sick of playing coy with the truth, and I don’t want somepony else to fall down the same hole. If you came out here to say something, please, just say it.”

He comes to a halt. “I’m not your enemy, Fleet.”

“I know you’re not.” I sigh again, lowering my attention to the dirt path leading from the town to the castle. “I’ve just… had a rough few months.”

“Months?”

Jeez, did I say that? That sounds like I’ve had a worse time than I’ve actually had. Yes, there were hiccups, but they didn’t ruin my life. Nearly derailed it a couple of times, sure, but they didn’t. “The fight, I mean,” I reply, glancing over my shoulder at him as if I’m afraid I’d been caught out. Regarding what, I don’t know. “You know, the… one Philip mentioned.”

“Right.” He nods understandingly, then looks behind him to the chamber he’d exited onto the balcony. Maybe it was the map room, or the… I don’t know, main lounge, or whatever — I didn’t pay attention when I passed through. “See, that’s what I wanted to talk with you about.”

I quirk an eyebrow and look at him directly.

He lingers on the entrance, breathing a slow, deep sigh, then returns to me with a troubled expression, ears lowering a fraction. “Is everything alright between you two?”

I blink. “Yeah, yeah, of course, perfect,” I hurriedly answer, casually waving a dismissive wing and accidentally letting out a small, suppressed, moderately nervous giggle. “It’s never been better, really. I’m just… worried. About Mum. And what she thinks, and how she’s reacting, and what I expected, and… a lot of things. But not me and him, or he and I, or however you’re supposed to say it. We’re… we’re fine.”

The furrows in his brows deepen, like I hadn’t given him the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. But I have. We are fine. The very fact we’re here and feel confident enough to tell everypony about ourselves is evidence in and of itself. Isn’t it?

Clearing my throat, I pull away from the railing again and face him directly, neck bowed as the whole situation begins weighing on me again, like a scarf made of lead. “Really, Dad, we’re fine,” I say earnestly, meeting his gaze and holding it as kindly as I can, and trying to not at all sound like I’m nervous about anypony or anything this conversation relates to. “I know he’s not what Mum was expecting…”

“He’s not what either of us were expecting.”

“Yeah.” I chuckle with uncertainty, looking to the floor as I rub my foreleg and shuffle my wings. “Sorry, it’s not all that easy for me to talk about it, but I… I really think I’ve found somepony I can… well, be happy with.”

“Weren’t you happy before?”

“I… was.” I slowly nod. “But then… Well, something changed, I guess: I noticed him… and he missed being noticed. And now, here we are.”

He pauses. “Here you are.”

My ear twitches. I quirk another eyebrow as I look up at him again.

He watches me with the same troubled expression from before, but… there’s something more to it. An added edge. A sharpness in his eyes. A tautness in his lips. A hardness in his brows. Less reassuring and more inquisitive, as if I were a puzzle to assemble and a few pieces are missing. “You’re not the only one who’s worried, Fleety.”

I faintly frown in bafflement. “About…?”

“Your mother.” He looks behind him again, and then swings back to me with his eyes on the floor, pensive. “And your friend.”

Now I’m irked as well as baffled. “I just told you I’m not worried about him.”

“I know, I know, but… I am.” He sits down and puts a hoof to his chest, meeting my gaze empathetically. “Please, just… indulge me.”

I hesitate, maintaining a very baffled, and now very wary frown, glancing left and right without moving my head. Like so many things in my life in these past two years, this… is throwing me for something of a loop. Perhaps I’d expected or even hoped for a shouting match with Mum, but for Dad to come and meet me out on the balcony and sit me down for what sounds like a mature conversation? I thought I was done with those. Dad isn’t the one I should be having this with.

But it appears he didn’t get the memo, and I sit down regardless. Apprehensively, but I sit.

“Okay.” He pats the crystalline floor with his forehooves, quickly scanning the sky as he thinks. “I’ll be honest, I… have my reservations about this.”

“…Reservations?”

“Yes, reservations. Concerning the, uh… wisdom, if you will.”

I wince. “Wisdom?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe that wasn’t the right word.”

“Then what do you mean?”

He bobs his head from side to side as his forehoof returns to the ground, brows furrowed and lips puckered. “You have to understand, Fleet, this… is quite a big shock. Not just for Mum, but for me as well. I’m not opposed to you courting a non-pony, if that’s what makes you happy, but I didn’t think… well…”

“That I’d actually…”

He slowly nods. “Your mother loves you, sweetie. I do too. I just want to make sure that this is what you want, and this will make you happy.”

At least he’s not ranting and raving like I know she would, and is actually putting in the effort to hear me out. This may not be what I expected, but it’s not the most unpleasant outcome of a situation I only saw going down plenty of bad roads not a few minutes ago. “I know you do, Dad,” I say with a smile full of as much conviction as I can muster. “And it is. And it will. Trust me, I’ve had a long time to think about this.”

“But are you sure?” He slides a hoof closer by half a step, brows upturned and peering into me like he’s begging me not to hurt him. “Are you sure about him?”

My frown returns, more confused than anything. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He pauses, then sits up straight again and shifts his weight and licks his lips, staring at the floor. “Because the last time your mother and I heard from you… starting a relationship was the furthest thing from your mind that you could imagine. You made it clear to me that you didn’t have the time, or the patience, or whatever limited resource you want to call it — you didn’t have enough of it to find a special somepony. And then the next thing I know, you’re letting him… preen you — this stranger who I’ve only met once, who you rarely talk about, and whose character I can only guess at through the news.”

I blink a second time, then draw my head back with widening eyes, a certain numbness trickling through my insides like lukewarm water — wet without temperature.

Shit, I have been pretty shitty to them in that regard. And to Dad no less, the one I can count on in the messy-but-nowhere-near-as-bad-as-it-could-be bond between three ponies we collectively call a family. They deserved better, and I didn’t deliver.

And I know for a fact they rang my phone and swung by more than their fair share of times when I was sorting things out with Philip, and I never answered. I thought it would’ve been too hard to explain, too much baggage to unload on them, or just… I don’t know. Not nice — that’s what it would’ve been.

But here I am, unable to escape the fate I knew I’d inevitably have to face.

“I want to trust you, Fleet,” he continues slowly and carefully, “but what am I supposed to make of you suddenly changing your mind like this after, what, four months of absolute silence?”

There’s a twinge in my chest, and my brows crease as I cock my head and ears. “What’re you saying, Dad?”

“I was worried, Fleet.” He scoots himself forward until I’m within reach, but he doesn’t reach out. Not yet, at least. “I was worried something had happened to you. That he’d…”

My lips part, my brows rise and my eyes widen again. I think I should shake my head, but I don’t. I’m frozen stiff. Too stunned that he’d take that line of reasoning that far. “Excuse me?”

The serious look in his gaze has returned. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

I baulk, the shock hitting me like a buck to the face, and open my mouth to outright deny anything and everything in regards to all suspicions he has, but something stops me.

An image.

A sound.

A memory.

***

…I fucked a horse.

***

“I… hurt him, Dad,” I meekly respond, struggling to keep the shakiness out of my voice while maintaining eye contact. “You heard him say so in there.”

“But did he hurt you back?”

Again, I try to defend myself, or him, or us, whatever label I’m supposed to use, but words are coming up short, dying in the back of my throat before they have the chance to become fully fledged sentences. “No, I—”

“Are you sure this is the kind of pony you want in your life?”

“I… Yes! I mean—”

“Does he work?”

“…Work?”

“Does he have any goals? Ambitions? Is he just going to leech off the royal treasury forever, or is he actually going to do something with his life?”

“I… don’t know. You’d have to ask—”

“How do you know he’s not using you?”

“…What?” The string that line pulls is as heavy as it is confounding. “Dad, I don’t—”

“Humour me, Fleet,” he commands. “You’re a famous pony. Your name, your face, your mark — you’re known here, there and everywhere, not only as the third in command of the Wonderbolts, but as the mare who rescued the world’s first human. How can you be sure he’s not using you to make himself seem or feel more important?”

I blink, doing my best to keep up with this barrage of questions and various leaps in logic. “Dad, that’s… No, that’s not how any of this works. Heck, he was camera-shy when he first showed up.”

“What about his commitment?”

“His… what?”

He gestures to the pendant around my neck. “Did he buy you that?”

I look down and lift it up with a hoof so I have a better view, and it somehow feels… worth less. Not worthless, but, like, worth less, as if the very fact he’s pointing it out and I know the truth diminishes its value. Spitfire bought it, and that was incredibly nice of her. Why can’t a nice thing just be a nice thing? “Love… isn’t about grand gestures, Dad,” I answer, returning to him as my hoof falls to the floor again. And I hate myself for how cheesy that sounds, but how else am I supposed to say it? “It’s about trust.”

“And I’m asking whether you can trust him.” He puts a hoof to my shoulder and stares me straight in the eyes, unwavering. “Can you promise me he won’t go galivanting off with somepony else when he gets tired of you?”

When?! Since when did our very real, very genuine relationship have a predetermined expiration date?! Who says he’ll get tired of me? I know for a fact I’ll never get tired of him. And as far as I’m concerned, I wouldn’t be sharing him with anypony.

Except…

No, that’s an absurd thought. Shouldn’t spare it a single second. No way there’s any truth to it.

And yet… he did forget to tell me about Redheart, or ‘Reddy’ as her nickname goes… and they were pretty cuddly with each other…

“Fleet.”

I blink and snap back to Dad, the rotten feeling inside taking hold once more, widening my eyes, flattening my ears, stealing the words before they can leave my mind. This isn’t right. He shouldn’t be doing this to me. Not Dad. I can handle shouting, but this? This is new, and it’s scary, and… I feel… cold. And foul. And hungry. And terrified.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No, I… He—”

“Did he hurt you?”

***

I fucked a fucking horse…

***

“Dad, please don’t—”

“Answer me, Fleet.”

***

You want to turn back the clock? Fine by me. About two years should do.

***

“He didn’t mean to.”

But the second I say that, something in him changes. His gaze hardens. A scowl forms. His ears flatten. His teeth clench behind closed, sneering lips. His wings and legs tense up, as if he’s on the brink of tackling something, or somepony, and not just for sport. I’ve never seen him like this before, but I know what he’s thinking, what he’s planning on doing, and that startles and stuns me as much as it scares me; he’s the supportive one, not… this.

I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have said anything. “Dad, no, it’s not what you—”

But he isn’t listening. He’s already standing and turning and marching back into the castle, neck low and purpose in his stride, prowling like a wolf with a vendetta who’ll stop at nothing and let nopony stand in his way, so long as he gets his way. Each step he takes, I swear I can feel through the floor, and it echoes in my core like a funeral bell.

I need to say something. To do something. Anything. But I’m stuck in place, quivering in terror at what exactly had happened, and what I’d unwittingly admitted. This is a misunderstanding. It has to be. I need to make him realise that before it gets out of hoof, and before my insides freeze over, where I’ll then be totally incapable of putting out this fire, or rebuilding the life I want on more solid foundations.

With all the effort I have, straining against my fears and willing myself forward, I lift a hoof and place it in front of me, and the same with the other, then stiffly rise and do the same with my hindlegs. Soon, the ice in my joints come loose. I stumble for a few steps, but quickly recover, get over the momentary dizzy spell, and stagger after him, my breathing too shallow and my mind racing with all these horrible thoughts to utter much of a defence. “Wait. Dad, please, wait.”

But he doesn’t. He continues marching, I continue stumbling after, and before I know it, he’s in the dining hall again and I’m caught on the doorway, watching on in horror. The laughter and conversation in the air quickly fades when everypony turns to look at him.

“Slipstream?” Mum queries. “Are you alright, dear?”

He doesn’t answer her, stomping straight for Philip. “You.”

Philip disconcertedly glances to the rest of the table, only to be met with similar looks. “Me?”

“You,” Dad hisses, coming to a halt within striking distance, poised with his snout aimed at Philip like a lance. “Get out.”

“What?”

“Slip,” Mum cautions, “what do you think you’re doing?”

“Protecting our daughter, honey, because this scummy piece of shit thinks he can insult her and get away with it.” He shakes his head, still glaring at him. “Not on my watch.”

“Insult her?” Philip draws his head back in disgust, then lifts a hand and swipes it left and right. “Okay, look, sir, I don’t know what gave you that impression, but—”

“Don’t play dumb with me. You think she’s just another conquest of yours, huh? Another trophy on your shelf? A floozy?”

“Mister Slipstream, please, calm down,” Twilight cuts in from the opposite end, insistent but clearly surprised at this new and unprecedented display that’s shocking all of us, none more so than me. “Whatever the problem is, I’m sure when can get to the bottom of it if—”

“The problem, Your Highness, is that this creature doesn’t respect my little girl enough to be whispered in the same sentence as her, let alone seen with her.”

Philip recoils. “What?!”

“You know what I mean, fuckface.”

“Slipstream!”

“My daughter isn’t a thing, and if you think for one bloody second that I’m going to stand by and watch you break her heart by using her like some exotic sex toy for you to dump your seed into, then you can go right back to that miserable shithole you call home and stay there. And if the Big Four aren’t going to help me, I’ll do it myself. You don’t deserve her, or anypony’s affection, and if I ever, ever see you around her, her friends, or my family again, I’ll break your toes one by one and—”

Mum slams her hoof on the table, rattling everypony’s dishes. “Slipstream, stop!”

He snaps to her and opens his mouth to shout something, but comes up shy when he notices all the shocked expressions around him. The only one who looks any different is Mum, who’s more riled than anything else.

“That’s quite enough, don’t you think?”

“He hurt her.”

“I did not!”

“You did.” He swings back to Philip and jabs a hoof at him. “Why else would she have stayed away from us, or you, or her friends? And now here you are, coming into all our lives—”

“Slipstream, I told you to stop!” Mum slams her hoof again. “Whatever his part in whatever transpired, we’re not discussing this at the dinner table. Control yourself, please, or we’ll take our leave.”

“And let this monster have his way?”

“Mister Slipstream.”

He looks to the other side of the table.

Spike sits more upright and folds his forelegs, a disappointed and bitter scowl plastered across his features, a small whiff of smoke rising from flared nostrils. “With all due respect, sir, even though I haven’t known him anywhere as long as your daughter has, I can assure you that Philip is no monster.”

“That’s all well and good coming from you, but I’m not convinced.”

“And when would you be?”

“Never. As far as I’m concerned, he lost my sympathy the moment he started thinking of her — of all of us — as inferior. That’s not what good ponies do.”

“But I’m not like that anymore,” Philip replies, trying to sound vehement in his defence, but everypony can hear the anxiety crack through. “I don’t see her as—”

“Too little, too late,” Dad growls, snarling at him once more. “Consider that next time you think about fucking with somepony’s life.”

And at this point, I just can’t take it anymore. The words… hurt too much. They bleed into one another like a swirling vortex of faces, expressions, heated accusations, all of which burn through my chest as if it were dry, wrinkled paper, leaving only a putrid husk in its wake. I can’t take a side without pissing somepony off, and neither one has any advantage over the other. How am I supposed to react when all roads lead to horrible outcomes?

A silver blur leaps over what I think is the table, all the while purples, blues, yellows, greens and this stranger, more alien shape start raising their voices. The blur lands in front of me and canters the rest of the way, facing me, staring me in the eyes. He says something, grabs something — my… my head, I think — begs me to do something.

Begging?

I can’t tell. He’s talking to me, but I can’t hear him. My heart is beating again, so hard and loud I swear I can hear the blood in my ears. Pressure’s mounting. An air bubble is desperate to burst — to escape. My throat is tight. Or is that my stomach? Or my…

I back away. I can’t understand anything. All I know is that this isn’t what I wanted, and I can’t sit on the fence either, watching everything break apart for a second time. The glass had only just finished being repaired, and now it’s fallen from the shelf again, ready to shatter. I can’t bear to see it happen.

It hurts too much.

I need to get away.

Out.

Air.

I need air.

With a whimpering, ragged breath, I turn in place, leap up high and spread my wings, then clap them again my sides for all the speed I can muster. I think I see the silver figure start to give chase, but I’m too desperate to leave everything behind and soar through the night sky all the way to my home in Cloudsdale.

Nopony can hear me sobbing there.

30 | Glitter in the Air

Friends.

They’re there for you no matter what. In times of trouble, when everything you thought you know is going to shit, and it feels like the walls are closing in and you can’t escape no matter how much you try, true friends stick to you like superglue and never let go. Their help means the world to you, in those instances, and you can only be thankful they think your miserable existence is something worth risking their livelihoods over. I don’t have just one, or two, or three I can count on, but an entire team — the Wonderbolts. And if I ever feel like it, I’m sure I could turn to my fanbase for some emotional support.

But I don’t think I’d ever be able to do that in good conscience anymore, not that I ever have; I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve my friends. I don’t deserve… anything. It’s been just under a week since the dinner at Twilight’s, which is usually more than enough time for me to get over whatever foul taste a bad night with my family leaves me with, but things are different now.

I abandoned him.

I abandoned them.

They were out there defending me — defending us — and I left them all behind.

And here I am in Whinnyapolis, about to fly in front of a crowd of fifteen thousand, acting like nothing, absolutely nothing is out of the ordinary, when it couldn’t be further from the truth.

Except I’m not doing that anymore. I’m stuck in the ladies’ bathroom, sitting on a toilet with the lid closed and my tail tucked between my legs, hugged to my barrel, feeling sick to my stomach.

Crowds are the lifeblood of a celebrity’s world, whether your fame is self-made or guaranteed by birth, as is the case with royalty. I love them, I hate them. But never in all my life have I ever been afraid of them. Or at least nowhere near as afraid of them as I am now.

“Fleetfoot.” Spitfire taps the floor of granite tiles. “Fleetfoot, open the door.”

I stiffly shake my head. Part of me wants to listen, to obey, but I can’t bring myself to do so. This is beyond something she can help with, and I don’t deserve her help anyhow. I’m a wretched little worm, always trying to wriggle out of every inconvenience, no matter the cost to anypony else. She knew it in Griffonstone, and so did Soarin, and now they all know I haven’t changed a bit. I’m still the same stinking pony I’ve been this whole freaking time: a coward.

“He’ll be here soon, okay? Just calm down.”

How the heck am I supposed to calm down? He’s coming. Him. The one pony I’ve done the most wrong to, time and time again, starting from the very moment I stole his life away and brought him here. The one pony who trusted me, and continues to trust me. I’ve betrayed him more times than I can count, and running away in his time of need only cements the fact that I can’t be trusted. What good am I to him? What good am I to the team? To Equestria? How can I call myself a Wonderbolt when I can’t live up to the kingdom’s expectations, let alone my own?

“Come on, Fleet, you’re stronger than this.”

She should really stop pretending that I am. I’m not. I never have been. Why can’t she get that through her thick head?

Has she always been this stubborn? Have I always been this cynical?

What’s the point of all this anyway? The show. I can’t remember if it’s a special occasion or just an ordinary performance. Are the Sisters here? Twilight? Cadance? Is it Flurry Heart’s birthday again? What does it matter?! I’m not going out there; it’s televised. The whole country and beyond will be watching — over a million onlookers, not counting the international audience too. Griffonia, Yakyakistan, Mount Aris… stars above, the whole freaking world, just waiting for me to make a mistake. To criticise me. Condemn me. They do that half the time already, but this would be the final nail in the coffin.

But the weight of their gaze is nothing compared to the shadow looming over me. I haven’t called them since the incident, they haven’t called me, but I feel their judgement all the same — his ire. There’s no way I can face a mob this size if I can’t stand up to my own parents.

It’s over. All of it. I’m a fraud. When there’s a fight, I take flight.

I don’t deserve the suit. I’ve been wearing it for the past seventeen years and I haven’t earned a second of it. The only reason I got into the team is because Spitfire and I knew each other since before the reserves. I pride myself on my own merits, but my entire career would never have happened if it weren’t for nepotism — the very thing that kept me out of the Bolts. So now I’m a hypocrite as well as a snivelling, gutless, pathetic whelp!

Lightning Dust can keep her Dizzitron record. At least she knew what she was good for.

The door to the bathroom opens. The muffled hoofsteps of a pony in a flight suit and the familiar padding of rubber soles give off a slight echo as they march at a leisurely pace toward my stall. They’re dragging this out intentionally, I swear. The whole damned world’s against me and they’re in on the plot to stack the odds even further in the conspiracy’s favour.

A short distance away, the pony breaks into a trot and comes to a halt by Spitfire’s side. “How’s she doing?”

“Hasn’t said a word since you left,” she murmurs, as if I’m not supposed to hear the conversation happening right outside the door. The space is enough of an amplifier that you could be sitting in total darkness in one corner and hear a butterfly flap its wings in the airspace at the opposite end. “I’ve tried getting her to open up, but…”

“Well, that’s what he’s here for, isn’t it?”

“I guess.” She sighs. “I just… This isn’t like her, Soarin.”

“Oh, it is, believe me. You weren’t there to help give her a bath.”

I pull my hindlegs in a little closer and hug my tail tighter, chin to my chest and eyes firmly shut. He doesn’t have the right to be telling that story, but I can’t find the willpower to tell him off, even if it strikes deep into my core like a flesh-eating insect, squirming and gnawing and devouring me piece by piece. All I can do is feel rotten and despicable and pray to the stars that they take the hint and just leave me alone. They’re better off calling Hurricane and replacing me again.

“I’m not saying anything more than that,” Soarin vows, no doubt under the curious scrutiny of Spitfire’s gaze. “It just… wasn’t a good time for her. All you need to know is that this hasn’t not happened before.”

At least he’s granting me that mercy. Over the line, but only by a hair.

Spitfire doesn’t reply for a good, long while, even when the sound of rubber soles stop just shy of the door. I can feel them all through it — a heavy, oppressive air, so thick I may as well be able to see them, and the flight suit hardly feels like enough protection from their corrosive presence.

Why does everything always have to eat away at me? Grind me up and spit me out. It’s never easy anymore, to put up a barrier and go through the motions and pretend like nothing ever gets to me. This mask of mine has been slowly slipping ever since he entered my life, and I’m not quite sure how I feel about it.

“Think you can talk some sense into her, big guy?”

And there’s the order I didn’t know I’d been dreading. It had to happen eventually, and now that it’s out in the open, it can’t be put away. Life doesn’t work like that. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way, and I keep having to learn it despite all my efforts to make it stick.

Silence. I think he nods.

“We’ll give you two some privacy, then.” Spitfire trots off for the exit. “Let’s go, Soarin.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, and turns to follow her, but not before making one last parting shot over his shoulder. “We don’t blame her, Philip. Make sure she knows that. Please.”

Trust Soarin to make me feel guilty over something I already know, and already feel guilty over. Spitfire may be captain of the ship, but he’s admiral of all things obvious, and everypony loves and hates him for it. I can’t decide where I fit on the spectrum.

The door opens, the hooves leave, and the door closes again. And when its echo patters out in the deep, dark recesses of my mind, trying ever so desperately to cling to a sound, any sound to fill the void I know will follow… silence dawns. And it isn’t just any old silence — this is the kind from a horror film. When the monster is behind the main character, and you’re just waiting for them to turn around and see what you’re seeing. The little filly should’ve run away while she had the chance, because now curiosity won’t just kill the cat, but utterly eviscerate it.

Really, I should’ve just stayed as far from him as possible. Screw what everypony else would’ve said — I was perfectly happy before all this started. They’re the ones who pressured me into it. It’s their fault this whole thing kicked the bucket, not mine. Never mine. It was doomed from the very start.

Stars above, why couldn’t they just leave me be? Why can’t they do so now? Why in the world do they always think they know what’s best for me when I know myself better than all of them combined.

But he doesn’t leave. And as the seconds drag on in an agonisingly slow fashion, I hear him take a few steps closer, and I see the faded outline of his shadow poke through the gap under the lavatory door. There’s a soft sigh and the rustle of fabric on skin — he’s put his hands on his hips. The fact that I can see it all playing out before me is a little odd, like it shouldn’t really be possible, but I guess we’ve known each other long enough that it’s not really an issue anymore. Like it or not, he’s a part of me, and part of me wishes he wasn’t.

He gets down on his knees — I can see he’s wearing his flaxen cargo shorts — and bows low with his head to the floor, looking up at me through the gap with a straight mouth and knitted brows.

I don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

Is this some kind of test? It feels like it is. He’s judging me like the rest of them — like they all will if I step out into the arena and let them see me. I don’t know how, but they’ll know about us, and they’ll whisper and conspire and say horrible, nasty things. Ridiculous, to be sure, but I think I’m starting to lose track of what’s happened and what might happen. Nightmare and reality are blending into one. I thought I could keep it in check, but look at me now. He is. And I can tell he’s not impressed.

“I can’t do this, Philip,” I whisper on a choked breath, as if the suit I’m wearing is too tight around my throat. “I can’t.”

Still, he says nothing, peering into me with a look of sympathy, but also quirks an eyebrow expectantly; he wants more. Why he’s being so coy with his words now, I can only guess — I thought he was here to persuade me, not make me even more anxious.

But I can’t help obliging him. He may be my enemy in this particular situation, but I like him too much. Curse these stupid feelings and how inconsistent they are. “I don’t know what I mean.” I give a small, exasperated shrug and stiffly shake my head again, looking off to the right. “The show? Us? I’m just… It feels like I’m strung up at both ends, and something’s going to break if I don’t pick a side, and it’s going to be shit either way.”

“Who said you need to make a choice?”

“Nopony, Philip, but that’s what it feels like!” I snap, harsher than I’d meant and so loud and sudden that it leaves a burning sensation in my throat. Or maybe it was always there and it’s a sign that I really need a drink.

Philip winces, but it’s a momentary thing — there one second, gone the next — and he resumes watching me without a hint of frustration. Since when did he learn to be so forgiving? “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

“What gave it away, dingus?! Of course I’m scared!” I jab an incredulous foreleg out toward the general direction of wherever I think the auditorium is. “Why shouldn’t I be?! You’ve seen what they’re like, haven’t you?! They’ll tear me to shreds!”

“Who?”

“Them! Everypony!”

“All of them?”

“Every single one!”

“Twilight and Spike included?”

I pause, my mouth hanging open, ready to shout, and my brows and foreleg taut like a steel cable stretched to breaking point. But he’s taken the wind out of my sails, and for whatever reason, it seems I’d expected him to just sit there and let me rant and rave, because that’s what I thought I needed — somepony to yell at. “She’s the Princess of Friendship, and he’s her little brother; it’s their job to be understanding,” I mutter tersely, letting my hoof fall to the toilet seat. “But everypony else? They’re whatever they want to be. They’re allowed to judge, and they’re allowed to hate.”

“Brave doesn’t.”

“She’s your guard, and the same goes for Phalanx and Ironside and whatever that stand-in’s name was. The one who ruined our date in Redcliff.”

“Able Hooves.”

“Yeah, him. They are and were around you twenty-four-seven, so of course they’d be more accepting.”

He gently shakes his head, or as well as he’s able while so close to the floor. “They didn’t have to be. Accepting, that is. They protect me, sure, but that’s their job; they’ve always been allowed to have their own opinions.”

“Familiarity breeds contempt, Philip,” I grumble, narrowing my eyes, “and they’ve gotten cosy.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “You’re saying they hate me?”

“I’m…” I begin, then quickly find myself short of words, squeezing my eyes shut as I shake my head vigorously before snapping back to him with an infuriated shriek. “NO! They like you because you’re their friend! You always have been! But those ponies out there?! They don’t know you! They don’t know us! They have nothing to lose if they see something they don’t like and decide to just…!”

Again, he appears unmoved, watching me with a reserved kind of sympathy. Even as he sighs and rolls over, shimmying toward my stall on his back, facing the ceiling with his fingers locked over his belly, he doesn’t give off the slightest hint that he’s mad at being yelled at.

Do I want him to be? Do I want to spark a conflict with one of the only ponies that I can say, without hesitation, that cares for me? Why?

My head’s all over the place. Or is that my heart? Stomach? Innards? This is a new level of sickness, and I feel like I ought to get off my seat, toss up the lid and hurl my guts out. I’m already a coward, so there shouldn’t be much of them left.

“What’re you afraid of happening?”

I bring the hoof up to join the other in hugging my tail and rock back and forth, chin to my chest and gaze on the ugly little stains on the floor you only see at certain angles in the light. “I don’t know,” I mumble. “But what do I know? Nothing, that’s what. I thought I knew everything, but I don’t. I never have. I thought I didn’t need another friend, but then you came along. I thought I didn’t need a special somepony… but then I started… having those feelings. And I thought I knew that Mum would be the one I’d have to watch out for, but surprise-surprise, I’m proven wrong yet again!”

“You didn’t answer the question, Fleet.” He looks to me. “What do you think will happen?”

“I don’t know!” I glare at him. “I’m just a dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right, up from down, or what the fuck she’s feeling half the time! But if I step out there, I know something bad will happen, because all this time, there’s always been something. The wrong parent got mad. I don’t like tongue. Our first date was a shitshow. We shut ourselves in for a month because…”

I’d already resolved to cut myself off once I realised what I was about to say, but he angles his head and furrows his brows warningly. If I hadn’t watched my language, I’d have been breaking a very hallowed agreement — one we can’t talk about, even though it’s the foundation upon which everything has been built since then.

My expression softens and I lower my gaze to the floor once more, but I’m not sure how much of it he can see with the flight suit covering my whole body, including most of my face. “What you said a week or two ago,” I slowly, tentatively mumble, “about how I want the perfect romance… You were right. You still are. But it’s more than that.”

His expression softens as well, perhaps in curiosity, or perhaps he’s convinced the threat is over.

I return to him, and my teeth are chattering behind my lips, ears pinned back and wings tucked tightly against my sides, cradling me from cold, harsh, bitter reality that is the world I’ve grown to love and hate. “I want the perfect everything.”

Again, he says nothing, an expectant look in his eyes.

“I keep telling myself I’m in control; if I want things to change so that they’re better than what they are, I can do that. Because if I could get into the Wonderbolts… if I could get into the reserves… if I could learn to fly… then what’s there to stop me? Who’s going to tell me what can’t be done?”

I can’t tell if I’m going off on a completely unrelated tangent, but I don’t care. This is a whole lot of steam I need to release, and it’s good to vent about something, and he’s not stopping me.

“But every damn time I’m proven wrong, it just… it doesn’t sink in; I can’t change the world — I can’t… do anything. And if I can’t do anything, what am I doing here? Why’s my name known far and wide? Why am I a Wonderbolt?”

His impassive mask remains, and he still says nothing. I think it’s starting to get on my nerves.

I blink a few times as if fighting back some tears and shake my head, breathing heavily as I look up and to the right, to the hinges of the lavatory door, where somepony has scribbled something about butts. I certainly feel like an ass right now. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore, Philip.”

“I’ve been working on a song.”

I pause.

I stare.

My ears lift a little, and my wings don’t strain so much. And slowly, very slowly, I look to him with a curious frown and parted lips. This was a question coming completely out of the blue and had no relation to anything I’ve been saying and I’m beginning to wonder if he’s been listening to me at all. I’m the one allowed to go off on a tangent, not him.

“I’ve been meaning to write one ever since you sang me yours, actually.” He turns to watch the ceiling again, scratching his nose with a thumb and rubbing at the corners of his eyes with a finger. He sniffs. “I wanted to get you back the way you got me. Call it revenge, or whatever. I don’t think it’s anywhere near done, but I guess now’s a good a time as any to test it out, right? Get an early second opinion.”

I want to tell him no, this is nowhere near a good time. I wish I were closer so I could slap him and tell him to get out and slam the door so hard that it smacks his backside and leaves him sore in the morning. I want to cover my ears and deny him the satisfaction of letting this tangent take him to where he wants to go. I want him to shut up.

But none of that happens. I stay still, I stay quiet, and I watch and listen. My brows remain furrowed, but it’s softer than a censorious scowl. It’s weak of me, I know — borderline pathetic, if not outright — but I don’t say anything. Don’t do anything. I let him do as he wills, because… why? Am I tired of fighting? Can’t I bring myself to stand up for myself? Or could this really be what I want?

He coughs, clears his throat, then adjusts himself on the floor, as if there were a way to make himself more comfortable on smooth granite without a mattress. His lips twist and his eyes glance down to watch his fingers settle on his stomach once more, thumbs tapping against each other, then casts his attention to the white expanse of the roof. He chews his cheek for a few moments, then breathes out.

There’s an angel way up there

Sailing through the autumn air

So many miles away, she begins her day

The warmest grin, those emerald eyes

Waking to a gold sunrise

Riding on the clouds and an easy breeze

May I be there with her too

Witnessing the day made anew?

I’d whisper in her ear “it could never compare to you”

Safe within her wings so gentle

What’s the use of precious metal?

I measure my wealth in the seconds spent with her

Silver hair and feathers blue

A voice as sweet as honeydew

Never mind the lisp — it’s all part of the charm

May I stay there with her still

Sitting upon midday hill?

I’d whisper in her ear “I wish we had more time to kill”

The hours pass, the sun gets low

The sky grows dark, the stars now show

And above it all, the moon, it glows so bright

On her word, I’d tie it down

Anchored to the Earth so round

That I’d forever see her basking in its light

Then I’d have the strength to say

What I’ve always wanted to

I’d whisper in her ear so gently “I’ve found my place”

And “I love you”

My eyes are wide. My mouth is hanging open. My ears are attentive and aimed directly at him, but nowhere near as tense as they could be, and slacken to the sides somewhat. My wings are drooping, and the grip I have on my tail has loosened. My body feels hollow. Not in a bad way, but… different. Light. Weightless, as if I’d climbed a thousand feet and was at the peak of my ascent, and all that’s left is to fall down, down, and further still.

I know what’s happened. I know what he’s done. I know I’ve done it to him, and that was something to behold, but to actually… experience it myself…

…Are those tears?

I breathe, and it’s ragged. It surprises me. I cover my mouth and rub my eyes hard. I feel moisture, and I stifle a sniffle. Nothing big, nothing I can’t handle — I’m a big girl, after all. And I know my music well enough to know there’s a way I can take the focus off… well, how this is making me feel.

“You, uh…” I pause to let out a small, breathless laugh, and I smile at him, switching my attention from the floor to his eyes. Those tiny, stupid… wonderful eyes. “You stole the tune from Pink Floyd, didn’t you?”

Towards the end of the song, he’d shifted his gaze to me, and now he’s smiling back at me with an affectionate look, as well as a quiet snort. “And you stole yours from Coldplay.”

An uncontrolled and anxious giggle escapes me before I can catch it, and I look away with an uneasy smile as I wring my hooves, shift my weight and shuffle my wings. My ears angle themselves down as a guilty chill flows through me like an icy brook in winter.

“Congratulations, Fleetybee,” he says with a soft shrug and a flick of the fingers, “we’re partners in crime now. The point of no return was… Well, we’ve missed it by a long shot. And honestly… I’m pretty glad you, and Spike, and the guards, and everybody else was there to make sure I didn’t get off.”

And I can only be thankful for that.

“Of course, when I say it like that, it makes it sound like I was being forced, but…” He sighs, stretching his lips and returning his focus to the ceiling. “It’s been a trip, Fleet. We’ve had our ups and downs. I come from a land where we — a pony and a human — would never be accepted, and it scared me that all this interspecies stuff was a very real possibility here. I mean, I like humans, and I was worried that if I let myself fall for someone who isn’t human, then I’d be… well, less human. Or something.”

My smile shrinks. My ears and wings pull in closer.

“But you fell for me. Said you loved me. And being a mortal individual of a weak constitution, I…” he sighs once more, “I wanted to feel loved again. We both know the rest, and… here we are.”

“Here we are,” I echo, if for no other reason than to feel like I’m contributing.

He slowly nods, as if I were looking down at him from directly above. He doesn’t say anything for what feels like far too long, until, at least, he breaks the silence with another, deeper, more weary sigh. “Let’s face it, Fleet; you and me? Your average human and a world-famous pegasus acrobat? There’s no way in hell we’d ever have the perfect romance.

“And you know what? That’s… okay.”

I shake my head. “It’s not.”

“It is.” He returns to me pointedly. “I’m not some magical know-it-all guru about the meaning of life and love and all that philosophical crap, but I’m not ignorant either. We’ve both made mistakes. Pretty big ones too. But we made them and we survived.” He gestures briefly with a forceful wave between myself and him. “We, Fleet. We survived. Us. This… bond we share. And I wouldn’t give that up for anything.”

I take a moment to consider my murmured response. “Not even if you could go back and do it right?”

He pauses, his expression softening from an insistent look to one of empathy, brows upturning. And then he gives me a tender smirk. “What’s the use of dwelling on the past? Walk forwards long enough with your eyes behind you and you’re bound to trip over something.”

I pause.

It stretches into an extended silence.

And then, slowly, very slowly, I ease myself from the toilet seat and let my rear hooves slide to the floor, where they emit the soft, unavoidable tap as they come into contact with smooth granite tiles. And I just as slowly and anxiously make my way over to the door, where I reach up and carefully slide the latch and edge the door open a crack.

He meets my gaze without a beat of hesitation, and the smirk grows into a smile. “There you are, Fleetybee.”

I don’t feel quite like sharing his enthusiasm just yet, even if my treacherous heart is begging me to find myself wrapped up in his arms and held close. “How do you know that it all won’t go to shit?”

“I don’t.” He gently shakes his head, still smiling. “But it won’t go right unless you try either. And you know as well as I do that I’m speaking from experience.”

That he is, and what a way to reinforce his point. It’s cliché as all heck, I’m sure, but when you’re at your wit’s end and everything has seemed like a total disaster for the past fifteen minutes, slowly creeping up on you like a snake over the past week, literally anything is better than nothing. And what the frig is he supposed to say that wouldn’t sound trite anyway? Have fun at my expense? He knows me better than that.

Stars above, he knows me. A long time ago, I could only say that for a hoofful of ponies, but now he’s here and he knows me as well as any of them. Possibly even better, in fact. I was scared at first, but no more — happened Celestia knows when and I haven’t looked back since. And despite everything I’ve put him through, he’s always there for me in the end. Always knows what to do, what to say. Knows how to make me feel better about myself. About us.

Merciful Sisters, I don’t deserve him.

But he’s chosen me. And I can only love him all the more for it.

I pull the door further open, and then shuffle out for him. I intend for it to be a slow, tender moment, but my body works against me and I shut my eyes and practically lunge at him.

He’s quick enough to sit up and catch me, wrapping an arm around my withers while the other pulls my head to his chest. “Hey, hey, hey, Fleet, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

“I’m sorry!” I cry as my forehooves scramble for purchase around his torso, but it comes out as a choked whimper. I let my hindlegs give way and my rump heavily slumps to the floor, resting on its side as my wings shiver and fidget at theirs. I heave a breath, and it comes out stuttered. “I’m sorry!”

“What for?”

“For… everything!” My ears pin back as far as they’ll go as a chill sets in, and the only warmth I feel is his body against mine — his fingers through my mane, his breath in my hair. “I shouldn’t have left you. I shouldn’t have. I should’ve stayed and… and done something, but…”

“Calm down, Fleetybee. It’s not so bad.”

“It is!” I try punching him, but it’s a pathetic attempt, about as strong as a foal’s. “Don’t say it isn’t, because it is…”

“No. It’s really not.” He kisses my forehead and strokes a hand down my nape from between my ears to the base of my neck. “I’ll admit, seeing you leave was… disappointing… but I don’t blame you. Nobody blames you. You’re a performer, Fleet — you show off to thousands of people at every event and they heap their praise on you — but your parents aren’t a crowd: they’re two people you really care about. And if one or both of them attack the choices you’ve made, then… yeah, shit gets rough. Believe me, I’ve been there.”

“But I abandoned you. All of you.”

“And that’s no worse than I’ve done in the past, is it?”

I shut my eyes harder and pull myself closer despite the comment; the last thing I need is to think I made him feel as bad as I did when he berated me on that dreadful morning. I’m pretty sure I whimper as well — another sign of how useless I’m being, not just to him but the whole team. The world, even.

“Hey,” he calmly beckons.

I stiffly shake my head, tail and wings tucking in and clamping down.

The hand not on my withers sneaks its way under my chin and rests a curled finger beneath it, and gently guides me to look up at him — so gentle that I can’t help but comply. And through eyes barely opened, I see his own, his tender smile, and his brows upturned in an empathetic expression.

My chest tightens, like a manticore had gripped my insides and wouldn’t let go.

“What are you so afraid of?”

Now there’s a lump in my throat, and I almost can’t bring myself to speak. Almost. The look in his eyes compels me to. “I got it wrong,” I mumble, sniffling, finding that saying the words aloud is harder than I ever thought possible. “All this time, I… I thought it was Mum who’d…”

His lips press together and he nods a small, soft nod. “You’re still in shock, huh?”

Just as weakly, I shake my head.

He quirks an eyebrow and his smile shrinks a touch. “Then what?”

“Well, there’s that, but…” I shut my eyes again and bury my face into his chest. “I got it wrong, Philip. And if I misjudged my own parents… if I can’t trust them to play by the rules… then what’s stopping everypony else? What if they’re just as bad, or worse? What’ll they think of me?”

“Are you planning on going out there and shouting it for the whole world to hear?”

I press into him more out of some meagre sense of frustration, to the point where I’m pushing my snout into his stomach. “That’s not the point, Philip. They’re going to figure it out on their own eventually, and when they do—”

“And when they do, we’ll deal with it.” The arm around my neck gives me a light squeeze and he scratches behind my ears. “But they haven’t just yet. And until they do, we don’t have to worry about it. Isn’t that right, Fleetybee?”

“You don’t understand, Philip.”

“No, Fleet,” he says, then lets go of me and does his best to push me off and pull my hooves apart from behind his back, “you don’t understand.”

I struggle for a moment, the instinctive part of me desperate to hold on for dear life as if I’ll be swept away the second I’m cast off. But then I realise I’d be causing more problems than solving or forestalling, so, with a lead weight in my stomach, chest and head, I reluctantly free him from my grasp and shuffle back on my rump a little way.

I feel naked without him. The suit helps, and seeing him there helps, and knowing that it’s just us in this bathroom helps, but I need something to rest against. To stop me from falling. To keep me sane. Even as I meet his eyes — so small compared to mine, and yet so expressive — it doesn’t feel like enough.

I’m sorely tempted to hug him right now, even though I know I’d probably just get a kick in the belly to keep me away. He’d apologise, but he’d also be in the right, and I’d look and feel like even more of a fool.

He shimmies back a little way as well, crossing his legs and laying his arms in his lap. He continues to smile, but it’s smaller, and his brows are less upturned and more frowning with concern. Still empathetic, to be sure, but now there’s a certain sense of fortitude with it; this is a lecture as much as anything.

“If it hadn’t been for you, yes, I wouldn’t be here,” he begins, his head bowing just a bit lower as if to make sure I know he’s not reproaching me. “But if it hadn’t been for you… I never would’ve met you. And if I never met you, we’d never have been friends. And if we were never friends, then… that night would never have happened.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and turn away, legs pulling in as my tail clamps and that rotten feeling in my core starts wrapping its pasty tendrils around my insides and holding fast. “Philip, please don’t—”

“Let me finish, Fleet.”

My ears are the lowest they can possibly be, and my wings are straining to be tucked in any further — the knowledge that we’d done something so irreversible is as repugnant to my body as it is in my head. And we can never, ever seem to move past it; the world always throws a set of circumstances that uncover those bad memories, or we start down a line of inquiry that inevitably leads us to the ugly truth: we made a mistake and the stain won’t wash out.

“I promise, this’ll be the only time I intentionally bring it up. Swear on my life.”

But in the face of it all, I don’t find myself putting up much resistance. I refuse to refuse to look, refuse to agree, but I don’t tell him that, no, I won’t hear him utter a single word about that which we both decided we’d never talk about — that which never happened.

“I don’t like it any more than you do, Fleet.” He sighs, and the shifting of fabric and kneading of skin tells me that he’s rubbing the back of his neck. “Believe me, it’s… nowhere near the proudest moments of my life. For a number of reasons. Including but not limited to the fact it was the first time I’d had a drink since coming here — the alcoholic kind. And the reason I’d abstained for so long is because… well, I was afraid that precisely what happened… would happen.”

Despite my current mood, my ear twitches.

“Not just with you, but… anyone, really.” He shrugs. “I’d be a lonely guy, not completely in control of himself… and I’d meet a lonely girl, also not completely in control of herself. And we’d do things neither of us would ever consider doing if we were in our right minds, and would only regret afterwards. And it was working. Abstinence, I mean. From alcohol.”

An eyebrow quirks just a fraction, and my eyes open with it, peering up at him with a squint as the pressure to keep my ears pinned lessens. And again, despite myself, I find myself compelled to do something I get the feeling I really shouldn’t: speak. “Then why’d you do it? Drink.”

He stares at the ground with a gloomy, pensive, dispassionate look, and then shrugs once more. “It was my birthday. My second in Equestria. You Know Who said she’d never let me see my family again, and then she tried reconciling by signing her name on her sister’s birthday card. My best and, at that point, closest and last real friend had just confessed that she was the reason I’d been flung across space and time. And I promised myself I wouldn’t get mad at her, because it was an accident. And I needed her too much.”

Now the strain on my eyes has eased up, and I’m watching him almost normally — if you can call such a conflicted expression normal. Me, personally, I don’t know where this is going or what good it’s doing us, but I can’t stop listening, either out a misbegotten sense of politeness or because I’m genuinely interested. I hope it’s not the latter.

“Yeah, it’s a mystery why I wanted some help taking my mind off a few things.” He shrugs yet again, chuckling, but soon his smile fades and he returns to me. “Of course, in hindsight, I should’ve figured what might happen, considering you had a crush on me, and your gift to me was a freaking serenade. But I was sad, and you do stupid things when you’re sad. And… I don’t know. Maybe I was starting to develop a little crush of my own.”

Without him, I feel naked. But without the suit, it’d be even worse; he’d get to see me blush, provided he hits the right notes at the right times. And judging by the soft warmth rising in my cheeks and lightening the heaviness in my chest, he’s somehow, miraculously, turning this conversation around and heading in the right direction.

“I know what I said about not dwelling on the past, but… honestly, if I could, I’d give just about anything to go back and not do what we did.” He shakes his head in small, smooth motions, his smile resurfacing — so tiny now, and yet still so delightful. “But that’s not how this works, and Twilight assured me that she burned Starswirl’s time travel scroll the second she could safely do so, so we’re out of magical thingamajigs anyway. And you know what? That’s okay.”

I don’t quite see how, but I suppose he has an answer for that too. Stars above, he seems to have an answer to everything; he may not claim to be a guru, but he’s trying his damned hardest.

He scoots forward until I’m within reach, his legs and mine almost touching. “I’m not happy that it happened,” he slowly says, glancing up for a moment as he gently sweeps a few wayward locks of my mane into place. “But I might never have realised just how much you mean to me if it never did. That’s my takeaway. And these past few weeks have been some of the best in my entire life, and they’ve helped me see you for what you really are: someone I love.”

It’s getting harder to frown, and I swear the fabric of the suit is absorbing and bouncing back the warmth in my cheeks, spreading it around my whole head, even into my ears.

“Sure, we’re two different species, and if I were back on my world, you wouldn’t have to travel far to find someone who’d string me up by the neck for it, but when I’m around you… I don’t care.” He watches as he picks up a forehoof with both hands, holding it in a tender grasp as if it were a fledgling fallen from the nest, then returns to me with an equally caring gaze. “I like you, and talking with you, and spending time with you, and hugging and kissing and all that soppy, romantic crap. You make me feel nice. And I wouldn’t give that up for anything.”

Now the warmth is seeping into my chest, driving the rotten feeling away, letting my entire body relax. I can’t frown anymore, and my mouth is threatening to break out into a smile of my own.

“So, don’t go telling me with those big, beautiful eyes that someone as courageous as you can’t handle a simple crowd of fifteen thousand.” He squeezes my hoof reassuringly as he finds himself fighting back a tear or two. “I know you, Fleetfoot. I know you, and you’re stronger than that. Because if you can take me at my worst, smack some sense into me, and still look as gorgeous as you do both in and out of uniform, then literally nothing can hold you back.”

And then I just can’t take it anymore; I laugh and sob at once, and it sounds like a stifled cough. It hunches me over, neck slumped as I struggle to keep myself from collapsing as I sniffle and blubber and do my best to stay as upright as possible.

I could collapse.

It would be so, so much easier.

But he knows me better than that, and so do I. I’d never let myself sink so low while he’s watching, and even if I did, he’d sweep right in and pick me up. Just like he already has. Sun and moon and all the stars, how did I get stuck with him, and why does he tolerate me?

“Hey, hey, don’t be like that, sister.” He lifts a hand from my hoof to my cheek and wipes at one of my eyes with a thumb. “You’re too pretty for tears.”

“Stop it,” I whimper with a chuckle, taking my hoof away from his hand and gently brushing the outstretched one aside. “I really don’t deserve you.”

“Who, then?”

I blink, and the wet patches around my eyes grows a little damper, and then I peer up at him from behind dismal, anxious, overjoyed brows with a shaky smile. And I don’t have an answer. I can only watch, and stare, and wonder where I’d be if we never met. If I didn’t have him in my life. How much lonelier I’d be.

And I was. Lonely, that is. I didn’t realise it way back then, but I was lonely. And I was okay with it, and even now, I’m sure I’d have done just fine if it stayed that way. But nothing would’ve changed. I’d be the best at flying, doing show after show and basking in the praise of millions of adoring fans, and I’d be happy.

But I’d never know what this happiness feels like. This wonderful, heart-warming, bittersweet, heartbreaking, beautiful thing I’m supposed to call a relationship, where I’m there for him and he’s there for me, and no matter what, we’re always there for each other.

Seventeen years ago, I denied myself that, and up to that point, all I’d been after was bragging rights, so I could definitively say that I was the same as everypony else. But then the reserves made me choose, so I chose. And I never looked back. Now I can’t help wondering if I’d been a fool, or if blood, sweat and tears had been part of some grand scheme in the wheel of fate to get me here.

A stupid notion, of course; we’re our own ponies, we make our own decisions. We’re in control of ourselves. But everything we’ve been through has brought us to now, and something about that feels… unreal. Fantastical. Even if I consider the journey to be far from ideal.

I have him. He has me. We’d never change that.

I’ve found a good one.

“You okay now?”

I don’t respond for a short while, wishing to savour the moment and this revelation for as long as possible. But then there comes a point where I’m more in the real world than in the fantasy, and I quietly sigh through my nose and gently nod.

“Think you’re good to fly?”

Again, I nod.

“Then what do you say we stop hogging the toilets in here and—”

I silence him with a kiss. I don’t rightly know why, but I guess I’m just that desperate to delay the inevitable, and it doesn’t hurt that I’m showing him just how much I appreciate all he’s done for me. It’s a sloppy, uncoordinated effort, but it’s the thought that counts right now, and I think I’d be more than willing to turn this into a full-on make out session if he wished.

He’s surprised by it, naturally, but quickly accepts and leans for a bit. Our lips toy with each other as my hooves reach his lap and chest, and his hands lays on my shoulder and the point between my jaw and nape. But then, eventually, he pulls back and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. “Eager, aren’t we?”

“I love you,” I say. And it’s all I can say.

He snorts, then brings me in a little closer and rests his forehead against mine, gazing into my eyes with a deep, almost overwhelming sense of care, but also a hint of mirth. “Well, I’m sorry to say it, sister, but my services don’t come that cheap.”

“And what do you have in mind?” I hum, my eyelids suddenly growing quite heavy.

His grin grows, but takes his time to think, and looks up in thought without moving his head. “If I recall correctly…” he begins, returning to me, “you offered me some ukulele lessons, once upon a time.”

On that fateful night. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Well then, maybe it’s time I took you up on said offer.” He gives a small, soft shrug. “Your birthday’s coming up anyway, so it’s only fair that I get you back.”

My eyes widen. My smile drops. My brows rise and a lightness overcomes me.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s bad luck telling you what your presents are before the party, but… I thought I’d check with you first. To see if it’s alright, and everything. And if I’m learning it from someone… I’d really like that someone to be you.”

“Yes.”

His brows rise as well. “For real?”

“Yes.” I kiss him again — a quick peck. “Yes, yes, a million times, yes!”

“Oh.” His eyes grow unfocussed for a moment, but then he blinks and he’s grinning once more. “Well then, that’s… great! Because, honestly, I didn’t know what I would’ve done if you said no.”

I catch a snort of my own before it escapes and it turns into a muffled nicker, and I give his chest a soft punch as I stand on all fours and back away. “You’re horrible.”

“I know.” He chuckles, wiping his mouth again and straightening out his clothes. “But here we are, Fleet. You and me, beauty and the beast. And you’re…”

I wait for him to finish — a cheesy one-liner intended to make me swoon, no doubt, and I don’t doubt that I’m emotionally compromised enough that it would work. My heart would skip a beat, I’d feel a warmth in my chest, burning in my cheeks and ears, and I’d wrap him up in yet another hug, all because he said something he’s probably learned from some stupid romance flick.

But the seconds drag on, and he doesn’t finish. So, I egg him on. “I’m…?”

He blinks, apparently snapped out of some kind of trance. And then he glances for the door. “You’re going to be late, don’t you think?”

I follow his gaze, and a sudden chill spurs me into action and I let out an uncharacteristically shrill shriek and gallop at full speed for the exit. I ram it with my shoulder, then wrench open the one beyond it for the locker room proper — a stylish room befitting a stadium and city built for the modern era.

Spitfire and Soarin are by a bench in the centre, addressing a few other members of the team who’d probably come to check on me. Or at least they were before I ever so rudely interrupted them. “Fleetfoot?” Thunderlane calls. “Is everything alright?”

No time for sentimentality.

“GET YOUR BUTTS IN GEAR, ASSHATS! WE’VE GOT A SHOW TO RUN!”

Author's Note

I was originally going to choreograph the entire Wonderbolts performance to this song, which would've included buccaneer blazes, rainbooms, and possibly a brief air guitar solo, but I soon realised it wouldn't serve much of a narrative purpose for Fleet, Philip or the wider world.
Have fun imagining what it would've looked like, though!

31 | Words Can Fall Short

Music.

It’s never been a big part of my life, but ever since he dropped in, it’s grown on me. And wherever I go with him, it always seems to follow. Or at least, I’ve grown more conscious of it. Maybe I’d been this much of a listener from the get-go, but needed somepony else to wake me up to what I already knew and never would’ve realised on my own.

Whatever the case, I’m certainly not complaining: it’s something I’ve come to enjoy, and it’s something we can bond over. Of course, putting it so plainly makes it sound far less personable than it actually is, but the fact remains that I wouldn’t be teaching him how to play the ukulele if only one of us liked it. And as it turns out, hooves don’t translate so well to hands, so I’m having to teach myself as well as him.

“My fingers hurt,” Philip states.

“So do my feathers,” I reply in a similarly straightforward manner, flexing the outermost primaries and feeling the strain in them. They’re the closest thing to fingers as I can manage, but I’ve never used them like this before, and the strain on the quills is starting to wear on me. It’s like pulling on your hair, I guess: nothing horrible at first, but do it long and hard enough, and something’s bound to tear. Painfully. “If this is all for my birthday gift, at least you can say you’ve made me work for it.”

“I suppose, yeah,” he says with a snort, then looks behind him towards the entrance of the apartment as he nibbles a thumb. “Should really turn up the thermostat, though. Didn’t know it would get this cold today.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Yeah, and you’re wearing shorts and a shirt.”

“Because those are the parts of you that stay warm naturally.” He forms a fist and blows into it, returning to me. “My fingers, on the other hand…”

I stare at him for a long moment, then roll my eyes and tilt my head back with the same motion and emit a low, throaty groan.

He blinks confusedly, then gasps and widens his eyes in realisation, beaming an open-mouthed grin. “Oh my god, I swear, I didn’t mean to do that.”

“I don’t care, Philip,” I grumble. “It happened. That’s all that matters.”

“Yeah, well, you have to hand it to me…”

“Merciful Sisters, shut up and change the thermostat already!”

“Okay, okay.” He chuckles and gives a small wave of dismissal as he sets down his ukulele on the living room carpet and gets to his feet.

I sigh heavily and let my head sag forward. Puns are the death of legitimate comedy, honestly, and I think he’s getting more and more brazen with them every passing day. If I don’t draw a line in the sand sometime soon, I fear I’ll have to terminate these lessons prematurely, leaving us both rather unsatisfied — me more than him, because the special day is less than a week away. And all this blood, sweat and tears for a stupid little song.

But there’s hope for us yet, if the past few weeks are any indication; he may be a slow learner when it comes to relationships, but he’s a freaking natural when it comes to this. By the end of the first session alone, he could pluck the strings from top to bottom to top again without a pause or the need to look. By the end of the first week, he could do a simple rendition of a lullaby from his Earth — Twinkle, Twinkle, or something like that, which I hope isn’t related to Twilight in any way.

Now, we’re mainly just going through the motions to help him memorise them. It’s been a heck of a ride, but we’re in the home stretch. Just a little further, and we’ll be back to our regular routine of an unhealthy amount of popcorn and inactivity, interrupted every now and then by the occasional outing.

I continue flexing my wings and feathers as I remain seated on the carpet, working out the ache. Push-ups might do them some good, and I’m sure with some persuasion I could be convinced to try and beat my record with him cheering me on, but now isn’t the time for that: I came here to teach, not to show off. Even though I could very well show off another way — a way that would be far more topical, and possibly more constructive.

I adjust the grip I have on the ukulele in my hooves, breathing in and out as I take my time while thinking of what to play. Nothing with lyrics, I know that much — just not in the mood for it. So, I chew on my cheek as my wingtips take their rightful places on the neck and body, and begin to softly strum, exploring new tunes, expanding old ones, and somehow never finding something that satisfies me.

“Trying out some freestyle?” he queries as he returns, his bare feet barely making a sound on the varnished floor, much less over the sound of my music. If you can even call it that. I certainly wouldn’t.

I merely shrug, gently frowning at my efforts.

“Hmm.” He sits cross-legged and retrieves his own instrument, the lacquered surface catching one of the overhead lights as he settles it into position. “It’s never as easy as you think, is it?”

I look up at him and cock an eyebrow without moving my head. “And what makes you an expert on the matter, young grasshopper?”

“Not so much a matter of experience as it is a matter of… well, wisdom in general, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“And what does that make you? A sage?”

“Oh-ho, let’s not kid ourselves, Fleet,” he says with a chuckle and a waggle of his finger. “If I were truly omniscient, I wouldn’t need your help to sing you a serenade.”

I smirk, shifting focus back to my frankly pitiful attempt to find a memorable tune that hasn’t already been taken. “Well then, I’m happy to be of service.”

“Of course you are — you’re getting a song written about you.”

“Oh, what, and I wouldn’t help you if that wasn’t the end result?” I question, laying my feathers flat over the strings and looking at him properly. I’m trying to sound upbeat, but it’s hard not to add a deliberately challenging tone to my voice. “Don’t joke about that, Philip. I mean, yeah, it’s nice and all, but… really, it’s the least I can do.”

“Technically, the least you can do is literally nothing.”

My eyelids lower to half-mast.

“However,” he soothes as he lifts his hands in his defence, “I see what you’re saying, and I appreciate what you’re doing. And I promise I won’t try poking fun at it. Deliberately.”

Not the best or most heartfelt or most heart-warming assurance I’ve ever heard, but it’ll have to do for now. I nod once, then turn my attention to the ukulele again. “Now, where was I…?”

“Freestyling.”

I roll my eyes to myself and brush my feathers over the stings on the body in a slow, smooth motion, hoping the individual notes might inspire something. But all it does is leave me feeling somewhat empty and inadequate. “You’re welcome to try it out yourself,” I mumble, then pucker my lips and frown all the harder. “I don’t think I’ll be getting anywhere anytime soon at this rate.”

“No, thanks.” He rests an elbow on his knee and props his chin up with an open hand. “I’d like to watch, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It isn’t.” I pluck at the top and bottom strings in an alternating fashion, but that yields no results. I think I might’ve heard it in a traditional Yakyakistani music ensemble, actually, where they were all throat singing. “I’m just making a fool out of myself.”

“Not really.” He shrugs and shakes his head. “It’s a work in progress. And besides, look at you: not three weeks ago, you were only using your hooves. Now it’s your wings as well.”

I stop, frowning at them in thought. Was that really so special? I mean, yeah, I guess how well I’ve been able to adapt is pretty impressive, but to disregard how objectively trash I am at devising an original composition? It’s not like one outweighs or cancels out the other. Nothing to get all that excited about, really.

“Go on, play around, let me have a breather. It’ll be a while yet before I’m ready again, anyway, so you may as well make the most of it.”

I arch my eyebrow at him again, but soon sigh and mentally wave away whatever it is I’m taking issue with and begin to improvise once more. I try slow, I try mellow, I try humming, plucking and tuning, and every combination in between. No results. Nothing sings to me. And I think it’s starting to weigh on me — the fact I might not really have all that much of a creative bone in my body when it comes to this. I can steal melodies, mix and match them, replace their lyrics with something more pertinent to my current situation, but none of it is ever truly mine. Or dare I say ours, since he’s here to witness it.

Spontaneous musical numbers aren’t unheard of, and I’ve seen a fair few, but I’ve never felt a song rise up from within like I hear it’s supposed to happen. Nopony knows exactly why they occur, but they’re not nearly as prevalent as outside rumours may lead a traveller to believe — gossip and stereotypes always favour the outliers. The leading theories say that it has something to do with the relatively high concentration of ambient thauma in Equestria; and since how ponies control magic is at least partially through their emotions, like rainbooms, that thauma is attracted to areas where emotions are running high. This somehow expresses itself through a collective song and dance.

I call bullshit. Whoever wrote that down clearly had their head up their own arse, probably because they’d found their special somepony through such an occurrence. Fucking romantics. If any of it held water, then I have one simple question: where the heck has all of this been for the past two years? My life holds no more or less value than anypony else’s, disregarding the increasingly bogus notion of destiny, so why wouldn’t it happen to me? And why would it start now?

I sigh again, closing my eyes as I gently shake my head and let the wing on the strings fall limp. This is pointless. Better to just stick with what I know and what I’m good at: stealing things and making them my own. After all, that’s how I wound up with a boyfriend.

…Stars, I really can’t help myself, can I?

“Why’d you stop?”

I peer up at him dispassionately. “Come on, you can’t have thought I was really all that good.”

He blinks, then glances away and shakes his head, looking as if he’d been caught out on something. “Well, I, uh…” He shifts his weight and clears his throat. “I wasn’t focussing so much on the music as I was… well…”

I pause, then furrow my brows, cock my head and angle my ears inquisitively.

His own brows are furrowed too, staring at the neck of my ukulele with a sense of hesitant intent, like he wants to ask something, but is afraid to ask it. Maybe he thinks I’d be offended, or he’d simply come off as pathetic, which honestly wouldn’t be that bad — I’ve seen worse. Experienced worse. His lips are parted and his tongue brushes along the back of his lower teeth, but what that’s a sign of, I can’t be sure. If it’s a sign of anything.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, more confused than impatient.

He blinks again and returns to me. “Wings,” he says quickly, as if a teacher had caught him sleeping in class and he could only answer with the first thing that came to mind.

I glance at them, both the one on the neck and the one hanging limp. “What about them?”

And just like a schoolboy waking up from an unwelcome nap, he struggles with what to do now his bluff has been called. Except, this isn’t so much a bluff as it is an insufficient explanation. “They…” he begins, and soon drops off, his attention shifting to the one on the neck yet again. But then he shuts his mouth and takes a deep breath in, steeling his nerves and focussing himself before he meets my gaze with a newfound sense of awkward conviction. “Actually, could I ask you something?”

My frown deepens, even more confused. “Sure. I mean… I don’t see why not.”

“May I hold your wing?”

I blink with widening eyes, my brows rising high, the free wing that’s hanging limp suddenly pulling itself in to rest at my side. The request sends a soft chill down my neck and a fuzzy tingle in my chest, and the fur there bristles a little as I process what he’d just asked of me and how exactly I plan to respond. “My wing?”

“Yeah.”

I blink a second time. “You mean… you want to preen it?”

“No. Hold it.”

A third time. “I don’t follow.”

“You know, hold it.” He gently frowns in thought as it grows clear to him that I, in fact, don’t know what he’s talking about, and he puckers his lips as he sets his ukulele in his lap, looking down to watch his hands lock together. Fingers weave between fingers in what looks like a weirdly… for lack of a better word, intimate gesture. “Like this,” he mumbles, anxiously glancing up at me for a fleeting moment.

My eyes remain wide, and the fuzzy feeling in my chest grows… warmer, I guess. I’ve used my wings for a lot of things, from flying to carrying stuff to smacking ponies whenever they deserve it, as well as some activities that shouldn’t be mentioned in polite company, but never have I ever done something like that. Not because it’s taboo, or informal, or whatever, but because, there isn’t a custom dictating how personal the act of holding wings is. Or at least, as far as I’m aware. It just… simply isn’t done — has never, not once, ever crossed my mind.

And the thing is, I’m feeling more confused than I have any right to be: it’s such a simple deed, and in every respect, I really shouldn’t have a problem with it in the slightest. And yet, I hesitate; how come I’ve never thought about it before? It’s so… inoffensive. Harmless. Obvious. I should be putting on a smile and indulging him, seeing as there aren’t any factors holding me back, physical or otherwise.

But for whatever reason, I’m struck dumb, paralysed in some kind of emotional limbo. “Is this something humans do?” I quietly ask, sharing a shy look with him.

“Well, yeah, of course, but… with hands, obviously.” He shrugs and glances about uneasily, clearly not entirely comfortable with himself. “I mean, not that holding your hooves isn’t nice enough, but I think it would be… well, nice. Because, like… a wing isn’t the same as a hand, but… it’s the closest thing you have to one. And I think I’d like to know what it feels like.”

I continue to stare.

Again, there’s quite literally nothing holding me back right now, and it’s such a simple, benign request that neither I nor anypony else who’d get this far with him should ever have a problem with it. But the very fact he’s drawn attention to it means that it’s something important to him, and the way he’s being so bashful and openly vulnerable about it… Stars, my chest is starting to simmer, and I feel the faintest hint of warmth in my cheeks.

“Do you think we could?” he wonders aloud, scarcely above a whisper’s pitch. “Please.”

“Oh,” I vacantly utter, and almost smack myself for doing so, then blink myself out of whatever trance I’m in and force myself to speak properly, or as close to it as I can somehow manage. “Uh… sure.”

He gives me a strange look, almost as if he hadn’t been expecting me to say yes, but soon settles down as well as he’s able lowers his gaze to his hands, which unravel and flex before him. He lays the ukulele beside him, then slowly, cautiously scoots himself forward, like I’m a songbird that he’s afraid he’ll scare off if he moves too quickly.

A small part of me thinks I should be offended, but the rest… doesn’t; it tells me to stay perfectly still, to watch closely and take in every detail, because this isn’t something you do with just anypony. I could ask whether holding hands is considered all that special on his Earth, but that would ruin the moment. It shouldn’t matter anyway — I… we’ve never done this before, and I think that’s what’s getting to me, rather than the action itself. It’s just so… foreign.

I think I like foreign.

He comes to a halt within arm’s reach and holds out his palm, fingers relaxed and slightly curled. It’s an oddly inviting sight, like it’s silently pleading for something to fill the empty space. A ridiculous thought, to be sure, but even if he hadn’t told me what he wanted, I’d know what this gesture means, and I’d be sorely tempted to grant his wish.

So, I do. I set aside my ukulele on the carpet — both of which are a deep, velvety auburn, though one is naturally shaggier and less reflective than the other — and sit on my haunches with my forehooves on the floor. And, unsure of myself like it’s my first crush all over again, I tentatively extend my left wing and rest its tip within his grasp.

He stares at it with a muted look of surprise, as if he can hardly believe his luck, but he doesn’t react too openly. Not right away. “See?” he queries, peering up at me for a moment, a certain diffidence in his voice. “Not so bad, is it?”

I gently shake my head.

“You good?”

I nod, looking at him properly and with a small, reticent smirk. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason. You just… look a little flush.”

“I…” I begin, then quickly cut myself off as I bring a hoof up to feel my cheek. And yes, indeed, it’s really quite warm. How I didn’t notice before now, I don’t and will likely never know. The heat is even tickling my ears. “Oh, gosh.”

“If I knew this would have that effect on you, I’d have asked sooner.”

I’m still feeling my cheek, and I think it’s starting to grow warmer the longer I pay attention to it, in the same way a fire grows fiercer the more air you feed it. “Okay, this… Wow…”

“Lost for words, huh?”

I nod absently.

There’s a pause.

“May I continue?”

Another absent nod.

He huffs a quiet laugh returns his attention to the wingtip. The feathers are large in his hand, and I wonder for a moment how exactly any of them are supposed to fit in between his fingers, even with their flexibility, when it strikes me that he’s lifting his other hand to lay it over them. This is something he’s done with my hoof, and I with his, but again, never with my wing.

And it’s… tantalising; this simple, basic, yet plainly profound action is giving me as much satisfaction as kissing him has ever done. And the thing is, I can barely feel his skin — what has me so tickled is the sight of it. And I’m acutely aware of just how heavy the pulse in my chest is becoming, and how warm I’m growing beneath my own fur. It’s like I could break into a sweat at any moment.

Oh yeah, I like foreign.

“You know… I don’t think I ever told you just how soft you are,” he muses aloud, almost dreamily, which he soon seems to realise and meets my gaze with a bashful expression. “I mean… your coat, your mane, your… feathers. They’re like that… that thin sheet of air on an air hockey table. You know what I’m talking about, right?”

I let out a breathless chuckle. “Yeah, I know. Not the most romantic as far as metaphors go.”

“Similes, girl,” he corrects and emphasises the point with a bow of his head, then returns to the wingtip and lifts it, slowly twisting it and his hand until both my feathers and his fingers are pointing up. “I get you’re a little excited, but that’s no reason to lose our mental faculties.”

“I’m not…” Best not finish that if I know I’m lying to myself. I close my mouth and crease my brows, and I realise my teeth and chattering behind my lips. “It’s just… different, is all.”

“You’re telling me.” He nods as well, seemingly as distracted as I’d been. “I’m… kind of liking it.”

“Me too.”

His eyes meet mine.

The sudden urge to freeze creeps in like winter frost through the clouds, but I shove it down as far as it’ll go. Yes, that response was far too natural — though at this point, fooling anypony is… well, foolish — and it made me sound much too vulnerable for my own liking, but I wouldn’t have said it if it weren’t true. I am liking it. In fact, I’m wishing we’d done this sooner. Much sooner. It should’ve been how we met — him mistaking me from a crowd of strangers for somepony he knew, and we’d somehow get to talking, and…

Jeez, am I fantasising an ideal romance over something as simple as holding a wing?

…Am I really trying to question it?

I like it.

I like him.

I…

I need…

His gaze lowers to the left, my right, his expression unchanging from his look of enchantment.

I linger on him, but soon follow his eyes and discover that my free wing has unfurled and started sneaking its way toward him. Of course, now that I’m paying attention to it, it’s come to a standstill and doesn’t want to move on its own anymore, like a misbehaving foal with their hoof in the cookie jar. But the very fact that it’s gone to about halfway tells me all I need to know — confirms what I’d been thinking of doing, and I return to him with a silent question.

He looks to me, and I know he understands — the slight, near unnoticeable widening of his small, brown eyes. Unnatural eyes, but… as expressive as anypony else’s. As sweet and savoury as the finest chocolate. But although he isn’t giving me explicit permission, he isn’t telling me not to either, and I can only hope that, in some way, is a go-ahead in and of itself — too stunned to say yes, rather than no.

My breath is heavy as I will my wing into action again, gradually, delicately gliding out and up, past his torso, past his collar, past his throat and neck, all the way to his temple where the endmost primaries make contact. And then they slowly travel downward, tenderly tracing the outline of his face. Down to his cheek, jawline… holding him.

His eyes followed my actions at first, but the second my feathers touched his skin, he closed his eyes for a long moment and exhaled a silent breath. Now he opens them again, and he’s… lost; leaning in, allowing me to cradle him, bringing his left hand up to hold my wing there. To feel it. To feel me. To have me closer and know I’m there. To know I’d never leave him.

I wouldn’t. Never again.

The warm air from his mouth seeps through my plumage and sends a shiver down the limb that buries itself in my withers, bleeding up my neck and down my back in a soft, warm ripple. It begs me to do something — to do more. There always has to be more than this. Always. We could close the distance and hug and… and…

I ease off my haunches and slide a hoof closer.

He takes notice, but doesn’t say no. Even when his eyes return to mine, and then my barely parted lips, he doesn’t openly react.

A little closer. My wing and his hand slide free of each other. The ones on his cheek remain where they are.

Still, no response, but the look in his eye is full of…

Yearning.

He wants something.

I want it too.

And all it takes is a little…

Kiss.

I originally wanted to test the waters with a simple peck, but he presses in before I can pull away, eyes closed as he lets a short, small hum escape him, and I’m in no position to argue. I close my eyes as well and lean into him in kind, nose pressed against his, the wing on his cheek easing around to the back of his neck so I can pull him in.

His hand, in turn, reaches out and does the same, and the other finds itself resting on my left shoulder. And he isn’t shy about using his lips — about turning this into more than just a kiss.

And I indulge him. I, too, like where this is going. And our kiss becomes a smooch, then two, then three — a practical snog — and my free wing lays itself upon his shoulder just as he had done with me, telling him that this is something I enjoy as well. And I don’t want it to stop.

He hums again, sounding needier, more eager, and the hand on my shoulder slides to the point halfway between there and my neck, rubbing, kneading at my fur in a surprising, but not unwelcome massage. And it’s a pleasant attempt — a sign of affection. Of caring. A sign that he doesn’t just want a kiss, or a make out session: he wants… something more tangible. Something to hold close. Something I have.

…It’s me, isn’t it?

He wants me.

And I want him.

I need him.

I shuffle my hindlegs closer and sit on my haunches, allowing me a more comfortable base of operations as my forehooves find their way into his lap, my feathers tensing up and pressing into his skin and shirt. I’m not making the first move so much as I’m… getting everything into position. Setting up the board, so to speak, but what exactly this game I’m about to play is, I don’t rightly know just yet, and I don’t care to. I just sink into the moment and continue kissing him, and letting him kiss me.

He hums again — moans, in fact — and before I know it, the hand on my cheek has slipped away and placed itself on my back, just behind my right wing, dragging me closer.

An instinctual squeak of surprise escapes me and my eyes fling open, a strange haze dispelling as if waking from a dream. Everything suddenly comes into view, not just of him and how he carries on kissing even when I’ve stopped, but the benign and mundane, like the sofa and coffee table on the left, and the TV and entertainment system on the right. And how warm I am compared to the air, and the heat in my ears and cheeks and… my whole body, really. Even the parts I’m not sure I should allow myself to think about.

But I don’t stop him, and he takes no obvious notice, kissing my cheek now and massaging the point on my back that’s dangerously close to the zone he knows he shouldn’t touch. But it’s close enough that a warm, comfortably pleasant wave rolls over me, and my eyelids lower to half-mast as I moan through a closed mouth.

Why on Earth would I want this to stop?

He leans forward, and I’m brought to my rump, my croup, and then finally my back, the massage never ceasing, the kisses never-ending. And now he’s above me, practically lying on top if it weren’t for the negligible space between our bodies. He’s focussing on my neck, gradually travelling down, blazing a trail of heated breath and saliva, growing needier and more passionate.

Merciful Sisters, why on Earth would I ever want this to stop?

But then the hand behind my wing leaves it and slides lower. First, it settles on my croup, adding a welcome pressure to my occasionally swishing tail. Then it follows the shape of my flank beneath the skirt, tracing my leg, stopping just shy of the hem — quite evocative, but not terribly concerning; a pleasant experience regardless.

Then it slips inside and gropes my rear.

My eyes shoot open, and in an instant, my fore and hindlegs pull in and shove him off with a startled gasp.

“Whoa!” he exclaims, flopping back onto his rump and flailing his arms to maintain balance, before coming to rest and casting me a confused, somewhat accusatory look. “Hey! What was that for?”

I straighten out the skirt and prop myself up on my elbows, meeting his indignant gaze with an anxious, flustered, reluctantly scolding frown. I shake my head, my breathing ragged. “No.”

“No?” He squints as his brows furrow even further, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his own breathing just as uneven. “No what?”

I shake my head again, rubbing at the wet spots on my cheek and neck. “I don’t want that.”

He cocks his head and slightly sneers. “You don’t want… what?”

I blink, brows rising a tad, genuinely stunned for a moment that it seems I’d have to nudge him to where I’m almost certain his mind was wandering — it’s the only place it could’ve been going, doing what he did. And of course, the irony wouldn’t be lost on me, considering what he said not five minutes ago about mental faculties. “What were you doing?” I ask directly, the same way Spitfire does to a new recruit who’s done something wrong and she wants them to learn from their mistakes, using their own words for their benefit.

He glances away for a moment, confounded. “I was… grabbing your butt.”

Stars above, he can be dense sometimes. “And?”

“And… kissing you. And massaging you and… other stuff.”

“But what was it all for?” I angle my head toward him and roll a hoof, encouraging him to slow down and actually think. “Where might it have been… leading to, if you catch my drift?”

He continues watching me with the same clueless and fairly miffed expression — more annoyed at being interrogated than the fact I’d interrupted him, I hope — but then it finally dawns on him. And it happens, like so many epiphanies, slowly, his brows softening, his lips relaxing, his eyes widening and growing unfocussed, peering through me and into an invisible horizon full of realisation: he was about to make a massive leap, and he didn’t even know that he was making it. “Oh.”

I nod sternly, and only once. “So, we’re on the same page, then?”

Philip nods in kind, but more subdued and humbled. “I think so.”

“Alright.” I blow a long sigh, and a lot of the tension I’ve been feeling seems to go with it, even as I lift myself up and drag my hindlegs in, sitting on my haunches. The sensation of his fingers digging in remains, and I rub my rump with a hoof as my wings shift in place, trying to make the feeling go away faster and straighten out my feathers. “Sorry, I just don’t know if I’m ready for that. I mean, I… I love you, Philip, but…”

He doesn’t reply, looking away and folding his arms to his stomach, troubled. The way he’s acting makes me think that he isn’t happy with being rejected so suddenly, but I know him better than that: he’s been given time to reflect on his actions, and he isn’t all too happy with himself. But whether he’s more disconcerted by what his ultimate goal was, or how quickly he went about it, I can’t rightly say. It’s not my place to put answer in his stead.

I sigh again. This isn’t something I imagined I’d have to bring up during one of these lessons, but we need to talk about it. Besides, it’s hardly something you can sweep under the rug and pretend it never happened, hypocrisy notwithstanding. “Look…” I murmur, lowering my eyes and frowning a troubled frown on my own. “If there comes a time when we both decide to go that route… I don’t want it to be a spur of the moment thing. I want to… to know for certain that this is what I want. And I don’t want to put words in your mouth or thoughts in your head, but… I think you want the same thing. Right?”

He returns to me and holds my gaze, no less uneasy than before. But after a pause, he lowers his eyes, puckers his lips and nods gently. “No regrets,” he mumbles, as much to himself as to me.

“Yeah.” My gaze falls to the floor as well, shrugging. “And if you do things without thinking them through, then… well… that morning happens. And I’d like to stay away from that as much as possible.”

“Don’t worry,” he mutters, lifting a hand for a moment. “I get you.”

At least he understands — it’s not that I don’t find him attractive, at least in his own way, it’s just that… when passions run high, making a sound decision isn’t always easy; it’s harder to tell where things will take you, and whether you’ll end up feeling sorry for yourself later on. Even worse if somepony else gets hurt in the process. We know how it goes all too well.

“So… what now?” He shrugs, returning to me with an anxious, uneasy look. “Back to the ukuleles?”

I don’t answer, still caught up in my own thoughts. I can’t and would never deny that the longer we’ve been around one another, the more comfortable we’ve grown with each other’s differences, and that has suited us just fine. But were we really so ready to cross that threshold — that point of no return?

As much as I hate continually admitting it, despite all the promises I made to myself, we have done it before… but now it’s starting to scare me. Not paralyised with fear or shivering like a Saddle Arabian standing hock-deep in the snow, but more a sense of general unrest, like I can’t sit right; I need to know something, to ask him something, but I’m not entirely sure how to phrase it.

“Fleet?” he beckons, leaning a little closer. “You okay?”

I suppose being blunt is better than letting it fester, though my tail clenches at the thought of speaking up, and the rotten feeling at my core whispers disturbing things to my innards. I shouldn’t even be thinking about this, it says, and part of me wants to believe it. “Do you think we could?” I ask uncertainty, meeting his gaze. “Go that far, I mean.”

He blinks with widening eyes, then narrows them and angles his head slightly. “You’re not pulling a one-eighty on me, are you?”

“No, I mean, I’m asking you, Philip, as a general question. Do you think, at some point in the future… we’ll want to…”

I don’t need to finish for him to get what I’m saying, and when he does, his expression softens and his attention glides down to his hands, where one holds the other’s thumb. And he stays like that, thinking, for at least a full minute, or maybe two. “I don’t know,” he finally says, shrugging dispassionately. “Maybe. Probably, if we’re being realistic. But I don’t want to make it sound like I’m after that, you know? Like it’s my sole reason for wanting someone. Heck, even talking about it makes me feel awkward. I mean, you’re…”

I wince, drawing my head back a touch as my ears point rearward.

He notices and grasps for straws. “No, no, I didn’t mean it like that — I mean…”

Of course I know he didn’t mean to be… well, mean… but that doesn’t take away from the fact: we’re two different species, and for the majority of his life, he’s only ever loved other members of his tribe. History isn’t easily forgotten, no matter how hard you try. Even if it’s for the sake of sompony you care deeply about. Communication is key, as I’ve been told, and a lot, a lot of patience.

He rubs the back of his neck in long, thorough strokes, conflicted and searching for a way to say what he means without being too discourteous. “It’s hard, you know? Trying to make this work for me. And now I’m starting to think that, if it isn’t a spur of the moment thing, reality might come crashing down and I’ll…”

The rotten feeling’s whispers threaten to grow into a murmur.

“I know it’s not fair on you, Fleet.” He meets my eyes with an imploring, genuinely sympathetic look, his voice quavering a little as he gently shakes his head and clasps a loose fist to the centre of his chest. “Believe me, I know. If you want that kind of relationship, then… that’s what I want too, because I love you. More than you could possibly imagine. And I want to love you like you love me. I’m just worried that…”

“You won’t love all of me,” I finish, nodding in turn, small and subdued, then lower my gaze to the carpet and blow yet another sigh.

“Yeah,” he says, also nodding, but stiffer and more restless. Then he turns away and shifts his weight. “And, who knows? Maybe you… wouldn’t like what you see either.”

An ear twitches, my eyes snap back to him, and one of my brows quirks just a tad. I honestly hadn’t thought about it like that before, and although he didn’t mean to — like so many things in the past few weeks — I feel somewhat taken aback; for as long as I’ve had this crush and known that he’s the one for me… I’ve never actually considered how different he is. Physically. From a stallion. On a deeply intimate level.

We’re compatible in that way, certainly, as most sapient creatures tend to be — I’m female and he’s male, after all, ignoring any lurid implications for the time being. But as for what he looks like… down below? That’s something I haven’t spared a thought towards. I mean, was there any reason to? All this time, we’ve been completely happy simply enjoying one another’s company. It’s not like we wanted anything more than that.

But there he was, lying on top of me. And there I was, letting him do as he wished.

And I was liking it.

And if I’d let it go on any longer…

“Well then, why don’t we, uh…” I begin before I can stop myself, and now that it’s out and up in the air, I shut my mouth and hastily look away, my cheeks and ears burning with a ferocity I didn’t think they were capable of; it was supposed to be a thought, not something to blurt out! And now he’s going to ask me what I was trying to say, and then…

And then…

“Why don’t we… what?”

There it is.

The question I was dreading.

And yet…

My chest is heavy. So is my breath. And exceptionally warm too, like they’re inches away from a hot stove, so close that my body is begging for some kind of reaction — a way out of danger and into safety. But the only way I can think of doing that is by taking a leap of faith.

Oh stars, this is so awkward.

And yet, so…

...I really shouldn’t finish that thought.

My weight shifts, sliding back a little way onto my rump.

“Fleet?”

My forehooves charily glide across the carpet toward me, bristles tickling their undersides. I still refuse to look at him, so anxious and embarrassed with myself as they find the hem of my skirt and carefully, ever so cautiously, begin to pull it up.

“What… what’re you…” There’s a motion in my peripheral vision, like he’s reaching out to stop me, but the blur that would be his arm doesn’t go very far, and it soon slows to a halt.

This is it. My heart pounds against my barrel, echoing through every limb, every feather like the rush of adrenaline before a show. My teeth chatter behind my lips, and I’m sure that if I weren’t so lost in my own actions, running on impulse rather than conscious thought — I’d started this, and I was seeing it through — my whole body would be shivering too. But I continue rolling up the skirt, and hold the hem to my stomach, and the cooler air of his apartment seeps through the thin veil of fur on the underside of my belly.

Silence.

Ever since that morning, covering up was one of my top priorities when meeting him. I’d always been afraid that seeing too much of… me would spark some bad memories, send us spiraling down an all too familiar and ill-advised path of self-destruction. It’s not every day that I’d be so conscious of myself, and I’d forgo any undergarments for a simple jacket or singlet, or even something as cumbersome as that red parka, but there always had to be something. I couldn’t let him see me as just me, because it was just me that left him so… broken.

Today, I’m wearing a raspberry red shirt and a plain khaki skirt, and some underwear for added concealment, because you can never be too careful.

“Is, uh…” he croaks weakly. “Are… are those...”

“Mm-hmm.” I tensely nod, the whole world spinning for a few seconds as the sweltering haze in my head swirls about like molten lead. I think there’s a bit of sweat starting to build as well.

“Oh,” he quietly exclains in a low, husky breath, almost as if he’d meant to laugh, but the very sight had choked him. “Oh, wow…”

And if I thought it couldn’t get more steamy upstairs, I’m immediately proven wrong by a nervous, flustered grin tugging at my lips. My wings and legs also freeze up, ice building in their joints. Stars, this is way beyond anything I’m used to, and all I’m really doing is what any curious foal on the cusp of adulthood would do. “I’ll show you mine if you… you show me yours,” I mumble with an awkward, raspy giggle, peering at him from the corner of my eye, ears rising hopefully.

Another breathless laugh, and he meets my gaze with an impish one, an open-mouthed smirk playing across his features. “You’re not serious, are you?”

And just like that, my smile disappears, and the warmth within me suddenly cools by a few dozen degrees, pinning my ears back, raking chilling feathers down my spine all the way to my croup. My wings slacken at my sides while my forehooves lower the skirt, ready to let go completely in case I’d misread the entire situation.

“No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that, Fleet,” he quickly soothes, scooting a little closer with a hand aimed for my shoulder, but he doesn’t come close enough that he can actually touch me. His attention is fixed squarely on me, but I can tell by the agitation in his eyes that part of him is torn between me and another point of interest. “I meant… what you said there… that’s like something a pubescent twelve-year old would say. I was just poking fun.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He nods, his breathing warm and heavy enough to tickle the fur on my neck and poking through the collar of my shirt. “You’re fine, Fleet. There’s literally nothing you could do right now that would make me love you less.”

My brows rise, and my ears rise with them. But it’s only for a moment; they lower with my head as I peer up at him with uncertainty, gulping. “So…?”

And then the reassuring look falters, replaced by understanding, and muted disbelief soon after. It’s almost as if he’d forgotten about the offer, and was discovering it for the first time all over again. “A-a-are you sure?”

I pause, thinking. “No,” I admit with a soft shake of the head, somehow summoning enough conviction to keep myself from stuttering, and to keep my tone both earnest and calm. “But if it’s going to happen eventually… I want to know what I’m dealing with. No surprises, right?”

He pauses too, then nods. “Right.”

“…So,” I bow my head a little lower, chin almost to my neck, cheeks warming up once more, “would you like to?”

He lingers on me, then his wide, enraptured eyes follow my body down, past my barrel, my stomach, and further still, all the way to where the skirt remains lifted, and my lower reaches exposed. “I…”

“You can touch if you want.”

His attention snaps back to me, his lips already parted, his eyes now wider than I’ve ever seen them before, and I see a silent, almost reverent giddiness in them. His breathing slows, the world grows still for a long moment… and then he leans in for a kiss.

I’m in no mood to resist, and simply close my eyes and let him take me. No hands just yet, but in a single, smooth, downright primal motion, he pushes me far enough that I roll onto my back, and the kiss never breaks.

But eventually, it does, and as our eyes meet again, he peers into me adoringly, his brows upturned and a smile on his face. I’ve always loved that damn smile, and even now, it makes my heart flutter. “How did I ever end up with you?”

I giggle once more. “Less talking, more exploring.”

He bows his head as if he were wearing a hat. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, then crawls back a little way and traces his hands along the sides of my body as he goes, his actions soft and tender, and sending pleasant shivers as they reach the leading edge of my thighs.

I watch him closely, panting, feeling almost weightless as my wings and tail begin to stiffen, the entire region he’s hovering over so very exposed and vulnerable. But I don’t dare lock my hindlegs together and keep him away, because I want this and he wants it too, and this might very well be long overdue.

His hands continue along just a little further, up and into the crevice between the inner thigh and groin, laying each palm to rest within it, and on the string keeping my underwear in place. So close, but not there yet. “You say I can touch?”

“Yeah.” I nod heatedly. “Go for it. Just… not too deep, okay?”

“Sure thing,” he affirms vacantly, and then, as slow and as sensual as ever, slides his palms from the crevice to…

My hindlegs stiffen. My tail tucks in, as do my wings, and my ears stand to full attention as my brows harden and the calm, comfortable ocean I’m floating on suddenly grows a little colder. “Wait.”

He stops and looks up at me, but his hands don’t move from where they are.

“Philip…”

“Yeah?”

“...What’re you doing?”

He blinks at me, then glances down, the returns to me. “You said I could touch, didn’t you?”

I blink too. “Well, yeah, but I kind of meant…”

To his credit, it only takes him a few seconds to realise what I’m talking about. “Oh.” His brows rise for a moment, then lower again in a questioning frown. “Wait, so… you don’t want me to touch… these?”

My brows crease even further, one of them cocking like a crossbow. “My teats, you mean?”

“Uh…” He shuts his mouth, and uneasy air washing over him as he looks down once more. “Sure.”

I pause again, thinking. “Well, I mean, you can if you want, but… why?”

“Because they’re breasts,” he answers as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, sharing with me a moderately confused expression like I’d finally accepted Justice as my all-time favourite human music group. “Boobs, tits, knockers, melons, the big guns — whatever you want to call them. And these are, like, the perfect size.” He gives both of them a gentle squeeze, teasing around the base of one’s tip with a thumb. “You’re seriously telling me this does nothing for you?”

I stare at him, absolutely dumbfounded. Yes, I’ve heard of some ponies, mares and stallions alike, having a certain affinity for those small mounds of flesh, but as far as I’ve ever been concerned, that’s all they were: stories full of faceless individuals. To my understanding, from what little I’ve cared to understand, it’s not taboo so much as it is… an oddity — such a rare inclination that you could scarcely call it a fetish. But here I am, lying on my back in my boyfriend’s living room, having my teats groped and fondled like this was an ordinary hoof massage.

And… it’s not unpleasant.

Not jaw-droppingly, mouth-wateringly, pull-my-tail-to-the-side-and-rut-me-silly brilliant by any stretch of the imagination, but nice. A welcome pressure, if I’m to put a label on it — the kind that sends small, warm ripples through me, which, again, isn’t all too different from an ordinary hoof massage. But of course, this has undertones that can’t be ignored, and I find myself slowly falling back into the swing of things the longer I’m allowed to assess how I feel.

“I think it does, actually,” I muse aloud, almost absentmindedly as I rest my head on the carpet and stare at the ceiling. “But, uh… don’t take my word for it. I think it’s better after you’ve had a foal, and they’re bigger, and your brain decides to make them sensitive, or whatever.”

“Heh.” He continues kneading, but less rigorous and more sensual, focussing on the mounds rather than the tops. “Not unlike women, then, or so I hear.”

I snort. “Yeah, I don’t need to know what it’s like for females on the other side.”

“Jealous?”

I shake my head gently. “I just don’t want to risk ruining the mood.”

“Fair,” he hums. “By the way, remember what I said about perfect size?”

“Yeah?”

“They feel pretty nice too.”

“Oh.” I quirk an eyebrow and look at him. “You think?”

“Absolutely.” He presses down on them and slowly rubs back and forth, which somehow elicits a short, sharp, surprised grunt from me that soon ebbs away into the lapping of pleasurable waves. “Firm, with just the right amount of give — not too hot, not too cold. You’ve struck a balance, Fleetybee. You shouldn’t squander such a gift.”

“Squander?” I scoff, then giggle as I bring the back of a hoof up to my forehead. “Oh my stars, Philip, you sure have a way with words, don’t you? And just who am I supposed to share this ‘gift’ with, anyway?”

“Someone who’d appreciate it, naturally.” He stops his ministrations and leans over with a knowing smirk. “En otras palabras, yo, mi amor.”

“Don’t speak foreign,” I playfully scold, swatting him away by lightly tapping him on the head. “You know I don’t understand a word of it.”

“You don’t need to understand to know what it means.”

I narrow my eyes at him and smile. “No,” I hum. “I suppose I don’t.”

He does the same and holds my gaze tenderly.

But I haven’t forgotten what we’re supposed to be doing. As much as I enjoy talking with him, we’ve never come this far before — intentionally, I must unfortunately remind myself — and this is one gift I definitely don’t want to squander. “Do you plan on going any further, or…?”

That snaps him out of it. “Right, right,” he says, nodding, shifting his attention to his hands, which he then promptly slides back into the crevices of my thighs and rubs up and down, generating more warmth as my teats return to their original shape.

I think I’m already regretting telling him to get on with it, what with the air cooling off warm flesh.

“Well, so far, so good. I’m liking what I’m seeing.” His gaze drifts a tad lower, and I see his smile fall somewhat. “Now, it’s the moment of truth.”

“Do it.”

He stops and looks at me again, surprised. “What?”

“Yeah, do it,” I say with a casual tone and a limp, nonchalant wave of my hoof; my wings aren’t entirely stiff just yet, but they certainly can’t bend that far anymore. “What can I say? You’ve put me in a good mood. Go on, rip that sucker off. No time like the present, right?”

He lingers on me, still stunned, then shares his expression with my covered nether regions. “No time like the present,” he echoes to himself, then huffs a laugh as he carefully loops his fingers around the elastic straps on either thigh. “Ain’t that a way of saying it?”

I choose not to comment, preferring instead to relish the feeling of his trimmed nails raking soft trails through my fur, and the muted relief of my own panties coming loose. And I do my best not to think too deeply on what exactly is happening, and just accept it as we go; he’s going to see me, all of me, and he’ll make a judgement — I can’t control that, only my reaction.

I am in control.

“Ooh,” he quietly exclaims, halting and glancing up at me. “You, uh… got a little excited, I see.”

I snort and peer at him from the corner of a narrowed eye, smirking. “Are you saying I’m wet?”

He pauses, trying to mask his small sense of hesitation behind that old stoic mask. “Yeah.”

I snort again and gently roll my eyes as I twirl a limp hoof in the air. “Whoop-dee-doo, Philip. That’s what happens with ten minutes of foreplay. It’s not that big a deal, really — same as every other mare, and I bet more than a few of your women too.”

He blinks. “Well, yeah, but…” he drifts off, his gaze growing distant, then sighs and shakes his head, resuming his efforts, though his eyes stay locked with mine. “Never mind. But what was that you said about not wanting to ruin the moment with tales from the other side?”

“Hey.” I point a hoof at him. “Do as I say, not as I do.”

“Oh, wow, quality leadership material, Fleet — ten out of ten.” He chuckles, threading the left loop around the respective rear hoof, where it then comes free and dangles from the other, my hindlegs finally able to relax and spread. He continues smiling for a short while, but the second he sees what lies between them, beneath my tail — or in this case, above — it gradually shrinks, his lips creeping apart, his eyes widening like Soarin’s in a bakery.

The reticent part of me wants me to hide. The romantic part of me says I should be blushing like crazy, and my heart should be racing faster than a charging locomotive, or an intense workout routine with a livid Spitfire at the helm… or when he says he loves me — that this should be a special, memorable occasion. But this new Fleetfoot that’s taken over isn’t having any of it. She hears their advice, she smiles and nods, and quietly disposes of all their suggestions in the nearby shredder, and she tells me to put on more of a display and see what reaction that gets out of him.

So, I do exactly that, lifting my legs and wiggling my rear end from side to side as my tail swishes back and forth — small, subtle motions, because sometimes in show business, less is more. “Like what you see, big guy?” I hoarsely enquire, smirking and quirking an eyebrow for emphasis.

A throaty, barely conscious groan is his only response, and he seems to shudder with it.

Weird thing about me: even when I was in the dating game before I joined the reserves, I was never much of a tease, so where this side of me came from, I have no freaking idea. But I’m loving it, so I’m not questioning it, and I can’t deny how satisfying it is to see him get so weak in the knees at something so simple as the mere sight of me. It makes me feel… strangely excited, and I force myself to stifle a giddy squeak.

“Whoa!”

I snap my focus to him, ears at full-mast, shedding the tension from my hinquarters as I prop myself up on an elbow, hoping to see him without obstruction. “What?” I ask with a sense of urgency, the back of my neck tingling with a sudden chill, telling me to be ready for anything.

He looks at me, somewhat shocked, but not exactly horrified. “Did you just…?”

My brows crease and I glance to the right, the tingle lessening, but still there. “Did I just what, Philip?” I query calmly. Surely he doesn’t expect me to know everything that’s going through his head.

He peers down again, searching for whatever ghost had spooked him — which, in immediate retrospect, makes me sound far older than I actually am. But then his eyes widen once more and he moves to point at it, though his hand doesn’t make it all the way. “There!” he exclaims, but it lacks any real alarm behind it. “It… Your thing, it… it just popped out for, like, less than a second.”

I blink, my brows rising, then the realisation dawns on me. “Oh, you mean clitoral winking?”

He blinks as well. Several times. Erratically. And he can’t decide whether to look at me or my nethers, which I can now feel is definitely flexing and relaxing every few seconds. I can’t normally control it unless I consciously think about holding it closed, but considering the look he’s giving both me and it, I’m not sure I want to.

“Winking?” he echoes vacantly, settling on me for the time being.

“Yeah.” I prop myself up even further by adding a second elbow, looking down at myself and the very subtle bend and release of the small region at the very end of my groin. It’s easy to ignore if your mind is on something else, but every pulse comes with a soft, pleasant itch, like somepony is tickling the very tips of their feathers up and into my core. And I’ll admit… seeing myself like this is kind of amusing. And erotic. Funny how arousal tends to feed off itself. “That’s how you know when a mare’s turned on. Or when she’s recently taken a piss. No biggie.”

“No biggie?” he repeats absentmindedly, then meets my eyes once more with a look of disbelief. “No biggie?”

I quirk an eyebrow, and my hindlegs and tail pull in a touch. “Is that bad?”

His mouth hangs open, seemingly lost for words, but it slowly closes as his attention drifts down my body to my nethers once again, almost with a sense of veneration. His eyes remain wide as ever, but clearly hesitant, as if what he wants to say can’t get past a lump in his throat. But, resting on his knees and heels, he bows forward a little way and reaches out, laying palm on the inner cheek of my rump, his fingers limply resting on the inner thigh.

My lower half begins to relax, and I splay my hindlegs a little more, just in case that’s what he’s after. My entrance twitches, and I suddenly become distinctly aware of how warm it is compared to the air, and how even the faintest draft from his quiet, humid breathing sends a cool shiver up and into my withers.

The other hand glides forward and finds its place on the other cheek, but more towards the croup, as if he’s trying to lift me up, or at least support the weight of my rear. The first, however, slides lower, closer, and its thumb gently pushes into the thin covering of fuzz just beside my cooch, and carefully teases it open.

A heat rises in my cheeks as I pucker my lips and do my best to muffle a short, sharp, thrilled grunt. My wings and tail strain to hike themselves higher into the carpet beneath us.

He holds it open, then lets it slide into its original position, then repeats the process a number of times over, always huffing a low, heated breath whenever it winks at him. But then his hand wanders even closer, and his thumb places itself at the very bottom, and then slowly drags itself upward in a firm yet tender motion, digging into the flesh a little way, taking some moisture with it.

I close my eyes and let my head lull back as a long, ragged moan escapes me, a pleasant shudder rumbling up from between my legs to my core, and then to my every extremity, even to my wingtips. Of course I’d anticipated I’d get some satisfaction out of this, but I didn’t think it would feel this raw. Hooves, feathers and the occasional inanimate object have done the job before, but there’s something inherently special about having him do the honours, and it’s getting me exceptionally hot under the collar.

It continues on its way, rubbing along the passage, and then in circles around and lightly pushing into my winking bean, which only makes my hindlegs fidget and tail swish all the harder, and I find it more difficult to keep my moaning to myself. But after a few long, blissful seconds, he takes his hand away, leaving me to ride out the bubbling waves of ecstasy. “Oh my god…” he murmurs in awe.

“Mm,” I hum, peering at him through narrowed eyes and a flustered smirk, my cheeks, ears and even the base of my wings burning with a passion I’ve not felt in years — almost two decades. “You can say that again.”

He watches his hand closely and with a sense of bewilderment, trying and largely succeeding to keep it from shivering uncontrollably. He dabs his thumb against rigid fingers, and seems taken even further aback when a string of fluids forms. “Oh my fucking god…”

I chuckle. “That’s the spirit.”

He looks up to me, apparently somewhat surprised to be reminded that I exist, but then swallows his shock and clears his throat, shaking his head. “No, no, you don’t understand, Fleet,” he says almost pleadingly, his chest practically heaving with every breath. “This shouldn’t be happening.”

“And what’s that?” I query evocatively, my unflappable charade faltering as I briefly glance down at myself, the thought of picking up where he left off crossing my mind for a fleeting moment.

His brows harden, not in offence or disgust or anything like that, but in an expression that says he thinks the answer should be obvious to anyone with half a brain cell. “Fleet…” he starts, lingering on me, then casting his gaze southward, the hand still on my rump finding a stronger grip, “I want to bury my face in you.”

I shut my mouth and draw my head back, my own brows rising and my wings and tail desperate to stand ramrod straight, and still finding the floor in their way. It’s almost painful, actually, and so is the blush raging in my cheeks and ears — any sweat seeping through my fur might well evaporate before it can dampen.

“I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t had a chance like this in years, or because I legitimately like what I see, but…” He vacantly shakes his head again, then switches focus to me, eyes awash a lustful hunger. “I’m sorry if I’m being blunt, Fleet, but I have to say it: you look absolutely delicious right now.”

A heated breath of my own escapes me, and I swear, if you put an icepack anywhere on my body, it would melt within seconds. I think I’ll need an extra cold shower after this.

Once more, he shakes his head. “I really don’t know how to deal with this.”

Through the haze of hot-blooded emotion, a thought makes itself known, and before I can think it through properly, a smirk playfully snakes across my lips. “Well, there’s one way…”

He snaps to me and shakes his head with even more vigor, huffing another throaty groan. “Oh, no, don’t you dare do that to me, Fleet. I am this close to motorboating you on a whim, and I can make exactly zero guarantees on stopping there.”

And, oh, how tempted I am to encourage him. But I’m still conscious enough that I remember why he’s restraining himself, and why I’d given him that order to begin with; no regrets, and as fun as an impromptu romp may be, neither of us can be sure.

Stars, I’m openly thinking about it now.

I’d better nip this weed before it sprouts too far.

“Well then, I guess that means my turn is over.”

The excitement in him fades, replaced by blinking confusion. “Your turn?”

“Yeah, my turn.” I roll over onto my side and reach down, threading my left hindleg through the loop of my underwear and pulling them up. That makes me cringe and scrunch my muzzle, knowing they’re at least partially moist, but what else am I supposed to do? Where else am I supposed to store them?

With that embarrassing task finished, and my now meagre sense of pride besmirched, I heave myself up onto my haunches and scoot back a little, facing him. I straighten my skirt, and try to recompose myself, though my wings and tail ache with how they’re finally able to go as high as they like.

“You still need to show me yours.”

He blinks again. “Oh, right.” Sparing a glance at his hand, still sporting the wetness, he rubs his fingers and thumb together rigorously to dry them out, then wipes his palm on the leg of his denim shorts and gets into a more comfortable position. And he sits there, staring at the floor, quietly drumming his digits as he slowly glances left to right. “So, uh… how do you want me to do this?”

I shrug; my tail swishes. “How do you want to do this?”

He pauses, gazing down at himself. “I guess I could start with the shirt…”

“Ooh.” I bring the edge of my hoof up to my mouth and angle my head, batting my eyelashes at him in a look that I hope is at least in some way evocative — I’m not that good at flirting, honestly. “Playing coy, are we?”

“Not coy, just…” He sighs, deflating, holding his thumb as he frowns and shrugs, unsure of himself. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just not used to being the centre of attention, or something. I mean, I’m not the one who’s beautiful, or has the most to lose, so…”

At first, I consider rebuking him for dealing out such a cheap compliment — surely he can do better than putting himself down so he can prop me up on a pedestal. But then the other half of that sentence registers, and I arch an eyebrow as my hoof returns to the shaggy carpet. “The most to lose?”

“Yeah.” He nods pensively. “Like, I know sex is fun for everyone, but… it’s risky too, especially for the girl. So, I figure it’s better if she knows how special she is, and that I’d never do anything she doesn’t ask for, and… you know. I don’t like making things about me, in this context — about how strong and manly I am, and how I’m going to—”

“Philip…” I interrupt, lifting the same hoof and lowering my gaze, smiling a small, empathetic smile, as much to myself as to him, “that’s sweet of you, really. But you’re overthinking it.”

He watches me carefully, and questions disbelievingly, “Am I?”

“You are.” I share that smile with him directly, brows upturned. “First of all, we literally can’t have kids together, so if that’s what you’re scared of, you shouldn’t be. I mean, I don’t like thinking about it either, but that’s a fact. Secondly… I think it’s safe to say we know each other well enough that we’d never do something either of us aren’t comfortable with. We’ve made mistakes, and we’ve learned from them. Or so I’d like to think. And thirdly…”

He waits patiently. Anxiously. Perhaps a little eagerly.

I carefully shuffle toward him, hunched over as I don’t quite leave my sitting posture, coming to a rest on my haunches just before his knees, laying a hoof on his left. At our current heights, I’m taller than he is by at least half a head, and I take a long moment to fully appreciate the fact that I don’t have to look up to him for the time being. That is, until I stop watching myself trace tiny circles in his thigh with the flat of my hoof, and meet his gaze yearningly. “I need this,” I say plainly, “because when we eventually take it that far… I don’t want anything holding us back. And… who knows? Maybe I’ll like what I see too.”

His face, already flush with everything we’ve been doing, everything we’ve been saying for the past twenty minutes, seems to grow even more crimson.

A sense of pride hits me, but I don’t let my smile go too much wider — that might make him even more self-conscious than he is already. What I do instead is lean in and press my lips to his, eyes narrowing in the way they do when something heartwarming happens, and hold his gaze for as long as I hold the kiss. And even when I pull back and slide my hoof up to the hem of his polo, I never blink or look away, not even for an instant. And I never stop smiling. “Do you need some help with this?”

“I love you,” he murmurs, mesmerised, softly shaking his head. “So, so much.”

…Okay, that draws a smirk out of me, and threatens to send my heart aflutter. “I’ll take that as a yes,” I softly say, hooking the edge of my hoof underneath and lifting it so that some bare skin shows.

Without changing his expression or breaking eye contact, he seems to take the hint, reaching and pulling the collar up, around and over his head, quickly followed by the rest, which he lets fall by his side.

And what I see is…

Foreign.

That’s the best way I can describe it, really; it doesn’t immediately strike me as something I should be drooling over, but it isn’t something I can tear myself away from either.

I’ve never seen bare skin before. Not to this degree. A few pathetic wisps of hair in the centre of his chest — so sparse that I could probably count them if I had the patience for it — and a darker patch toward the waistline, leading away from a noticeably more distinct navel than mine, but that’s about it. The barrel isn’t something you pay too much attention to in a pony, stallion or mare, so I’m not exactly sure what to look for, if anything, but it’s clear that he isn’t nearly as muscular as he could be. Not to say that he’s fat or flabby — perfectly fit, I’m quite certain — but if the vast majority of minotaurs are anything to go by…

It’s fine, though. He takes care of himself, just not to the same level an athlete would.

There are, however, two very obvious features I hadn’t expected to find. “Oh,” I remark quite ineffectually, blinking and drawing my head back just a touch. “You have… teats of your own?”

“Huh?” He blinks in turn with a similarly stunned look, then casts his gaze downward. “Uh… yeah, I guess. I mean, not the whole shebang, but they’re there.”

I frown at him, confused.

He meets my eyes and rolls his own. “All humans start off as female, and as they develop, they become… less so. But some things don’t go away by the time a boy is born. Nipples are the most obvious.”

“Do they work?”

“No. You get stories here and there about men ‘producing’ under high stress situations, but I’ve thankfully never been one of them. Not that I mean to shame anyone who has — it just requires, like, a very specific set of circumstances.” He shrugs and looks away, gripping his thumb tightly. “Sorry.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “What for?”

“Lecturing. Rambling. Making everything weirder than it needs to be.”

“Weirder?” I cock and shake my head, smirking as I narrow my eyes and huff a short, quiet laugh. “Philip, this whole thing is strange, sure, but… all you’re doing is telling me about yourself. Not just you but everypony like you. That’s not weird.”

“There’s a difference between opening up and too much information.”

“And I decide where to draw the line.” I put a hoof on his chest, and through all the flesh and bone in the way, I feel how hard his heart is beating; he’s more anxious than he’s letting on. “I’m a big girl, okay? I’m here for you. And I want to know everything about you, because you’re the one I’ve fallen for. Hopelessly. And nothing you could do or say right now is going to change that.”

He peers at me from the corner of his eye, turning his head toward me somewhat. He’s uncertain, to be sure, but the thankful glint of appreciation shines through.

“This isn’t bad.” I tap out the words for emphasis. “I’m not ashamed to like this. You shouldn’t be ashamed to be yourself either. And I’m not afraid to…”

He arches an eyebrow, as hopeful as he is anxious.

I linger on him, searching for the words to broker a diplomatic solution, but find myself coming up short. “Screw it,” I mutter with a sigh, curving my attention to the lone button and zipper of his pants, which I reach for and fumble with using my hooves; wings would be ideal, but seeing as they’re still stiff enough that they can’t bend much lower than a flat angle, my options are limited, and I’m not about to rip into his shorts with my teeth like some lust-driven beast. I have standards, and too much respect for clothes.

He reacts quickly, jabbering something incoherent that sounds partway between a shocked gasp and a panicked hiss, pushing my hooves off and pinning them to the floor. He stares at me with yet another pair of wide eyes — I’ve lost count of how many I’ve seen by now — and an expression I can only guess at.

Naturally, I begin worrying that I presumed too much and crossed an actual line — pushed him to a limit he isn’t yet comfortable with, and might never be.

But then, slowly, the look he wears softens, and the tense air between us dissipates, replaced by something far more welcome: understanding. We’d been treading the same relative ground for who knows how long by this point, and I’d decided to push things along, because what’s the use of stating the obvious again and again?

He looks at himself and pulls his hands away, undoing the button, unzipping the zipper, edging his shorts down at the hips so that I can see his briefs more clearly, and so he has more room to work with. And then, after hooking his thumbs under the elastic waistband and taking a few long, calming breaths, he finally reveals what he’s been hiding this whole time.

Of course, it doesn’t pop out exactly as planned and he has to fiddle with the undercarriage a little to make sure it all hangs comfortably in the open, but at long last… there it is.

A penis.

The unfamiliar, but at the same time patently recognisable silhouette of an erect phallus.

…I genuinely don’t know if I expected anything different.

The dark hair from above descends and congregates around its base, longer and more wiry, and honestly, extremely unkempt; I’m no expert, but if what I’m seeing is all natural, then the southern situation has been left to its own devices for a very long time, if he’s ever groomed himself down there before. In fact, I think it’s drawing my focus more than the ‘goods’ themselves.

I shouldn’t be off-put. I shouldn’t be repulsed.

Part of me can’t help wanting to cringe.

I desperately try to resist it.

All dicks are weird, when you really get down to it: they’re relatively narrow, floppy sacks of meat and blood, and when you jiggle them around too much, something you seriously don’t want getting in your eye comes out. Some are short, some are long, some are bland and some are mottled, and this one isn’t any different. It’s just… shaggier.

And covered in thin veins of blue and red.

And it bends a little to the left.

But I can’t just say all that to his face. There has to be something else — something we can both relate to, in a sense. So, I clear my throat and glance up at him with an expression that I hope is neutral. “Well, uh… you’re missing a sheath.”

“A what?”

“A sheath,” I repeat, then make a vague gesture with my hooves to demonstrate. “You know, the… skin pouch it stays in when you’re not… at attention.”

“Oh.” He blinks, puzzled for a moment, then shakes his head. “No, I don’t have one. When it isn’t up like this, it just… dangles. Which I guess is another reason why clothing is more of a necessity for us — being a biped without a whole heap of fuzz, these things are pretty obvious. But I do have my foreskin.”

“Your what?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but then puckers his lips and sighs through his nose, cautiously reaching a hand for the slight, tapering bulge at the tip and pulling it towards him. However, instead of the whole length coming with, only the short, fleshy extrusion at the very end rolls back, and unfurls like a blooming rose.

My eyes widen. Whether in revulsion, morbid curiosity or, stars forbid, actual fascination, I really wish I could tell. But then again, perhaps it’s better that I can’t.

It continues expanding, revealing more and more of a darker, redder, quite literally more alien interior, until I realise there’s something glistening in the light.

Fluid.

A bulbous, wobbling mass that soon starts threatening to spill over, but Philip notices just in time and quickly yanks everything back up and holds it as straight as possible, pinching the tip to seal it all shut. Some of it has escaped, though, and slickened his finger. “Shit! I’m… I’m so sorry, Fleet!” he hurriedly apologises, less of a shout and more of a startled cry, sharing a horrified look with me. “I didn’t know I… I mean…”

I continue staring — gawking, in fact, wings and tail suddenly feeling a whole lot harder to keep under control, despite how consciously conflicted I am. It appears my body thinks it knows better.

But regardless of what instincts say and how dumb they are, I do my best to recompose myself once more; he’s counting on me for support, and no matter what, I can’t abandon him in his time of need. Not again. Even for something as… questionable as this.

“You shouldn’t have had to see—”

“Philip,” I interrupt, stern but calm, “it’s okay. I got turned on by you, you got turned on by me. It’s… normal. You know, for what counts as normal anymore.”

He looks at me hesitantly, part of him clearly not wanting to believe me, but eventually nods, if a little rigidly. “Right, right,” he mumbles, returning his attention to himself. “Right, right, right…”

If I weren’t so concerned for his wellbeing and general sanity, I might find his reaction adorable in its own way — I wasn’t nearly so rattled as he was when showing myself off, after all. But can’t afford to make it seem like I don’t think his worries aren’t justified, or that I’m belittling him. Surprisingly, our roles have reversed, and I need to be the supportive one.

Can’t crack a joke, though — that’s too obnoxious. Better, I suppose, to divert this conversation onto a more manageable topic.

I clear my throat again. “So, that’s what a foreskin is?” I query, trying to sound as plain and straightforward as I’m able. “Like, a mini sheath for the tip?”

He switches focus to me for a moment, but by the time it once more drifts lower, I spy a glint of relief in his eyes. “The glans,” he corrects, his tone slightly more stable. “And yeah, I guess. I take it stallions don’t have the same structure, huh?”

“No.” I shake my head, relievedly sighing to myself that I appear to have made the right call. “Stallions are bigger, if you don’t mind me saying. And longer.”

Philip snorts and smirks unevenly. “Figures.”

I cock an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

He shrugs. “Bulkier bodies, bulkier… equipment.”

I snort as well, which morphs into an awkward chuckle — more because of the situation than any actual embarrassment. “Yeah, I guess. They also have flares at the end, which are like your glans, but wider, and flatter. And shaped more like a disk.”

His brows crease, and his nose and upper lip wrinkle a little, partway between confusion and what seems to be an unwanted sense of distaste; he wants to be as tolerant as I’ve been. Or at least had the mind to keep any gripes to myself. “Not sure I follow.”

Thing is, I’m not the one at risk of being offended. He really does think too much, sometimes. “Look it up in a book, if you’re brave enough,” I suggest with a casual shrug. “Or ask Phalanx or Ironside — I’m sure they’d be happy to educate you.”

His stomach contracts and his whole chest heaves with the force of a loud, heartfelt, probably somewhat nervous laugh. A uniquely intriguing sight, since most ponies’ fur keeps their muscles hidden. “Okay, they’re close,” he says, holding his free hand up to me, “but they’re not that close.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

And now he almost doubles over, shaking his head. “You wish, Fleetybee. You wish. Three big, strong, handsome males just for you, is that right?”

“Well, I don’t know about handsome…”

He smiles, lowering his gaze and letting his giggles eventually fade.

I wait for them to fade away too, staring at the wrinkled, moist piece of flesh cinched between his thumb and finger, but hopefully not in a way that makes me appear judgemental, because that’s not what I’m going for. I’m merely curious. “So…”

He returns to me, then angles his head and raises an eyebrow. “So…?”

I don’t answer for a long moment, wondering if I’m being too analytical for our own good. But with a mental shrug, I meet his gaze. “Does it serve any purpose, or is it just… there, like your, uh…” I gesture to the two small, slightly darker protrusions of skin on his chest. “Them.”

Philip blinks, furrowing his brows, then looks down at himself again. “Not really,” he says, not sounding entirely confident with his response. “I mean, the most it does is just keep the glans from getting desensitised, but a lot of guys go just fine without it.”

My own brows furrow, and I cock my head. “How do you mean?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, then looks off to the right and grits his teeth behind puckered lips, shifting his weight uncomfortably and sitting a little straighter. “Well, they… have it cut off.”

This time, I blink, and my jaw drops as I almost entirely yank myself away from him to all four hooves, wings now standing tall and tense out of shock more than anything. “They what?”

“Yep.” His eyes snap to mine and he bows his head toward me in a single, awkward nod. “Some parents, when they’ve had a baby boy… decide to have him clipped.”

“Why?”

He pauses. And then he shrugs. “Nowadays? Tradition, and a marginal decrease to the likelihood of infection. As for how it started? Simple: the misguided belief that cutting it off would keep little boys from playing with their no-no bits.”

Absolute bewilderment doesn’t even begin to describe my state of mind at this very moment, but it’s as close to anything in our bizarrely shared language as I think I’ll get. In all my years of learning about other nations, their cultures, their histories, as well as that of all the disparate provinces and peculiar vistas within Equestria itself, I’ve never, ever heard of anything quite like this. Body modification and scarring isn’t uncommon in some of the more isolated and trabalistic regions in the world, and heck, plastic surgery is becoming more mainstream among the aging elite of the big cities, but…

I’ve been taught and reminded every day abroad to always be respectful of other civilisations and their customs and beliefs, lest I beget an international crisis, but this just seems downright wrong to me. And what confounds me even more is that I’m getting offended on his behalf, and he’s made it clear enough that he doesn’t consider it that big of a deal. Why, then, am I taking it so personally?

…It’s because I’m his girlfriend, isn’t it?

Maybe it isn’t, but it’s a good a reason as any, and I can’t bring myself to think too much on it.

I sigh heavily and lightly shake my head. “Philip, I swear… I really don’t think I’ll ever understand some of the stuff you humans do.”

“Yeah. We’re a stubborn lot, aren’t we?”

Stubborn is definitely one word for it, though if life has taught me anything, it’s that you can’t easily judge a creature by what they are, only who. And I need a way to take my mind off what we’d just been discussing. But of course, that’s next to impossible now that I’ve made it my current goal. So, I decide to ask something that’s related to it, but would hopefully lead to a less disturbing subject — an unsavoury topic is always better than an unpleasant one. “And it’s all to stop you… pleasuring yourself?”

“Originally.”

“…So then, have you?”

His brows crease, uncertain. “Have I… what?”

I bob my head from side to side glancing down at him meaningfully. “You know…”

His eyes widen, and all the blood that seemed to be slowly draining from his cheeks suddenly returns with a vengeance. “Oh, wow,” he croakily exclaims. “You seriously want to know?”

I shrug. Anything’s better than whatever came before, and he already knows I’m not impartial to a little time for myself. I’m sure I know the answer — he’s a lost, lonely soul searching for love, after all — but we may as well air out all our dirty laundry. No secrets, no surprises, all that bollocks.

He lingers on me, his expression becoming less shocked and flushed and more hesitant, turning away again in search of something that isn’t me. Until, of course, he settles on the ukulele just out of reach behind me, where he lets a long, heavy breath go, and appears to grow more at peace with himself. “Honestly? No, not once. I mean, I’ve thought about it, yeah, but… all this time, I’ve been staying at places that weren’t mine, or I wasn’t really in the mood to… do that kind of thing.”

…Okay, that makes sense, but was also not what I’d expected. And what makes a new warmth rise within my cheeks, ears and stiffening wings is another new revelation. “So, you’re telling me that…”

“Aside from the one time that absolutely nothing happened — wink-wink, nudge-nudge, kick my shin under the table — yeah, I’ve… been clean for about two years now.”

I stare at him, flabbergasted. I don’t mean to boast, especially over something so petty, but I don’t think it would be unfair to say I have a fairly high constitution when it comes to self-control. But even then… that’s hard to imagine, and he’d literally have no reason to make a claim like that unless he actively wanted me to feel extremely awkward. And I do.

But I also don’t.

And surprisingly, the rotten feeling isn’t there anymore.

I know it should be there — this is the perfect time for it to wrap its creeping, festering tendrils around my stomach and heart and all the other things I feel with and make them putrid. But it doesn’t come. And I don’t know what that means, and whether it’s a good thing, or a bad thing, or anything.

I’m the only release he’s had for the past two years, and even while we’ve been dating, he stuck it out. And I don’t want to like it — there shouldn’t be anything I should be proud of regarding that.

But the heat in my body tells a very different story.

“I… don’t know what to say, Philip.”

“Then don’t,” he implores. “Say something else, like… what you think. Of me. Of… this.”

What can I do but continue staring, lost for words and struggling to find the wherewithal for even a single breath?

“Well?”

I blink, then look down.

It’s definitely softened a considerable amount since he started squeezing the head — now it looks like a small, limp sausage in his hand, which only serves to emphasise the hairiness around its base, and of the fleshy sack below it. He’d never be able to hold a candle up to an actual stallion in either department — a few unfortunate encounters in the Academy showers have made sure I know that well enough — and I’m sure quite a few older colts would put him to shame too. Frankly speaking.

The facts are rarely so pretty as we imagine them.

But kneeling before me is the one I love, and what he’s holding is also a part of him. Love takes compromise, and I’m sure, in time, I’ll come to appreciate him in his entirety — head, shoulders, knees and toes, and every point in between.

I give him a heartening smile, brows knitting together in an expression of deepest caring.

“I think—”

And then there’s a knock on the door.

Everything stiffens, freezing with a sudden chill as icicles stab into me from all sides — the back of my neck, between my wings, under my ribs and into my barrel, straight down my spine. My tail and ears clamp down tighter and faster than I’ve ever known them capable, and all the colour must surely be draining from my face as I now look at Philip in abject horror.

He holds my gaze with a similarly mortified expression, and then crams his junk inside his briefs and buttons his pants in a silent, blindingly fast panic and scrambles to get his shirt back on as he stumbles to his feet. “Who is it?!” he cries, voice cracking.

“A friend,” comes Ironside’s somewhat muffled reply. “I return bearing a successful day’s hunt, as requested — spoils of war from the grocery store. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Along with the chill comes another sense of fear, and I snap to Philip with a pleading look, only to quickly realise that he’d have no reason to refuse that wouldn’t sound suspicious. Instead, I frantically scan the room for something, anything with which I could hide the two very obvious feathery protrusions that simply refuse to lower any further than a few conservative inches.

“Uh… no, no you’re not,” Philip answers, trying and successfully keeping the uncertainty from his tone. Mostly. “I-I’ll be there in just a sec.”

The bathroom, perhaps? Do I have time? I could force myself to go for a piss, maybe, but I can’t guarantee they’ll have slacked by the time I finish, and a shower might be a little suspicious; why on Earth bathe at a time like this, when there’s nothing that could’ve possibly spilled on me, and saying that I was sweaty would imply that I’d been exercising. And considering Philip and I had been alone together in here for quite some time… that would only beg the question of what kind of exercise I’d been doing, exactly. That we’d been doing.

Merciful Sisters, the implications…

Philip, playing his part as convincingly as he can, strides for the door and waits by it, watching me closely and silently urging me to hurry as he pretends to fiddle with the chain and latch.

I can’t fly away either, not with wings like these. The best I can do is a pretty solid impression of a rock.

As risky as it is, and as dreadful as it makes me feel, I think the only realistic option is to just stay here and act like nothing is out of the ordinary. It isn’t unheard of, wings flaring against their owner’s will, and I’m certain that Ironside, being a pegasus himself, would at least be somewhat sympathetic — surely he’s been in that kind of situation before.

Getting my tail under control is easy enough — the time for it to hike has long since passed — and I hurriedly search for something to do, to pass the time, while all of this is going down. I can’t play the ukulele with my mind swimming like this, so my attention falls on the next best thing, and I dart over to the DVD cabinet beneath the flatscreen and pull open one of the drawers; it’s a simple idea, and it would give me something else I can focus on, hopefully so that my wings will lose their tension all the faster.

I give Philip a chary nod.

He nods in turn, then opens the door and steps aside. “Hey, Big Iron. You got everything, right?”

“You doubt me, Philip?” Ironside queries as he strolls in, the canvas saddlebags over his armour packed with items that I remember Philip had ordered, but can’t list off the top of my head.

“Oh, no, of course not.” He shakes his head and puts his hands up in a pacifying gesture. “But we can’t be too careful, can we?”

Ironside snorts. “You’re learning.” He enters the combined space that is the lounge, dining room and kitchen, steering a course around the other side of the sofa. The sound of hooves on the varnished floorboards and the rustle of his armour fill the air, and make me realise how quiet the place would be without him — how much his presence sticks out.

I’ve never had an inspector of an important ongoing investigation knock on my door and ask to look around, but I imagine this wouldn’t be too far off from how it would feel: exposed and vulnerable, everything on display and susceptible to questioning.

And being a guard, it doesn’t take him long to notice me, craning his head from over the back of the couch and arching an eyebrow. Not that anypony with any semblance of intelligence couldn’t have picked my wings out from a mile away. “What’s up with you?” he questions impassively, almost like nothing was, indeed, out of the ordinary.

“Browsing,” I answer, perhaps a little too quickly, and perhaps a little too rigidly. Mum had learned to know when I was lying, and now I’m worried my familiarity with him and the other guards might just be my downfall. I turn away and start rummaging through the assortment of DVD cases for something, anything of interest. “We finished practice for the day, so now I’m searching for something to watch instead.”

“And your wings?”

“Oh.” I peer back at them and strain for them to bend, but they don’t make it very far. Further than what they did before, but not far enough. And it stings, forcing them to work against themselves. “Just… one of those days.”

“Ah, I see.” He nods, seemingly convinced, resuming course for the island counter in the kitchen, where heaps the saddlebags on the polished surface and unzips the flaps with his wingtips — flexibility I’m sorely missing right about now, quite literally. “Well, hopefully the snacks I’ve brought you both will help you take your mind off things.”

“Snacks?”

“Rainbow truffles,” he announces, retrieving a box and holding it up for me to see. “Imported from the famed chocolatiers of Caribousk. I hear they’re a favourite of yours.”

My eyes widen at him. He heard right, and the fact he’d go out of his way to pick up something extra just for me — for us…

“Aw, thanks, bud,” Philip gushes, calmly, casually approaching him and the shopping supplies.

“Think nothing of it,” Ironside replies, holding a hoof up as he sets the box face-down on the counter. “I take my duties seriously, but that doesn’t mean I can’t pamper you from time to time.”

“Pamper,” Philip scoffs, chuckling as he turns one of the bags to face him and organises the groceries one by one. “Buying a little something on the side is hardly what I’d call pampering, Iron, but thanks anyway. And thanks for getting the stuff for the milkshakes.”

“So long as you share.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Good.” Ironside nods with a short hum of satisfaction. But then his ears perk up and his brows rise as a thought stikes him, and he shares his looks between the two of us. “Oh, and by the way, I have some news from Canterlot.”

I quirk an eyebrow.

Philip, on the other hoof, slows his efforts to a crawl and frowns warily. “What kind of news?”

“Not the kind you’re thinking of,” Ironside soothes, his face returning to the normally quite unflappable mask he wears — not unlike the stoic one Philip sometimes uses. “Do you remember Able?”

“Yeah?”

“Turns out, when he arrived at the station, he had some company.”

Philip blinks, surprised.

So do I. “Company?”

“Yes, indeed.” Ironside leans in a little way, as if he were whispering a secret, and though his expression never changes, it’s clear to both of us that there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Of the supposedly romantic variety.”

“No way.”

“Yes way. No one caught the name, as far as I can tell, but two things are for certain: she was a she, and she was a kirin.”

“A kirin?” I turn and face him more directly. “A different species?”

“Mm-hmm. Perhaps you two rubbed off on him.” The tiniest hint of a smirk tugs at his lips. “And come to think of it, I haven’t seen that waitress at the Lunar Bean for quite a while, so I think I’ll go asking around there next.”

“Well, I’ll be,” Philip says with a light chuckle, hands on his hips. “What an absolute mad lad.”

“I can’t say what’s become of them, and I don’t plan to speculate, but that’s my bit of gossip for the day.” Ironside pats the end of the counter and hops down, strolling around it and back for the door. “Anyway, I shouldn’t keep you two any longer. I’m sure you have more immediate concerns.”

“Alright, then.” Philip watches him as he goes, then waves a farewell once he reaches the entry. “You take care, Big Iron. And thanks again for the shopping.”

“No thanks required, sir, but you’re welcome all the same.” He bows his head to Philip, then looks to me. “And you have a good day too, ma’am.”

“Yeah,” I give him a quick, informal salute, “same.”

He snorts, pulling open the door again to exit, but stops and stares at the carpeted hallway outside absentmindedly. And I see, much to my confusion, a new, cheekier, far more obvious smirk sneaking its way across his muzzle, and the hint of a devious look in his eyes. “Oh, and Philip…” he beckons, slowly turning to face him.

Philip aches an eyebrow.

I feel a chill seep through my fur, like a cold, wet mist rolling up my back.

Ironside holds his gaze for a moment, then lowers his focus just a tad. “Your fly’s undone.”

A pit opens up inside of me, dreadful and horrifying like the gaping maw of a tatzelwurm.

“And you might want to open up a window — it’s getting a little musky in here.”

My tail tucks in, and so do my wings, suddenly lax enough that they can bend to just under a quarter of the way to their right and proper places at sides.

“Just be thankful I’m not Brave, because she would’ve had a field day with you. And I won’t be telling her about this either, just so you know, but… yeah. In the future, if you’d like some alone time, all you need to do is ask.” He bows again, to both of us, his smirk shirking into a small, almost kindly smile — almost, because he’s clearly still taking at least some pleasure in torturing us. “I wish the best for you, truly. Ta-ta.”

And then he disappears, the sound of the door closing and the rattle of its chain making his passage.

And we’re left alone — left to wallow in the fact that we’d been caught out, and now he’s thinking Celestia knows what about us.

I turn to Philip.

He turns to me.

Silence descends.

My wings can move again.

“I should probably go,” I murmur.

He doesn’t reply. I’ll take that as agreement.

I push the drawer closed and stand on all fours, walking over and retrieving my ukulele, cradling it in a foreleg, then going to my saddlebags on the peninsula of the L-shaped sofa. I slide it in, buckle up the flap, then sling the bags over the small of my back and tighten the strap around my waist. Ready as I’ll ever be, I finally pick up my purple shades and pop them on, then head for the sliding door to the balcony.

It started off good, turned into something better, but now our time together has run its course. And every damned time, there’s always something getting in the way. He’s said it before, and I know how right he is, that we could and should never expect the perfect romance. But no matter how hard I try to heed his words — advice I know to be true — I can’t help it.

I want a perfect little moment. A world where we can stay in it forever and ever.

A world of our own, and nopony else’s.

“Fleetfoot, wait.”

I slow to a halt, standing with a slump in my posture, turning to him a little way and looking at him from the corner of my eye.

He pauses for a beat, quietly looking me up and down, then blows a soft sigh through his nose and strolls toward me, lowering himself to a knee once he’s within reach.

Listlessly, I turn to face him.

He continues watching me closely for a few long moments, his expression ostensibly unreadable, but the air between us feels… empathetic. Caring. Sweet as maple syrup, though its taste has dulled with my admittedly sour mood. But then he smiles a small, tender smile, and reaches up and sets my shades in my mane, peering into my eyes.

The hole in my core doesn’t feel so massive anymore.

A hand cups my cheek, guiding my snout to meet his, our noses touching.

My chest is warming up. So are my cheeks.

His eyes glide shut, he leans in, and his lips press to mine.

I hum contentedly and lean in too, and the weight inside me and the world around us all seems to melt, washed away like sand on the beach, or dust in the wind.

A moment like this, blissful and harmonious. Perfection given form, wrapping me in silken sheets and making me feel lighter than the clouds themselves.

He pulls away, gentle, the faint sound of lips parting filling my ears.

I open my eyes again and peer into his.

His smile widens.

So does mine.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “For everything.” His voice is slow, and soft, and as tender as his touch. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed this.”

No, I don’t, and I don’t think I’ll ever know…

…And he’ll never know how much I need him.

He lets a quiet breath go, then nods to himself and stands, unlatching the door and sliding it open.

The cool air of an autumn breeze wafts through, and my feathers and fur bristle at its presence. It’s time for me to leave, and such sweet sorrow it is; a day of revelations come to a close, and for better or worse, we’ve crossed another threshold. And once I step outside, it’ll be like nothing ever happened.

The world will be as it was, unchanging and unfeeling.

But I’ll know. And I’ll savour what memories I can keep for myself.

I pass through the gateway, hooves transferring to wooden floorboards bleached by sun and rain, and as I take my place close to the railing, I look back — one last goodbye.

He leans against the frame with folded arms, watching me closely, even now, beaming with a smile that fills me with warmth, makes me wish for another hug. Another kiss. Another land where it’s just me and him, and if we have a minute for every hour wasted, we’d still be rich in time.

…Stars, I’m going to be a total, quivering mess when he sings for me.

I can’t wait.

With a brave smile of my own, I pull my shades back down and salute him, then vault over the railing and spread my wings, riding on the wind around the apartment complex and in the direction of home: west. There’s a rumbling in my core as loud as the rushing air, bubbling up and very nearly overwhelming me, my heart hammering, already begging for me to return. But the sun is setting on a golden sky, and I promised Spitfire I’d show up for work tomorrow. She can only go without a third in command for so long. I need my sleep.

But I won’t get any in the state that I am.

Only one thing for it.

I dip a little as I miss a rhythmic flap, a shuddered breath escaping me.

Bathtime is going to be fun tonight.

32 | One More Love Song

Birthdays.

I didn’t think it was possible to be this excited for one.

Well, maybe that’s not the right way of saying it — too extreme.

I didn’t think it was possible to be this keen for one.

That’s a step below excited, right?

Yeah, I think it is.

Merciful Sisters, my thirty-fourth. My second since he arrived, my first with him attending. Breaking it down into such simple figures really puts things into perspective, doesn’t it? Weird how time flies, and large stretches of it can be summed up so easily. It’s almost as if the past two years of twists and turns hadn’t happened, and we’d always been special someponies from the very start.

But I’m sure nopony can vouch that this is as far from where we imagined ourselves better than us, and all in the space of only two years. It gets even more ridiculous the more I think about it — how our stances on the matter of this relationship has changed so drastically, and all it took was a few hours in each other’s company mixed with some choice kind words. Stars above, that sounds pathetic; if that’s all romance requires, Soarin, Spitfire, or any other Wonderbolt should’ve won my affection long before now.

Maybe familiarity does breed contempt, in that you slowly grow oblivious to the opportunities around you, and all they entail. Not that I’ve been particularly eager to explore that avenue with my best friends, colleagues or superiors. And not that they, also largely focussed on their careers, have ever been particularly eager for it either.

That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate them, or have ever grown tired of their company.

In fact, this evening speaks volumes in favour of the opposite.

I lounge in a folding deckchair, the seat made from a striped, durable canvas, watching the sky as it slowly fades from blue to purple with the setting of the sun. No clouds out, and none on the horizon, so it’s just a flat gradient, and it is spectacular. If I let my mind wander, I can almost imagine I’m on the ceiling of the world looking down, and gravity is pulling me into the void that is the waking cosmos, which reveals itself with every new twinkling star.

I’ve stargazed before. Plenty of times. Sat myself on a cloud, lay on my back, hindlegs crossed and forehooves behind my head, and silently marvelled as the universe passed me by, wondering where my place is in the vast, rather aimless expanse we call life. Figured that if we thanked them for everything, then surely the stars would have the answers. The musings of a child who didn’t know any better, frankly, but I miss the sense of wonder. It was so easy to wow me back then, until I became a recruit. Kept up my cheery disposition, naturally, but I think being held back for what I felt was too long eventually turned me into something of a cynic; ponies are fickle creatures, like all other species, no more virtuous than the next.

But the past is the past, and I’m here in the present. No use brooding when things have worked out just fine in the end, and I’m among friends who care. And one of them… more than a friend.

The sound of conversation, laughter and singing muffles the portable stereo blasting Do It Again by The Beach Boys, which in turn drowns out the ebb and flow of lazy waves on the sand. The whole team — upwards of twenty, not counting the regular stand-ins who are also in attendance — sit in a semicircle of folding chairs of their own, all facing a blazing fire pit. I’m honestly quite surprised to have found one on the Fillydelphian shoreline, but when I heard it was available for hire from the city council, I instantly knew that this is where I wanted everything to go down. All I needed to do was book it and pay for guaranteed privacy.

It’s hard to tell where the smoothed sandstone ends and the beach itself begins if you aren’t putting your whole weight on it, but a few couples are trying their luck with a bipedal jive before the rest of the group; Rainbow and Surprise, Sun Chaser and Thunderlane. Wave Chill and Fire Streak, they’re doing their best to maintain footing, but it’s mainly for their enjoyment, not ours, so their dancing is noticeably less refined than I know it can be. Still, some clap and cheer, including Philip, who sits to my immediate left, joining in more out of politeness than an abundance of enthusiasm.

He’s looking pleasant tonight, dressed in a dark red shirt, his grey tartan hoodie, and flaxen cargo pants, freshly shaved and sporting a lighter version of the smile that gets me every time. For tonight, he’s forgone his sneakers, coming barefoot instead because he didn’t want to get sand in his socks and never commissioned a pair of sandals. And apparently the route from his apartment to here is short and clean enough that he doesn’t have to worry too much about something stabbing him in his fleshy soles.

I’ve seen his feet plenty of times before, but once I got it in my head that he’d been wearing his shoes for protection, not just aesthetics, I can’t help thinking about how fragile his toes seem, the curious little appendages. When I brought that up with him, he simply smirked and asked if I was developing some kind of hand and foot fetish, to which I naturally baulked and gave him a solid whack on the shoulder. He just laughed, and I smiled, and we kissed, and we hugged, and we ended our time together with a mutual massage session, which only seemed to bolster his conviction that I’m developing an obsession.

Cheeky bastard.

But that was yesterday. Now, he’s holding a plastic cup of apple juice, same as me, and we and everypony else are enjoying the warmth of the fire against the cool of the vanishing sun. I myself have elected to wear a silvery singlet and white shorts, as well as my golden bracelet, and that necklace Spitfire bought me from yet another day I’d rather forget.

Still haven’t talked with my parents since then. I’m not sure who owes who an apology, and whether whoever it is should be the one to call first.

I sip my juice to wash the thoughts away. This isn't the time for that; I’m here to enjoy myself. It’s my birthday! The one day of the year everypony who cares about you is obligated to stop what they’re doing, silence any criticisms, and coddle you until the morning comes, all because you had the luck of being shoved out your mother’s snatch, or cut out from her belly. A blunt way of putting things, but for as much crap as I give Soarin, I’m not all that tactful either. I don’t think so, anyhow.

Another sip, and I look to the dancers again. The song is wrapping up, and Wave and Fire have already broken apart in a laughing fit, returning to their hooves and watching the remaining two couples, whose efforts fade out in time with the music. This is met with another cheer and a round of applause as they all then stroll and trot back to their places or to mingle with the other guests.

A moment of levity. I bump hooves with Rainbow as she passes and give her an approving nod. The scamp would never boast about it, but aerial acrobatics isn’t all too unlike dancing, and some of her natural talent is obviously bleeding over — she wasn’t even trying, and she was clearly best of the lot.

Spitfire follows them as she claps, and their path brings her attention to myself and Philip, and her expression goes from encouraging to knowing. “So,” she says, leaning forward to continue a conversation she’d previously put on pause, “what is it?”

I turn to Philip.

He holds her gaze for a short while, then purses his lips and looks to the stars in thought.

Soarin, by Spitfire’s side, perks his ears in Philip’s direction, soon followed by his eyes, and the interest of several others. This is only the second time many of them have had the opportunity to get to know the alien who did the impossible: lull this girl down from the comfortable nest she’d built for herself and win her heart through the power of pretty words.

“Toilets,” he answers vaguely, then nods to himself and returns to Spitfire with a genial smile. “Yeah, toilets are the weirdest similarity, I reckon.”

I groan and roll my eyes.

Spitfire laughs, and so does Soarin and a few others. “Oh my stars, really?”

“Yep.” He nods, sitting back and stealing a sip of his own. “I mean, think about it: you guys spend most of your time on four legs, but somehow have the same kind of waste disposal layout as a society that walks around on two. What’s up with that?”

Brave giggles and snorts on Philip’s left, two spots down from me. She’s dressed in civilian clothing again, and so are Ironside and Phalanx, who also sit on the inner ring. At this point, they all look like totally different ponies without the gaudy gold armour and coloured plumes — somehow less of themselves, despite clearly being just as comfortable. “Because the bits are in the same place!” she exclaims as if it were the punchline to the best joke in the world, shooting a hoof for the sky. “Duh!”

“Is that so?” Philip questions, leaning away slightly and looking to her, raising an eyebrow in an entertained manner. “And for just how long have you been contemplating the anatomical similarities between humans and equines, Brave, pray tell?”

She scoffs and smirks at him. “Cut me some slack, Phil. I don’t have to be a genius or interested in you to put two and two together. Besides, even if I was the latter — which I’m not, let’s be clear, even though there’s nothing wrong with you and you are a handsome lad — I wouldn’t have waited all this time to make my desires known. You deserve better than that.”

“Oh, I deserve better?”

“Of course.” She salutes him with her plastic wine glass, half-empty. “You’re a good person, Philip. It’s not only an honour, but a privilege to guard you, and any girl who winds up with you as their significant other is a lucky girl indeed.”

“A toast!” Soarin declares, holding up his cup of hard cider. “To Fleetybee, and her taste in boys!”

A discordant cheer rings out throughout the group, echoing my name, my now embarrassingly commonplace nickname, or simply whooping in agreement.

Despite myself, as I turn away and hug my free foreleg against my barrel, I smile. And their collective gaze feels like a weirdly fuzzy and protective blanket being draped over my shoulder. No change in temperature, but it definitely feels like there’s something there, so tangible that my wing reaches up and tries to brush it off, only to find nothing but fur and cool air.

Birthdays are when all your loved ones are supposed to coddle you, sure, but that doesn’t mean they can’t take the mickey out of you while they do it. I figured this would happen, knowing them and how ponies work in general, but it still amuses me how easily they can switch between targets to torment, even when I’m on the receiving end. They don’t mean anything by it, though — I have to remind myself of that; I’ve known and worked with most of them for seventeen years, approaching eighteen, and we’ve had each other’s backs no matter what, through thick and thin.

I’m a big enough girl that they can give me a friendly jab, right?

“Well then, here’s mine, Philip,” Spitfire says once the commotion settles to a more manageable level, and somepony has the bright idea to turn down the stereo for a moment so we can speak without shouting. “Language.”

Philip raises his brows at her, then sticks out his bottom lip and nods in approval. “That too.”

“And not just language, but lingo and proverbs and all that stuff. I mean, seriously, how whack is it that two separate universes have the same turns of phrase? And most of the time, the only differences are a hoof in place of a hand, or vice versa.”

“These are fair points.”

“Right?”

“But let’s not get carried away here. It’s clear my world and this one are linked somehow, and in that context, the obvious can be excluded — language and locations and all that stuff. I’m talking obscure things, like, for example, tipping. But that’s not really a similarity…”

“What about it?” Soarin queries.

Philip shrugs. “Well, over here, it’s mostly just a courtesy — an actual reflection on your waiter’s or your shopkeeper's services. In the States, however, the way I hear it from people who worked in retail, it’s a necessity, because they normally can’t rely on their wages alone to get them through the month.”

“Oh.” Soarin blinks, then lowers his gaze and rubs the back of his neck. “That sucks.”

“Your leaders should probably work on that,” Spitfire comments, nodding thoughtfully.

“Believe me, people have tried, but the argument is always the same: where’s the money going to come from?” Philip reclines with a flick of his hand, sipping his drink. “Change is slow, but it happens. But only sometimes.”

“And considering how much he complains about his homeland, one would think he’d be glad to be here,” I grumble loudly, peering over my shoulder at him with a lighthearted smirk. “But this ungrateful sod just can’t stop his bellyaching. Day in day out, all he ever does is focus on the negatives.”

“Excuse me,” he retorts in mock indignation, “how long ago was my last depressive monologue, exactly?”

“Literally a few seconds.”

He pauses, blinking with an open mouth, then points to me. “Okay, I’ll give you that.”

“Damn right you will.”

He chuckles, looking back to Spitfire and Soarin and anypony else listening from the other side of the firepit. “She’s a harsh mistress.”

“Only because he’s an impossible little troll,” I grouch as I lean over, reaching out to give the side of his head a few pats and ruffle his hair. “Isn’t that right?”

“So you say, Fleetybee, so you say.” He laughs and playfully bats my hoof away, but grabs it and holds it close before I can wind it up for another attempt. “But I wouldn’t be here if that’s all I was to you.”

“Or maybe I’m just taking pity on you.”

“Want to bet?”

I narrow my eyes at him and do my best to keep myself from beaming, but all I manage to do is scrunch my muzzle, which is a sight I know he finds adorable, much to my dismay. So, I grunt and turn away again, scowling at the ground.

“Stars above, just kiss already!” Surprise implores from the back of the pack.

“Hey!” I snap and leer in her general direction. “We’re not here to put ourselves on display like some carnival sideshow, okay? I’m not letting you turn us into—”

And then he pecks me on the temple.

And I stare vacantly ahead, an awkward, empty feeling in my stomach as my chest bubbles and warms and fur there tingles with the urge to stand on end beneath my shirt. And there’s the heat rising in my cheeks and drooping ears. And everypony is just… watching us, their grins ranging from as thin as paper to as wide and toothy as Rainbow’s when we tell her we want a rainboom for an upcoming show. And I begin thinking I’ve made a terrible mistake by inviting him, even though there was basically no other option unless I wanted to be unreasonably sadistic.

But right now, I feel like a masochist; I did this to myself — something like this was doomed to happen from the get-go, and I knew it. And I guess a part of me was secretly hoping for it, if my immediate reaction is anything to go by. Again, much to my dismay.

“Aw,” Soarin gushes, sticking a hoof over his mouth soon after, though he and many others continue watching on with adoring looks. “They’re so cute together.”

The heat becomes a simmer, and I shift in my seat and shuffle my wings as I lower my eyes to Philip’s stomach, lips puckered and brows furrowed. “Shut up, you idiot.”

“And she even has a tsundere setting!” Philip bows and hugs my neck with his chin while the arm holding his drink drapes over my barrel and pulls me closer as best it can without spilling anything. “Good gods above, I am truly blessed.”

“I said shut up.”

“I know, my sweet, I know. But if I do that, how could I complete the impossible task of expressing just how perfect you are to me?”

“I’m not perfect,” I grouse, but allow my head to rest against his chest despite myself and feel his warmth through the thin fabric of his shirt. “And if it’s so impossible, why bother?”

“Because nothing is impossible to those who will try.” He plants a kiss in my mane just behind the ear, and a cool, pleasant ripple rolls into my head and down my neck. “We should know, shouldn’t we, my little pony?”

Against the position of strength I’m trying to establish —though honestly, at this point, there’s very little I can do that would change his opinion of me — I allow myself to snort and smirk as my ear twitches. “Since when did you start talking like Princess Celestia?”

And then he grows still.

There isn’t much he can do to grow still when he’s hugging me close as best he can, but something in him… changes, and so does the air surrounding me and between us. And I know what the problem is, and I instantly regret thinking it was okay to joke about that. Wounds heal, but the scars remain, and this one hasn’t finished its healing yet. “Philip, I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, no, I get you,” he says, low and soothing, but try as he might, he can’t keep the agitated tone from his voice. He gives my hoof a gentle squeeze for added reassurance. “It’s not your fault.”

It certainly feels like it is. In a relationship, you know what makes the other tick and how to avoid or deal with it, and doesn’t matter if they’re a special somepony or not; there’s something exceptional about the bond you share, and doing wrong by it is like slapping the other hard in the face — the kind that leaves a bruise.

Or maybe I’m overthinking this, coming from a silly little girl who’s spent a fair chunk of her life regarding the hot mess of romance with, if not disdain then languid apathy. So, who’s to say my word on the matter is worth anything, period?

I just… don’t want to lose what I’ve gained. And I know he’s mature enough to understand what I’d said was just a slip of the tongue, but still. It happened. It’s out there. He’ll forgive, but he won’t forget. Not for a good, long while, at least.

I nuzzle into him a little further, burying the tip of my snout into the open flap of his hoodie. He has deodorant and cologne on — the variety that smells distinctly of chemicals, and so make my nose wrinkle a bit, but he doesn’t normally do that unless it’s a special occasion. And tonight is just that. He’s here for me, and I’m here for him. We’re here for each other, and we’ll be okay.

I am in control.

“What about differences?”

My ears perk up and I leave his warmth for the cool, salty air as I turn and peer over the flames. Woodsmoke and heat fills my nose.

Spitfire watches me with a concerned, steadfast look, hunched over with her hooves in her lap, one of them holding a bottle of lemonade — the genuine product, made from actual lemons. She’s wearing her bomber jacket again, this time over an off-white undershirt, purple shades resting in her mane. Her attention flicks up to Philip, and the look in her eyes doesn’t falter — as intent on him as she is on me. “Continuing on from what you said before, what are the subtle differences you don’t think about when crossing over?”

I quirk an eyebrow slightly, then resist the urge to raise them both too high in case I seem openly surprised at what she’s doing: changing the subject. Shouldn’t have expected anything less from her, being what ultimately amounts to the big sister of the Bolts, but I guess I’m just… a little stunned that she’d extend that care to somepony outside the clique. Should’ve known she’d be better than that.

“Oh,” Philip says, sitting up somewhat straighter, his disposition already quite a dash brighter, then he pauses to think. “Well, besides all the obvious stuff, like… well, no apes of any kind, for starters, and a lack of modern cars… I’m not really sure what to say. There are more similarities than there are differences, I think.”

I force a scoff and roll my eyes, hoping to rock myself back into the swing of things. “See what I mean?” I question Spitfire as I gesture to him with my head. “He can complain all day, but when he’s asked to say anything good? Nada.”

“It’s not asking him whether it’s better or worse, Fleety,” she replies, her eyes meeting mine, perhaps with the hint of a warning edge behind them. “I’m just curious. It’s a learning opportunity. No different than studying up on all the countries we’d be going to on a world tour, don’t you think?”

I linger on her, then right myself in my own seat and sit back and shrug, though my hoof remains in Philip’s hand, even as I glance away. “I guess.”

“For example…” She reclines in her chair and looks up to the sky to think as she takes a long swig from her bottle, then snaps her feathers and points a wing at Philip with a smile. “Clothes.”

He looks down at himself, then at her. “What about them?”

She scoffs and sweeps her wing to the rest of the team and the city beyond, where the sounds of modern life have slowed, but not completely stopped. “Come on, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. It’s not exactly hard to miss, even in a place like this.”

“Oh, oh, right, you mean like the, uh… the fact that clothing is optional, right?”

“That’s the ticket, my bipedal friend.”

He chuckles, then points to her with his cup. “But that’s still a pretty obvious difference.”

“Took you long enough to realise it.”

He blinks, then sticks his bottom lip out and nods again. “Another fair point.”

“Eh.” She shrugs. “I’m no genius, but I have my moments. Can’t let it go to my head, though, or I’ll wind up just like Rainbow over there.”

“Hey!”

A laugh rolls through the group like a breeze through a meadow, mixed with a whistle or two.

“But anyway, yeah, that’s a strange difference, I think,” Spitfire continues, nodding to herself. “I mean, it’s not unusual for some ponies to wear something all the time, and the rest of us think nothing of it, but when somepony who usually goes without puts something on…”

An ear of mine twitches.

“They start looking formal, huh?” Philip snorts. “Odd from my world’s perspective, but believable. Then again, I’ve been here for just shy of two years, so it’s close to normal by now. I just try not to think about it.”

But Spitfire seems to be thinking about something, and thinking about it deeply, eyes locked with mine as she gently frowns and cocks her head. It’s like she’s noticed a tile out of place in an old and very famous mosaic, and is wondering how the heck nopony had seen it before when it was staring them — and her — right in the face.

It scares me, in a way. I look left and right on instinct, though I know there couldn’t possibly be anything there when her attention is so fixated on me and nowhere else. And I start to feel my insides hollow out, even when I try assuring myself that she’d have no reason to suspect me of anything. A quick glance at Soarin reveals that he’s watching her too, and seems just as puzzled, which of course he would be; he may not know when to shut his piehole, but he doesn’t kiss and tell.

“Fleety…”

My wings press in against my sides.

“…When did you start wearing clothes all the time?”

“When I, uh…” Great. Quick on the draw, slow on the trigger. Again. I’m getting rusty. “You see, I just… you know... ”

“After that spat we had,” Philip answers.

I look over to him.

He looks over to me. “Isn’t that right, Fleetybee?”

I blink, then peer across to the rest of the group, and I see just how many have their eyes on me — on us; practically all of them. “Yeah,” I agree, making sure to loosen up my neck and shoulders in case I seem too rigid and forced, and to avert my gaze in a coy, shy manner. “I guess, realising my feelings for him… it left me a little self-conscious. Like, if he covered up, then so should I. And… maybe I kinda-sorta wanted to impress him.”

“Ooh, dressing up for the boyfriend.” Soarin gives me an appraising, suggestive look, his brows high and lips held in a tight-lipped smirk. “Your deviancy knows no bounds, truly.”

“Shut up,” I retort, glaring at him. “It’s what I felt I had to do at the time, alright? Because…”

He waits patiently, still with that shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

But I don’t pay him much heed. Instead, I turn my head to the left and stare into the eyes I’ve gradually come to appreciate in their own way, small as they are, though somehow just as expressive as everypony else’s. “Because I didn’t want to feel uncomfortable around him,” I murmur earnestly, slowly lowering my gaze to the hand holding my hoof even now, thumb tenderly rubbing the fur on top of it. “And I didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable around me.”

There’s a pause. A lengthy one with weight to it, seeming to dull even the music to something almost distant, or otherwise muffled by a blanket or pillow, or anything else soft and durable and capable of smothering ponies. It only seems to hollow me out even further.

But then he smiles a small, tender smile as his brows faintly crease, giving me a caring look as he squeezes my hoof once more. “You shouldn’t have felt like you needed to do that.”

“But I did,” I mumble, pulling my hindlegs a little closer together in case anypony else sees my tail cinch. “I… still do, I guess. It just doesn’t seem right, you looking nice for everypony, and I’m just… me. Naked.” I shake my head lightly. “I don’t like being that anymore. Not around you. Not in public.”

Silver Zoom sticks two feathers in his mouth and whistles loudly, which is immediately followed by a lot of chuckling and some whooping.

I shut my mouth and bolt upright, ramrod straight, eyes wide and ears tall, a chilling bolt of lightning striking through my core as my cheeks instantly begin to burn like they’re coated in kerosene.

Philip’s eyes widen in shock as well, but he deals with it better, quickly letting my hoof go and holding his hand out to the others with a frown. “Hey, hey! Let’s not go taking this out of context, alright? You know what she means.”

“Yeah, pipe it down, guys,” Spitfire commands, looking to her right and frowning at them too. “Whether they have or haven’t is none of our business, and you wouldn’t like it if I went around asking the same of you. This is Fleet’s night, and it’s okay to take the piss out of her, but I won’t stand for making fun of something she’s clearly sensitive about. Grow up, the lot of you.”

I stare at her, stunned, and the burning sensation fades almost instantaneously.

She lingers on the other guests for a few seconds longer, then returns to Philip and I with a softer, more supportive expression. “Anyway, you were saying?”

I hesitate, blinking, then look away with a shrug as my free foreleg wraps around my stomach again. “That’s about it, really. I just… haven’t felt comfortable in public without clothes because…”

She waits patiently.

I turn to Philip.

He watches me with concern, and more than a hint of understanding.

“…Because of him.” Blunt, but factual, and he doesn’t seem to take offence. I switch to Spitfire again and nod. “That’s why. Because of him.”

“Which, let’s be clear, isn’t my fault,” Philip interjects, perhaps a little panicky. “Well, I mean, it is, in a sense, but… I never asked her to cover up for my sake, or her sake, or anybody’s sake, or anything like that. And I definitely never, or at least never meant to shame her for going out without clothes.”

A little insistent on shifting the blame, but he isn’t pinning it on me either. That’s fine. I can work with that. “Yeah, it just… happened.” I shrug once more and hug myself tighter before any rotten feeling takes root in my core again. “I don’t like it, but… that’s how it goes, I guess.”

“You don’t like it?” Brave questions, leaning around Philip to look at me properly. “I thought you said you wanted to impress him.”

“And I do,” I answer swiftly, tamely, though I hate dissecting the hows and whys of my own quirks in front of a live studio audience, and I meet Philip’s empathetic gaze for reassurance. “I just miss feeling like I don’t need to wear anything. And I know what a cliché it is, but in this case… it really isn’t him. It’s me.”

He snorts and softly smiles. “You’re not breaking up with me over clothing, are you?”

“No, of course not.” I gently shake my head, then look down at myself and sigh. “It’s just disappointing, you know?”

“Can’t say I do.” He shrugs, his smile waning to something more thoughtful. “But if you don’t like it, Fleet… you really don’t have to.”

I return to him, an ear perking up.

“You heard me.” He gestures to his left. “I mean, at this point, after two years of exposure — pun not intended — I’ve kind of gotten used to it, so… I don’t think I’d see you that much differently than I do now. Like, even if you weren’t wearing anything right now, you’d still be Fleetybee to me.”

Despite myself, I chuckle. “You’d better watch that mouth of yours, Philip. You’re treading some extremely thin ice, there — don’t know what ideas you’re going to stick in somepony’s—”

“Is that so, big guy?”

I snap towards Spitfire.

She cocks an eyebrow and watches Philip with a curious, but altogether sly look. “So, you’re telling me that if, say, Fleetfoot took everything off right here and now, you wouldn’t have a problem with it?”

My ears pin back, my tail does its best to clamp down, and the burning sensation in my cheeks resumes. “What?”

“You heard me. If Philip said yes, do you think you’d be willing to try going au naturale again?”

I blink with widening eyes and draw my head back, practically baulking in slow motion. I’ve known Spitfire to be direct, but damn. This is something else. “You don’t mean… right now right now, do you?”

The corners of her mouth stretch wide and she shrugs. “Why not? We’ve all seen each other strip down for the showers after a performance, right?”

“…But this isn’t the locker room.”

“And look how many new faces there are.” She nods to each of them. “Your boyfriend of a few months and three of his guards, all of whom care as much about you as any of us. Nobody’s going to judge you here.”

“Damn straight,” Brave declares with a toast of her wine, and so do many others with their respective drinks, including Phalanx and a slightly less enthusiastic Ironside. “What, you think us guards don’t go through the same motions during basic training? We’re still military, same as you.”

I stare at them all, stunned, mouth drooping open as my head cranes from left to right, eventually returning to Spitfire. “You mean to say… you want me to strip in front of everypony here just to prove a point?”

“No, Fleet,” she says, shaking her head, her smile fading to something a little more serious, but still quite supportive. “I — that is to say, we — want you to conquer your fear. And sometimes the best way to do that it to tackle it head-on. And to me, this looks like the perfect opportunity: you’re surrounded by friends and no one else. And really, what you’re worried about… it isn’t that big a deal.”

“Yeah!” Soarin exclaims, beaming, then leans forward and begins fiddling with his jacket sleeve. “Just you watch.”

And before I or anypony else can say another word, he slips his foreleg out and unwraps the jacket from his torso, finishing off with the second sleeve and receiving an excited, rising cheer from the group. He flings it over to Rainbow, who catches it and bundles it up with a laughing grin, and does the same when he tosses her his black polo, leaving his barrel completely bare and his dark shades the only accessory on him.

I gawk, but can’t help letting a breathy, marginally entertained chuckle escape.

“See?” He reclines and folds his forelegs, smirking at me as if he’d just solved the square root of zero. “No big deal. No shocked looks aside from yours, no mobs with pitchforks showing up on my doorstep. Just another pony being another pony. Isn’t that right, Philip?”

“Oh.” He blinks, snapped out of some kind of stupor, then shakes his head and seems to have a hard time deciding whether his attention is best left on Soarin or me. He takes another swig of apple juice to buy himself some extra time. “Well, I mean… sure, I guess.”

Spitfire quirks an eyebrow. “Feeling awkward?”

He looks at her, then the sky, then skews his jaw as he lets out a long, quiet sigh. “You know what?” he says, his tone surprisingly nonchalant, and as he returns to her with an easy smile, it’s all the more surprising. “I’ve seen weirder things happen.”

I turn to face him properly. “You have?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Trust me, the convention I went to before I wound up here had some crazy stuff going on. Like, on a whim, I decided to go to accept someone’s drunk invitation to a hotel room afterparty, when I’d only met them the day before. I showed up, and they were dressed in nothing but a bikini, and I barely knew anyone, and half of them were drunk out of their minds… and it was an absolute blast — best way to end my stay in Seattle, I think. This one guy even did a tarot card reading from a deck of Might and Magic, if you’d believe it.”

“Don’t know what that is, but it sounds like fun,” Spitfire answers, sipping her water.

“Oh, it was.” He chuckles, patting his knee with his free hand and taking another swig, finishing his cup off. “But anyway, yeah… I’ve had my fair share of the bizarre, this world not included. May as well add a private pony burlesque show to my list of the outlandish stuff I’ve seen.” He turns to me. “If Fleet’s up for it.”

I stare at him. I don’t feel betrayed, but I definitely feel called out, like he’s thrown down a challenge and is daring me to take him up on it. It’s way out of my comfort zone — once again, the difference between an audience of thousands and an audience of a couple dozen is how close they are to you, personally — and part of me wants to shrink away from it. Shake my head, finish my juice, throw my cup in the fire, and if not leave them all, then at least cross my forelegs and look away and pout for the rest of the night like the sulky little girl I am. The girl I’ve always been and always will be.

But I don’t. And as my cheeks warm up once more, I know my subconscious has made up its mind — that I’d somehow regret not listening to it and not only disappoint everypony here, but also myself. They like me and, no matter what, even if they’ve stumbled here and there, have always looked out for me as best they can. Tonight isn’t so different — it’s just… slightly more risque. And they can handle it. And so can I.

I mean… he has already seen my…

And I’ve already seen his…

…And I’m sure my cheeks are almost glowing by this point.

I don’t have to go the full monty, I just have to… show a little fur. That’s not so hard, is it? Heck, Soarin stripped less than a minute ago and, like he said, nothing happened. The same would be true for me.

And besides… Philip might…

Well…

He might… like… it.

Is that really such a bad thing?

“I…” I begin, but it’s no louder than a drop of water falling into the ocean. I clear my throat and look down at my forehoof as it taps the edge of the other. “M-m-maybe…”

“Then let me meet you halfway,” Spitfire announces, setting her bottle on the ground before rocking forward and standing on her rear hooves, then stretches her forelegs high above her head. “I think I’ll join in too.”

Once again, I snap to her. “What?”

“Mm-hmm.” She relaxes, then gets down on all fours to stretch her back and wings, muzzle scrunching as she cracks her neck. “Not fair if you’re the one stealing all the attention. Got to keep my reputation of being the hottest of the Bolts, after all.”

I snort, and it’s the kind that squeaks from the very back of your nose. “Oh, so you’re doing this out of ego, not benevolence, is that right?”

She shrugs, smirking as her wings fold by her sides. “Call it what you will, but I’m not letting you hog the spotlight. Where’s the fun in that?”

I’m not really in a position to disagree. If I’m diving headfirst, I may as well take somepony with me and share the burden, for better or worse. So, with a roll of the eyes and an inward groan, set my cup down, heave myself out of the chair, and prepare to act like I have no concept of shame whatsoever.

Good heavens, when did I learn to be so depraved?

“Okay, so… what do you want me to do?”

“What I want us to do is have a good time.” She strolls across the sand-covered stone to about halfway and turns toward the group. “But we can’t do that unless we have some good music. Raindrops!”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Enough with the Beach Boys. Crank it up to eleven and pick something you can’t help but dance to.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Good lass!” Spitfire laughs and waves me closer. “Come on, Fleet, don’t leave me hanging.”

“Okay, okay, fine,” I whinge, plodding over and facing the crowd alongside her. “Gosh, you’re insistent. Almost makes me think you’re only doing this so you can say we got naked together.”

“Hah! You wish.” She nudges my shoulder with a wing. “No, I’m not, Fleet. I’m doing this because it’s not fair on you, you fretting about how the world sees you, or how you see yourself. And if you don’t like it, and Philip isn’t bothered by it… then really, it’s only dragging you down. You get me?”

I linger on her, and the way the fire seems to make her face glow, and the tiny, flickering reflections of it in her eyes, and the hopeful, encouraging look in them too. And then I lower my gaze and shrug. “I guess.”

“Then there we go.” She nods. “Now, don’t worry about a thing, because if anybody makes fun of you — which they won’t — then they’ll also be making fun of me. And I can promise you, if anyone dares to make fun of this temple of health, justice will be swift and merciless.”

I snicker. “Oh, I can imagine.”

She smiles and opens her mouth to speak, but something interrupts her.

Music.

Electric Light Orchestra, Don’t Bring Me Down.

Spitfire’s smile bursts into an insanely giddy grin. “Raindrops!”

“Yes, ma’am?”

She snaps to her as her head begins to bob. “Remind me to kiss you after this!”

“Yes, ma’am!”

And the second their exchange finishes, the electric guitar kicks in, as well as the keyboard, and Spitfire flicks her shades down over her eyes and lets herself get lost in the rhythm. Simple movements for now, alternating hooves and swaying in time with the beat. And although I can’t see her so well with the sunglasses on, I can tell the smirk she flashes me is the enticing sort, beckoning me to grab a piece of the action.

I smirk in kind. She is my commanding officer, so whether I like it or not, it’s my job to follow her lead. And the beat is catchy, so…

I mirror her actions. Not nearly as enthusiastic as she is, but certainly more lively than the time I found myself dancing by my lonesome at prom. At least until the lyrics start, and Spitfire transforms into a whole other beast, mouthing the lyrics in perfect synchronisation and with gloriously animated expressions. Then, I simply laugh and continue dancing.

The singer talks about fancy friends, and she begins strutting like a diva around the pit, making faces at everypony as she goes, eventually doubling back and stopping by Soarin, just in time for the chorus. She rears up and stands on her hindlegs, only to bow low and come back up with a flourish of her hooves on each of the trills. And during the little passage, she’s somehow slipped out of her bomber, and whirls it above her head a few times before flinging it over to Rainbow, much to the cheer and applause of the audience.

Soarin watches on with a wide-eyed, open-mouthed grin.

Spitfire returns it with a haughty one, then spins around and points to me as the lyrics start up again.

That’s my sign to jump in; with all the commotion going on, I almost forgot what I’m supposed to be doing. I blink and look down at myself, unsure of my own hooves for whatever reason, but try to make something up on the spot regardless — give yourself to the music and you’re bound to be rewarded, right?

…Or I might just be a complete idiot when it comes to this sort of thing.

Searching for inspiration, I turn my attention to the only place I know I might find it: the left, and a pair of small, brown eyes that meet mine with a smile. And I guess it works; it warms me, at least, and I feel slightly more confident in myself. I’m doing this for his sake as well as mine, after all, and if he’s enjoying it…

Better make sure there’s something for him to enjoy, shouldn’t you?

And so I should.

I’ve wasted enough time swaying idly, so I follow Spitfire’s lead again and strut around in a similar fashion, but I don’t make it very far before the second chorus sneaks up. I, too, stand on my hindlegs, but I don’t do the bow and flourish like she had, and instead employ a more fluid, hip-shaking, tail-wagging approach, more akin to how Philip dances when he’s freestyling. And all the while, I slip a hoof underneath the hem of my shirt and slowly lift it up.

Somepony whistles. The rest build up their cheer like the climbing wail of a siren.

My heart beats heavily. I peer at Philip from the corner of my eye.

He stares. Not at me specifically, but my hoof, and the exposed fur of my stomach. He’s still smiling, but it’s fascinated.
Captivated. Rapt and spellbound — so many things at once, and strangely, none of them negative.

Strangely?

…Okay, maybe it’s obvious now, but that’s how hindsight works. And I don’t have time to ruminate.

I yank it up and over to the clear and distinct elation of the audience, and I pitch it to an increasingly concerned-looking Rainbow. And it feels… odd, having a bare barrel for the first time in a public setting since however long it’s been — how much easier it is for my upper body to breathe, and how much more intense the fire’s warmth is. But it isn’t bad. And like they said — Spitfire, Soarin, whoever else — nopony here is casting me any dirty looks.

Not even Philip, who I was afraid for the most.

The only one holding me back was me.

Not anymore.

Before I have the mind to tell myself otherwise, and not caring if I’m not doing it in time with the music, I put my hooves on the waistband of my shorts and drop them, then hop out and ditch them at Rainbow once more. Except for the necklace and bracelet, I’m now entirely exposed. This, of course, is met with the loudest, most spirited cheer yet, and a fretful look from the recipient of my pants, and it puts a welcome heaviness in my chest, like I’ve been given a suit of armour. Armour that weighs nothing, but is thick and strong enough to resist any blow, survive any crash.

Stars, is this actually working?

I turn to Spitfire.

She’s already discarded her undershirt, and is in the process of grabbing Soarin by the forehooves and heaving him up to dance alongside her, which he does so fervently. And they smile and get their groove on, Spitfire taking lead whenever they decide to do something that involves partners. Fire Streak, Sun Chaser, Thunderlane and Raindrops are all getting lost in the music as well.

Then I look to Philip, only to find his seat empty, and Brave dragging a chuckling Phalanx and a begrudging Ironside up to dance. But after turning my head just a little further to the left, I spy him approaching in stylish, rhythmic motions, a barely restrained grin on his face as my eyes meet his. And he seems… proud. And that makes me feel proud.

And as I turn about to face him, still on my hindlegs, I get the idea to step up my efforts and not let myself be outdone, swaying my hips more, swishing my tail, a daring, teasing smirk on my lips. I’ve learned a thing or two from him, and it’s truly the ultimate ‘up yours’, to use the enemy’s weapons against them.

But as he takes my hooves into his hands, his enthusiasm seems to wane. Not in the sense that he doesn’t want to keep dancing, but in the sense that… he once again appears captivated, peering into my eyes, inspecting me up and down. As much focussed on me as he is on showing off, and one is steadily winning over the other.

My breath stutters for a moment with an inward giggle. He’s going gaga over me. I’m making him do that. And I like it. I like that he likes me. Not just me as a… well, a person, but… physically as well. I think I’d better ask what about me he finds attractive, but not right now. Too loud, not the right setting.

No. Now, I want to drag this feeling out as much as I can, and perhaps maybe even heighten it.

So, I pull a hoof away and roll into him, placing his other hand to my chest and holding it there as it just so happens that the very end of my croup settles quite comfortably into the natural cradle of his abdomen. I continue swaying my hips, rubbing into him a little, and peer over my shoulder to gauge his reaction.

In a word, absorbed. In two, utterly enthralled.

Another inward giggle, and I decide to see how long I can keep this up.

Not long at all, it seems, because his free hand sneaks up and lays its palm on my barrel, pulling me closer so that my back lies flat against his torso. He buries his face into my mane, and I somehow get the feeling he’s about to say something, so I slow down, until I finally stop. And I close my eyes as I feel the warmth of his breath against my scalp, and the reassuring pressure of his fingers through my fur and his body against mine.

He is saying something, just without any words: he’s telling me to be still, not because he doesn’t like what I’m doing, but because… he wants to hold me. Smell me. To savour the moment.

And it feels…

…Perfect.

Just him and me, together in bliss.

A world of our own, and nopony else’s.

Sisters, if only this could last forever…

But then the music stops, and the cheering begins.

I’d forgotten ponies were watching.

I slip out of his grasp and return to all fours, clearing my throat and flicking my tail to hopefully straighten out some of the hairs that might have gotten tangled. The absence of his warmth is noticeable, however, and I guess a small part of me wishes I’d just not given a damn and stayed there with him.

Soarin and Spitfire are standing with their eyes closed and big smiles on their faces as they hold hooves and rest their foreheads against one another, the tips of their noses touching. They take turns whispering to each other, which makes them both giggle a little, then they return to the real world and look around, sharing their smiles with us and receiving plenty of whistles and applause for it.

But then Spitfire looks my way, and her smile becomes a grin. “And let’s give it up for the star of the evening!” she declares happily, sweeping a wing toward me. “Fleetfoot the Fearless! What a show, truly!”

With so much attention suddenly on me, I find myself taking a step back, ears pointing away as I look down and rub a foreleg against the other. “Aw, come on,” I chuckle bashfully, “you weren’t so bad yourself.”

“Oh no you don’t. You take that compliment and you swallow it whole, or I’m going to come over there and make sure you know how appreciated you are.”

“She doesn’t know the half of it…”

My ears twitch, and I quirk an eyebrow as I turn to my right.

Philip meets my gaze with a look of awe, still under whatever spell he’d been put in while I’d slid into his embrace. His eyes wander all over, and even when he realises he’s being watched, not just by me but everypony else, the spell never breaks. Until, at last, he blinks and clears his throat and breathes a deep, calming sigh as he claps his hands together. “So, uh… yeah. I’m sure you all know by now that Fleet and I are… well, romantically involved.”

Thunderlane sticks his feathers in his mouth and whistles loudly.

My cheeks begin to warm and I look away, feeling the urge to hide behind a wing.

Philip chuckles. “Okay, okay, and yeah, our involvement hasn’t been exactly subtle… but since we’re official, that also means I get to publicly embarrass her in any way I see fit.”

I peer up at him with a shy, appreciative expression, certain that I know what’s coming next, but lacking the confidence to openly announce how hot and heavy my barrel is, the weight of the necklace ever more present — how anxious and eager I am.

He turns and moseys on over for his chair, where he reclaims his seat and, predictably, leans to his right and picks up his ukulele — the very same I’d bought him for his own birthday — and settles it in his lap. He runs a hand along the smooth, polished surface and the floral patterns on the edge, breathing slow, soothing breaths as he readies himself for what will inevitably follow.

The crowd murmurs in low, excited tones.

My heart hammers in my chest, and I find myself gradually sinking to my haunches, readying myself in case I feel weak in the knees. And I know I will.

Seconds pass, and then a minute. And then he looks up at me and smiles kindly. “So, without any further ado, I think I’d like to share with you a little song I wrote. Nothing fancy, just… something I’ve been working on for a long time now. And even though all of this comes from a place of sincerity… it can never, ever do her justice — the way she makes me feel, the… the things she’s done for me, and taught me about myself. But this is the best I could do, so… I hope it’s enough.”

I swallow the lump already forming in my throat.

The audience falls silent.

Philip lingers on me, puckering his lips and looking like he’s fighting back the urge to say even more, or drop everything and dash over to me and hug me close. But then he softly nods, lowers his eyes to his fingers on the strings, and begins to play. It’s a measured, steady, relaxing rhythm, perfect for a cloudless sunset on the beach, where even the ocean appears calm tonight and the air is still and the city in the distance has grown quiet. And then, after a few long beats, he starts to sing.

Well, here we are, so far from where we started

In between dreams on the beach, and my heart, it

Has found its place within your arms

And I know within them, I’ll come to no harm

All the mistakes that we made, all the ones that we’re making

They’ve led to this moment, and in stride we’ll take them

And if you listen to the rhythm of the waves breaking

I think you’ll find that I’m not mistaken

Oh, how could this be?

Why ever did this happen to me?

Was it destiny?

Or was it some happy catastrophe?

I don’t know, I don’t care

But I hope you’re aware

I hope you’re aware

Just how much you mean to me

The sun’s getting low, but in my soul it’s rising

And at this point, there’s no use hiding

From feelings, believing they’re nothing more than fleeting

For the shine in your eyes has been my guiding

Light is the burden I carry when you’re near

All my fears disappeared, washed away by the tears

Because now I know the answer to my woes

And I’ll hold you close as I whisper in your ear

Oh, how could this be?

Why ever did this happen to me?

Was it destiny?

Or was it some happy catastrophe?

I don’t know, I don’t care

But I hope you’re aware

I hope you’re aware

Just how much you mean to me

Oh, how could this be?

Why ever did this happen to me?

Was it destiny?

Or was it some happy catastrophe?

Please give me peace of mind

Until the end of time

I would be yours

Would you be mine?

The strings fade.

The waves ebb and flow.

The world comes into focus, and I’m glad I sat down, because I’m sure I’d have collapsed if I weren’t, and that’s no exaggeration; I feel heavy and light all at once, and my breathing is ragged as I snivel and smile shakily and rub out the tears in my eyes with the tips of my wings.

And I have no words for him. No thanks I can offer, no praise I can make. Any time I try to speak, it only comes out as a stuttered chuckle, or a sharp hiccup, or a wet sniff. And a part of me… likes it, I guess — that he can build me up and break me down so thoroughly, to the point where I can’t even think straight after something as basic, as cliché, as downright uninspired as a serenade.

But it’s not just any serenade, is it?

He wrote it.

He wrote it for me.

Because of me.

Because he loves me.

Because I love him.

Because we love each other.

And he’s getting just as teary as I am.

I want to hug him. To stumble over there and sit in his lap and pull him close — stick his face in the fur on my chest, because I know that’s what he likes to do from time to time. I don’t completely understand it, but if he likes it, then who am I to complain. Doesn’t hurt that, when we both asked why we do or tolerate it, we both answered that it made us feel just a little bit safer.

And right now, I think I feel pretty safe. All around me, there are ponies that care, that love me — not just for who, but increasingly what I am. So, yes, we definitely have come a long, long way from where we first started, and there’s nothing I can do but be thankful for it, even with all the bumps and accidents along the journey. It’s all been taken in stride, and here we are: a world-famous pegasus athlete and the world’s first and only human, crying in front of each other because they can’t put into words just how much they care for one another.

I never knew how much I’d want this, or how much I’d desperately need it.

Weird how things work out, sometimes.

And then the stereo starts back up again.

My ears perk up at the sound of the strumming of a lone acoustic guitar, and then I roll my eyes as well as my head as I laugh and grin, recognising the tune instantly. What’s Up? by 4 Non Blondes.

Philip laughs too, and so does a fair majority of the group — they’ve all spent enough time around me to learn how my taste in music has developed, especially the one song that has no reason being my favourite, but is anyway.

Raindrops gives me a salute from her spot by the boom box, and I return it, and as the laughter fades and the lyrics start, everypony sings with them. Not all stay on key, but the Bolts aren’t famed for their vocal prowess: that’s the job of the bands we sometimes cross-promote. And although it takes me a while to catch my breath and gather my wits, I too join in with them. And I think to myself that tonight couldn’t possibly get any better than this.

34 | 4:47 AM

Warmth.

That’s what I wake up to, sandwiched between the welcoming embrace of a firm mattress and a heavy blanket; a comforting, glowing warmth that radiates from within, absorbed by my surroundings, then flows back into me. Fills me. Leaves me contented, even when the shroud of sleep has only barely begun to fade away, slow as the tide on a calm ocean.

I know where I am, and where I’m not. I remember what happened — can still feel it, if I imagine hard enough, which isn’t that hard to do when my entire body… aches. Not the painful kind of ache, but the sort that happens after a lengthy workout session, which wouldn’t be too far from the truth —the kind that whispers of a job well done.

I pause. And then I softy smile.

A job well done indeed. And I’m actually proud of myself. Whether that pride is directed at the fact or the lack of shame, I can’t say, but whatever the case, I’m happy; I’d taken a leap of faith, let my inhibitions go, and everything had turned out okay.

Better than okay, because not only had I crossed a threshold, but I’d also enjoyed it, for all my initial reservations, and despite a moment or two of doubt and hesitation. And the memories are neither blurred nor gross, but… nice. Pleasant. In an entirely alien way, maybe even romantic; notions that I feel should contradict each other, but refuse to, and make me look back on it all with a sense of fondness.

The way he stroked my neck and cupped my cheeks…

The way I drew circles in his skin…

The way we sometimes kissed while the other…

…Let’s just say it was a welcome surprise, discovering how much stamina we both had. The one thing I don’t remember is where a round ended and another began. Except for the last, where we shared a slow, tender, quiet little peak before our bodies decided enough was enough.

Then came the cuddling, after we’d pushed the towels off and gotten under the sheets — too drunk in ecstasy to do more cleaning up than that, and too tired. And we lay there, face to face in the light of the bedside lamp, watching, staring, occasionally rubbing against or gently fondling one another, just to test the waters, even though we knew we didn’t have it in us. Spooning was out of the question too, since neither of us wanted to look away. So, we simply held each other close, his arms around me, my forelegs and a wing around him, and we closed our eyes and steadily dozed off.

I still haven’t opened them.

I’ve never done that before, sleeping with somepony. Not once. Not really. Shared a bed, sure, but… not this. And this is much better, definitely, so snug and intimate and… and everything else that could fit into that train of thought. I can almost forget neither of us have had a shower, or even washed our faces, or done anything to make ourselves look presentable come the break of dawn, which should be here any minute now.

But I don’t want a new day. I want to stay here, with him, and pretend like the world outside doesn’t exist, because we’re all we need to make each other happy. Nothing else.

…Does that sound possessive?

I hope it doesn’t, but I think it does.

I tighten my grip around him and try pulling myself closer for reassurance.

Except… he isn’t there.

Slowly, sluggishly, my eyes creak open, and I notice the room is quite a bit darker than I last remember seeing it — the lamp has been switched off, and so have the lights in the living room. I can scarcely even make out the shapes of the pillows and blanket through the gloom, but the silhouette of his slumbering form has vanished. I’m surprised his departure hadn’t awoken me, because I’m not the heaviest sleeper around, even when I had to train myself otherwise while in the reserves, but I also know he can be very careful when he wants to be. He showed me as much earlier last night.

But then if he isn’t here, where?

I blink a few slothful times, then scrunch my muzzle as I stretch all my limbs at once in an effort to wake myself up even more. And in a way, it works, but it also wakes me up to the fact that my wings, hindlegs, tail and, yes, even my rump and intimates are still quite sore. And unlike the rest of my body, it isn’t a pleasant ache — not debilitating by any means, but a reminder of just how enthusiastic I’d gotten, and a how I should take it easy for a bit.

My mane and tail are tangled and frazzled as well, and I also realise just how matted my coat is, nowhere more so than between my thighs and all across my rear, the sweat and other fluids having long since dried up. And I’m honestly not quite sure how to feel about it.

In the moment, it was only natural. But now, it’s… sobering.

And I need a shower.

Propping myself on an elbow, and after cracking my neck and rolling my shoulders, I squint through the dark over to the right, where I’m certain the bathroom should be.

But the door is only partly shut, and the pale orange glow of the heat lamps shines through the gaps. The steam fan is also on, and there also comes the sound of running water against waterproof tiles. And now I know where he is, and a small sense of relief washes over me, dispelling some subconscious fear I didn’t know I had; so long as I know he hadn’t left me, like I had thought of leaving him once upon a time, some half a year ago.

…That’s a memory I’d rather forget.

But now that it’s been brought to mind… I can’t help wondering if, maybe…

Well, surely it wouldn’t hurt to check up on him. Besides, there’s no chance of going back to sleep now — once I’m awake, I’m awake — and it’s too early to rise just yet either. And I need to give myself a thorough wash anyway, so if he’s willing to share, then all the better. And if it leads to some… other activities… then who’s to say I’d be complaining?

But his wellbeing first, then mine, and whatever shameful desires I’m holding out for secreted away in the deepest, darkest recesses of my mind — that’s the order I need to be thinking in; he’s more to me than a toy, not that I’ve ever thought of him as one.

I fold over the blanket and stretch again as the cool air filters through, and feel the uncomfortable burn of muscles that say I’m better off resting. But I ignore them and roll over, lying on my belly to yawn and stretch some more, then rub the sleep from my eyes with my wingtips before crawling to the edge of the bed and delicately sliding off.

My rear hoof touches something cool and slightly moist, from which I recoil. But although I can’t see as effectively as I’d like, I can certainly smell — and recognise — the scent of my own musk; the towels we’d brushed aside, still pungent in the stagnant air. Yet another reminder, and another sobering reality that I’m not quite sure how I should feel about. I’m an adult, yes, and I should be… if not comfortable, then at the very least at peace with the fact that, of course, things get messy when sex happens.

But at the same time… there’s something I can’t put my hoof on with any degree of absolute precision — a feeling of restlessness that grows the more I allow myself to dwell on it; like I’d been weak-willed, or what I’d done was wrong.

That I’d made another mistake, and this was just as terrible and irredeemable as the last.

But… we were both aware this time, and we both enjoyed it. So…

And yet my ears angle back regardless, and my tail and wings tuck in all the same.

I look over at the bathroom entrance again, a weight softly coming to rest on my shoulders, then quietly gulp and continue walking the rest of the way, now with a slight sense of caution in my step. And when I reach the door, I bow my head and listen close.

The fan is still spinning. The water is still flowing. It doesn’t sound like he’s doing anything, so I suppose I wouldn’t be interrupting. Hopefully. I think I’m just after somepony to be with anyway, for companionship. Support.

I nudge the way open and peer inside through narrowed eyes, then wait for them to adjust.

Steam clings to the ceiling, humidifies the walls, fogs up the mirror by the sink. Either the water is scoldingly hot or the fan isn’t doing its job probably, or maybe both. In any case, he’s clearly been in here for quite a while for the damp to have built up this much, and for the air itself to feel clammy to breathe.

But I don’t hear any movement, nor do I see his blurred outline standing behind the opaque glass of the shower’s enclosure. And that… worries me.

I take a few steps in, the sound of my hooves noticeable through the eerie calm.

No reaction.

I clear the doorway and gently shut it behind me.

Still nothing.

I tentatively cross the short distance for the shower. If he’s in there, he should be able to see my silhouette casting an ambient shadow. More so when I reach out for the handle to slide it open.

And still, there’s no response.

I pause, taking a deep breath, feeling the weight on my shoulders grow heavier, and a small pit opening up within me. Part of me can’t help thinking I’m crossing a boundary, somehow, as if I’ve trespassed, and this would be another mark upon what little reputation I have with him — another stain that won’t be washed out, much less painted over; even though we’ve done and said worse things, and took active pleasure in each other’s embrace not a few hours ago, for what might’ve been hours on end… there are some limits that shouldn’t be met, and waters that shouldn’t be tested.

But I need to be sure. And this is beginning to feel potently familiar.

With my resolve tempered as well as my frail nerves can manage, I let the same breath silently go and slowly, carefully pull the door aside, then lean in a little way.

It’s a spacious design, as it is with most every modern bathroom, built to accommodate more than just one kind of creature, tiled in cream-coloured squares, less slippery on the floor for grip. Steam rises from the water pooling and draining in the centre, where the wall-mounted showerhead is aimed.

And there he is, resting in the far corner, safely outside the stream, sitting with a leg folded beneath him and the other bent at an angle, folded arms lying loose and limp in his lap, head back, blankly staring high into the distance. And for a disconcertingly long amount of time — so long that I’m starting to worry if something is legitimately wrong with him, medically speaking — he doesn’t react. He blinks, he breathes, but it isn’t after about ten increasingly nerve-wracking seconds that his eyes drift my way. And even then, his expression doesn’t change.

I stare back, concerned. He’ll say what he needs to when he’s ready, but in the meantime, I’m stuck trying to figure out where I’ve seen this before, because it seems like he’s holding something back, but isn’t brave enough to share it just yet.

And then it hits me.

His stoic mask.

It’s been so long since he last used it that I’d forgotten he had it in the first place.

Which means he’s been doing some thinking — pondering over an idea he holds no love for. It appears that whatever the notion that got into his head as led him down a path he didn’t mean to follow, and now he can’t find his way out of the deep, dark woods. Not without assistance.

My assistance.

I press my lips together and crease my brows as I blow a gentle sigh through my nose, and the weight on my shoulders has lessened somewhat. Then, I step in, close the door behind me with a wing, and douse my mane, nape, back, croup and tail as I shuffle through the pouring water to his side, sitting on my rump, leaning against him.

He tracks me with his gaze, but keeps his head still, and when I’m settled, he lingers on me for a few moments before looking up to the ceiling once more. And for a while, there is calm; a brooding calm like the one before a storm, filled with running water, the hum of a fan, and the warmth of soaked fur, but a calm nonetheless.

And then he opens his mouth.

And then he shuts it, faintly frowning a troubled frown.

And then he takes a deep breath in, then out, and turns his head and peers at me from the corner of his eye. “Do you believe in destiny, Fleet?”

I quirk an eyebrow, but only for a second or two before I softly shake my head.

He chews on his cheek, looking forward to a horizon I can’t see. “What about my name?” he slowly murmurs, sounding slightly grim. “Did I ever tell you what it means?”

Again, I shake my head, but I lean into him a little more because don’t like where this is going; I tend to be right about those sorts of things.

Another few deep breaths, then he silently gulps as he angles his leg to help cover himself up, not that I’m looking down there anyway, and not that there’s anything to notice — the most I can see through my peripheral vision is a dark shadow. “I go by Philip, which is… the English way of saying Felipe — my actual name, if you remember. And Felipe is derived from the ancient Greek Philippos, which means, when broken down into its elements… friend, or lover, of horses.”

My ears perk up as my eyes widen, and a sudden chill seeps through my fur despite the humidity.

This is… unexpected.

“Didn’t remember until just a few minutes ago, or whatever,” he mumbles, giving a small, slow, lethargic shrug. “I don’t know how long I’ve been in here. Didn’t mean to wake you, if I did. But… yeah. Now I’m wondering if this is all just highly improbable, extremely unlikely, basically zero-to-one chance, or maybe… somehow…”

Yes. Yes, that is something of a conundrum. And I’m fresh out of sagely advice to offer, although I can’t say I’ve ever experienced such a heavy-hitting existential question such as that before. And then there are the questions that arise from it as well. I can’t think of them right now, still reeling from the muted sense of shock, but I’m sure they’re there, waiting for somepony of greater intellect; somepony wiser than either of us.

“Because if that’s the case, then that means… I was destined to come here, and meet you, and…”

And what? Is he implying that what we have isn’t genuine — an obligation, rather than something based on mutual respect, admiration and, cheesy as I’m sure this all sounds, affection? Because I know for a fact that simply isn’t the case. We’d both have realised something was amiss from the very start, and if we couldn’t correct whatever it was, we’d have parted ways while making sure neither one of us disliked the other for doing so.

No, these niceties aren’t a front for anything, and I’m putting words in his mouth. But still, this isn’t a good train of thought to be on, and I need to help him change its course, or jump ship entirely. And the best way I can think of doing that is by presenting him with an ultimatum.

“Do you regret it?” I ask softly, part of me worried for the answer I might hear, which would confirm my fears about this whole thing being a mistake.

He turns to me, raising an upturned eyebrow with an apprehensive look on his face, and I can tell he wants to say something, but isn’t sure how to phrase it, and thinks it could be taken very poorly if he doesn’t get it right. So many feelings at once that he doesn’t know how to express them.

So, I offer my two bits. “I don’t,” I say, and for all the hesitation I felt while waking up and coming here, I mean it. And I watch my hoof for a moment as it slowly rises and comes to gently rest on the outer edge of his thigh before meeting his gaze again. “I… liked getting to know you. And I liked… last night. And… I wouldn’t mind if we did it all again, knowing we’d end up here.”

He pauses, staring with a softening expression, apprehension giving way to sympathy. “Nor would I,” he quietly murmurs, lightly shaking his head. “I’m just… worried.”

“About?”

He shrugs once more, no less weary than before. “Whether I’ve made the right choice.” He looks away as he breathes a slow, heavy, pensive sigh. “If there was a choice to make.”

“I know I’ve made mine.”

And then he returns to me impassively, the air around him unreadable, though it’s easy to tell that he isn’t being critical — more… acknowledging; the very act of looking signifies that I’ve made a point and gotten his attention. But whether I can make something of it remains to be seen.

“I love you, Philip.” I lean over and give him a tender peck on the cheek, then watch him with upturned brows and sympathetic eyes. “You love me, don’t you?”

“I do,” he says unreservedly.

That stokes a fire in me — one that fills my chest with a warmth and drapes an equally warm and fuzzy blanket over my back, and I have to keep myself from grinning too wide. “Then isn’t that reason enough not to be afraid?”

He pauses again, then lowers his gaze to the tiles between us. “The world isn’t like that, Fleet.”

“We aren’t the world,” I implore, lifting the hoof from his thigh and reaching it across his midsection to pull myself closer in a gentle hug. “We’re just… two individuals, who found each other by highly improbable, extremely unlikely, basically zero-to-one chance. We don’t have to worry about anypony else’s opinion, because they aren’t us. It doesn’t concern them. And no matter what they say, I’ll never stop loving you. Never.”

His attention wanders back to me, and it lingers there, watching, staring… peering into me.

And still, the fire grows — more humid now than the steam I breathe.

And then, slowly, he shifts his weight from one side to the other, angling himself toward me, snaking out of my grasp. And all the while, he lays an arm over my withers, and wraps the second around my barrel, and bows his head to nuzzle it into the fur of my chest, which puffs up a little at the unexpected attention.

Unexpected, but not unwelcome. And my heart is beating all the harder for it.

I spread my wings, the left wrapping around his back and the other shading us from any droplets coming from overhead. And under their protective shadow, I close my eyes and drape my neck over his, and reach a hoof up to his exposed shoulder as the other hugs the arm hugging me. And I hold him there, so near to my heart, the wetness on his skin and in his hair dampening my coat.

And for a long time, there is silence. Even the cascading water seems more distant — white noise that tunes out over time. And all that’s left is the gentle rise and fall of my chest, and the faint sound of a sniffle or two from below; not crying, but letting a few errant breaths go, and some excess emotion with them.

I softly smile. I’ve grown so used to leaning on him for support that I’d forgotten how good it can feel to be the one leaned on for once — a leader, in a sense, but only for a team of two: he and I, and nopony else. It’s just us in here, and I like it that way.

Stars above, I really have found a good one.

But I’m not above admitting there are certain things that could do with some improvement.

“One tiny complaint, though,” I quietly say, lightly patting his shoulder and hugging his arm a little tighter. “Just a small one.”

“Name it,” he replies without hesitation, shaking his head against me. “Anything.”

Well, that certainly makes it easier, though my smile grows a teensy bit wider at how candid he sounded, and how eager he is to please. Not that I have a power fetish or anything. “Could you please give yourself a shave down there, for next time?” I ask, squeezing the same shoulder as my ears slightly lower and my hindlegs shuffle in place, a little embarrassed. “It was kind of distracting. And ticklish.”

He pauses. “Next time?”

I pause too, and then my eyes slowly open, and I stare with half-closed lids at the drain ahead of us as the realisation sinks in.

And then a soft coolness washes over me, emanating from nowhere in particular, and the smile I didn’t know had shrunk returns to its widened state.

“Yeah,” I whisper, as much to myself as to him. And then I angle my head so my mouth is that much closer to his ear, and I smirk wickedly. “You’re not bad for seven inches.”

Another pause, and then he begins to laugh. He catches it in the back of his throat so that it’s more physical than vocal, but it’s a laugh nonetheless, and I can feel the grin long before he pulls away and looks at me. “I certainly hope so, Fleet,” he affirms, still giggling. “I certainly hope so.”

I wait for the mirth to subside, then lean in and give him a kiss — a proper one, smack bang on the mouth. And when he kisses back, I hum contentedly. And for a while, we stay like that, teasing and toying with each other’s lips in slow, sensual motions, eyes closed, sharing breath.

And it’s perfect.

Yes, I haven’t cleaned myself, and he hasn’t brushed his teeth, and the position in which I’m sitting isn’t the most comfortable, and I’m feeling slightly exposed what with all the ‘goods’ effectively laid bare… but it’s perfect. This moment, stretching on for at least a minute. Everything else fades away, lost in a void of endless white, and just us in the centre of it all.

It’s so perfect, in fact, that I almost don’t feel the hand on my side gently sliding down to my belly, and then a little further southwards, and I break the kiss as my breath quietly hitches, and a tingle runs through me from my core. “You’re not planning something, are you?”

“Only if you want me to.”

My eyes flutter open, and I stare into his with a sultry smile, but I ponder on his response, and eventually decide that some restraint is warranted. “Just fondle me for now,” I say, peering down to the solitary teat he has cupped in his palm. “Let’s see how I feel in five minutes.”

He softly nods, then nuzzles into my chest again.

I sigh, resting my head against the wall, closing my eyes once more and losing myself as best I can to the sensation of his body on mine, touching me in places no decent pony touches. My tail twitches, but doesn’t go so far as to try and hike — it’s nice, but not nearly that erotic by itself. Just that bit too foreign, I guess. For now; familiarity breeds contempt, after all, although in this case, I wouldn’t be so bold as to call it contempt — more like… appreciation.

Yeah. Appreciation.

And for a good, long while, he stays where he is, the side of his head buried in my fur, shoulder pressed to mine, arm over my withers, and his hand holding me, but surprisingly… never groping. I won’t complain if that’s what he wants this time, but it’s strange, to know that he has me right where he wants me, but isn’t going the extra step — the very same I know he’s taken before, with gusto.

It’s only been a minute. Plenty can change in the remaining four.

“Fleet?” he beckons.

“Yeah?” I query.

Yet again, he pauses, but this one is far weightier than all the others; it doesn’t offer many specifics, but it says that another contentious thought has been reached, and he needs reassurance for something he already knows the answer for. “We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?”

I don’t reply. Not immediately, measuring his words.

But then my eyes open, and I smile a small, weary, amused smile up at the ceiling, or what little of it I can see from underneath my own wing, feathertips dripping with the water caught overhead.

“Yeah,” I whisper, and it warms me to the core to say it. “I think we are.”

Author's Note

35 | A World of Our Own

Morning.

When I don’t have to get up for rehearsal or training, it’s easily the most relaxing part of any day. Otherwise, that honour goes to the evening, when muscles are sore, wings are strained, and your coat could do with a long, hot bath to wash the sweat out. Those flight suits may be designed to allow your body to breathe, but that if it’s a particularly warm afternoon, they’re more like a sauna.

Thankfully, today isn’t turning out to be one of those days, according to the forecast, as I lounge on the sofa with the ukulele in my wings, strumming the strings and staring at the ceiling. New tunes are hard to come by, but it’s good to try — to stay in practice, at least, even if freestyling gets me nowhere. I owe it to myself, I guess; our friendship had started, in part, because he shared a song of his with me, and it began blossoming into something else when I shared one of my own. I’d be cheating us both if I didn’t keep with tradition.

I pause, then huff a quiet snort and smirk.

And there I was, however many weeks ago, saying I don’t do tradition for tradition’s sake.

Oh, the times, they are a-changing.

I resume playing, adding a few twists and turns to that alleged classic by Bob Dylan — so many weird human names, and so many of them male, apparently — searching for something that sticks. But even while I begin, I know it’s useless: it wouldn’t be original, just a spinoff. And considering we’ve both grown pretty accustomed to most of the songs he brought over, I’m sure he’d wizen up pretty quick. Such are the perils of dating such a singular individual.

Except, we’ve moved beyond the dating stage, haven’t we?

We took our sweet time, but… yeah.

And I don’t regret it. Not really. Some parts could’ve done with improvement, sure — by a sizeable margin, in some cases — but it’s all come together in the end. We had doubts, even during those moments when there wasn’t any room for them, but we faced and overcame them, and they aren’t here anymore. Struck from our hearts, if I’m to speak poetically. Even if there was… nothing poetic about that night in particular.

I cross my hindlegs, bashfully, blushingly smiling to myself and trying my hardest to think of something else. If I focus too much on it, I might just act on the impulse to do something embarrassing, and I have no intention of becoming that kind of mare; always ready, always hungry at every second of every day. Heat is bad enough, which is why most take medication to avoid it altogether, myself included, or treat only the symptoms — something every would-be mother does if she doesn’t want to advertise that she’s trying for a foal.

Stars, I remember back when I was training in the reserves, some poor girl from the farmlands in the south had joined, and she’d gone her whole life without any pharmaceutical help, trusting herbs, the outdoors and a good amount of perfume. Long story short, after a few close calls with a stallion or two and a hard chat with then-Captain Silver Streak, she got over her reluctance and decided being safe was better than being… something else.

Can’t remember why she was so hesitant, though. Something to do with the meds giving any future kids a mental handicap, I think, or what have you. Ill-informed and uneducated nonsense, really — that much I do remember — and it proved to me that clinging to tradition could sometimes do more harm than good.

The world marches on, with or without you. Sometimes you’re the catalyst, sometimes you’re just a passenger, but you owe it to yourself to stay aboard, or you’ll get left behind. And you might just drag a few close friends down with you, although you’d never mean to.

…Well, that got philosophic.

Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.

Oh, I know. It was just unexpected.

What part of this romance wasn’t?

…Also quite true. And this has been the longest, most nerve-wracking, most fulfilling experience I’ve ever had, not counting my career, which has steadily grown easier as the years passed by. And I think I can safely say that I’ve never been happier to have been proven wrong.

Well, maybe not wrong; perhaps I looked down on the topic with scorn at some point, but that wouldn’t have been the majority. No, if somepony found their significant other, I wouldn’t fault them for doing what their heart desired most — that’s what I did when it came to being a Wonderbolt, after all. Same motive, different goals. Now, when one came in the way of the other, that’s where my reservations surfaced, as my previous partner found out eighteen years ago.

Turns out not everything is meant to be.

I’ve got a good feeling about him, though. A very good feeling.

I mean, it’s not like he has much of a choice, does he? Who else would be brave enough to give a guy as strange as him a shot, if not the girl who saved his life from a falling car?

Soarin, I suppose, if he was being serious that night in the bar. Brave too, I guess — she may claim he’s just a friend to her, but I get the feeling it wouldn’t take much to persuade her into giving him a shot; she seems the type who’d be up for just about anything. A hard swig of whiskey, maybe, and some sweet-talking, and then her boisterous attitude would melt, revealing just how red-faced and easily swooned she can be. Putty in his hands. And my hooves.

…Merciful Sisters, what’s gotten into me? Now I’m shipping him with others? Dreaming of starting a little herd for myself? Since when did I get so depraved?

I laugh. The times have definitely changed, indeed.

“Oh, my sweet lovelies, yes, it is I — your host, Opal Spotlight,” I hear the television say once the laughter dies down to chuckles, and I realise I’ve stopped playing the ukulele. “You’re all much too good for me, I swear.”

I close my eyes and smile. She doesn’t know the half of it.

“But!” she continues, and the applause of the audience dies down. “Thank you all for coming, and welcome to another edition of The Spyglass. It has been a wild, absolutely tumultuous couple of weeks, hasn’t it? We’ve had intrigue and drama and a staggeringly high amount of new titles to be arriving soon at a theatre near you. A treat, beyond all doubt — really liked that trailer for The Marvels; seems like there’s promise there, in my opinion.”

Yes, because the more technology is introduced, the more possibilities are opened up. He’s already given out a rare exclusive interview or two about the state of his homeworld, with permission from the Big Four, and the press ate up every detail like dogs with peanut butter. I saw the trailer too, and judging by the cast of big-time actors and superpowered escapades, this seems to be the start of a ‘cinematic universe’, or whatever his Earth’s film industry calls it.

I don’t think it’ll catch on. Too much of a time investment, and probably all just to bait the promise of a sequel, provided enough cash flows.

“But before we recap on other news, there is, of course, a pair of singular individuals who are on the tips of everypony’s tongue, and who I’m sure we’re all very excited to check in on.”

“PHILIFOOT!”

My ears twitch. My brows crease. My smile wanes.

Should’ve figured. Should’ve switched it over to something less provocative. Too late now.

I strum the strings without much care, trying to muffle her mouth-noises more than anything.

“Our favourite couple, yes! And it appears they’ve grown even closer, ever since dear Fleetybee’s birthday.” I can practically hear her smug look as I imagine her leaning in. “Of course, this has led to a number of rumours surrounding the two, namely the nature of their meeting that very night, and how she stayed at his well into the morning.”

My playing ceases once more as I frown from the corner of my eyes at the screen.

Whatever happened is none of their business. And whoever started these supposed rumours can shove them where the sun doesn’t shine, especially if they’re just saying it for the heck of it; we can’t have been that loud. And I’m not a squealer.

“There’s another rumour circling about, my dears, and this one comes all the way from the palace of Canterlot itself!” She straightens up and beams a sickeningly wide grin for all the world to see, rocking back on her hooves like she needs to use the little girls’ room. “Apparently, Princess Celestia wishes to extend our resident human an invitation to the next Grand Galloping Gala as a guest of honour — his first ever!”

My frown deepens to a scowl, this time with an added hint of confusion as I cock my head upright.

That doesn’t sound like something she’d do. Not if she knows he still harbours a grudge. And considering his guards are supposed to report directly to her, it wouldn’t be too hard to figure that out — he changes the subject whenever she comes up in conversation, or just goes quiet. More than a few awkward silences were had because of it.

“Naturally, this has us all wondering whether any of this is true, and if it is, whether he’d be interested.” The screen cuts to some shaky footage of him walking through Equinox Park, accompanied by Ironside. Reporters follow and shout their questions and flash their cameras, getting as close as possible. Brave and Phalanx try their best to keep a stable perimeter, but there’s only so much they can do without getting forceful. “His answer is inconclusive.”

Philip wears a cap and shades — the standard look for a celebrity aiming to avoid the limelight — but even behind those, I can tell by the way he holds himself that he’d rather be in the cold depths of Tartarus. He’s tense. Stiff. Avoiding eye contact. Staring at the footpath ahead of him and nowhere else, hands in his jacket pockets, noticeably cringing whenever I think somepony mentions me, either by name or as his girlfriend; our relationship isn’t a secret at this point, and there were always shippers from the start. Opal, if I recall, was one of the original perpetrators.

I feel a pang in my chest, like a razor run along a violin: deep, cutting and unnerving. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s trying his darndest to stick it out, but it just isn’t working for him. And it’ll only get worse the more open about our relationship we are. Maybe we’ve gotten over what we are, but there’s still the matter of who, and this is one obstacle he won’t overcome. Not easily. And it isn’t fair. Not on him — on either of us, but him most of all.

I catch a peek of his eyes peering over the shades for a brief moment — those small, brown, expressive eyes — before he immediately switches back to trying to focus on the floor, grimacing to himself. But in that brief moment… I see fear.

Why can’t anypony else? Why is it so hard for them to see that he isn’t a thing; he’s a person, same as the rest of us, with his own insecurities and likes and dislikes and… and… and other stuff that I’ve grown to recognise and appreciate and love. He’s more than a walking, talking bag of blood, bones and personality.

He’s Philip.

Felipe Ajam Guadalupe Montero.

And I love him.

And…

…

…

…

…

…

…Love takes compromise.

He’s already done his part, looking past certain aspects I can’t change about myself… and growing to fancy some others, much to my pleasant surprise. It would only be fair if… I did something equally world-shattering in turn.

Except, it wouldn’t be world-shattering. Not really.

Not when I have him.

And it would only happen if he says yes.

I set the ukulele on the floor at the foot of the sofa, reaching out for the remote on the coffee table to switch off the television — hadn’t really been listening since I saw his eyes anyhow. Then, I roll over and slide off, tossing the remote onto the couch and leaping into the air for my bed ledge. There, I rummage through the bedside table and pick out my goggles, which I fasten around my head, and my music player, which I strap to my foreleg. The earbuds go in their rightful place, and then I glide down to the front door.

This is a very hasty decision, and I might just be kicking up a lot of fuss over nothing, but I haven’t felt this lightweight, this clear-headed about anything since joining the Bolts, and even more so since he literally dropped into my life. I’m motivated; taking charge because I want to, rather than letting the world dictate things for me. Yes, I’m reacting to a problem, but…

Screw it. No using in justifying this. It just feels right.

I am in control.

And nothing and nopony can make me think otherwise.

I scroll through the song library for something to listen to, stopping at and selecting Mr. Blue Sky, then pull open the door and step out onto the porch.

Higher up, a couple dozen reporters and journalists — an increasingly generous term for their profession nowadays — sit on clouds, cameras at the ready. And the second one of them notices me, all the ones who hadn’t been paying attention instantly snap to, a few calling out their questions from afar, all about Philip. Can’t hear any of them over the music, though.

Wouldn’t waste time on them anyhow.

As the drumroll builds, I crouch down and wind myself up, and just as the first note of the electric guitar hits, I rocket straight into the sky with an audible airburst, silver streaking in my wake, nearly obliterating the landing area for the cumulus.

Doesn’t matter. That can be fixed with time and effort. So can a relationship, but never as easily, and I’m not going to keep anypony waiting. Him least of all.

But there are some others I need to see first.

Banking left, wings slicing the air like a hot knife through butter, wind whipping through my mane and tail, catching in my goggles, playing across my cheeks as the music fills my ears, I turn and head for Cloudsdale proper.

“You’re moving?”

“Possibly,” I reply, eyeing the latte Mum had brewed for me, wondering whether now would be a good time to take a sip, or if I’d just come across as dismissive. Figuring it wouldn’t really matter either way — she’ll think what she’d want to think — I bring the cup to my lips and drink.

She lingers on me with a look of mute surprise, then slowly allows her gaze to wander to the empty space on the table between us. I used to have lunch out here, in the backyard, with Soarin and Spitfire when we were young enough to call hanging out playdates. Clouds could never beat solid ground for the sheer amount of fun things to do and see, but there was always a strange pleasure in inviting somepony over for the afternoon, or even a sleepover. Bonus points if we managed to convince both sets of parents to extend it for an extra day or two.

But today isn’t anything like that. I’m still confident in myself, but I’ve left the fantasy behind, and now I’m dealing with the reality. And the reality this might not sit well with certain individuals, Mum and Dad especially.

I peer over to their cumulus, trying to snatch of glimpse of the interior through the windows, and maybe reminisce a little on my life before I left and made my own place.

“How soon?”

“I don’t know.” Another sip. “That depends on him.”

She looks up at me. “Him?”

I return to her, angling my head and cocking an eyebrow meaningfully.

“Oh,” she says after a beat, then gently nods to herself, ears lowering a little way. “Philip.”

“Yes. Philip.” I have to remind myself to not get too defensive about this — she was the restrained one, after all, and I need to respect that she was respectful, in her own way. But decades of collective experience aren’t easily forgotten. “I’d be moving in with him.”

“To get away from us?”

“No.”

She looks up again, brows raised. “No?”

I shake my head. “To support him.”

She pauses, glancing me up and down with wary interest. “Haven’t you done that already? You know, by… being there for him.”

I snort, then help myself to a third sip and savour the taste. “Mum, you know it’s never as simple as that,” I continue, shaking my head again with an amused smirk — to think I’d ever get the chance to lecture her on relationships. “We’re… close, sure, but that doesn’t mean everything is going to be rock-steady from here on out. I’m a celebrity, and so is he, but he isn’t comfortable with that. So, I think it might be best if I pop the question and see if he’d like to share, so I’d be better positioned to help him through this.”

Her brows hike to their highest limit, eyes widening in an expression of utter shock. “You’re marrying him too?”

“What? No!” I chuckle. “Perish the thought, Mum! No, I’d just be moving in, and I swear, that’s all. Marriage is, like, the furthest thing from my mind right now. And even if I were ready for that, there’s no guarantee he’d ever be. I mean, it took him this long to get over the fact that I’m a pony, and he still has some reservations when it comes to…”

Her face, already a light blue thanks to her coat, and paling faintly with age, seems to grow just a little paler. “To…?”

“Preening,” I answer, and with perfect timing — back to my old self, it seems. And then I fake a small fit of giggles. “He gets weird about it, sometimes. You know, because it’s something he’s never had to do back in his world, being the only sapient species.”

But for all my efforts, Mum doesn’t appear terribly convinced, and lets her gaze drift once more to the table with a troubled frown, lifting her teacup and taking a sip of her own.

There really is only so much you can say to change somepony’s mind. After that, all you can do is try to make the pill just a bit easier to swallow, be it through mutual respect, or acknowledging the other’s fears.

“Does it still bother you?”

“Of course it does,” she curtly replies, snapping to me with the same frown, now tinged with a touch of concern. But she takes pains to make sure she doesn’t sound like she’s talking down to me, which is definitely a marked improvement over so many occasions before. “He’s not like you, Fleetfoot. You say you can’t guarantee he’ll ever want to marry you, but you can’t guarantee a lot of other things either, can you? Different needs, or… incompatible personalities — things you don’t notice until you actually know this pony. What he’s like. On the inside.”

I shrug. “You’ve just described pretty much every relationship in existence.”

“And yours is no exception.”

“I know.” I set the mug aside and lean across the table a little way, bowing my head slightly, peering up at her with an imploring look and a soft smile. “But trust me, Mum, I wouldn’t have gone down this road if I thought this wasn’t something worth pursuing.”

She lingers on me, then purses her lips and glances away. “And if you want foals?”

“Then we’ll adopt,” I state, glossing over how much the idea of having a swollen, bloated belly for six months really doesn’t appeal to me. Add to that a full day of abdominal cramps and labour, or longer, and it’s an absolute wonder why any female of any species would want to put themselves through all that. At least dragons and seaponies don’t have to deal with the pregnant part of pregnancy. “Does it really matter if it’s mine or not?”

She doesn’t respond, watching her tea ripple about in its cup, the breeze blowing through and swaying her blonde curls. She wants to say something, but knows, as I do with her, that she’d never get me to agree, and trying would end up with us getting frustrated.

I don’t like seeing her like that. Perhaps, once upon a time, I would’ve. Or maybe not. If the reveal in Twilight’s castle helped me discover anything about myself, it’s that I hadn’t done all this to spite her; this relationship isn’t built on resentment, and I’m not out to burn any bridges. I’m better than that, and my own mother deserves better. For all her faults, and how condescending, judgemental, and everything else she’s been over the course of my life, there have still been ten good times for every bad.

Speaking of which…

“Didn’t you and Dad have a rough patch or two?”

Her ears pin back, and she avoids eye contact. “We’re not talking about your father and I, Fleety. We’re talking about you. My little girl.”

That would be a yes, then. “But I’m not little anymore, Mum.”

“Yes, you are.” Now she meets my gaze, sorrowful, but not exactly despairing — not like I’m breaking her heart by saying any of this. “You always will be. To me. I just want you to be happy.”

“And I am, Mum.” I reach across the table and lay my hoof over hers, smiling softly. “I just need you to trust me on this. And if this all comes tumbling down around me, then you can tell me you told me so.”

“But I don’t want that, Fleetfoot. I want things to be perfect for you.”

…Sweet stars above, the irony here is sublime.

“So do I,” I say after a beat. “But mistakes happen. That’s part of life. And you and I both know I’ve made some pretty big ones. Left two ponies in the dark too long. Gave one of them the wrong impression.”

She, too, pauses, measuring my words, then looks to her left as if to peer over her shoulder, but doesn’t move her head. Even so, I know what she’s picturing in her mind, and her worried expression only confirms it.

I sigh, frowning at the house again with a pit opening up inside me and a weight tugging at my core. “He isn’t going to like this, is he?”

Mum stays there for a short while, pretending to stare at him, but eventually switches back to me with a restless look. “He’s being… stubborn,” she mumbles. “How he handled everything was wrong, and he knows that, but he won’t apologise for sticking up for you — says it was his fatherly duty. But honestly… I think he’s just a little hurt, about trusting you to find love at your own pace, and you not trusting us to hear about any of it.”

“That’s why I’m telling you now.” My brows soften to something that I hope resembles assurance. “You’re the first, Mum. And so is Dad, by proxy. I walled myself off before, and I forgot to stay in contact — that was shitty of me. I shouldn’t have done that. Maybe you don’t have to be involved in every aspect of my life, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to be a part of it.”

She nods idly. I can’t be sure whether she believes me or not.

No use fretting about it. It is what it is, and I’ve made my choice.

“Do you think he’ll want to speak to me again sometime?”

“Oh, yes, definitely,” she replies with a small smile and a surprisingly chipper tone, nodding once more and with more strength, laying her other hoof over mine. “He’ll come around eventually. Just… give him time, dear. Time to adjust. Believe me, sharing a house with somepony isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

I quirk an eyebrow, smirking, the weight at my core lightening and the pit sealing over. “Maybe there’s some advice you can give me on the matter.”

“Maybe.” She chuckles softly. “But only if you promise not to kiss and tell.”

“Oh, take it from me, Mum: I’m pretty good at keeping secrets.”

“You’re dropping out?”

“Possibly,” I reply, figuring an unintentionally recycled line deserves an intentionally cycled response. And then I rub the back of my neck with a hoof and sigh. “I don’t know. I’m just… at a crossroads right now, I guess, and I want to keep everypony informed. Notified. Forewarned, or whatever.”

Spitfire blinks from behind her shades, brows high, ears at attention, mouth slightly open, looking as if I’ve set a new Academy record. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen that face, and if this whole thing ends up going nowhere, I doubt it would be the last.

“Oh,” she remarks, clearly trying to hide her shock and moderate… disappointment? That’s certainly a surprise on my end. “Well, uh… any particular reason why?”

I cock an eyebrow. “Any particular reason why I’d want to tell my best friend and commanding officer that I’m considering leaving Equestria’s best and most famous flying unit?”

“No, no, I mean…” She hesitates, then shakes her head, taking off the aviators and watching as she sets them on the desk before her, its surface strewn with paperwork. “Well, it’s not like I can stop you, but… at least tell me why I shouldn’t try, because this isn’t the kind of decision you should ever make lightly; once you’re gone, you’re gone. If you want back in, you’d have to prove yourself to the assessors all over again, and there’s no guarantee you’d make it through that.”

I snort. “Are you telling me I’m too old?”

“No, Fleet, I’m telling you this could be a mistake.” She looks up almost pleadingly. “Now, I’m not one to tell you what to do, but I can tell you the consequences; even if you make it through recruitment, even if someone throws in the towel from the team itself, and even I pick you and somehow dodge the claims of nepotism that the media might call for my resignation over, there’ll always be talk about how you’d basically already admitted that your time had passed.”

I shrug. “Maybe it has.”

“It hasn’t.” Her tone takes on a warning edge, and so does her expression. “If I can keep going, if Soarin can keep going — heck, if Rainbow can keep going, that lazy, self-centred ninny — so can you. To say nothing of the fact that it was our dream, the three of us, to make it this far. And now you’re, what… abandoning us?”

“I haven’t made a decision yet, Spits,” I assure, shrugging again, but more defensively. “And besides, I wouldn’t be abandoning you.”

Her gentle frown deepens slightly. “We’re a team, aren’t we?”

“We are.”

“And a team sticks together, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” I sigh once more. “Look, this isn’t exactly easy for me either. I mean, yes, I’m probably being a little rash about this—”

“More than a little.”

“—However,” I stress, raising a placative hoof, “and this is important, I don’t intend to act on anything unless I’m given reason to.”

She angles her head and leans over the desk, quirking an eyebrow impatiently and rolling her own hoof. “That reason being…?”

“Philip.”

She pauses, not exactly stunned, but clearly taken at least somewhat aback. But then her brows knit together and she returns to her seat, cocking her head in the other direction. “He didn’t tell you to hang up the suit for good, did he?”

“No,” I answer resolutely. “He told me he wants me to live my life the way I want, and he’ll adjust.”

Another pause, and then she sits back and folds her forelegs against her jacket — the official captain’s uniform, for when she’s stuck indoors reviewing the written aptitude tests of new recruits. She’s coming to a realisation, but still wants to make sure there’s nothing else beneath the surface. “And this is what you want, is it, and no one else?”

“Possibly,” I firmly reiterate. “As I said before, I haven’t done anything yet. I haven’t even discussed it with him. I’m covering all other bases first, getting everything in place that needs to be in place should something happen, and then I’ll see if this is the route he wants to take.”

“Him, not you?”

“Me too, but…”

She waits.

I sigh for a third time, closing my eyes, head slumping forward to the edge of her desk, the goggles coming between my brow and the actual surface with an audible thud. “Spitty, please, don’t take any of this personally, and don’t think he’s tearing me away from you, or Soarin, or the Bolts, or anything. He wants me to be happy, but I can’t be happy with myself unless he’s happy. And while I’m happy to stay in the spotlight, he isn’t. So, I just need, like, a week off to do what I need to do, talk with him, and figure this out.”

Yet more silence, and this one feels far more frigid compared to the others — heavier on not just the mind, but the heart; Spitfire and I have never had a talk like this before, and it’s obvious to me now that while she may have been playing matchmaker, she hadn’t thought it would come to this. And I can’t really blame her, knowing what a workaholic I was.

But that’s the key word: was. Not anymore. And all throughout the flight here, to when I walked into her office, to when I sat down, to when I laid out my possible intentions, it wasn’t the leaving I was dreading, but leaving her. After all, how are you supposed to tell your best friend that you don’t feel as committed as you once were. The Wonderbolts are as much a family as they are a group of random individuals.

Cohesion demands familiarity, and you can only truly trust a wingpony when you know enough about them to consider them a friend.

“Well, like I said, I can’t stop you, if this is what you really want,” Spitfire says with a sigh of her own, but it doesn’t sound totally dejected. “But I also have to recognise that… love complicates things. Isn’t that right?”

I lift my head and gently nod. “You can say that again.”

“Perhaps I will, in a few weeks’ time.”

Now I open my eyes and look at her properly, eyebrow cocked, as well as an ear.

It takes her a moment to notice, staring off into la-la land with a very faint, almost imperceptible smirk on her lips. But when she does, she doesn’t hide the expression, but widens it. “Soarin suggested we give dating a shot.”

I pause. And then I bink. And then I baulk. “He what?”

“Yep.” Spitfire nods. “I mean, I’ve known about his crush on me for ages, so him telling me that wasn’t a big surprise — confessed it right after we finished dancing at your birthday, in fact.”

“And you agreed?”

She shrugs, returned to her cool, easy-going persona. “Could be fun. You never know. And besides, if he’s been holding onto it for years out of respect for me, the least I can do is humour him.”

I blink again, and then begin to settle, emitting a soft cuckle. “So, this is a pity date.”

Once more, she shrugs. “Call it what you will. I just know that if it weren’t for Philip winning your affection, Soarin might never have acted on his. And yeah, it might not end up going anywhere, because I’m not entirely sold on the idea just yet, but… hey. No harm in trying, right?”

“Even though you work together?” I query with a slight sense of bemusement. “Even though he’s your subordinate? Even though he’s your best friend, second only to me?”

“Don’t start this, Fleety,” she casually warns, shaking her head, still smirking. “You know I don’t pick favourites.”

“Except for the time you picked me for the team when you took over for Silver Streak.”

“I don’t pick favourites,” she knowingly affirms, a cheeky glint in her fiery eyes. “But as for Soarin? Eh. I mean, we’ve been around each other enough that we know what makes the other tick, so I trust him not to be a total embarrassment. You know, more than usual.”

“Are you sure about this?”

Yet again, she shrugs. “Only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

“Even though the press might…”

“Let me worry about what they’ll think of me, if they manage to find out.” She snorts. “Besides, you’re a bit of a role model in that regard, aren’t you? It’s not like they ever got in the way of you and Philip becoming an item, did they?”

For a second, I stare at her, a nagging, annoying little feeling at the back of my head, worried that she’d somehow found out how far we’d gone. Not that she’d take any offence if she did, and not that I’d have any reason to be ashamed; it’s what we, as a couple, are well within our right to do and enjoy.

But I quickly realise what I already know: she hadn’t meant anything by it. “I guess not,” I say, trying to sound sure, though I’m not entirely sure of it myself. “Just… pretend you aren’t famous, and soon you’ll forget that you are.”

“Sage advice.” Spitfire nods again. “I’ll be sure to keep it in mind when we’re having a picnic in the clouds.”

“A picnic?” I laugh. “Didn’t take you for that kind of girl.”

“Oh, and you’re one to judge, are you? Trying to sneak on down to Redcliff in a frock all fancy-like, hoping to catch the sunset on a seaside vista with your boyfriend.”

My smile fades.

She taps her temple with the tip of her wing. “I pay attention, Fleetybee, and you’re never as subtle as you like to think. It’s easy to spot what gets to you, and I don’t need to be your friend to see them.”

It’s not so much that revelation that gets to me as it is a new idea.

A dangerous idea.

An image, more like, of us — me and him — sipping wine at the top of that cliff, lounging on a red and white blanket, silhouettes cast by the sinking sun. He would look at me, and I would look at him, and we’d smile and… kiss… and we’d have our dinner there: curry, made by me. And we’d paint over another permanent stain with a newer, better memory.

A foolish, fanciful notion made by a starry-eyed girl drunk on her own high of self-confidence.

But one I’m now determined to make come true.

“I’ll give you however long you need,” Spitfire says, snapping me out of my small, whimsical fantasy. “But if this doesn’t pan out the way you say it might, I want you doing my lot of paperwork for the next semester. You’re overdue on the amount of leave I’ve already given you anyway. It’s about time you paid your debts. And so help me, if you leaving the Bolts is a get-out-of-jail-free card…”

“It isn’t,” I assure, chuckling, but still somewhat distracted. And then I clear my throat and stand up from the chair. “Anyway, yeah, uh… Thanks. For hearing me out, I mean. And doing this.”

“You need to be somewhere?” she asks, noting my restlessness.

“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “Not really.”

“Then what’s the rush?”

“…Let’s just say it’s about time I reconnect with an old friend.”

It’s evening by the time I reach Redcliff, approaching from the west, the glare of the setting sun on the ocean threatening to blind me if it weren’t for the slight tint in my goggles, which still have some frost in the corners from when I crossed the Appleachians. Could’ve brought a sweater at least, if nothing else, and not just relied on my natural resistance to temperature, but I figured the sooner I get this over with, while this… impulse keeps me going, the sooner this will all be over and done with. And then I can finally get some rest.

…Maybe it isn’t confidence that’s driving me anymore. Maybe it’s something else.

Duty, perhaps? Obligation?

I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t really care to know. All I know is that I’m here, at my intended destination, and it looks… quaint. Charming. All the little houses, scattered about on the short, steep peninsula, the tramline stretching from the station all the way down to Baltimare in the distance to the south. The grass is green, the lighthouse is dormant, and a few small wooden dinghies out on the calm water, their occupants — an even mix of griffons and ponies, it seems — casting nets and lines for the fish.

That last part almost makes me do a double take; it’s not every day you see ponies hunt in Equestrian territory. In other countries, sure, because you tend to adopt the practices of the cultural region in which you’re living, but on home turf, it’s practically unheard of. To say nothing of our largely herbivorous nature, most ponies — or at least the ones I associate with — take no pride in making other creatures suffer.

As far as I’m aware. I could be wrong.

I hope I’m not.

Nevertheless, quickly shaking my head, I dive lower and scan the village for any signs of life, and for one individual in particular. There’s some activity by the café — a celebration of some sort, probably. Maybe a birthday. I’m too high up to tell, and the wind is rushing by my ears too hard, so I can’t hear the speech somepony is clearly making.

It’s a happy occasion. I’d rather not disturb them.

There’s a lone pony out in the front yard of a house, close to the southern edge of the peninsula. Gardening, it seems, a wide-brimmed sunhat on their head as they focus on the ground beneath their hooves. Nothing of any immediate concern occupying their time. The perfect candidate to bother with a simple enquiry.

I sweep down and glide, appreciating the sudden warmth of a lower altitude for a moment, then land at a trot on the cobblestone pathway before the fence, wings folding and shuffling at my sides.

“Excuse me,” I beckon as I quickly slow myself to a hurried walk, and then a complete stop, raising a hoof to pull the goggles from my eyes and set them on my brow. And with the brightness of the world coming into play, I find myself squinting somewhat.

“Who’s there?” he asks without looking up from his work: meticulous weeding. And instantly, I can tell his voice is really quite gruff. Sounds like a weary traveller who’s finally found his place in the world, and subsequent peace, and isn’t too happy about the world coming to knock on his door again. His dark grey coat and black, windswept mane and tail definitely gives him a Grogar may care appearance.

“Fleetfoot, sir.” I clear my throat and try slicking a few errant hairs back into place in my mane. “The Wonderbolt. I’m… searching for somepony.”

He doesn’t stop. Not immediately. And when he does, and he looks up at me with a certain sense of apathy, like I’m distracting him from something important, but he’s too polite to simply tell me to go away. In the shadow of his hat, yellow eyes peer back at me from over the edge of black-framed glasses, a slight stubble following his jawline and unsmiling muzzle. Something tells me he isn’t the sort who trusts easily. Might have come all the way out here to escape society as a whole.

We’re one in the same, then. Let’s just hope I can turn this to my advantage, if that’s the case. Kindred spirits helping each other and all that jazz.

“You know this place is full of people who don’t want to be found, right?”

Score one for my intuition. “Yeah, but I’m not trying to ruffle anypony’s feathers,” I say with what I hope to be a casual shrug. “I’m just after somepony who knows the place, and she’s the only one I know. On a surface level. It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“I know who you’re after.”

Ah. So, word spread about the incident further up on the cliff, so many months ago.

“Do you mind telling me where she is?” I query, a small, guilty weight settling on my shoulders. But I refuse to let it drag me down — it’s long in the past, and I can’t change that; I can only move forward. “Again, I’m not here to stir up trouble. I’m just after—”

The door to his house opens, and standing in the entryway on her hindlegs, a plate of snacks and beverages in her clawed hands… is her. And the second she opens her beak to announce that something was about to be served, she notices me, and she beams a grin. “Fleetfoot!”

I blink, brows high and ears attentive, wings fluttering at my sides in surprise. “Gytha?”

“The one and only!” She descends the steps and continues along the footpath, still walking on two legs, and keeping remarkable balance. Might just be a griffon thing. “I was wondering if I’d ever get to see you again.”

“Well, uh…” Truth is best. I might be staying here for a while, after all. “To be honest… I’ve been avoiding this place like the plague. You know, in case any news crews started getting curious about what’s going on in this corner of Equestria.”

“Yeah, we had a few.” She shrugs, stopping by her husband — if my memory of her description holds true — and setting the plate beside him, giving him a short, soft hug from behind before strolling closer to the fence. I hadn't connected the dots until seeing them together. “I had to convince Rhythmic to help convince the town to help us keep the heat off you. I stayed with Gaufrid, and Rhythmic stayed with Penny and Azure, and everyone had to pretend we weren’t a couple.”

“Loneliest week of my entire life,” he mutters. I can’t tell if he’s being serious.

Gytha flashes him an unimpressed glance before returning to me and pretending he hadn't implied what I think he did. “Anyway, yes, as you can tell, he wasn’t very happy with the situation. However, as I said long ago, don’t worry about it. He’s a loyal pup, so if I say you’re welcome, you’re welcome.”

I linger on him, watching as he gives me a sideways look, the air around him unreadable. I doubt he’d be out for blood, though, and I’m sure I’d win even if he was; to say nothing of the fact I’ve had some combat training — less than other branches of the military, naturally, but more substantial than your everyday karate class — he’s a little on the lean side, not nearly as well-built as most stallions tend to be. Not thin, but… slim. Judging by his cutie mark, I’d guess his strength lies in the pen, rather than the sword.

“Am I welcome?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow and switching focus to Gytha.

“Of course!” she answers, sitting on her haunches and spreading her wings and arms out wide in a welcoming gesture, another grin plastered on her face. “Why wouldn’t you be? Kindred spirits, remember?”

“My thoughts exactly,” I say, and then cough and beat my chest to get a tickle out of my throat.

She cocks her head, her smile fading. “You alright there, Fleetfoot?”

“Yeah.” I cough again. “Why?”

“You just look… frazzled.”

I laugh. “Flying nonstop for two days tends to do that to you.”

“Two…” she begins, then drifts off, blinking with widening eyes. “Wait, you mean to say you haven’t had any rest at all since leaving… where? Cloudsdale?”

“Oh, nah, of course I did.” I glibly wave her off. “Napped on a cloud last night before I braved the Appleachians in the morning. Had some breakfast there too, of daisies and daffodils.”

“And that’s it? Nothing since?”

I shrug once more. “Wasn’t hungry.”

“No, no, no, you can’t do that to yourself, missy,” she insists, shaking her head and rising to all fours, striding for the gate and opening it. “I don’t care who you are or what you’re trying to do, but you’re coming inside right this minute and—”

“I’m not here for me.” I shy away from and sweep her outstretched claws aside, backing up a few steps. “Not… not really. And I’m not here for you either, and however you think I think you can help me.”

She hesitates, staring at me in confusion.

“Is that house you mentioned still for sale?”

Her eyes widen further, and expression slowly morphs into bemusement. “You’re not thinking of buying it, are you?”

“I am, as a matter of fact.” I punctuate the statement by giving the cobbles a soft but solid stomp. And it honestly surprises me how easily I say that.

“As a summer home?” Rhythmic questions, putting his efforts with the garden bed on hold.

I turn to him and shrug yet again. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m just weighing my options for now.”

He watches me for a moment, carefully inspecting me up and down from his side of the fence with prudent, calculating eyes. And then he looks to Gytha and smirks — the first sign of genuine positivity I’ve seen from him today. Not that I’ve known him that long. “And she says she isn’t here for herself,” he remarks, a hint of mirth in his low voice. “Methinks she’s having a bit of a midlife crisis.”

“Well, maybe I am,” I retort, wings flicking open and closed in a small, quick, flustered shrug of their own. “And so what if I am? I’m just trying to look out for somepony I care about. Can you really blame me for that? What next? You’re going to tell me it’s my fault I let myself fall for him? Because, let me tell you, mister, you’re kinda-sorta already preaching to the—”

“Okay, okay,” Gytha interrupts, having somehow snuck up on me, laying an arm around my shoulders and patting my chest, where I notice the fur has noticeably puffed out, “I think we get the picture. Take a deep breath, Fleetfoot. Calm down. Alright?”

Having the fact pointed out makes me deflate in an instant, not unlike when I was thirteen, and swear words had the potency of nails on a chalkboard, and I’d cursed for the first time out of pure frustration. I couldn’t take back what I’d said, so it was all downhill from there — I was becoming immoral.

If only I knew how far that path would lead, and who my degeneracy would eventually lead me to…

Stars above, I’m scatterbrained.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she replies with a kindly smile, much to my mute surprise. “You’re… going through a lot right now, aren’t you?”

I snort, then chuckle, lifting a hoof to brush back even more hair. Maybe I had overdone the flying part of this trip. “I really don’t know anymore.”

Gytha nods slowly, thoughtfully. And then she looks to Rhythmic.

He holds her gaze for a long moment, back to his impassive self. And then, with a gentle roll of the eyes, he sighs and nods behind him to the house. “Let the poor mare in. Help her to some of that tea you love so much. Kindred spirits and all that jazz.”

Gytha returns the kettle to its hotplate and wanders over to the table by the kitchen window with two teacups, setting one in front of me as she takes her own seat on the opposite side, smiling a candid smile. “Go ahead,” she says, gesturing eagerly . “It’s sweet — imported from the Neighpon Archipelago, if you’d believe it. Always takes the edge off my nerves. Not that there’s much that stresses me out nowadays.”

I blink, then peer down at the tea; yellow, with flakes swirling around at the bottom. I’ve never been one for any kind of brew, honestly, but she’s already given me shelter, so I may as well take her up on any other offers passed my way.

I try hiding my reluctance as I bring the rim to my lips and sip — a stoic mask, like Philip does. And now, apparently, Rhythmic too.

It tastes like…

…Hot water.

With a bitter, heavy aroma that sticks to the back of my throat.

Definitely not for me.

Regardless, I look to her with a small smile of my own and nod approvingly. If I don’t say anything she won’t be offended; she’s literally the hoof that’s feeding me.

She nods in kind. “Now, what was that about buying a house?”

I blink a second time. Straight to business, it seems. Then again, she hadn’t beaten around the bush when we last met — picked up exactly what we’d been trying to keep on the downlow. “Well, that’s pretty much it, isn’t it?” I say with an idle shrug. “I think it might help him… and me too, maybe… if we had somewhere else to go that wasn’t immediately in the public’s eye.”

“A fair assessment.” She bobs her head from side to side. “But are you sure this is the right move?”

“As sure as I’ll ever be,” I mumble, almost taking another sip before I remember that this isn’t hard cider I’m drinking. “And even if it isn’t, it’s a mistake I can afford. I honestly have more money than I know what to do with.”

She gives a shrug of her own, as well as a smirk. “Well, I mean, if you have so much to spare, my husband and I have been thinking of doing some renovations…”

I chuckle, glancing behind me for the rest of the house. “Why would you? It seems plenty big enough for two already.”

“You never know.” Again, she shrugs. “There’s still some space to fill.”

“With what?”

Gytha doesn’t reply, watching as she taps a talon on the edge of her cup, a dreamy smile across her beak and a distant look in her eyes.

I’m not entirely sure I understand what she’s getting at, but some of the blanks have been filled, and I decide to let the topic be for now and move on to less tender territory. Not that I’m afraid she’d find the subject touchy in any way, but rather because it doesn’t concern and, frankly, probably wouldn’t interest me.

I look to my right, taking a peek out the window, observing the front yard for a moment, along with the stallion still weeding the garden bed. It’s difficult to say whether he’s enjoying himself, but he’s definitely fixated on the task. Dutiful, in a deep, brooding, mysterious and clichéd kind of way. Not quite the pony I’d imagined her settling down for, if she was ever such a free spirit.

“What’s his name again?” I find myself asking before I have the mind to stop.

“Who?” She snaps to me, brows high and seeming somewhat surprised. And then she leans forward and follows my gaze. “My hubby?”

Hubby. Gosh, that’s… actually pretty adorable. “Yeah.”

Gytha lingers on him, then pulls back and looks up at the ceiling with a whimsical grin. “Rhythmic Prose,” she practically purrs, drawing the syllables out without them sounding too captivated. “Good gods, if that isn’t a name…”

I almost cock an eyebrow. Almost. Of all the things to make a griffon swoon, I’d never have thought it would be something as simple as a pony’s name. But stranger things have happened, I suppose — I mean, I say that, and yet both Philip and I were lost for words at each other’s songs. If there’s anything more worthy of an eye-roll, I can’t think of it; it’s the oldest, most unabashedly starry-eyed trope in the book.

But there we were, on the foreshore, twice, and it happened twice. And for better and for worse, both led to some… interesting nocturnal activity — something I dare not speak of in polite company.

Pulling my legs in a little closer, I sigh, shuffling in my seat and shifting my wings at my sides.

“What does he do?” I ask, mostly because I’m genuinely interested, partly because I need to take my mind off things, and this tea certainly won’t give me any pleasant thoughts.

Gytha continues staring, still with that whimsical grin, and then her eyes return to mine. “He’s a writer, mainly, and a singer-songwriter on the side, though he’s never really liked the attention much, so he operates under pen names and aliases, and never shows his face in public.”

Sounds a bit like my guy.

“That’s kind of how we met, actually.”

This time, I do quirk an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” She chuckles. “See, I’d already moved here, and was hoping to make a few bits on the side of helping out with the fishing — we sell everything fresh in the farmers’ market down the coast in Baltimare. Being a girl who’d never owned her own place before, I bought a house too big for myself. So, I opened it up as a kind of bed and breakfast sort of deal.”

“That’s where he came in?”

“That where he came in.” She takes another sip of her tea, savouring the flavour and aftertaste. “He was writing a book that he still hasn’t published, and one of the main characters was a griffon. He was looking for a way to covertly get to know one without seeming like he was only interested in the fact I was and still am… well, a griffon.”

“Was he famous then?”

She snorted. “He’s never been famous. That doesn’t stop him from trying, but I’ve learned to not expect great success. Maybe if he got that book of his out there, but everything else has just been… dust in the wind, I guess.

“Anyway, yeah, he was staying here, appreciating the view, the isolation, the… whatever else you’re supposed to call a place like this, and he’d ask me about myself every night. Sometimes, I’d ask him some questions. And it went like that for about six months.”

I draw my head back in surprise. “Six months?”

“What can I say?” She shrugs, looking out the window to him again. “He was good company. Time slipped by and I barely noticed. And when I did… that’s when I started wondering if, maybe…”

“…You liked him?” I finish.

She pauses, seeming a little distant, then nods, her focus still on him. “I’d make a pretty shitty innkeeper, I think, if this sets a precedent. I mean, who the heck makes a lover out of their first guest ever?”

My eyebrow quirks once more. “Did you… court each other?”

Another pause, and her smirk reemerges as her attention switches back to me, a shameless twinkle in her gaze. “For the better part of an afternoon.”

I blink, taking a moment to process her words, then feel my eyes widen and brows rise as the fur on my chest bristles and a slight amount of warmth tickles my cheeks. I’m also made aware of a faint twitch in my wings and core, though I can’t tell what feeling is behind it.

“I mean… I was a lonely girl, he was a lonely guy, and he kind of already had a thing for griffons, so…” She chuckles, and cools her mirth with a third sip of her tea. “I’m an opportunist. I see a chance for some fun, I take it. And while there were some reservations between us, we figured that no one needed to know — the people here tend to keep to themselves, anyway. Not that they aren’t friendly.”

“Who was the most reserved?” I ask, so quick and easy that it’s almost like I want to hear this.

Perhaps I do.

“Rhythmic,” she answers. “Mainly because he wasn’t initially as interested in me as I was in him. But after that night, and especially in the morning, I made sure he stayed very interested.”

My cheeks grow warmer, and there’s a soft tension in my withers.

“I’m a hen of simple tastes,” she purrs, leaning in and narrowing her eyes, running the tip of her tongue along the edge of her beak, “but he tasted damn fine.”

“Okay!” I give an awkward chuckle and push my chair back a little way, noticing the air around me has risen a few degrees. “I think that’s enough information.”

She tilts her up and bursts out in laughter, slapping the table and almost spilling her tea. “Oh, my dear,” she howls, “my dearest, dearest dear, if you think I’m shy in any way in that regard, you can bloody well think again. I am not sorry I bagged me that piece of ass, and he isn’t either.”

“And I don’t need to know the details, you absolute minx, you.”

“You weren’t complaining a moment ago.” She reclines in her seat and beams a smug grin. “If you want to be my neighbour, you’ll just have to get used to it: whether you like it or not, I’m an extremely open book. And if it makes you squirm, all the better.”

An ultimatum. Not as definite as the previous… however many there have been before, but an ultimatum all the same; she doesn’t strike me as the sort who’d change for just anypony.

And there’s also an offer hidden in there.

“Does that mean you’re good with me buying that place?”

Gytha pauses, her grin lessening to a smile, then sips her tea as if it’s the cure to a minor bout of intoxication. “I really don’t see why you shouldn’t, if you think it’ll help you.”

“…So…?”

“Yeah.” She nods once more. “Yeah, I’ll contact the owner for you — put in a good word. On one condition.”

“What?”

She licks her beak again, another sly twinkle in her eyes, then folds her forelegs on the table and cocks her head, her gaze perfectly balanced between haughty and dreamy. “You stay the night here, rest up for the morning. And in the meantime, you and I grab a few cold ones, lounge around, and you tell me… everything. The whole story, start to finish, and every point in between. Because there’s no way I’m missing out on hearing this.”

I knock on the door, then step back and wait.

It opens less than a minute later, and he’s standing in the doorway with a plain shirt, cargo shorts and bare feet. His legs are hairy. Not sure why that would be a problem, though, or why I’d take notice if I’ve seen them so many times before.

My eyes sting a little.

“Fleetybee?”

“Yeah, hey,” I respond automatically, buying some time for me to gather my thoughts and blink. “Do you, uh… mind if I come in for a minute? There’s something I need to talk about with you.”

He frowns down at me, hesitant and confused, but eventually steps aside and grants me access.

I trot through and glance around the space, searching for a good place to sit, but also considering whether isn’t breaking the news to him now would be ample enough — Gytha never beats around the bush, and neither do I. Usually. I’m pretty sure there have been points where I’d be better off calling myself a hypocrite.

Stars, it’s difficult to focus.

I settle on the couch, doubling back and rounding the end to leap up and onto the corner piece, sitting on my haunches. We made out here once. A few times, actually. I think. Could’ve all just been from a single night. Or day, or whatever. Regardless, it made me feel nice. This is as good a place as any to make an announcement.

He follows me through, but at a more cautionary pace, and takes a seat within reach of me, watching me with a curious, careful expression, brows upturned with one of them quirked. “You seem… dishevelled.”

I blink again, then squint down at myself and notice that, indeed, my fur is more messy and matted than it should be, and some patches are still a little damp. “Oh,” I remark absently. “Yeah, there was this storm I flew through to get here. Could’ve gone around, but I didn’t want to waste any time.”

The concern in his eyes doesn’t fade. In fact, he appears to grow even more anxious.

Better do some damage control. “Don’t worry, I didn’t get struck by lightning this time.”

“This time?”

Crap, that was the wrong thing to say. “Look, just… don’t worry about that. I didn’t come here to have you tell me I should go to the hospital or anything, because I don’t need it. And even if I was thunderstruck, it wouldn’t matter, because it’s next to nothing to a pegasus anyway.”

He continues staring for a short while, but then shuts his mouth and settles back down, folding his arms in his lap.

It’s the first time I’ve met him in a week — since that night where… stuff happened. I feel like this should be a momentous occasion, somehow, and I also feel a little ashamed that I hadn’t at least called him before now — that I might have made the same mistake with him that I’d made with my parents. Even though we parted on good terms after breakfast, with a sweet and… oh so tender hug, and a kiss… and sharing breath… And it was lovely.

Especially that soft nibble on the tip of my ear. That was…

Merciful Sisters, the entire visit was a wild…

No. Focus. I need to focus. I didn’t come here to fantasise or reminisce.

Much.

“I want you to move in with me.”

“You…” He blinks. “You what?”

I hesitate, wondering for a second if I’d actually said what I meant to say, and when I decide that I had, I nod, both for my own sake as well as his. “I want you to move in with me,” I repeat, perhaps a little more sure of myself. “Not up in Cloudsdale, but somewhere else.”

“Like where?” he queries cagily.

“Redcliff. There’s a house for sale. I could sell my place, buy that one, and we could move in together. You won’t have to be mooching off the Sisters anymore, and you won’t have to stay in the public—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold the bleeping phone for just a minute, Fleet.” He leans forward a little way and cocks his head, frowning, as if he’s just about ready to stand up and face me in defiance; how dare I suggest this perfectly reasonable option to him. “What do you mean you…”

I wait. I understand this is a lot to take in, especially when it’s seemingly come out of the blue — I know I’d be thrown for a loop if he came up with this before I did. I just need to be patient. It’s what good partners have in abundance.

He shuts his eyes and bites his lower lip — so full and delectable — as he takes a moment to recompose and calm himself. “…Why do you want me to move in with you?”

My ear twitches. That wasn’t a flat rejection. There’s hope yet. “Because this isn’t the kind of lifestyle I want for you. And it’s not the kind you want either.”

His eyes open and a brow arches, though both remain creased an a sceptical expression. “What lifestyle?”

“This,” I say, motioning to the whole of the apartment in a sweeping gesture. But I quickly decide that’s too vague and hop off the sofa, trotting across the living room carpet and over to the sliding door that leads onto the balcony. The blinds have been drawn shut, shrouding the apartment in a moderate amount of darkness. There’s enough ambient light bleeding through to see in clarity, but when I pull them back, it feels for a second as if I’m staring directly at the sun at dawn.

As my eyes adjust, the teams of aerial reporters come into focus, and they notice that something is finally happening, just like when I left home, they instantly hop to and refocus their cameras on the opening. The only thing stopping them from storming through the breach is Ironside, who patrols the airspace with a sense of duty and precision. Phalanx acts as backup, standing at attention on the balcony, slowly craning his head from left to right. He takes notice that something must have changed and looks over his shoulder, spies me, then nods in acknowledgement, returning to the task of maintaining order and privacy.

It’s as much a detention centre as it is a residence.

I swing back to Philip and gesture to the scene with a wing. “That. It’s never going away if things don’t change, and I’m willing to make that change. All I need to know is whether you’re ready to make it too.”

Still, he remains uncertain. “What kind of change?”

“I told you: Redcliff.”

“The place you said we’d never go back to?”

“Yes, exactly. I already spoke with Gytha, and she’ll be passing on the word to that house’s owner that I’m interested — and that it’s all to be kept on the downlow, of course.”

He blinks in increasing confusion, then closes his eyes again. “Fleet…” he murmurs, shaking his head into a waiting palm, “it won’t matter how far you move. They’ll always be there.”

“Only so long as I’m in the Bolts.” I turn to face him directly and take a deep breath, straightening my neck and puffing out my chest to give myself as much resolve as I can muster. “That’s why I’m ready to quit. For you.”

He snaps to me, eyes wide and brows high. “What?”

“I’ve had a chat with Spitfire too. She understands.”

“No, Fleet, I told you, I don’t want you to give up what you love for—”

“I’m not giving up what I love.” I take a few small steps forward. “I like flying. I… love… you.”

He doesn’t seem entirely convinced. Not in the last part, but whether this plan has been concocted with a stable mind. Which, to be fair, isn’t an unreasonable concern, and I’m sure by the way I’m acting and sounding that I were in his place, I’d be just as apprehensive.

He shakes his head once more and looks away. “You can’t do this. Not for me.”

“I can and I will. I want to, if it means making you happier. All you need to do is say yes.”

His hesitancy doesn’t abate. Not yet. “Being a Wonderbolt was your dream, Fleet.”

“It was.” I begin strolling closer, ears low and neck level with my spine, peering up at his as I approach. “For a time. I achieved that dream, and that was all I ever wanted. But not anymore.”

“But, Fleet, you…” He shakes his head some more. “How can you be sure?”

“Because I know, Philip.” I sit on my haunches before him and drape a hoof over his hands, one clutching the other’s thumb and holding tight. “I’ve just spent the last four days flying all over the place — crossed the Appleachians twice — operating on a single latte and barely any food or sleep because… I’ve never felt more certain about anything in my entire life. Not since…”

That nabs his attention, and he meets my imploring gaze with an anxious one.

I avert my eyes, first to his knee, and then to my hoof, and my wings droop at my sides as I let a quiet, pensive sigh go. We promised we’d be truthful, and he’s already told me about his past. My turn has been long overdue.

“There was… another,” I say, swallowing what pride there is to swallow. “Before you. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty years back, when I was in the reserves.”

There’s a pause, and then one of his hands slips out and lays itself over my own hoof — a sandwich of limbs, and heartening to feel. Especially when he gives me a soft squeeze that runs down my foreleg in a faint, cool and pleasant shiver, making my wings twitch.

"Honestly, it was so long ago, and I barely even stirred on it for a long while after.” I gently, absently nod to myself, trying to focus on the story I’m telling, and not how much I want to hug him. “In fact, I think I’m only remembering it now because I had a lot of time to think on the flight here. But it happened quickly. I remember that much. Really quickly, if we’re anything to go by — like, maybe only a month or two before things started getting… physical. But I went along with it because I thought Wonderbolts were good with just about anything — could handle any pace.

“And besides, I was in control. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but I told myself that if I ever found it too much for me to handle, I could ease up at any time, or I’d bring it up with him and we’d sort it all out.

“But as my time in the reserves went on… it grew harder and harder to balance my ambitions with his, and where we stood as a couple. Reality hit me hard, and that kind of sapped the romance out of everything. And I realised that I was in a relationship with somepony I didn’t really have feelings for. And it didn’t help when he thought the solution was more… you know.”

Another tender squeeze. Another urge to hug him repressed.

“At some point, enough was enough, and I left. I focussed on training, Spitfire got me in, and that was that. Bluntly put, flying made me happier than he ever did, and I’ve never looked back. I still don’t regret it.” I look up at him. “But what I do regret… is thinking that my career is the only thing worth pursuing. That finding a true special somepony would just be a waste of time. And you, Philip… you’re anything but a waste.”

His lips have parted. His gaze has returned to that enraptured state, where I know he’s listening, but he can’t bring himself to react in any meaningful way. It fills my barrel with warmth and spreads a treacherously delighted grin across my muzzle — one I try to suppress with all my might.

“Love takes compromise, and you’ve sacrificed a lot.” I bow my head forward and gives the back of his hand a compassionate peck. “It’s time I start making some too.”

He continues staring, conscious, but unsure of what to say, if anything — something I can relate to very easily. But eventually, he blinks. It’s a slow, tentative motion, as if he’s worried that if he takes his eyes off of me for even a split second, I’d turn against him, or disappear, or something. I don’t know. I’m not in the mood to contemplate either.

“…This is what you want?” he queries with a quaver.

I rise on my hindlegs, a forehoof on his knee, the other slipping out to latch onto his shoulder. And I close my eyes and lean in for a kiss. Long and tender, sweet and savoured. “I want this,” I avow once I break away, peering into him and that enthralled gaze of his, so easily and readily captivated by everything I do. “Day in, day out, every morning and every night. Just us, together. Forever and ever.”

The whisper of a breathless chuckle escapes him, and a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Just us, huh?”

“Mm-hmm.” I kiss him again, and gently push him over, letting him come to lie on the couch at an angle. It’s a little awkward, standing on the floor, so I break the connection and carefully hop up, sitting in his lap and straddling him with all four of my legs. “And Gytha and her husband, but… they don’t need to know what happens behind closed doors.”

Another chuckle, and he glances down — only as far as my neck, but I’m sure he knows where I’m going with this. And that smile of his grows in a perfect blend of recognition, hesitation and succulent, delectable anticipation. “You’re trying to sweeten the deal, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” I purr, then arch myself forward and press my nose against his, feeling a familiar tingle in my withers spreading into my wings. “Or maybe all that flying has left me… extremely wound-up.”

He blinks, then looks at something behind me, some of his excitement vanishing instantly. “They’re still out there, Fleet.”

My ears perk up and I cock an eyebrow, puzzled, but then they all lower as I realise what he’s talking about. Yes, I may have liked the cameras once upon a time, but not anymore. And if even one of them have captured what a compromising position we’re in right now — not that any should be close enough to zoom in through the glass — and they see the drapes drawn shut, they’ll connect the dots.

This isn’t a good time to bang one out.

But my heart is beating too hard to ignore.

“We could just do it in the kitchen,” I offer, direct and unapologetic. “They won’t see us there.”

“Oh, no, Fleet.” He shakes his head, already a little red in the face, and combs his fingers through my mane and scratches behind my ear. “No, no, no. If there’s one thing you need to know about what kind of lover I am, it’s that, with me, there’s no such thing as a quickie.”

…Sweet stars above, I’m this close to melting on the inside.

He seems to take notice, and smirks. “You’re that horny, huh?”

“Like you would not believe.”

He slowly nods, inspecting me up and down appraisingly, weight the options and licking his lips. And making me wish it were sliding along an altogether different pair of lips in the process. “Well then,” he says, returning to me, “why don’t we…”

But then he drifts off, and I notice that something is changing too.

We both look behind us.

Phalanx is standing by the entrance to the balcony on his side of the glass, drawing the blinds shut with his magic. And when he sees that we’ve seen him, he merely bows his head, smiling innocently, and gives a dutiful salute. And when the gap of light from the blinds is extinguished, it’s just me, Philip, and the entire apartment, all to ourselves.

I look to him.

He looks to me.

“You shaved, right?”

“Oh, you know I did.”

I bite my lip, narrow my eyes and grunt. Heatedly. “Bedroom?”

And then, without a word, in a single swift, almost practiced motion, he wraps me up in his arms and stands with me cradled at his side, where he then adjusts his grip and carries me like he did before, on that… absolutely wonderful night.

I giggle, curling all four legs in, mostly so I’m easier and more compact to carry, but also because I know it makes me look cuter too. “That didn’t take much convincing, did it?” I remark, smiling up at him.

His smile is faint, and shrinking.

My brows knit together. "What?"

"You… really want to quit the Wonderbolts?” he queries, concerned. “Just for me? There’s nothing else going on, is there? A reason to… escape?"

I blink, processing, pondering his words, and my attention drifts over the blinds.

And what hovers just outside.

"No. Not just for you.” I return to him. “For us."

"And you’re… a hundred percent certain you could live with that?"

Spitfire had asked me something along those very same lines three or four days ago. I was pretty sure then, but now, in his arms, his fingers gently digging into my fur… touching, holding… loving me… there isn’t a single doubt in my mind.

I wiggle a forehoof at him, beckoning him closer.

He silently obeys, bowing his head.

I give his nose a small peck. "With you, yes." And then my ears go flat. "Gosh, that sounds sappy. You are such a bad influence. You know that, right?"

“Shush,” he whispers, giving my snout a peck of his own before carefully strolling for the doorway. "If you’re sure about this, then I’m there for you, all the way."

Rubbing a tender hoof against his chest, the fire at my core rekindles with a vengeance as we enter his room, and I can't help letting out an anxious, excited laugh. At him, at my decision, at… all of it combined.

“Hey, we need to keep things quiet, remember? This place isn’t soundproof.”

I snort. “Not like I make much noise anyway.”

Philip angles his head, taking a sharp breath through his nose as he smirks.

My own smile falls. “What?”

He clicks his tongue and knowingly shakes his head.

I blink, then baulk with a gaping mouth. “I’m not a squealer!”

“In your own time, maybe.” He closes the bedroom door with a gentle kick, then glances down to between my thighs, a ravenous glint in his eyes. “But I wouldn’t hedge my bets when you’re with me. You may want to bite a pillow for this.”

“…Oh,” I say ineffectually, then let my gaze wander to the ceiling as a new wave of warmth overtakes me, full of depraved thoughts about what he might have in mind. And all the things we could be doing when we really have some time to ourselves. “Oh my…”

36 | The Start of Something Good

Endings.

Sometimes they’re tragic, sometimes they’re good, and sometimes, they’re bittersweet.

I honestly don’t know what category this one falls under, but it’s certainly not bad. Personally, I don’t think it’s so much an ending as it is a change in perspective — a shift of priorities. Yes, my career as a professional flier is over, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lost my ambitions; they’ve merely… realigned themselves, settling upon the one thing I never thought I’d care to find for a good, long while yet, if ever.

Love.

I, Fleetfoot, former Senior Airpony and third in command of the Wonderbolts, have found a special somepony — somepony who loves me and whom I love. And he isn’t even a pony. And I left my life in the spotlight behind just so we could be alone together. And it’s sappy and sentimental and everything you’re not supposed to like too much for reasons you’ll never fully understand.

But I’m okay with that.

No, I’m more than okay.

I’m ecstatic.

“Thank you so much for this, guys,” I exclaim, hugging Spitfire and Soarin at once, and holding them tight against me as I beam a flattered grin at the rest of the assembled team; Rainbow, Thunderlane, Surprise, Sun Chaser, the Streak twins, Raindrops, Wave Chill, Misty Fly, Silver Zoom and several others, as well as my once and future replacement, Hurricane. “All of you.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it, “ Spitfire soothes, wrapping a foreleg around my back and squeezing in turn. “We’re family, aren’t we? We’d do anything for you, and that includes helping you move house.”

“Yeah,” Soarin agrees, doing the same. “Trust us, Fleety, it ain’t nothing but a thang.”

“Oh, but it’s more than that.” I give them both another squeeze before letting go and stepping back. “So much more. Thank you for everything, all of you — everything you’ve done for me. For us. It’s just… Thank you.”

“And you’re welcome.” He bobbed his head in a brief bow. “And are you sure that’s everything? Because if we have to cross the Appleacheans again…”

Rainbow, standing with the other Bolts — and a Bolt-to-be — seems to grow a little fidgety on her hooves at the remark. Typical, but I can’t really blame her; those mountains are notorious for their unpredictable weather patterns, frequently labelled as one of the last true untamed regions on the continent. Evading and outpacing the storms was hard enough, but doing so while carrying the furniture from Cloudsdale was on a whole other level. Only the world’s best fliers could do it without the assistance of a moving company, and thankfully, I had just the ponies for the job. Free of charge too.

“Well, I know everything I’m keeping arrived on time and without a scratch,” I reply, almost with a sense of finality to it, as if I were about to shoo them off before the sun completely set on the cliff’s peak behind the house. But it isn’t time yet, and I peer over my shoulder to see Philip standing by the entrance, hands on his hips. “What about yours?”

“Mine?” he queries, switching focus to me from sweeping his gaze across the small crowd. And then he seems to only just understand and glances over his shoulder and through the open doorway. “Uh, yeah, I… I think it’s all good. Heck, we didn’t even lose a single plate from the dining set.”

“As if you doubted me in the first place!” Thunder counters.

“Well, excuse me if I’m not in the business of trusting shady characters!”

I quirk an eyebrow, confused.

Collectively, judging by Philip’s falling expression, so does the rest of the team. “No one?”

The silence stretches on.

“Well, you know, because of his coat,” he says, gesturing to Thunderlane. “Because he’s…”

And then, it’s as if something gives him a solid whack upside the head with how fast he shuts his mouth and widens his eyes, slapped with a thought he doesn’t seem too keen on sharing.

“Nope.” He shakes his head and shuffles back half a step, waving his arms as if to bar entry. “Never mind. I just realised how horrible that sounds, and I am not finishing that sentence. Just pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“…Right.” I slowly return to Spitfire and Soarin, no less enlightened. “So, yeah, nothing else. We’re good here. And I know I said this before, but… thanks. This means a lot to me.”

“And again, you’re welcome.” Spitfire bobbed her head like Soarin had, then smirked and nodded to him. “And thank you, for giving this big, dumb, pie-eating lug the courage to finally stand on his own four hooves and ask me out.”

“Hey!” he exclaims, snapping to her. “I don’t just eat pie.”

She rolls her eyes and nudges him with a wing, chuckling. “Figures that’d be what gets you upset.”

“Well, I mean, it takes a special kind of stupid to think that I’m anywhere on your level.”

“True that, Soarin. True that.”

I watch them for a moment, relishing the fact that, for once, it isn’t me who’s bantering with their potential significant other. And surprisingly, it makes my chest feel a little warm and fuzzy to see them embracing another side of themselves — seeking, perhaps, what I’ve already found. “So, is that picnic set, or have you decided on something a bit more fancy?”

“Nah,” Spitfire says with a small, dismissive wave of her wing, “a picnic is fine; quiet, simple, out of the way of the press. And if he cooks as well as he flies, then we should be right as rain.”

“I never really understood that phrase,” he ponders aloud.

“And if you try to understand it, of all people, you’re going to fry your circuits before too long.”

“O ye of little faith.”

She gently headbutts him on the cheek.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” He chuckles, then looks to me again. “Anyway, yeah, we’re sorry to see you go, Fleetfoot, but if this is what makes you happy, then we’re glad for you. And know that you’ll always have a place at our table whenever there’s a reunion going on. You’re too good not to stay in touch with.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I nod. “And good luck, both of you. I hope it all goes well.”

“So do I.”

Spitfire rolls her eyes.

I catch an impulsive snort before it escapes, then quickly glance away to distract myself, and find my attention drawn to a small entourage of four guards standing off to the left — three in gold armour, in one black — watching with idle interest. I vaguely remember the newcomer, and after the small number of largely impressionable encounters we’ve had, and even though I’ve seen her earlier today, I’m still surprised to see her on her best behaviour.

Then again, Able had given Philip and I what might’ve been the most useful dating advice we could ever have hoped for, and he was a socially inept workaholic. Nevertheless, he, too, found a special somepony despite the odds, or so it has been said.

That snort I’d been keeping in lets itself loose as I realise how effortlessly that description fits me. Life can be ironic, and sometimes irony can be funny. And I suppose it’s about time that I stop letting these two hog all the attention, not that I don’t appreciate them.

“Sorry, but… I should probably say goodbye to everypony else as well.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Spitfire says with a nonchalant wave of her wing, “don’t let us hold you back on our account. We ought to give Philip our blessing anyway.”

I switch my focus back to her with an eyebrow quirked. “Your blessing?”

“As friends and former commanding officers. You know, because we can’t let him get away with stealing you from us so easily.”

“Great,” I groan as I roll my eyes, turning toward the guards and strolling in their direction, “as if I didn’t have enough parental figures in my life.”

“And don’t you forget it!” Soarin calls, sporting an idiotic grin, then walks with Spitfire to Philip, who’s still trying to get over whatever slight he thought he was about to say, sagging his head and nursing his temples.

A sensitive lad. That’s not bad. He’s a little prone to overthinking things, but so am I, and he puts up with my antics with more tolerance than I feel I’m sometimes worth. A simple fact, and one that I shouldn’t be so readily swayed by… but it makes me glad that I know what I’m getting into, and who I’ll be joined by: somepony who trusts me, and whom I trust. Anything else is just a bonus.

I let a quiet breath go and refocus on the guards I’m approaching.

Ironside appears the most stalwart, naturally, a small, contented smile upon his muzzle as he switches from watching over the rest of the assembled crowd to me. Phalanx seems to be more or less distracting himself by trying to chat it up with Stella — the very same who stood in for him so many months ago. She nods in turn and offers a few words here and there, but it’s clear to me that she’d rather focus on the job than talk, and for once in her life isn’t keen on stating it outright and with far more cursing than one might think equinely possible.

Brave, on the other hoof, stands on the group’s far left, and for as well as she holds herself, I notice that there’s a slight slump in her posture — her neck a little slack, ears marginally lower than they should be. She also stares at the ground more than a sentry should, which is a big no-no even among Royal Guard applicants, let alone a fully-fledged member.

“So, this is it,” Ironside announces before I can say anything. “One final farewell, and then we’re out of your hair for good.”

“Looks that way,” I agree, coming to a halt in front of all four of them. “And you seem rather chipper about it. Happy to be going home, finally?”

“Yes and no. Yes, it’ll be nice seeing my husband again, but…” he looks up and sighs, scanning the front yard once more, “it feels like I’m trading one family for another.”

“Aw, ain’t ye just the sweetest.” Stella beams a toothy smirk and bumps his armoured flank with her own. “Ya almost make me wish I’d been here fer longer.”

“And why are you here, by the way?” I query, cocking my head and raising an eyebrow. “No offence.”

She shrugs. “Well, since the Big Four are conveniently doing that diplomatic publicity stunt up in Canterlot, drawin’ attention away from what’s happening down here, Luna thought it’d be nice tae send a missive in her stead — a show of support, she said. Luckily fer you tards, my schedule was as wide open as yer mum’s gob on her weddin’ night.”

“Charming,” Ironside remarks, severely unimpressed. “Though it’s not like you could really refuse.”

She shrugs again. “I do what I’m told and I do it well,” she quips, flippantly tossing her mane over her shoulder. “And besides, I already held a spot in this team, so think of it as a way of checkin’ in on old friends. Somepony’s gotta make sure you dickblisters haven’t killed each other yet.”

“And you haven’t changed a bit.”

She snorts and squints at him. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Not bad. Merely an observation.”

In the pause that follows, I find the opportunity to clear my throat. “Well, it’s good to see you again.”

Stella offers a fond, if lopsided smile. “Cheers, lass. You too. You were always one of the good ones, mate.” She then gestures to the other guards with barely playful condescension. “Unlike these stuck-up jackasses.”

“At least she’s a little more presentable,” Phalanx mumbles. “One might even deign to say pretty.”

Stella levels a sideways glance at him, then smirks hungrily. “Pretty, huh?” she purrs. “Keep flatterin’ me like that maaaaaybeee I’ll sit on yer face. But you’d like that, wouldn’t ya?”

Phalanx snaps to her and blinks with widening eyes, jaw dropping and ears flattening as he stumbles back a step. “I…!” he utters before soon drifting off. His white coat makes the faint beginnings of a blush all the more evident. “No…”

I quirk an eyebrow and furrow the other, somewhat unsettled, then and shift my attention to the right — to Brave. “And what about you? You don’t seem too happy about this.”

“I’m not.”

My brows crease and I blink again.

Ironside, Stella and Phalanx look down the line toward her too.

Brave finally seems to take notice of how straightforward she’d sounded and how many pairs of eyes were on her, and then appears to do some mental backtracking. “Well, I mean… I’m glad that you’re happy, and you’re doing what you want, and you know that doing what you want is going to make you happy, but… it’s just a shame when good things come to an end. You know?”

“Ah.” I nod. “So, it isn’t because you’ve grown attached?”

“Well,” she mumbles, glancing away, “I guess there’s that…”

“Oh, I think she’s grown a little more than attached.” Ironside cocks an eyebrow and gives her a small, rare but undeniably shrewd smirk. “I’d even hazard a guess and say she’s rather fond of him.”

“As a friend,” she insists, her features hardening a tad. “A friend who I’m happy for and wish I could spend more time around. It’s just unfortunate that our profession doesn’t allow for as much free time as others’ do, which means that if we want to meet up sometime, it’d be a once in a blue moon sort of thing. Not ideal.”

Ironside maintains a smug air about him, unconvinced.

Neither is Stella, neither is Phalanx.

Nor am I.

Scrunching up her snout in a pout like a filly caught with her hoof in the cookie jar, she sighs through her nose and looks away once more. “Besides, if I had feelings for him, it’s not like I’d act on them without your permission. I’m not my ex, that piece of…”

“My permission,” I echo, nodding thoughtfully. “I’ll have to get back to you on that, Brave. I think you’d have to worry about his opinion more than mine. Courting one pony was hazardous enough, after all.”

She pauses, staring at me for a moment, then bashfully chuckles, shifting her weight on her hooves. “Yeah, well… if you manage to convince him to go on a pity date with me, I… guess I wouldn’t be opposed.”

“There it is,” Phalanx declares. “Ladies and gents, we have admission.”

“Shut up,” Brave shoots back, but it’s a toothless response — limp and purposely weak-willed, because she knows everything here is being said in jest. “Can you blame me for maybe kinda-sorta wanting a piece of the action, if she’s found a good one?”

Stella hums, a less-than-dignified daydream written all over her face. “I wouldn’t mind a piece of that action m’self.”

“Oh, sure, because you’re totally after a legit relationship, aren’t you?”

“Well then, it’s a good thing ya don’t know jack composted shite about me, Brave. I’ll have you know I love me some lovey-dovey froufrou relationship… stuff.”

Brave watches her with narrowed eyes, then swings back to me with a genuine smile. “We’ll be fine, I think. Just make sure you both write to us when you can, alright?”

“Sure thing.”

“And please, take care of yourselves.”

“We will.”

“And if you ever need someone bushwhacked, you know who to call.”

I hesitate, blinking. “Uh…”

“I’m kidding!” She lunges forward and wraps me up in a tight, firm, almost spine-crushing hug — unsurprising from an earth pony in the military, but that doesn’t keep the air from escaping me. “Thanks for having me here, Fleetybee. For having all of us here.”

Unable to talk effectively, I merely settle for giving her a gentle pat on the shoulder.

The hug lasts a few seconds more, and then she lets me go, returning to all fours and backing up into her original position at the leftmost end of the line. “It’s been a pleasure.”

I grip my barrel with a foreleg and nurse my aching ribs, restraining a pained grimace to a simple wince. “Yep. I can definitely feel the love.”

Ironside salutes. “It’s been an honour.”

Phalanx does the same. “It’s been an experience.”

Stella looks straight ahead with an unamused expression. “Well, that’s just bloody perfect, innit? Now I’m the odd one out.”

I snort. “When weren’t you?”

“Oi, piss off, lassie! I’m a ray of goddamn sunshine! But, eh, touché.” She refocusses on me, smirking. “Enjoy yer remaining years, Fleetfoot. And Luna sends her regards. Also said to ask whether Philip likes the birthday present she got him — she never heard back.”

“Oh.” I peer over my shoulder for a moment and see that Spitfire and Spoarin appear just about done with him, and are slowly making their way to the rest of the Wonderbolts. “Well, uh… I’ll have to ask him about that, actually. But tell her yes, anyway, and I’ll get him to write a letter for her when he’s writing to these three. We could add a fifth for your sake, if you’d like.”

Stella waved her hoof dismissively. “Nah, I’m good, mate. Wasn’t exactly a huge part here anyway. And besides, I’ve already got me eye on someone back home in Canterlot.” She jabs a hoof against Phalanx’s armoured shoulder, her teasing tone returning full-force. “Not that this… delicious hunk of solid meat is helpin’ make me mind up.”

Although it forces him to stumble somewhat, Phalanx seems more taken aback by her attitude than her punch, quickly sharing his stunned expression not only with her, but the other guards and myself as well. “Am I the only one getting mixed signals here?”

“That’s the whole damn point, mate!” She leans in with an almost predatory grin, her helmet and snout nearly pressing against his own. “It keeps them… guessing.”

“Okay!” I interrupt with a soft stomp. “I’ll, uh… just leave you lot to sort out whatever unresolved tension is going on here and… see how our new neighbours are doing. I’m sure there’s less of… this… over there.”

Ironside smiles and bows his head. "For your sake, yes, I believe that’s a very wise decision.”

“Good.” I turn and begin to trot away, bemused, bewildered smile of my own across my muzzle. “Very good.”

The grass is soft beneath my hooves and could do with a trim. Being a coastal settlement, the soil isn’t fertile enough for any large vegetation, but I wouldn’t mind putting in the effort to plant a colourful array of flowers here and there, just to spruce the place up some more. Not being required to attend any practice, I’ll have a lot of spare time on my hands, even when I undoubtedly land that job in Baltimare’s local weather management team; as if they’d refuse a former Wonderbolt.

I’m not proud to admit it, but fame can sometimes be a very useful thing.

I cross the footpath leading to the house, and pass by Philip, closing my eyes for a moment as I slow my pace to a walk and rub myself against him. The sensation of him bowing forward to smell and kiss my mane, scratch my neck and behind my ear tempts me to stay and relish his company further, but I won’t be so easily swayed. There’ll be plenty of time for that later, when everypony has left, and I won’t have to worry about what they think, not that they’d have a problem with anything we’d do.

With a warmth bubbling up in my barrel and the heartening vapours swirling about in my head, I continue over to the picket fence, and the stallion and the gryphon on the opposite side. She’s nibbling at the base of his ear, and his expression is as rapt and dreamy as I’ve known Philip to get — plenty enough times that I can recognise it in others.

At least I’m not the bearer of bad news, merely the breaker of spells.

“Well, we made it,” I announce. “Safe and sound, turning over a new leaf. And I pretty much have you two to thank.”

“Her more than me,” Rhythmic corrects, though he still seems firmly entrenched in the attention Gytha is giving him, practically on the brink of lifting his hindleg and scratching at himself like dogs do. I think I saw Philip do that to Brave once, actually, before she realised what was happening and quickly got control of herself. “Oh, honey, just… just a bit to the left.”

Gytha warbles in a birdlike manner.

“Stars above…” His eyes flutter shut as he shudders. “Hushpuppy, you know how much I love…”

I giggle, covering a newer and more sincere smile with a hoof. “Am I interrupting something?”

Gytha pauses, then pulls away, but not before nuzzling herself underneath his chin and pressing her body against his, intertwining their tails. “Nothing that can’t wait, I suppose. Just sharing a moment.”

“No kidding.”

“What can I say?” she absently queries, giving him a quick — but not literal — peck on the cheek. “He says the cutest things when you butter him up just right.”

“Only because you make the most adorable noises.”

She narrows her eyes at him and, like so many other ponies today, smirks with a sly, smug air about her, eases her beak a little closer to his ear, and purrs while squinting knowingly at me: “Well, I could make others later tonight.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I exclaim to myself, burying my face into a waiting foreleg. “I jump from one frying pan directly into another.”

“Such is life, Miss Fleetfoot.” Gytha chuckles, her expression markedly less devious and far more sincere — back to her original state. “All we can do is hope the next chapter isn’t worse than the last. But if you want my honest opinion… I think this is the start of something good. For both of you. And remember, if you have any questions about married life, we’re more than happy to answer.”

I return to her and blink, processing what she’d just said. “We’re not married.”

“We know, or else it would’ve been all over the tabloids,” Rhythmic replies, no doubt thankful for the change in topic. “But you may as well be. I mean, not to say that you should be, but… well, you two seem pretty sure of yourselves, so…”

I linger on him, considering his words, and perhaps giving them more thought than part of me is comfortable with. And then I look over my shoulder to Philip once more, who’s now on his knees before the guards, sharing a hug with Stella, and immediately regretting it — he’s trying to tap out of what appears to be an almost spine-crushing embrace. Brave is on the verge of rolling on the grass with laughter.

Forget the fact he’s one of a kind, he always finds a way to make the sun shine just a little bit brighter.

“Maybe,” I say, despite the pang of reservation that plucks at my innards like a harp, swinging back to Gytha and Rhythmic. “One day. I just… don’t think either of us really feel the need to… you know.”

“We understand.” Gytha nods. “It’s a formality more than anything — not really necessary for a long-lasting relationship.” She smiles and Rhythmic and wraps a wing around his barrel, hugging him close. “But in time… perhaps you’ll start thinking differently, and want to make it official. Me and this lad? Five years before we tied the knot. There wasn’t any rush, so we figured we’d take it slow, especially seeing as our courtship was rather… abrupt, shall we say.”

“Yes, well,” he rolls his eyes, “it certainly didn’t help that you were being extremely overt with your intentions. I’d never seen any female bend over like that before.”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” She begins nibbling behind his ears again, almost completely oblivious to me yet again. “And besides, you needed the stress relief.”

“For the last time, there was no stress to be relieved.”

“Oh, but my dear,” she murmurs huskily, pausing her efforts and savouring every syllable as if it were maple syrup, “your two little friends down there begged to differ.”

“OKAY, ALRIGHT, THAT’S ENOUGH!” I shriek, spinning around and stomping off back toward the entrance of the house. “Dearly beloved, friends one and all, if I could have your attention, please!”

A mass of heads turn and look at me, some confused, some amused, all of them in some way eager to hear what I have to say.

“Thank you all for coming here,” I proclaim, stopping before the doorway and pivoting so that I’m facing everypony to some degree. “It means a lot to me, it means a lot to Philip, and thank you all for your support before the move as well — for being there for us when we were still figuring stuff out. But now that everything’s been put away and we’ve all bid our farewells, the show is finally over. All that’s left to do is some unpacking and sorting, and Philip and I can do that on our own.

“So, in the interest of not dragging this out, and seeing as I’m the proud new owner of this fine establishment, and every single one of you young whippersnappers are on my property, I respectfully ask you like the cranky old mare I am to get the heck off my lawn and piss off!”

“Well then, how’s that for gratitude?!” Thunderlane cries.

“As if we cared for you anyway!” Sunshower bellows.

“You will not be missed!” Spitfire yells, shaking her hoof for emphasis. “Hurricane is twice the flier you ever were, or could ever hope to be!”

“Yeah!” she shouts, hopping into the air from the back of the group and hovering, cupping her mouth in her hooves as she hovers. “I’ll even beat Lightning Dust’s Dizzitron record!”

“Do it, filly!” I demand, jabbing a wingtip at her. “I dare you!”

“Challenge accepted, ma’am!” She salutes, and then winds herself up and rockets off for the horizon with an airburst in her wake. “And goodbye!”

The noise and strength of the blast forces some of the other Bolts to duck and cover their ears. Even from this distance, I feel the rush of air against my fur, sweeping through my mane, making me squint as if I too were flying. And when everything dies down and stillness returns, there’s a stunned silence hanging over us all as we watch a colourful speck disappear into a clear sky.

I look to Spitfire and huff a laugh. “And this is the reservist who’s replacing me?”

She meets my gaze with an uneasy smile. “There are some… disciplinary issues, admittedly.”

“Then find another! Or do I need to come back just to steal your job and show you how it’s done?”

Uneasy turns to cheeky. “Oh, you try that, Fleet, and I’ll retire a happy mare.”

“I’ve beaten you to it, then!” With my wings, I wave them all goodbye. “So long, asshats! May you find happiness too! And if you somehow manage to bag yourself a human, don’t be shy! It’ll be the best mistake you’ll ever make!”

A chorus of chuckles and giggles erupt from the audience, but soon they bid their leave and, one by one, eventually start fluttering off to join their comrade. Soarin and Spitfire are the last to go, naturally, and I think I see the beginnings of tears in Soarin’s eyes before he turns away and follows the rest of the flock. Spitfire, on the other hoof, offers a proud smile, watching me as if I’d secretly been her hero all along.

But after enough time has passed, she gently nods, then hops into the air and chases after the team, trailing them far beyond the horizon, vanishing toward a city I might never call home again.

I won’t miss it. Not really, I don’t think. That probably makes me sound detached and heartless, I somehow get the feeling that Redcliff will make a pretty good substitute. I’ve done too much to think otherwise — made too many arrangements, shifted too many pieces on the board that is the game of life; the strategy has been locked in, and for better or worse, I’ll have to live with the outcome.

So far, things have been turning out for the better.

Next, the guards make their exit, all saluting and waving as they head down the path and through the open gate, Brave closing it behind them once they’ve all withdrawn from the yard. And she lingers even while the other three start down the road for the tram station, taking in the scene one last time, and gradually seeming more and more sentimental the longer she stares. It gets to the point where I have to wonder if she intends to say something, but when I open my mouth to ask, she simply sighs and smiles a little wider, then swings about and hurriedly falls in line with the others.

I check to see what’s happening with Rhythmic and Gytha, but they’ve already made it halfway back to their place, walking side by side and bumping into one another every so often, whispering and tittering like a pair of foals in a schoolyard romance. And strangely, it’s rather adorable, though I’m sure that if I’d seen this before I met Philip, I’d have brushed it off and rolled my eyes, thinking it pathetic more than anything else.

I’m glad that I’ve changed a bunch since then.

Philip, over the course of the departure, has steadily made is way back to me, and now stands by my side with his hand in my mane, just below the ear. He’s dressed for the occasion in his typically casual fashion, wearing that grey hoodie of his, the peach-coloured shirt, a long pair of drab cargo pants, and the same sneakers he’s been using for the past few months. And with him so close, touching me, gently massaging my nape, I know with absolute certainty things won’t be so bad.

“I thought we don’t talk about that night.”

I quirk an eyebrow and look up at him. “Pardon?”

He peers down at me and cocks one of his own, somewhat unimpressed. “Isn’t that what you meant by bagging yourself a human?”

“What?” I draw my head back in shock. “No, I…”

And then the full weight of my own words comes crashing down on me.

“…Oh my stars, I… That didn’t sound like I was implying that, did it?”

He pauses, then shrugs, staring off into the distance, where the Bolts had gone. “Maybe. They didn’t seem too affected by it, though, so maybe not. But in any case, I think we can both agree that we’ve put the whole thing behind us, right?”

I lower my gaze and scuff the stepping stones that make up the footpath to the house. “I guess so.”

“And there’s nothing else we’re hung up about regarding it?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“So, we can agree that we’ll stop talking about it from this day forth?”

I nod. “Agreed.”

“Cool.” He gets down on a knee and bows his head, peering up at me with a soft smile as he kneads my withers. “Now, what do you say we finish that unpacking?”

Purple sheets.

He bought a new bed just for us, and it has purple sheets.

And I don’t know why I’m feeling so happy about it — so… so elated. Appreciated. Valued.

Loved.

By the mercy of the Sisters and all the stars above, I really, truly have found a good one. And he’s not even trying to impress me; I never asked for this, and yet here we are.

They don’t smell the most pleasant, though — too much of that artificial fresh-from-the-package aroma stinking up the room. But that’ll fade away in time, eventually replaced by our natural musk, especially in the middle of those warm summer nights the Equestrian east coast is infamous for, with the humid air of the jungles blowing up from the south. Snuggling up to each other around then would be rather unwise, but I know we’d do it anyway, with or without the covers.

And maybe, if we were feeling particularly bold…

I close my eyes and shake my head. I swear, something has to be wrong with me if I’m contemplating any lurid possibilities every other minute. Just because I now have a boyfriend and just because we’re physically active and perfectly willing if the other wants to… it doesn’t mean we should. That’s not the foundation of a solid relationship; it’s a perk — a privilege — not bedrock, or even an obligation. I’m better than that.

But it would be fun.

…Great, now I can’t get the image of connected, sweaty bodies out of my head, or the imagined sound of laboured breaths, or the sensation of his hand playing with the fur on my chest, gradually sliding down to my…

I shudder, then immediately come to my senses and give myself a thorough shake, working out the tension in body, and hopefully quelling the small heat rising in my core. If I’m not careful, I might have to excuse myself and sneak off to the bathroom for a bit to calm down, either with the held of a quick, cold shower or… other means I daren’t think of.

But it wouldn’t stop me feeling dirty. Not ten minutes by ourselves and I’m already getting a little hot under the collar. Seriously, I must be suffering from something, because I’m sure no healthy mare, or stallion, or any gender of any species thinks about it much, even the first-timers.

I need to find something else to focus on. A safer, far more family-friendly subject.

…What did Stella say before I told everypony to get lost?

“Hey, Philip?”

“Yeah?” he replies from the living room, just through the open doorway.

“Did you ever get around to actually using any of your birthday presents?”

“My presents?” he echoes, sounding a little confused. And then it comes to him. “Oh, right, you mean the, uh… the book and the coupons and the record, as well as your ukulele?”

“Yeah.”

He pauses. “Why? Do you want to display them somewhere?”

…Not a bad idea, I suppose, but…

“Not quite.” I shake my head again, turning and strolling around the bed for the lounge. “I just heard from one of the guards that Luna would like to know whether you enjoyed her album. You know, since she never really heard back from you.”

“Ah.” Another pause. “Well, I haven’t listened to it yet, but that’s some good timing on your part.”

“Why?” I ask as I pass through and stop just past the entrance.

“Because I’ve finished setting up,” he answers, plugging in what appears to be the last wire from the speakers on either side into the sound system, one shelf below the DVD player on the left, and a record player on the right. And when he pulls away from the short TV cabinet, he sits on his knees and looks over to me with an encouraging smile. “Now we can put something on in the background while we do other stuff.”

On a treacherous impulse, I cock an eyebrow. “Other stuff, huh?”

He angles his head toward me and smirks. “Come on, Fleet, you know what I mean.”

“I know, I know.” My head sags and I sigh, covering my face with a foreleg and hiding beneath my wings for good measure, groaning to myself as I feel the embarrassment well up from the tightness in my chest. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Fleetybee…” he quietly beckons, almost pityingly. And then I hear him approach, crawling across the carpet on all fours. And then I hear him come to a halt before me, and feel his hand gently reach under my feathers and run its fingers through my hair. “Fleetybee, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Then how come I can’t get that side of me out of my head anymore?” I demand, flinging my wings open and returning them to my sides, letting my hoof fall to the floor and looking him directly in the eye. “Why does it always come back to the fact that we’re… you know…”

His lips press together and he glances away, his hand settling on my nape. “Because, Fleet… that’s just how people are. We find something new and exciting, and then we want it over and over again because it was…”

“Fun?” I sheepishly offer.

“Oh, immensely.” A restrained smirk sneaks through and he shakes his head. “And I’ll admit that I’ve been having some thoughts myself. You know, about how… great you were — how great you are. Among other things.”

I pause, and then lower my eyelids to half-mast and smile in a way that I hope is evocative. “What kind of things are we talking about?”

“This and that.” He shrugs. “All completely innocent, I assure you.”

“Of course.”

“But while I certainly wouldn’t be averse to doing… that again…” His attention wanders, drifting from my eyes to my cheek, my snout, my muzzle, my lips, and then tracing the contour of my mane and neck, following it all the way down my body to my rump. “Because you are… amazing.”

I shuffle my wings as my tail tucks in, a shy, flattered, somewhat randy nerve tugging at my core.

“…I think we owe it to ourselves to keep things… contained,” he finishes, meeting my gaze once more, and his smile grows warmer, friendlier, more inviting. “Moderated. It’s best that we don’t burn ourselves out too quickly, or else we’ll just have to settle for cuddles.”

“Then what were you doing carrying me to bed at your place?” I smugly counter. “You were the active one the whole time.”

“That was a one-off,” he states, his composed façade faltering as he lifts his brows and points a finger at me. “You were eager, so that made me eager, and… I don’t know. I get weak in the knees when someone’s adorasexy, and… you have that in spades.”

“Aw.” I put a hoof to my chest and grin. “How delightfully lewd. I’m touched.”

He chuckles, then shakes his head and shrugs. “Well, I mean… you do. And you’re beautiful and sweet and… and so many other things, Fleet. And it’s an honour to call you mine.”

“You say that as if I’m royalty.”

He lingers on me, his smile never wavering or seeming to lose focus, and then he looks down and picks up my hoof, cradling the flat in one hand while the other lays over it. And then he plants a kiss just below the pastern. And when he returns to me, I see nothing but admiration in those small, brown, loving eyes of his.

“You are to me,” he whispers, then gives me a tender peck on the snout.

Warmth fills me. Radiates from my barrel like a ray of sunlight on a sheet of ice. Fills me up to the very tips of my ears. Makes my feathers gently quiver with anticipation for whatever might be in store for me next. And I close my eyes and beam, savouring the sensation — the emotion — and it feels like I’m floating; like there’s a bed of air just beneath my hooves, and the second I allow myself to return to reality, it’ll vanish.

He’s too good for me. For anypony.

And yet, somehow…

He’s mine.

“Philip…”

“Yeah?”

My eyes creep open, meeting his in an alluring look. “I’m eager,” I huskily murmur. “Right now.”

For the briefest moment, I think I see some genuine shock — a twitch of his brow, a slight tug on the corner of his mouth — but the instant it shows, it’s gone; another smirk replaces it, but this one less smug and more… understanding.

And then he gently pats my hoof.

“Seventeen years of repressing the call of nature will do that to you,” he plainly states, “and fortunately for us both, I’m not really in the mood.”

I angle my head a little lower and pin my ears back, giving him the biggest, sweetest, most diabetic dose of puppy-dog eyes imaginable. “Pretty please?”

He sucks a sharp breath in through pursed lips. “Nice try, Fleetybee, but I have another idea. A more wholesome idea. Not to say that what I’d do to you wouldn’t be sensual, tender and painfully slow.”

The cheek of him, dangling a good time right in front of me, yet so far out of reach. “And what’s that?”

His smile returns, and then he lets me go and stands up, striding around the couch for one of the boxes piled at the opposite end of the living room. There, he doesn’t have to look very hard, shifting the plumed helmet out of the way and retrieving the record cover from so long ago. There’s even a fine layer of dust he tries blowing off, but figures his sleeve is better suited to the task. And when he deems it sufficiently clean, he presents his miraculous findings with an upbeat image. “How long has it been since we danced?”

I blink, eyes widening, and whatever tension that’s been building in my body vanishes completely. “You mean… you want to—”

“Mm-hmm.” He meanders over to the record player, sliding the disc from its cover and kneeling to place it on the pin, and wake the whole entertainment system up at the same time. “If tender loving is what you really want, Fleet, then we have the whole night ahead of us, but while it’s still light out… I wouldn’t mind setting the mood. Or, who knows? Maybe you’ll just want cuddles afterward, and nothing else.”

Oh, I doubt that. I doubt that very much, knowing how spirited and impulsive that side of me is becoming. But I’d be lying if I said this proposal of his didn’t seem… if not enjoyable, then at the very least sweet; it bears that trademark brand of saccharine charm I’ve fallen for. And I know I’d be kicking myself in my sleep for the next month and a half if I turned down the offer. It’s too special to let go.

Just like him.

The weightlessness returns, stronger than before, and before I can think to stop myself — not that I ever would — I slowly, gently nod and glide toward him, wings hanging limp.

As he watches my approach, he lays the empty rover to rest on the cabinet surface, and then stands up, facing me, bowing a little way and offering his hand, the other behind his back. There’s that lovely, entrancing, downright captivating look of wonder in his eyes, and he wears a delectable smile to match; a sight that nearly turns my legs to jelly, molten from the heat flowing through my veins.

Stars, am I sweating?

No, it can’t be. I’m just…

Flattered.

And thankful.

And smitten beyond compare.

This boy right here is the one for me.

And he isn’t even a pony.

And I couldn’t be happier.

I accept his offer and let him help me rear up, my hoof in his right, the other around his shoulders, his left on the small of my back. And as I peer into him, and he into me, I can barely hear the music begin to play.

Until, of course, something catches his attention and he looks up, quirking an eyebrow inquisitively.

A small bother. Nothing serious.

“What is it?” I hum, quietly begging for him to return.

“Tommy Dorsey,” he mumbles. “Polka Dots and Moonbeams.”

I blink, my brows faintly creasing. “The song?”

He nods absently. “The keys are a bit different, but… yeah, the tune’s more or less the same.”

I nod in kind. “How many parallels is that now?”

“I’ve lost count.” His eyes meet mine once more, and he beams a gentle, tender, heartfelt grin. “Not that it really matters anymore. Not when I have you.”

“Hush, dear.” I whisper, then balance on the edge of my rear hooves to snatch a kiss on the lips from him. “Let’s not ruin the moment.”

“Oh, we can’t have that, can we?” His smile never wavers, though his gaze grows distant. Dreamy. Filled with images of endless days and nights, and perhaps a few of us growing old. “I love you, Fleetfoot.”

“And I you, Philip.” I rest my head against his chest, and feel his warmth against my fur, listen to his breath and the steady beating of his heart. “Do you remember the moves for this one?”

I feel him nod, and he drapes his chin over me, holding even closer. Even more.

My smile widens, and my eyes slowly close. “Then lead away.”

And with the music playing in the background, and a contented hum of his own, we begin to dance.

All my life, I’ve needed this. And I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

1 | The Morning We Don't Talk About

Author's Note

One slip, and down the hole we fall
It seems to take no time at all
A momentary lapse of reason
That binds a life for life
A small regret you won't forget
There'll be no sleep in here tonight

1 | The Morning We Don't Talk About

Ugh.

Hangovers are the worst.

I can say that because I haven’t had many, and this one… this one’s a doozy — probably the worst I’ve had since ever. It’s like the weight from a wing press at the gym is sitting on my head and pushing me deeper and deeper into a deep, dark pit of… bleh.

Pressure. Tightening, sweltering, unrelenting pressure. What’s worse is that it’s the throbbing kind of hangover; the one that can’t even take the beat of my heart without chiming its bells. It’s exhausting, and I’ve only just woken up.

Maybe I’ve come down with something. I really hope I haven’t, because there’s a performance on soon, and I’m supposed to be in it. I think. Or is that training? Or was that last week?

Ugh.

Hangovers are the literal worst.

My lips part. I take a breath to sigh and feel the ache of cool air on a dry throat. Either my mouth’s been hanging open for the majority of the night, or I got a little too carried away while singing karaoke. Which has actually happened before. On my eighteenth, I chose this one song that was basically nothing but a mare screaming her heart out to a commentary about the futility of fearing death. It was close to a fortnight before my voice returned to normal.

Thankfully, this feels nothing like that — more likely the former, then.

I gulp down what little saliva I have and try to lift my head, only for the pressure to wrap around my skull and force me back into the soft, welcoming embrace of a pillow. Figures it’d be that kind of hangover too. Sweet Celestia, I must’ve had a lot. Either that or I really am sick, and I am not in the mood for that. Not that I ever would be, with snot and mucus and coughing fits and vertigo… No amount of leave would ever make facing those beasties worth it. Vertigo especially. To most pegasi, that’s as foreign as aquaphobia is to a fish.

As with most things, this’ll need time to work itself out. Time I might not have. If I’m having trouble remembering what happened last night, I’ve probably forgotten today’s commitments too. So, I need a cure, and the simplest one I can think of is the dreaded cold shower.

With another sigh, I slide my forelegs up, and slowly, grudgingly, painfully prop myself up on them, then wait for the world to stop shaking, and then finally open my eyes.

Everything’s a blur. Whether that’s the alcohol or the sleep or the eye boogers, I don’t know, and I don’t care. Blinking a few times doesn’t make it any better, so I bring a hoof up and rub deep and hard, a massive yawn escaping me.

Why? Why have I done this to myself? I thought I was past the parties and the booze and the late-night festivities — haven’t really passed out like this since I became a Wonderbolt, and even longer since I attended a bash that didn’t completely stink. The last one I remember going to was… two months ago, I think, at Soarin’s place, where he stumbled while playing beer pong and broke half a cabinet of china. That was a riot. Kind of looked like the aftermath of one too.

Sucked that we had to clean it up, though.

After giving my eyes a thorough cleaning, I blink again and find my vision clear, as expected. What I don’t expect, however, is to find myself staring at unfamiliar surroundings. Or at least, unfamiliar in the sense that it’s literally anywhere besides my room. This is a hotel; specifically, Seaford’s Riviera. I know because I stayed in a room like this one on my sixth tour through Fillydelphia. And boy, that was a show to be a part of.

The walls are a pale blue-grey, with the entire right side replaced by a giant window, the dull white light of a morning sun filtering through the curtains. The carpeted floor is short, spongey and the colour of cream. The bedsheets are cobalt, ruffled, and I’m lying on top of them, and I look as much a mess as they do. Through the open doorway in front of me and across the hall is the bathroom. That shower can’t come soon enough.

Another yawn sneaks up on me and I shudder from it, covering my mouth, stretching my back and wings as much as I can, working out the kinks before I move for real.

And then I freeze.

I felt something.

Something solid.

Something buried beneath the blanket on the left.

A cold, giant, heavy pit opens up inside me as I slowly press my feathertip deeper into the sheets, and grows even colder, bigger and heavier the more resistance I find.

Oh crap.

Eyes wide, ears tense, wings and legs stiff and a chilling, spidery sensation dancing across my shoulders and down my spine, all the way to my croup, I stare at the heap in shock.

Did I…?

No, I hadn’t actually… I mean… Right? That’s ludicrous — ridiculous — I was just staying the night. In… their bed. With them. When I know there’s a perfectly serviceable couch in the living room just down the hall, no more than a few seconds’ march away. But really, I couldn’t have, because… because…

My eyes drift southward.

All over my body, my hair, fur and feathers are matted, tangled and twisted, but nowhere more so than around my mouth, chest, belly and…

Oh shit.

…Between my hindlegs.

Worse yet, now that I pay attention… it feels sticky. Like dried paste. The sheets below are stained with damp, and the air smells off. And my inner thighs and insides… ache with a pain I’ve not felt since before I was a reservist. Doctor appointments and my hoof notwithstanding, that area hasn’t seen action in years. More than a decade, in fact. And now that clean streak’s been broken by, what, a few too many shots of whiskey and some random guy I don’t even…

I seize up again, and the sinking, sickening feeling in my barrel grows, like I’m being tied down to the bottom of the ocean by my stomach. Tight, constricted, slow in motion, at risk of drowning in alien waters.

But it couldn’t be. I mean, there’s just no way, right?

He wouldn’t…

I wouldn’t…

And yet there’s every possibility.

My eyes drift back to the blanket as I’m overcome with an overwhelming sense of dread. It’s a rather unassuming shape, no bigger or smaller than the average pony — not that there’s ever been a huge amount of variation — so it really could be anypony, even a non-pony.

…Oh jeez, that’s just made it worse.

But speculation tends to do that. There’s only one way to find out who this is, and as much as I wish it were any different, I know it has to be done. So, I fold my wings, roll onto my hip, and like a little schoolgirl scared of her own shadow, hesitantly, reluctantly, fearfully reach out a hoof for the top of the blanket.

If he’s a stranger, my pride is the only thing hurt, and maybe his too, but if he’s him…

I gently push the covers out of the way.

…

…

…

…

…

No.

Merciful Sisters, no.

After a long moment of horrified staring, I finally take a deep, gasping breath and recoil, scurrying back to the edge of the bed and almost falling off.

This… is not what I wanted. Not in a million years. Not this soon. It’s only been, what, a bit more than a month since I said anything about the remote possibility that I maybe kinda-sorta like him slightly more than the average friend, and we’ve already jumped from that to… to…

…I think I’m going to be sick.

I scramble over to the foot of the bed and hop down, staggering and stumbling toward the exit, almost slamming face first into the doorframe when something snags my hoof. No time to check what it is, though, and I sloppily canter into the bathroom and shut and lock the door behind me. The fright of a near-death experience seems quell my stomach for the time being, but then I look down and see I’ve brought his underwear with me, and the bile bubbles up again.

I dash for the toilet, flip open the seat, hooves on the rim, and lurch once, twice, and at last a revolting, satisfying thrice. Like a wet cough that stings my nose.

When the choking and the gagging and the vomiting and the spluttering dies down — quite easily a minute or three later — I simply lay my head on my hoof at the edge of the bowl and pant, breathing in that tainted, acrid air. I feel even worse for it, but I don’t have the energy to do anything about it.

I was wrong. Hangovers aren’t the worst. This is.

How could it happen? Why did it happen? Why him, of all ponies? Who started it? Whose fault is it? Mine? His? Ours? We agreed that if anything were to happen between us at all, we’d take it slow — a pace we’re both comfortable with. Because this thing we have… had… whatever it’s called… is completely new territory for the two of us, and for completely different reasons.

Well, not entirely, but that’s beside the point; this should never have happened this soon, if ever. I’m not… He’s not… We aren’t ready for it. And if he is, then props to him for being the best damn actor I’ve ever seen, quickly followed by the most brutal beating he’ll have ever received.

Twenty years. Close to twenty years and this is how it ends? This is how I ‘loosen up’? I make one good friend — the first in ages — and the second I let a little booze get to my head, I wake up absolutely drenched from head to hoof in dried sweat and spunk. Oh yeah, that definitely says something about me alright. Worst part is, I can’t even remember if it was any good.

…I feel dirty.

Come to think of it, my conscience has a point: I’m filthy. That shower may not be the cure to my hangover anymore, since I’m way past that point, but I can’t go walking out of here like this.

I reach up to pull the lever and away the putrid chunks are flushed. The smell and the taste linger and a few drops splash across my cheek, but I don’t care; I’m too tired to, and I’ll wash it all out soon enough. If only I can find the strength and the will to do so.

My thighs and cooch begin to ache again from sitting on my haunches; the adrenaline rush must’ve pushed them to the back of my mind. That feeling right there is super gross. That probably makes me sound childish, but it’s true. To know that something went in there… and feel the effects of it going in and out and…

Oh my stars, he didn’t actually… Not inside, right? I mean… that’s…

I lurch again and spew even more of my guts into the bowl — less violent than before, but still unpleasant. That was a horrible thought, and I don’t spare one more second on that line of thinking as I slip from the toilet to the light switch, and then bumble into the shower. My legs are weak and my hooves tremble with every step.

When I’m inside, I slide the door closed, point the nozzle away from me and twist the taps. Cold water flows, as baths often start, and I take the opportunity to soothe a parched throat.

It hurts to swallow, and as soon as I back away from the stream to take a breath and wipe my eyes clear, mortification sets in, realising how else I could’ve been singing last night.

I am not a squealer. But since I can’t remember anything, there’s always the chance, and if I did and if any other residents heard it… Oh gosh… I can hardly begin to imagine what they’d think of me. Me. A Wonderbolt. A public figure seen by hundreds of thousands of ponies and tens of thousands of fans, and that’s no boast; I’ve seen the pictures from conventions and received so, so, so many fan letters.

It’s honestly kind of creepy when you really get to think about it, which is why I don’t.

Instead, I return the showerhead to me and shut my eyes as water cascades over my neck, withers and back. It gathers in my mane and behind my ears, running trails over my brows and cheeks, dripping from my snout and chin as I stare at the floor.

The warmth is refreshing, like a liquid blanket that soaks me to the skin, and I relish it. This morning has been a nightmare and I need as much comfort as I can get, because for all I can fly and bank and twist and turn, there’s no escaping this.

The die has been cast, as he put it once. This is my Rubicon, and I didn’t even mean to cross it. Not really. Not like this.

Sweet stars above, not like this.

I sit down and stretch my wings again. There’s enough space for it, thankfully, but since the hotel was originally built and owned by a pegasus, I shouldn’t have expected any less. They’re tense, strained, as if I slept on them wrong, or if they were pressing themselves into the mattress for hours on end. And that just makes this heaviness inside me grow heavier and heavier.

But I can’t focus on that. I need to clean myself up. So, I shift my weight onto my rump, let the water fall on my underside and grab the soap. Circles and clumps in the fur become straight. Others need a little coaxing. In the region down below, though… it just gets gluey. And it sickens me.

I begin to scrub, slowly, meekly, weakly, from chest to stomach and past the teats, each motion as shameful as it is repulsive. It’s even worse when I actually touch any of… that. Soap is soap — it doesn’t get dirty — but with the water sinking into it, it’s hard to tell if I’m removing anything or just spreading it. And that is not an image I want in my head.

Why did there have to be so much of it? How much of it’s his? Merciful Sisters, how much of it’s mine? I can’t have been that pent-up. Him, I can sort of see, being the only one of his kind and everything. But still, nopony… produces this much. It just… It’s as disgusting to think about as it is to wipe away.

And then I reach it — that one orifice — and I pause. Hesitate. Dread. Let the soap go. Slowly, warily, anxiously lower my hoof towards it. Timidly tease it open. Slip the edge in the barest fraction and instantly pull away. Bring it up to my eyes and inspect it.

…Fuck…

My brows upturn and my ears go flat, my jaw quivers and my head sways from side to side, eyes watering and searching for something, anything to tell me otherwise, and finding nothing. So, it’s no surprise that the next breath I take is ragged, stuttered — more like a stifled whimper — and I let out a long, high-pitched whine that continues all the way down to the shower floor. I curl up on my side, shutting my eyes, shrinking into myself under the stream from above.

I feel wretched. Rotten, corrupt, askew, empty. Wrong. He’s… inside me now. Has been for hours, probably. No amount of soap, water or scrubbing can wash that out, or turn back the clock. And I cry because of it.

I don’t know what to do.

Dying’s always an option, but not a very healthy one.

I do know something, though: the position I’m in isn’t good for my spine.

Lying on my back, wings spread, forelegs wrapped around my barrel and hindlegs splayed, head propped against the wall, I watch the water fall, pool and dance in front of me. Steam rises from the tiles, fogging the glass and the ceiling. The pale yellow light of the heat lamps gives my wet coat a faint shine and bathes me in warmth. But for all the luxury that surrounds me, and how easily I’d lose myself in its comfort, I am cold and alone.

I really do feel like crap. Glancing up at the glass in front of me, I certainly look the part. My mane, normally so neat and windswept, is now drenched and stuck to my fur, clinging to my neck, drooping over my brows. My tail fares no better, directly in the path of the showerhead. My eyes are tired, as am I, and the dark patches under them seem even darker. All in all, I kind of remind myself of a wet cat, which isn’t too far from the truth, I suppose.

A wet cat that somehow made a very big, very costly mistake, and in more ways than one.

I’m not an idiot. I paid attention in biology class and sex ed. I know that different species aren’t compatible in that way. We can’t… We shouldn’t be able to…

But there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there? And in a world where ponies can become trees if they sniff the wrong flower… and star-bears can become constellations if they’re hit high enough into the sky… and friendship is literally magic… who’s to say what can’t be done?

I mean, we are… were good friends, so…

I close my eyes and hug myself tighter, crossing my hindlegs and pulling them close, trying ever so desperately to shut out the prospect. Or, heavens forbid, the reality.

It can’t be. It simply can’t. This has to be some kind of dream or vision. Pretty soon, Princess Luna will tear a hole through the fabric of space and poke her head through the wall and tell me everything will be fine. None of this is real. It’s all the work of my subconscious, struggling to come to terms with a changing outlook; with how I used to not bother with romantic stuff; with how I used to put work first; with how I used to think he was just another friend.

But the seconds tick by, stretch into minutes, and Luna does not come.

I am cold.

I am alone.

And I’ve still made the biggest mistake of my entire life.

…

…

…

…

…

…Should I leave?

It’d be quite easy, really.

I could just… turn off the taps… dry myself off… find my stuff, if I brought anything… then quietly sneak… exit the suite and fly all the way back to Cloudsdale. Quick, simple, no pain to be had.

And what about him?

…He’ll… survive. He probably won’t remember much, anyway.

How do you know?

…Because… that’s how it was for me. I probably wouldn’t have figured anything out if I hadn’t tapped him by accident.

Your junk aches, you look a mess and you woke up without any clothes. How long until he puts two and two together?

Long enough.

…You’re seriously considering this?

Well, what am I supposed to do? Wake him up myself? Tell him what happened if he doesn’t remember and watch him freak out? Ruin our friendship? Our perfectly healthy, perfectly normal, perfectly non-sexual friendship, in which I’m kind of crushing on him. And yeah, it doesn’t make sense for a grown mare to ‘crush’ on somepony, but that’s all it is. Puppy love, nothing more.

You screwed your best friend and now you’re going to screw him over?

…What? No, that’s… I’d be sparing him.

From what?

…The truth.

He’s going to find out regardless. You know him; he’s not dumb. And what happens afterwards? How long can you avoid him before he starts asking questions? How long can you lie before he starts getting suspicious? What would he say when he finds out it’s you, and you said nothing? What would you say?

…I’d… figure it out.

No; you’d break his trust. Do you honestly think he’d ever want to see you again if you pulled that kind of stunt? That he wouldn’t feel used? What kind of pony are you? You’ve seen this bullshit play out a million times over; you know how it ends and you know better than that. To say nothing of the outcry if he went public with it, if and only if nopony knows already.

…But I don’t want this…

Then tell him. Stop wallowing around in your own self-pity and tell him straight to his face. That’s how you’ve always done it before and this is no different.

Yes, it is.

How?

Because… Well, we…

You banged.

…Yeah. That.

So what? Sure, it’s been a while, and it’s embarrassing as heck, and you can’t guarantee that confronting him won’t make things worse, but running away definitely will. At least with this, there’s a chance.

…But it’s him. Why’d it have to be him?

It doesn’t matter. What matters is what you choose. You can’t control his reaction, but you can control your own. You know what’s right. You know what you should do. You are in control.

…It’s honestly getting hard to believe that little lie I tell myself every now and then. But I’ll be damned if it doesn’t do the trick. One day, it won’t, but not today. It just sucks that I have to guilt myself into doing the right thing.

It’d suck even more if you didn’t.

Either way, it sucks. It’s all one big pile of crap, and I’ve stepped in it. But now I’ve wiped my hoof on the grass, given it a thorough wash, and it’s time to continue walking. The stink remains, but I can’t do anything about that; I need to focus on what I can control. So, I pick myself up, turn off the taps, shake myself down, and step out of the shower.

The water’s been running for so long that the whole room’s misty — even with the fan going full-force, as much moisture’s sticking to me as it is dripping from me. My fault. Moped about for too long. Another mistake to add to the list. Now I’m wasteful as well as depraved.

Stop.

…Damn it, what’s wrong with me? I’m acting like a child. I’m a grownup. Grownups have grownup problems and they make grownup mistakes, and the difference between me and a child is that a child… doesn’t know what they’re doing. But I do: I’m going to finish in here, walk over there, wake him up, and tell him…

…Tell him what?

The truth.

Well, yeah, that much is obvious, but what I mean is… how. How do I start that conversation? How does it progress? How does it end? What happens afterwards? What do I hope to achieve?

You know what you want.

Not really.

Yes, you do. You’re just afraid of mucking it up.

And why shouldn’t I be? There’s more riding on this than any Wonderbolts performance; I can’t afford to blunder and I don’t have teammates to carry me. It’s all or nothing.

Precisely. So, give it your all.

Easier said than done.

It always is, yet look how far you’ve come.

And how much.

…Did you seriously just…

Let it not be known that I can’t have fun at my own expense.

…Okay, but you still have a job to do.

I know, I know, and I’ll go do it soon enough. I just need to loosen up a little. Not in the way I did last night, though. But how, then?

You could finish drying off, for starters.

I look down at myself, then reach over and snatch a towel from the rack and rub back and forth, head to neck to withers to croup. As for my tail, I sit down and wring it out over the lip of the shower, careful not to tug too hard that I pull at the hair roots. Once upon a time, Dad would step on it to stop a naughty me from storming off, and I’ve had this irrational fear of it ever since. My wings, on the other hoof, just need to be flapped a few times to shake all the water off.

When I’m sure I’m dry enough, I step up to the sink, then wipe the fog from the glass and inspect my new reflection. And I find it interesting. Not off-putting or disappointing or, somehow, appealing, just interesting. It’s not every day that I pay attention to just how much I’m used to seeing my mane styled in a certain way, or how frizzy it and my fur can get. I seem to almost have doubled in bulk, and I know if I blow-dried it, I’d look even larger. Fluffier.

…He'd like that, wouldn’t he?

My eyes widen and my ears pin back. Where in the world did that come from?

Same as every other thought. You know what you want.

…No. I’m not treading that path. What happened was a mistake, not some premeditated act, conscious or not. It couldn’t be. I know I wouldn’t do this on purpose, because I’m not that kind of pony — haven’t been for a long-ass time. And he wouldn’t either; firstly, because he’s told me how difficult it is to see a pony in that way, and secondly, we agreed. We promised. Nothing radical.

Unless…

No, no, big-time no-no. The possibility of him lying aside — whatever reason he’d have for it — he wouldn’t dare spike my drink. That’s not who he is. That’s not the pony I’ve come to know and… appreciate. And he knows and appreciates that I appreciate him. He wouldn’t betray that kind of bond, no way no how, and he certainly wouldn’t be dumb enough to wait until morning to make his escape if he did.

You’ve found a good one.

I’ve ‘found’ nopony. We’re friends. This changes nothing.

Then tell him that.

I will. I will. I just need to gather my nerves first. And then I’m going over there. We’re going to sit down and have a nice, calm, civil, mature discussion, as grownups do. We’re going to figure out what happened, and we’re going to figure out a way forward. And I’m not going to chicken out of this.

I am Fleetfoot. Senior Airpony and third in command of the Wonderbolts — the most elite flying unit in all of Equestria. I’ve performed to millions all across the kingdom and beyond, from the deserts of Saddle Arabia to the freezing mountains of Yakyakistan, from the peak of Mount Aris to the volcanic plains of the Dragonlands. My name is known far and wide; chanted, praised, admired, adored. There are hundreds of shows hanging from my belt, and I’ve never faltered. Not once.

I don’t get stage fright.

And yet my eyes, ears and clenched teeth tell a very different story.

Oh, how the press would kill to see me now. I can see the headlines already; something long and gushing about a fated romance, and how ironic it is that I can handle quite easily the attention of millions, but get cold hooves at the thought of being close with one.

Worst thing is, they’d be right. Maybe I’ve had my head out of the game too long. Not that I wanted to return, or was an active player to begin with. What passion I had for it died a long time ago, and I was okay with that. It’s only recently that things started to change — that my perspective began to shift. Ever since he…

I shut my eyes and sigh. No more doubting, no more speculating, no more reminiscing. It’s now or never. It’ll suck any way I cut it, but at least here, I’m able to dictate our talk on my terms.

I am in control.

I open my eyes again, fixing the mirror with a hard, resolute stare, then brush my mane into something that resembles my regular do, if a little wet and droopy, and smooth out the fur on my face. For what it’s worth, I ought to look presentable, and he… I… we’ve always liked familiarity. If there’s a way to help either of us feel comfortable, however slight, I’ll take it. It’s all I can do.

I take a deep breath in through the nose, wings and chest fur rising, and out through the mouth, and everything falls back in place. A good stretch always calms the mind, as if I could simply shrug off all the tension in the world. And with that, I purse my lips, give a terse nod, then turn and stroll for the door.

Words and actions are two very different things: words are easy, actions are hard. In this case, telling myself I have a plan and the will to execute it is simple enough, but getting further than the doorway is proving… difficult.

It’s his clothes. They’re strewn all over the floor. One shoe’s by the bed, the other’s flipped upside down by the closet, and the jacket, shirt, shorts and socks lie wherever. Either we fought over something or tussled about on the floor, or he was really, really eager. Heavens forbid, if I helped undress him…

My mouth feels dry and my teeth are beginning to chatter. Nothing exaggerated, like on the worst nights of winter, when even pegasi’s natural resistance can’t protect us from the frost, but lightly, like a typewriter. It’s an odd thing to notice, and even weirder to behold; it’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything like this. Awkwardness, sure enough, but not the oppressive pit of dread that opens when I think of confronting him.

But if I want even the slimmest chance to salvage what little I can from this absolute disaster of a morning, this is the only way. And if I’ve already convinced myself a few times already, I can certainly do it again.

I am in control.

I breathe deep, stretch my wings once more, as well as my shoulders, neck, back, tail, fore- and hindlegs, feel the shameful ache in my thighs again — which has thankfully lessened — then trundle onward. I step over and around the clothes in my path, along with a few stray feathers I’d somehow missed. That gives me all the more reason to stop and look for a third option, but I don’t; I push the thought to the back of my mind and stay on course.

Being a Wonderbolt means putting duty above personal gain. I’ve done it a hundred times before, I can do it now, even if the circumstances aren’t the exact same. And I wouldn’t be able to call myself a good pony if I backed out now, or ever.

I come to a halt at his side of the bed and stare at the blanket concealing him. All that stands between us is that simple, patterned piece of fabric and stuffing. By removing it, I’d be breaking a seal, like a tin can or time capsule, and there won’t be any way to replace it. But it has to be done. For his… my… both our sakes.

Gosh, it’s weird to think like that. I mean, it’s not like I’ve never cared about anypony’s feelings before today, because I have. It’s just… ‘us’, ‘our’ and ‘we’ aren’t words I’ve ever really associated with myself, and to apply them in such an intimate setting, for lack of a better term, feels completely alien.

I am me. He is him. We aren’t a thing. This was a mistake.

I reach out a hoof and pull the blanket away from his head.

He’s lying on his side, facing me, short hair frazzled and pointing all over the place, eyes closed, lips parted, a single feather protruding from his mouth. I haven’t disturbed him.

With a quiet sigh and furrowed brows, I lean closer and give his shoulder a gentle nudge.

No response.

“Philip,” I whisper, prodding a little harder.

His lips meet and curl into a displeased expression, eyes scrunching up and a soft groan escaping him.

“Philip, wake up.”

With a sharp breath in, his eyes open, blink a few times, then focus on me. A slight frown snakes across his brows, more confused than annoyed.

All the same, my legs suddenly feel very weak and shaky, and my insides feel very cold and hollow, like I’m lying flat on thin ice. In a way, I suppose I am.

His eyes narrow and his lips curl to ask a question, but something stops him. A realisation.

He looks to the shoulder my hoof is touching, then lifts the blanket and peers further down to where, thankfully, I can’t see. And then he picks the feather from his mouth and stares at it with wide eyes. Then he bolts upright and shares those wide eyes with the rest of the room, scanning, observing, taking in all the information, until they find the other half of the bed. The ruffled sheets. The hoofprints to the bathroom. The hoofprints back. Me.

His breathing is slow, but audible. He holds the blanket close to his waist. With pleading eyes, upturned brows and a trembling jaw, he silently begs me to say it isn’t so.

Unfortunately, I have to disappoint.

“We need to talk.”

6 | Safe and Sound

Ponyville.

Never thought I’d find time in my extremely busy and non-existent schedule to swing by this place again, except on the odd recruitment rally. Even though it’s the home of the Princess and School of Friendship, the Tree of Harmony and its Element Bearers, and plenty of historic events, it’s never grown much larger than a rural town. Unfortunately for the ponies here, rustic charm doesn’t really work on me.

But this was the closest earthbound settlement with an adequate hospital, according to the paramedics, so they took him here. Cloudsdale’s too high up, apparently — something about altitude and temperature and air pressure, I think. I don’t know. If I asked them why, I don’t remember. The day’s fading into itself, all blurred and fuzzy and just…

I feel like there’s something bubbling up inside of me, boiling without warmth. Rumbling. Begging to be let out. Making my teeth chatter and rear hooves shake as I sit in this chair and stare at the floor. Caffeine, I tell myself, from the cheap espresso I have in my lap, and the two empty cups on the floor at my side. But I know what the buzz feels like, and this isn’t the buzz: this is something else. Something… raw and… primal. Something my subconscious won’t let me forget.

I’m anxious.

I know I don’t have any reason to be, but I am. I did all I could as best I could — I think… hope so, at least — and the doctors said he’s in a stable condition. They praised me, gave me a pat on the back, and told me they could handle everything from here, to which I stiffly nodded in mute agreement. They know what they’re doing. And whatever he is, he can’t be so different that modern medicine won’t do the trick.

And yet I’m still here. Frankly, I don’t know why I’m here to begin with, or if I had a reason at all, besides some strange sense of morbid curiosity. Sympathy, maybe? Genuine concern for a creature the likes of which I’ve never seen before, falling from the sky in a metal carriage, from a magical thingamy I created?

Guilt? Is that why I’m here? That I feel responsible for this?

Possibly.

Probably.

Almost certainly, yes.

Most likely that and everything else as well, all mixed into one toxic cocktail, festering away inside and threatening to simmer over. It’s a feeling that, as far as I’m concerned, can only be quenched by the soothing embrace of hard liquor. If only for a while. But since nothing alcoholic’s allowed past the entrance, and I can’t bring myself to leave, I’ve taken up with the next best thing.

It hasn’t done me any good.

“Are you okay there, miss?”

My ears perk as I look up and to the right.

A nurse quietly exits the room beside his, watching me with an eyebrow raised as she carefully the door behind her. “You haven’t moved since I last saw you.”

I blink, which makes my eyes sting, so I blink a few more times. “Have I been here before?”

“What? No.” She shakes her head with a good-natured smirk. “I mean since I started along the hall here, I haven’t seen you move.”

“Oh.” I lower my gaze. “Right.”

“If we ever had a Wonderbolt admitted, I’m pretty sure the stories would be nonstop.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause. A long one. The cool breeze of the AC tickles the fur on the back of my neck and I decide to warm myself with another sip of espresso.

“With all due respect, Miss Fleetfoot, you didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m fine.”

She raises her eyebrow again, stepping closer. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Because I love my coffee too, but don’t you think three cups is a little excessive?”

“Two wasn’t enough. Kept drifting off.”

“Is a third helping?”

A moment’s hesitation stops me from lying through my teeth, and I curse myself for it. Maybe it’s the fatigue’s doing, that I’m not at the top of my game. So, instead of saying anything, I return my eyes to hers and try not to frown at her for catching me out.

Her smile’s gone. She doesn’t seem annoyed, but she’s lifted her snout and looks down at me in recognition: she’s dealt with this attitude before. And I don’t doubt she’s shut down bigger ponies than me. “You need some rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You look like me after a forty-eight-hour shift on Hearth’s Warming, and I need a whole week to get myself back up to speed after that.”

I shut my mouth, but I don’t react. Why I even tried resisting, I don’t know; the token rebel in me, I guess. But still, it can’t really have been that long, can it? I left Griffonstone midnight yesterday, arrived at Cloudsdale either in the late morning or early afternoon, and now it’s early evening in Ponyville General. That’s only…

Sweet Celestia, it has been almost two days.

The nurse takes notice of my epiphany and leans in, her smile returning. “I understand what you’re going through. Trust me, I do — I’ve seen it plenty of times in a small town like this. But you’re not doing yourself any favours by staying up this late and overdosing on caffeine.”

I slowly look away and cross my hindlegs, brushing my mane back with a hoof. “And what about him?”

“You know where he is. He’s safe — thanks to you — he’s stable, and he’s surrounded twenty-four-seven by some of the best doctors in Equestria.”

“I don’t see them now.”

“Because they have other cases to work on.” She glances over her shoulder to his room. “Maybe not as… well, bizarre as this one, but definitely more urgent.”

“More urgent than falling from the sky and almost dying?”

“Yes.” Her gaze hardens. “I’m not allowed to tell you what their problems are, I can tell you a few might not last the night. Now, I’m as intrigued about him as you are, whatever he is, but if I were a surgeon, I wouldn’t want to tell a father I did nothing to save his little girl because I wanted to save my skills for the oddity a few doors down.”

Ouch. She has had experience. And she did it all without sounding completely scolding; more like a reminder, in the same way a teacher sits you down for a chat.

“But if it makes you feel any better, you could help me check up on him,” she says in a cordial tone, blue eyes losing their coldness. “But only if you promise me you’ll get some sleep afterwards.”

Honestly, I don’t see that happening tonight, and maybe even tomorrow night, no matter how caffeine-free I am. And that’s the reason I want to stay awake — because every time I start drifting off, images come to mind. Scary images. Grizzly images. Ones of falling and horror and red and…

But maybe if I see him now, safe and… maybe not well, per se, but at least better than he was before, then I’ll convince myself I don’t need to worry. That all my fears are unfounded. And maybe this bubbling will finally go away.

“What do I need to do?”

“Well, when I say help, I really mean just sit back and let me do the heavy lifting. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

I hesitate. I’m not sure why, because I’ve nothing to gain by sitting out here doing nothing but wait and fret. But still, I hesitate, looking right, looking left, observing. Walls plastered white, so clean they may as well be sterile. Windows with blinders, offering a midnight view of Ponyville and its old-fashioned architecture. Linoleum flooring polished to a shine. Unoccupied chairs with thin, blue cushions on the seat and back. The entrance to a small lounge just before the corner, in which I found the coffee and vending machines — easy dinner, once I’d begged some visitors for their bits.

There’s nopony here. Nopony besides myself and this nurse, anyway, and there hasn’t been anypony through here for at least the last hour either. I can say that because, no matter how out of it I may have been, I would’ve noticed; they’d have come up to say hi, ask for an autograph, or just watch from afar and convince themselves I couldn’t see them. As she said, being a Wonderbolt’s a pretty big thing in a small town such as this.

I’m also growing keenly aware of a faint buzzing from an overhead lighting fixture.

“Do we have a deal?”

I return to her and pause for a moment, then lower my eyes and give a short nod, sighing to myself as I hop out of the chair and land on three hooves, the fourth wrapped around my espresso.

She smiles, satisfied, as she reaches under her cap and pulls out a key, then turns to the door, puts the key in the lock, twists, and lays the entrance bare.

I follow her through, quickly glancing about for another pair of prying eyes. She may be letting me in, but that might not mean I’m strictly allowed. I think. I’m not sure they ever said I whether I could or couldn’t see him. Maybe I imagined it. Or maybe I convinced myself I shouldn’t, for whatever reason. Maybe I just needed somepony to tell me what I ought to do.

If that’s the case, I get the feeling I’ll need more of it in the coming days.

The smell of carpet cleaner is the first thing to strike me — an artificial, yet oddly pleasant scent; a recently sanitised room. They probably do it for every new arrival and departure, but it’s nice to know he won’t be catching any new diseases from this place. Not that I should’ve expected any less.

The beeping of a heartbeat monitor comes next, calm and steady, and my hooves padding across the carpet. No breathing just yet, but that’s fine, right? That’s just like anypony else when they’re asleep. Minus Thunderlane, of course, who snores like a chainsaw on the best of nights, and louder than Rainbow’s little sister’s squealing on the worst.

And then, creeping around the edge of the door like a little kid sneaking into her parent’s room late at night, I see the foot of the bed. Then the machine by its side, and the blanket, and the limp form lying beneath it, his back on the angled headrest.

His face is bruised and swollen, especially around the left side where stitches line his brow, but at least he’s been cleaned up. No more blood that I can see. His shirt and jacket have also been removed, and I suspect the pants as well — all part of what the doctors had to do to make sure he’s fine, I suppose. His right arm sits in padded sling hanging from his neck, and his left lies in his lap with a thin plastic tube running from his skin to a dangling saline bag. A large, wired clip is also clamped to one of his fingers and runs to the monitor.

He’s… very strange; very familiar, but also very different. Unlike basically every creature I’ve come across or even heard of, he has no snout — a small, pointed nose protrudes forward for less than an inch, but that’s about it. His skin is a pale bronze, darker at the forearms and the neck up, and for the most part, bare of any fur. His hair is short, black, and has a few windswept curls, and his jawline, chin and mouth bear an unshaven shadow.

Somehow, it feels like I’m intruding. Like I’m seeing him in an indecent state. And I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because we’re in a hospital, and hospitals are places for the sick and broken. Perhaps there’s some kind of disconnect — my mind still comprehending how we went from near death to this. Perhaps it’s all a dream, and I’ll wake up any second.

“Quite a looker, isn’t he?”

I blink and shake my head, snapped out of a spell of some kind, then turn to the nurse with a soft, confused frown. “What?”

“Just poking fun,” she says with a smile, walking over to the bed where she takes a clipboard and pen from its hook. “But no, we don’t know what he is just yet. A mammal, certainly, but beyond that, no clue.”

I look at him again as if a question had been answered, even though I know very well nothing’s changed. “Do we have a name, at least?” I ask after a short pause.

“Actually, we do.” She sits down in front of the heart monitor and squints at the clipboard. “Felaip… Ajam… Gwadaloop… Monteyro…”

I cock an eyebrow and return to her.

She runs through the print a few times over, lips pursed and curling and she silently spells it out time and again, then glances at me, shrugs, and takes out the pen to start her measurements. “I’m sure I’m getting it wrong, but it sounds exotic, whatever it is.”

“Did he wake up and tell you?”

“No, it was, um… on a little card we found in his wallet. Something called a driver’s licence.”

“Like a pilot’s licence?”

“That’s our assumption. I mean, you said he appeared in a flying vehicle, right?”

“…Well, falling more than anything.”

She smirks with a gentle laugh. “Mustn’t have been a very good pilot, then.”

“Yeah.” I look away as I skew my jaw and grit my teeth. “I guess.”

“Lucky you were there to save him, though.”

“…Yeah.”

She stops and peers at me with an eyebrow raised. “Something wrong, Miss Fleetfoot?”

I shake my head, returning to a posture where I don’t look like I’m actively avoiding her. “I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

“The storm.”

She waits expectantly.

Now I have to think on my hooves. “…Well, if this is the first time we’re seeing… whatever he is… then maybe it wasn’t just any old storm.”

“Oh, that much is certain.” She nods and resumes her measurements. “Those wild storms that keep sprouting up have never done something like this before, to our knowledge. We sent a message to Twilight when he arrived, but haven’t heard anything back.”

“Nothing?”

“Not a word. Either she’s talking things over with Celestia, or she’s neck-deep in her books doing research. Probably both, knowing her.”

My brows rise in surprise. “You… know the princess?”

“Oh, sure,” she chuckles, “she comes in all the time. Well, at least when she can, when she isn’t running her school or saving Equestria or reorganising her library for the hundredth time.”

I don’t reply, expecting a little more.

She takes notice and glances at me, then rolls her eyes at herself. “We’re not involved, if that’s what you’re asking.”

My eyes widen and I shake my head.

“Ah.” She pauses, staring off into nowhere, then shrugs. “Well, I’m sure I’d be living a far more cosy lifestyle if we were. But to answer your question, she’s just… more public, let’s say, than Luna or Celestia, or that Love Princess way up north.”

“Princess Cadance.”

“Yeah, her.” She finishes her work with a signature, stands, and walks to the end of the bed. “I don’t even know what she does, and I served in the Empire for a while.”

“Really? You travelled north?”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” she scoffs, putting the clipboard and pen back in their place, then turns to me with a self-assured smirk. “What, a small town girl like me can’t wonder what it’s like to live elsewhere?”

“Oh, no, of course not. I mean, yes. No. Uh…” My ears angle back and my wings pull in as I upturn my brows in an uneasy smile. “I’ll… get back to you on that?”

Her smirk widens to a chuckling smile. “You’re too easy,” she says with a dismissive wave. “But yeah, I went north for a bit. Well, it cost me a few dozen bits, but I went north. Took a job as a nurse at Rainbow Falls, found it wasn’t for me, came back. Simple as that.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Honestly?”

I nod.

She looks away as if embarrassed to say, but turns back with narrowed eyes and a mischievous, if somewhat guilty grin. “It’s the natives.”

I angle my head slightly.

“Well, they’re just so… friendly. I mean, I know that’s not a bad thing to be, but all the crystal ponies there were always… so… in your face about everything. Do you need help carrying this, or want to chat, or… anything really. And they never stopped talking about love and how much love is in the air and how it’s always important to find your special somepony and love them forever.”

I stare at her blankly as my head rights itself, lips parting and eyes widening.

Her confidence wanes and she starts shrinking back, wincing. “…Or maybe I’m just a bigoted butthead with hoof-in-her-mouth disease.”

“Oh, no, I completely understand what you mean.”

Her ears perk up. “You do?”

“Sure. Not with the crystal ponies themselves, but all this talk of… finding somepony — that, I’m sick of.”

“…Huh.” She gives me an appraising look — the same she used in the hallway. “Friends or family?”

“Both.”

“Oof.” She cringes and sucks in a sharp breath. “Double trouble. Yeah, that’s got to suck.”

I snort and roll my eyes. “Tell me about it. You could say I’m up this late because of them.”

She nods understandingly, then looks up in thought. “On the flip side, I suppose you can say you saved a life because of them too.”

I pause on her for a moment, then focus on the creature. I hadn’t thought about it like that before. I’m not about to forgive anypony for pushing me the way they did just yet, but it’s definitely a sobering thought.

“Don’t suppose it was fate, do you?”

I switch back to the nurse.

Her smug smirk’s made its return. “Perhaps it was destined; a lost soul in search of a partner, and in one fell, magical swoop, the heavens open up their gates and an answer falls from the sky in a blaze of glory.”

“Oh, don’t you start too,” I scoff, half joking, half serious. “It’s not enough I had to put up with this in Griffonstone and Cloudsdale, but now Ponyville as well?”

“But it’s such a tale!” She sits on her haunches and spreads her forelegs with equally wide and beaming grin. “Two star-crossed lovers, brought together by the wings of providence! The books they’ll write, the songs they’ll sing, the tears they’ll weep in joy and sadness!”

“Okay, okay, I get the picture,” I say with a chuckle and dismissive wave, and I only just realise I’ve not once taken a sip from my espresso all this time. After quickly remedying the situation and savouring the taste, I return to her. “But seriously, me? That thing? Never mind what he is, or the bruising, or the weird-ass name, he’s got to be one the ugliest creatures I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a few elderly griffons up close.”

“Pfft. Spare me. You haven’t seen ugly until you’ve helped a yak give birth.”

I shut my eyes and recoil.

“Yeah, exactly.” She giggles. “What was even uglier was the stuff coming out of her mouth. I swear, it was almost like hearing another language.”

Revulsion turns to embarrassed laughter.

“And then there was the baby — oh, the screaming. Worse than the mother, somehow.”

“Okay, alright, enough.” Now I’m almost cackling. “You win.”

“Miss Fleetfoot, please… when you compare suffering, nopony wins.”

“True, true. Very, very true.”

A comfortable silence descends as I gather my breath and wits.

“So,” I begin again, rubbing my eye with a wingtip, “what now?”

“Well, without a point of reference, we can’t say what counts as normal for him, but at least he’s stable and not, you know… dead. The most we can do is monitor him and just… be ready.” She glances over her shoulder. “And fetch a new saline bag — that one’s looking pretty low.”

“In other words, just wait?”

“Pretty much.” She sighs. “Boring, perhaps, but in my experience, boring’s best.”

“Huh. Funny. My job’s the complete opposite.”

“Well then, how about that?” she remarks with a satisfied grin, then turns toward the bed. “And look who brought us togeth…”

I follow her gaze, ears perking up as well as my brows, but as soon as I see what’s drawn her focus, my smile falls.

He’s staring right at me.

A single eye, dark in the shadow of his brow, the other too swollen to open halfway.

He watches me… vacantly. But not quite. There’s intelligence — a subtle glint of recognition in those small… freakishly small eyes, as if he’s come to a realisation — but it seems… tired. Weary. In a certain light, jaded, as if he were expecting this, and at the same time, never knew what he was expecting. Like seeing an old friend, both welcome and not.

Which is a strange thought, really — an old friend — considering we only knew each other for only half a minute, and barely exchanged any words between us. In fact, he’s said nothing.

Then his attention flicks over to the nurse, and the same expression remains, or lack thereof; what he’s feeling isn’t personal, just… I don’t know what. Maybe he’s unimpressed, for whatever reason.

“Oh dear,” she murmurs to herself, trotting to his side immediately afterwards. “Can you hear me, Felaip?”

He continues staring at her, then blinks once. Whether that was a confirmation or just a simple reaction, I can’t be sure, but he’s clearly conscious and clearly aware.

“You can? Good. Can you see me?” She sits and holds her hoof up. “Follow my hoof.”

His eyes stay locked with hers for a while, as if testing her, or sharing his disbelief at being asked to perform such a simple, mundane task. But after the moment passes, he switches to the hoof and tracks it left and right, up and down.

“Good, good, very good.” She returns her hoof to the floor and leans a little closer. “Can you talk, Felaip? Can you speak to me?”

He’s not looking at her anymore: he’s watching me again. Inspecting me. Sussing me out through my eyes alone. But there’s still that jaded air about him. Nothing about his expression has changed in the slightest, and it’s almost scary.

The nurse follows his gaze. “Yes, that’s Miss Fleetfoot,” she says slowly, calmly and quietly, nodding as she returns to him. “I’m Nurse Redheart. You had an accident.”

He looks at her again, inexpressive always, but it’s a visible query; he wants an explanation.

“You… fell. But you’re fine now. You’re in Ponyville General Hospital, in Equestria. We’re looking after you and taking good care of you. You’re safe here.”

He blinks. He looks at me. Angles his head a little and examines his bare skin, his arm in the sling, his free arm, the wire leading to the heartbeat monitor, the tube stuck in his veins and the bag that feeds it. And with a soft sigh, he lowers his eyes, purses his lips, and turns away in reluctant, dispassionate acceptance.

“Well, shit.”

This time, I blink, taken somewhat aback by his nonchalance. His voice is croaky, but that’s more from dehydration than anything else, I imagine, although it does have a slight accent. Where it comes from, however, I can’t be sure.

Redheart seems a little surprised by his response as well, but quickly recovers and shifts in place. “Felaip, please, I need you to focus on me.”

“Felipe.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Felipe Ajam Guadalupe Montero,” he recites frostily, as if going through the motions of a very frequent and tiresome routine. Then he returns to her. “But everyone calls me Philip.”

“Ah.” Redheart pauses in thought for a brief moment, then brightens with a smile. “Well then, it’s nice to meet you, Philip.”

“You too,” he replies automatically, without much feeling behind it. An insincere formality.

Redheart doesn’t seem to notice. Or if she does, she hides it well. “What do you remember?”

“About?”

“Yourself. Can you tell us anything else? Where you live, what you are, any friends or family we can contact?”

He lingers on her, then looks away once more and licks his lips. “What’s this place called again?”

“Ponyville General Hosiptal, Equestria.”

“Right.” He nods to himself and sighs. “In that case, no, I don’t think you’ll be contacting anyone anytime soon.”

“Why’s that?”

“Ever heard of humans?”

“…No, I… can’t say I have.” She turns to me. “Miss Fleetfoot?”

I feel awful as I slowly shake my head.

“Thought as much.” He sighs again. “Well, I am one. And if you’ve never heard of us, then I’m a long way from home.”

“And where’s that?”

He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t know it.”

“Please, Philip.” Redheart shuffles closer and lays her forehooves on the bedside. “Any information you gives us might be helpful.”

He snorts humourlessly, then returns to her. “Can you tell me where the United States is?”

Redheart blinks and draws her head back with a confused frown. “The United States?”

“Of America.” He shares his question with me. “Either of you heard of America?”

Once more, I slowly shake my head.

He sighs and goes back to Redheart. “Well then, I’m sorry, Miss… Redheart, but… I don’t think you can help me much.” He glances down at himself and the tube leading to the saline bag. “You know, more than you already have, anyway.”

“We have the Big Four.”

He snaps to me with an eyebrow raised. “Who?”

“The Big Four,” I repeat, then roll my eyes at how I thought repeating myself would make things any better. “The princesses: Celestia, Luna, Cadance and Twilight. They might know something we don’t.”

“What makes you say that?”

I shrug, feeling a little awkward for being in the spotlight. Well, a spotlight I didn’t intend for, at any rate. “Celestia and Luna have lived for a thousand years, Twilight’s the biggest bookworm ever, and Cadance… might know something the other three don’t; the Crystal Empire has a lot of old tomes, at least.”

His eyebrow gradually lowers, perhaps satisfied, though his face doesn’t show it. “You’re the one I saw, aren’t you?” he wonders aloofly. “The one who got me out.”

I don’t reply. He knows the answer well enough, I expect, so I want to know what else he has to say. But one thing’s for certain: he’d be great at poker, not that I’ve ever really understood how to play.

“You remember the crash?” Redheart queries.

He nods. “I remember you smashing in the window. I remember… being shocked seeing you for the first time, and I remember being shocked hearing you talk.”

“You were… surprised?”

He nods again and turns to her. “Where I come from, only humans can talk, and there aren’t anything like either of you running about.”

“Oh.” Redheart’s gaze is drawn to her hooves, where she chews on her cheeks for a moment in thought, then returns to him with another diplomatic smile. She’d be good at poker too. “Well, I hope we’ve made a good impression.”

“You’re alright,” he says with an appreciative shrug, then switches back to me with a neutral look that comes across as critical. “You, on the other hand… you’re not much of a looker yourself.”

I blink, frowning in offended confusion, and open my mouth to ask him where exactly that came from. But then it dawns on me, and I suddenly feel caught out and isolated. “Oh, you… heard that, did you?”

“I heard enough.”

Short and to the point, but not harsh; reserving judgement, thankfully. It wouldn’t be a happy ending to this story, if the pony… person I’d saved started hating my guts.

“But you saved my life, so… you can’t be all bad.”

A slight consolation, but not a total acquittal. I look down in shame and bite my lip.

“Princess Twilight knows you’re here,” Redheart kindly informs, perhaps hoping to change the subject. “With any luck, she’ll arrive in the morning to see you.”

“How far away is that?”

“Six ‘til sunrise. We serve breakfast at seven. On that note, are you allergic to anything?”

“Besides bees, not really.”

“Ah, good. Then I think you’ll like what’s on offer: warm, rolled oat porridge with sultanas, coconut and cinnamon, and a glass of apple juice to wash it down.”

He pauses, surprised. “That’s hospital food?”

“In this ward, yes. You don’t need surgery, so you should be fine — all that’s left is for you to recover.”

“I didn’t lose any limbs?”

“Not this time, thankfully,” she chuckles, “but you suffered a minor concussion, as well as a lot of bruising, and a fractured arm, including some ribs. We were worried about a spinal injury for a while, but if that were the case, you’d be wearing a neck brace.”

“Could be worse,” he muses, nodding to himself. “Could be dead.”

“My thoughts exactly.” She smirks and leans in. “But don’t tell the doctors I said that, or I’ll get in trouble for stressing you out.”

“Fair enough.” He nods once more. “Can’t say this incident’s the highlight of my life.”

“I must say, though, you seem to be handling it remarkably well.”

He pauses again, and then he looks away. “Yeah,” he says distantly, preoccupied. “I guess I am.”

Another silence descends, broken only by the beeping of the monitor and the gentle hum of the air conditioner. But unlike last time, this one isn’t comfortable; it feels… cold. Like Redheart shouldn’t have said what she said. Like I shouldn’t have heard his reply. Like I shouldn’t be here.

And really, why should I stay? I came in, saw he was okay, and when he woke, we were introduced. I haven’t said much, but I’ve said what I needed to say. Maybe things could’ve gone smoother, but that’s really all there is to it. He’s safe, he knows who I am, and he’ll be well looked after from here on out. He’s a mystery, but his future seems bright. Relatively speaking.

But at the same time, it somehow feels wrong to just walk out.

But why? There’s nothing more to say, and I’m tired as heck. What does it matter that I saved his life? I need to look out for myself as well.

…It’s the guilt, isn’t it?

I close my eyes and sag.

Of course it’s the bloody guilt. What else would it be? Besides an eager crowd, when have I ever really cared what strangers thought of me? But what else can I do? There’s nothing for me here. I’m just wasting everypony’s time, as well as my own — time we all can spend resting.

“Listen, I’m… just going to go,” I murmur, scarcely loud enough to hear myself. “It’s late, anyway.”

“Are you okay to fly?” Redheart wonders.

“Yeah.” I rub my eyes with my other wingtip. “I’ll just finish this espresso and I should be good to go. I’ve been through worse.”

“…If you say so,” she says doubtfully. “I can’t stop you, but I really do think you should spend the night here, and I’m saying that as a nurse.”

“I’ll be fine.” I flick the crud out and down the rest of my drink in a single gulp, which takes less effort than I thought it would, and I swallow more air than coffee. That’s an embarrassing belch in the making — better make my exit before then. So, I turn and head for the door. “See you later.”

“Fleetybee.”

My hooves come to a halt and a look back at him with a wince, somewhat irritated. “It’s Fleetfoot.”

“Right, right, whatever.” He rolls his eyes, and after a moment of avoiding my gaze, he returns to me with an earnest, perhaps even coy expression. “Just… thanks. For saving me.”

I pause, then shrug. “Would’ve done the same for anypony.”

He raises an eyebrow. “But… I’m not a pony.”

“It’s our version of ‘anybody’,” Redheart explains in a soothing tone. Motherly as always, it seems. “Since we don’t know much about you, I should warn you, there may be some culture shock.”

“Hey, so long as you don’t ritually sacrifice me, we should be a-okay.”

Redheart laughs, but he doesn’t smile. It was definitely a joke, but still, no smile on his part. Not even the faintest smirk of satisfaction.

There’s something more to him. Something he’s not sharing. I’m not sure what it is, or why I think it, but I somehow know it. But I don’t have the stamina or patience to deal with any of this right now. I’ll decide whether it’s worth pursuing in the morning, when I’m in a better state of mind.

So, sighing through my nose and licking my lips, I leave Redheart to do her thing and explain the stuff he should already know, and close the door behind me.

The air in the hallway feels a little cooler.

20 | Crushes and the Pitfalls Therein

Walking.

When you have a pair of wings, the ground isn’t where you go when you want some time to think, either by yourself or with somepony else. As a consequence, walking along the Fillydelphian shoreline in the afternoon sun with Philip by my side, the guards a few paces behind, and the countless ponies scattered around us, is a very… interesting experience.

What’s stranger is that nopony seems eager to heckle me for an autograph. I wear my purple shades, a gold bracelet, a striped bathing singlet, and a pair of white swimming trunks long enough to cover up my cutie mark, but I doubt my disguise has anything to do with it; there’s only one pony who isn’t a Royal Guard that regularly hangs around the world’s first, and only, human.

Outside the Lunar Bean, I’m still a spectacle, so why everypony seems so blasé today, I haven’t a clue. I’m not about to question it, though, since I could use the peace and quiet. Relatively speaking, at least — a few seagulls squawk overhead or trundle along the warm sands, parents chat while basking on their towels, and children chase each other, build castles or splash in the surf.

Now that the snow has gone and spring has arrived, a new wave of tourism has flocked to the shores. Native ponies make up the majority, but yaks and griffons aren’t uncommon, and I even spy a diamond dog couple lounging in the shade of a parasol.

Maybe it’s the diversity at work — what’s so special about a human and a celebrity when there’s so much variety already on show?

…Great, now it sounds like I’m shopping for whatever species takes my fancy, if the concept of crushing on him wasn’t weird enough. And on top of that, I’m questioning the very thing I just said I wouldn’t question. Perfect.

“So, you… like-like me, right?”

I quietly sigh to myself. At least he’s here to keep me grounded. And the second the pun sinks in, I snort and smirk. “Indeed I do,” I agree, my head bobbing lightly as we amble onward. “At least, I’m pretty sure I do.”

“How sure?”

I lift my head and swing my attention right. He’s similarly dressed for the beach in a white swim shirt, black trunks, and a grey bucket hat fastened beneath his chin, but he’d look better without the coloured streaks of sunscreen on his cheeks and nose. “Eighty percent, or something like that. Getting close, that’s for certain.”

“But not quite there yet?”

“Well, it’s near enough that I know I can’t ignore it,” I assert, and then immediately worry if I’d said that too harshly. “I mean… you’re not like anypony I’ve ever met.”

He quirks an eyebrow and glances down at himself.

“Barring the obvious, dingus,” I gently scold, trying and failing to suppress another smirk. “And what I mean by that is… I’ve met ponies like you, but none I’ve ever really… well… connected with. Not like we do.”

“Not even Soarin? Or even Spits?”

I wince and roll my eyes. “They’re friends I’ve known since I was little. If I felt anything for either of them, I’m sure I’d have done something about it by now.”

He nods thoughtfully and looks ahead, scanning the way forward for obstacles and giving himself time to think. Two colts and a filly gallop and fly for the water, where they dive into a crashing wave, quickly followed by a mare who I can only assume is their mother. He coughs. “So, how long have you felt this way?”

Talking so openly about this doesn’t feel completely comfortable, but I promised to be honest with both him and myself. I haven’t let anypony down yet since this whole thing started two years ago, and I’m not starting today. “Hearts and Hooves Day.”

“Two weeks ago?”

“Two and a half, and that’s only how long I’ve known. Count the times I’ve missed being around you and you may as well…”

He returns to me, curious.

“…You may as well go back to when you were sent off to Canterlot,” I mumble, my ears lowering and gaze coyly drifting away from him, somewhat embarrassed.

Again, he nods. “Between a year and a fortnight ago, and you’re still not sure.”

“Well, what do you expect?” I snap, though it lacks any real biting power. “It’s been a long time since any of this has happened to me. I’m out of practice.”

He quirks another eyebrow and the hint of a cheeky smirk leers down at me. “It’s been so long since you’ve known what love is?”

“Oh, buzz off,” I retort with a chuckle, bumping into his hip with a shoulder. “I’m dealing with enough problems as it is that I don’t need your entitled ass telling me what a melodrama my life’s become.”

The smirk falls and his brows furrow. “What kind of problems?”

I pause for a moment as I process my answer, and when I realise what I’m about to say, my smile fades as I sigh and look away. “The usual, I guess.”

He rolls a hand encouragingly. “That being…?”

“My family.” I sigh once more. “Mainly Mum.”

“What about her?”

“I never told you?”

“You’ve hinted at stuff in the past, but never went into anything terribly specific.”

My wings slacken, my neck slumps and my ears and eyes lower even further as I feel a small but noticeable weight quietly rest upon my withers.

“So… what’s up?”

I sigh yet again. “She wants… grandkids.”

His eyes widen and he stops dead in his tracks, mouth agape in muted shock. “No way.”

“Unfortunately, yes way.” I stop and turn, facing him at an angle. “She… respects my choice to be a Wonderbolt, but… she doesn’t think it’s what I need for my life to be complete. She thinks… if I brought joy to her life, then… obviously, a foal of my own would do me some good as well.”

“That’s a load of bull.”

“I know, but that’s how she is.” I shrug. “And since I’m reaching my mid-thirties… in her mind, time’s running out, because she had me in, like, her mid-twenties, so the longer I put it off… the more agitated she gets. Add to that the fact I don’t want kids, and as far as I’m concerned, will never want them…”

His exasperation turns to something more sullen and his gaze wanders to the sand beneath his bare feet. “And then there’s me.”

“…Yeah.” I slowly, dejectedly nod. “I’ll admit, getting to know you was supposed to be a stepping stone, or something — my dad’s idea. Like, if I could convince myself getting to know you wouldn’t be so bad, then maybe I could meet other ponies too. It just… turns out you might be the be all and end all.”

He returns to me. “Might.”

I roll my eyes again. “Well, yeah, there’s every possibility this is just some passing feeling I can’t control, and I’ll get over it soon enough… but if it isn’t, and I keep feeling this way… then don’t you think it’s worth discussing?”

He pauses, his expression unchanging, then looks up and observes the shoreline behind me with a sigh of his own, a hand on his hip. “I suppose.”

“Then that’s all I ask — that we hash things out.”

His eyes return to mine. “But is that all you want?”

My breath threatens to hitch, but I force the urge down and quietly gulp, wings shuffling back into their normal positions at my sides. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. One step at a time.”

Another pause, then another nod, and soon, we’re walking again.

A massive family plays a game of hoofball on our right — or football, or soccer, depending on who you ask, both from this world and Philip’s. The goal posts are marked by water bottles and the boundaries by unused towels. Four adults divide their strength among two teams mostly consisting of teenagers and children — twelve in total, I think. Currently, the ball lies in the possession of a giddy little filly with daisies in her hair, who’s far too young to understand how the game works, but is also far too young to be tackled.

Win or lose, I’m sure she’ll be a deciding factor.

And then I realise what I’m doing might be a little inappropriate considering the context and I look away. It’s not that I can’t appreciate kids — heck, watching their faces scream with glee when they see me in person and say they want to do what I do when they grow up is one of the highlights of being famous — but… that doesn’t mean I want one of my own. Even sparing a thought for it makes me feel icky; all that pain and anguish for months on end, only to be followed by years, or a potential eternity of disappointment afterwards…

I know I wasn’t the best daughter to my parents when I was younger. In some ways, somepony could say the same of me today, and I’m sure there’d still be some merit to it.

But in order to even be a mother, I’d have to…

I narrow my eyes and look off to the left as my tail tucks in. I’m not breeding stock. And even if I wanted kids, I’d be sorely tempted to simply not try by the simple fact that somepony else wants the same; it’s like a damned prophecy, and I’ve been doing my best to keep others from dictating my life. Whatever happens only happens because I want it to happen.

I am in control.

But the more I complain, the more I think about it, and the more I think about it, the worse it seems. I need a distraction — something that doesn’t relate to families and the process of building one. “Philip…”

“Yes?”

“…How does it make you feel, knowing this?”

He hesitates. He doesn’t show it — a quick glance reveals that much — but I can tell he’s taking the time to pick his words carefully. “Strange.”

A perfectly valid, yet perfectly vague answer, but I can work that to my advantage: the more time I spend talking and listening, the less opportunity there is for more unsavoury thoughts to take root. “Strange how?”

“Well… strange.” He shrugs, glancing at me in turn. “Not a bad kind of strange, but I’m not sure how else to put it. I mean, you know what I’ve said about how people back in my world view this sort of thing, right? It’s just… not something you ever properly, really, genuinely think about.”

I look at him properly and raise an eyebrow. “So, what do you make of it?”

He looks at me in earnest as well, raising an eyebrow of his own. “Am I supposed to make anything of it?”

I blink. “That’s not really an answer Philip.”

“Well, what do I say? I don’t mean to be blunt, but… it really falls back to you. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give you a better answer.”

Great, now the ball’s in my court again, and I can’t pass it back without seeming clueless. Which, to be fair, I somewhat am, but saying that outright wouldn’t do either of us any favours. So, I sigh and ponder my response; better to start with what I know. “I know I don’t want us to stop being friends.”

“I agree.”

Good. That’s something. “I also know I don’t, nor have I ever planned on us… being a thing. You know, a couple, a pairing, or whatever you’re supposed to call it.”

“A couple, and I haven’t either.”

Also good. Very much so, I’m pretty sure. Stars above, if he’d said anything else, that would’ve been so awkward. “Okay, so that’s half the picture. As for what I want…”

Now comes the hard part, and with his eyes on me, I’m feeling a little pressured. I know he doesn’t mean to, but it’s unavoidable — I’m deciding where I want the line in the sand drawn, and he’s going to draw its actual position. While there’s not a lot riding on this, it certainly feels that way.

“…I want things to stay as they are,” I carefully answer, pausing for a moment afterwards, then nodding once in affirmation, looking up at him again. “I like what we have, and I don’t want to change that.”

He slowly nods in turn,, his gaze lowering and expression growing thoughtful. “I like what we have too. It’s just… interesting how things work out sometimes.”

Interesting is definitely one word for it. “Well, believe it or not, I’ve never imagined myself with anypony, period, for almost seventeen years, or something like that.”

“Oh, I believe it. You’ve made your love for the job emphatically clear.”

“Then it wouldn’t surprise you to learn that this is surprising for me too?”

He looks at me, and then looks away, watching a colt give his mother a back massage while she reads a book in the shade of another parasol. “It doesn’t, I suppose. I just never thought about it, really. Or at least, I tried not to think about it when we weren’t yanking each other’s chains.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “You tried not thinking about what, exactly?”

Even with him looking the other way, I can tell he rolls his eyes before returning to me. “Relationships. And by extension, all that implies.”

Of course. Not only was there the species barrier to deal with, but the fact that others were living what he might never have. Granted, that’s only because he’s denying himself the opportunity… but the point still stands. And I shouldn’t expect nor should I want him to change, which I don’t. I said as much before. He’s perfect the way he is.

…Wait, that didn’t sound too smitten, did it?

“It’s not a great feeling, you know, knowing you might never have another chance.”

I can only imagine. This side of things is new to me, so it’s actually quite hard; I only know what it’s like to think I’m crushing on somepony and know they’ll never like me the same way. And even then, the feeling’s barely three weeks old.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t… entertain the idea, for lack of a better term.

“Has it ever crossed your mind?” I quietly ask, mostly curious, but perhaps motivated by some abstract, vague, and frankly rather pitiful sense of hope.

“Has what crossed my mind?” he questions, though his furrowing brows tell me he already suspects my answer; I’m echoing Spitfire from a few nights ago, after all.

My pace slackens as I bob my head from side to side. “You know… finding somepony.”

He matches my stride and watches me closely with his eyelids lowered — not halfway, but low enough to show a lack of enthusiasm. However, he appears to give the concept some thought, and before he looks off into the distance once more, I already know the answer. “Once or twice,” he begrudgingly mumbles. “Never really imagined myself going native, though.”

I’m not sure if that was supposed to be a warning or an idle remark, but I don’t dare ask for clarification. “Do you think you’ll ever consider it a possibility? Finding a partner, I mean.”

He peers down at me from the corner of his eye, perhaps trying to guess what my angle is, but seemingly dismisses his suspicions and returns to the horizon. “I don’t plan on it, honestly.”

I thought he’d say something like that, and despite the probability, something in my chest feels… heavier. Funny how the body and the mind work against one another; even if I’m respecting both our wishes, part of me presumed that laying the truth out for all to see would accomplish something… well, more than mere acceptance.

How does that work, anyway?

Another question for another time.

“But that doesn’t mean things can’t change.”

My ears perk up and I refocus on him, coming to a halt.

He stops as well and faces me directly, a hand on his hip as he stares with creased brows at the sand between us, lips curled as he chews the inside of his cheek. “I mean… you thought you’d never feel that way about anyone for at least as long as you had your career, and you were happy with that.” He shrugs and meets my gaze, reluctant but accommodating. “Now, you’re not so sure, and here I am almost saying the exact same thing.”

I blink. This was unexpected. And I’m honestly not sure what to make of it.

My-my, how the tables have turned.

“So, as much as it doesn’t appeal to me now… who knows?” He glances away and shrugs again. “Maybe, someday, that need — that… longing — will outweigh my wants. I’m only human, after all.”

For whatever reason buried deep within my psyche, I hate that line — perhaps because it echoes how exclusive it is to call other species ‘ponies’ in casual conversation. But coming from him… I think I understand. Not as well as I could, considering these feelings are a dusty, old tome I’ve only recently rediscovered, but well enough.

Still, there’s the chance he’s not being completely sincere, isn’t there? That he’s fuelling the tiny ember of hope inside me because he thinks that’s what I want to hear. And I can’t decide if it is or isn’t. I lower my gaze to think a little more.

“I’m not just saying that,” he assures as if he’s read my mind, squatting and sitting on his heels so we’re roughly eyelevel. His brows are upturned, his elbows rest on his knees and a hand grips the other’s thumb. “I love you, Fleet, but… not the way you might want me to. Not yet, at least.”

I don’t respond immediately, unable to determine on whether or not this stings. “But what happens if you do?” I quietly ask, a cursed sense of diffidence seeping through as I return his sympathetic look with a troubled one. “What if we… start feeling some mutual connection, or something? What do we do then?”

“Well then, we talk about it, don’t we?” A small, subdued, but kindly smile plays across his face, and it doesn’t feel forced. “We pick a pace, set some rules. Be honest with each other. That’s more or less how we’ve always done it anyway, isn’t it?”

Okay, that stings, and I do my best to not let it show. Conveying my feelings accurately is proving hard enough as it is; he doesn’t need another heavy truth heaped on his shoulders today, and certainly not in a place so public. Soon, though, when it’s appropriate. He deserves to know.

“I guess.” I sigh through my nose, hoping the context conceals a sudden bout of dejection. “But if things change, we’ll… take it slow, won’t we?”

“Well, obviously.” He chuckles. “What, you think I wouldn’t need time to adjust? That I’m so desperate for intimacy that ancient taboos would just fly out the window?”

I spy an opportunity to lift my spirits, and after a short pause to gather my wits, I give him as much of a cheeky smirk as I can manage. “I don’t know. Are you?”

He snorts and rolls his eyes, looking somewhere off to the right and shaking his head, though I could’ve sworn he took a second I’d have expected to react the way he does. “No,” he says in a good-natured, but fairly decisive tone, returning to me with his smile having fallen just a fraction. And then he reaches over and gives me a soft knock on the shoulder. “But if I ever need a good time, I’ll know who to call.”

I give him a solid punch to the chest.

He flops onto his rump in a fit of coughing and laughter. “Hey, don’t act surprised!” he exclaims almost breathlessly, grinning as he nurses the point of impact. “You started it, and you should’ve seen that one coming a mile away.”

“I still have nightmares, Philip!”

The laughter continues a few seconds more, ending in another cough, and then he pulls his legs in close and sits up, arms resting in his lap. A sly and mischievous smirk beams at me, just out of swiping distance. “And yet, somehow, you’ve fallen for me all the same.”

Oh, he’s practically begging for it, but as my muzzle contorts into a playfully irritated expression, I also become acutely aware of how many pairs of eyes are watching me. Mares and stallions, colts and fillies, other species and their respective genders; some watch out of idle curiosity, some watch more intently and urge others to turn their heads my way.

The human and his Wonderbolt friend — what a lucky sight. What must he have said, one must wonder, to warrant him getting knocked flat on his arse? And why does she seem a little embarrassed about something? They couldn’t possibly be discussing something extremely personal, could they?

I’m making a scene. My wings tighten against my sides and my chest tingles with the shameful impulse to puff up my fur. My muzzle’s no longer twisted, but my ears are angling back as my eyes widen anxiously — hopefully not too noticeable behind my shades.

“Hey.”

I look back to him.

His gaze has lost its smugness; earnest, heartfelt admiration has taken its place. “You look cute when you’re flustered.”

The tingle in my chest rises to an itch, but I grit my teeth and force it down, slowly shaking my head with a mixture of annoyance and appreciation. “You’re not making it better, you know.”

“Oh?” He quirks an eyebrow, and the smugness returns with a vengeance. “Is that so?”

I keep my mouth shut and try my best not to react, and especially not in any way he’d like.

After a brief pause, he leans a little closer and reaches out.

I freeze. It seems like he’s going to cup my cheek, or lay his palm on the back of my head, right in front of everypony on the beach, and for whatever reason, I make no move to stop him. My breath doesn’t catch in the back of my throat; I simply lack the attention to focus on both his hand and breathing at the same time.

But he doesn’t do what I thought he intended, and instead, he grips the edge of my shades between a thumb and a finger, and lifts it up and away from my snout, resting it in my mane. And then he sits back and observes his work appraisingly, the smugness fading once more to admiration.

I stare at him in turn, somewhat confused, but at the same time, an indistinct sense of excitement bubbling through my barrel, withers, and along my back. My head feels slightly lighter, and I think my cheeks and ears are starting to burn.

A few more seconds pass, and then he gently nods to himself. “Green suits you more.”

I blink, and some strange, misty sensation evaporates. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He nods again, then cocks his head, brows creasing in thought. “Matches better with your coat and hair, I think.”

I pause a little while, my focus drifting, trying to remember what shade of green my eyes are, and wondering for a brief moment whether I’d been getting it wrong this whole time. But then I blink once more and squint, cocking my head at him in turn. “Why do you care if you’re not into me? Or any pony, as a matter of fact?”

“What, I’m not allowed to offer my artistic opinion?” he playfully scoffs, and then gives a casual shrug. “I just like the aesthetic more. And it doesn’t hurt getting to see the real you. Fleetfoot the Wonderbolt. My friend and saviour. And future lover, should she have her way.”

“Oh my stars, I’m not after that.”

“Whatever you say, Fleeybee.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Whatever you say.”

I smirk despite myself, and despite all the onlookers, who seem to have grown fewer now the action has stopped and it’s just us talking again. My nerves probably exaggerating the whole thing anyway.

“You know, it’s my birthday soon,” he coolly announces, then nods over to his left where Brave, Phalanx and Ironside are keeping a pack of excited children at bay. “Besides the usual suspects, I don’t have a lot of guests to invite. You wouldn’t happen to be interested, would you?”

I pause again, and then my smirk widens to a smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Conflicting schedules, or something like that. You have a job, after all.”

I’m drawn back to the night I told him, how myself and the whole team bid him farewell at the train station before we headed for our airship. I also remember Spitfire pulling me aside from the rest of the group, and telling me something I never thought I’d be happy to hear. “Trust me, that won’t be a problem.”

“No?”

“No. Because starting four days ago, so long as I get the paperwork done, I can take all the time off I want.”

He blinks with widening eyes, pulling his head back a little way. “Really?”

I shrug. “Nepotism has its advantages.”

He blinks again, and then breaks into a bemused grin. “Well then, congratulations, Fleetybee! Look at you, sobering up from your workaholism.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, let’s not take it that far.” I giggle as I wave him down with a wing. “That’s one addiction I don’t want cured.”

He nods to himself, lowering his gaze for a moment as his grin lessens to a contented smile. And then he peers up at me once more. “You want to know something I can’t get enough of?”

A soft snort escapes me, but I resist the urge to roll me eyes. “Hit me.”

He waits for a beat, and then leans closer and reaches out for a second time. But instead of an open palm, it’s a single finger limply pointed directly at me.

I stare at the appendage, and then at him, lips slowly parting and eyes slowly widening, a warmth radiating from my chest and up my neck to my cheeks and ears. My legs feel a little less steady as well, and my wings certainly droop. If I stay like this, a blush is going to show for sure.

But then something changes in his expression; his mouth puckers in an absolutely piss-poor attempt at hiding an impish smirk, and his finger darts forward and pokes my snout.

My whole body stiffens with a surprised bolt that runs as far as my tail, hooves, ears and feathertips. My head yanks back as far as it’ll go, the fur on my chest puffs out, and my wings shoot out to half-mast. And for a few short moments that may as well be an eternity, I stay like that, tightly wound as a steel cable, struggling to process what exactly had just happened. But then I blink, and while it doesn’t completely end the spell, I can at least share my shock with him.

But it only seems to make him giddy.

“Tag,” he whispers, and then scrambles to his feet and bolts at full speed for the ocean. “You’re it!”

I watch him with a gaping mouth for a second or two in utter disbelief, trying to wrangle control of my body, and trying to form a response of some kind — any kind; anything to properly express just how gobsmacked I am. He pulled the hardest bait and switch in recent memory, and I’m not even mad.

That’s what makes me mad. Except, I’m not really mad.

“You son of a…!” I cry, twisting round and bounding after him and a full-blown gallop. “You don’t get to toy with me like that, you bastard! I’m not some emotional pincushion!”

“No, but you’re a cutie patootie, that’s for sure!”

“You take that back!”

He does a cartwheel followed by a sloppy backflip, and finishes off by running backwards while giving me two middle fingers. “Make me, bitch!”

If I weren’t on the warpath, I’d be impressed, but he’s thrown down the gauntlet and I can’t let it slide. I lower myself for the next bound and launch myself straight for him, so hard and fast I leave a small crater in the sand, wings out wide and cutting through the air like scythes.

The last thing I see before I tackle him in the gut and send us both into the surf… is him realising he’s made the biggest mistake of his sad, sorry, pathetic life.

33 | The Night I Remember Too Well

Cosy.

That’s how I feel as he opens the door to his apartment, despite the slight sting of sleep pricking at my eyes. I guess the exhaustion of a good late night party is finally getting to me, as nonsensical as it may be; I’m an athlete, after all — I’ve spent a decent chunk of my life pushing myself to my physical limits. A simple birthday bash shouldn’t be this mentally draining. And yet, that all too familiar fuzziness is hanging over my head, like a weighted blanket threatening to ensnare me in the warm, sweet embrace of slumber.

I’m not nearly at the point where I’ll nod off at the drop of a hat, but it’s there, ever present, and if the rest of the night doesn’t prove to be so entertaining, perhaps I’ll have to invite myself to stay. I’ve had enough time in the air to know that flying and sleep deprivation do not go well together.

“That was fun,” Philip comments, stepping inside and flicking on the living room lights, then dimming them to a more agreeable level. “At least, it looked like you were having fun.”

“Oh, I was,” I reply, rubbing my eye with a wingtip as I follow him through, hooves travelling from carpet to floorboards. “Believe me, that… that was nothing like I’m used to when it comes to birthdays. Usually, it’s just me and the Bolts lazing around and sharing a few drinks.”

He shuts and locks the door behind me, then cocks an eyebrow and smirks. “So, your average workday, huh?”

“Shut up.” I lean over and lightly headbutt him in the hip. “You know how it is.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, you do. It’s not always fun and games over at the Academy. Sure, maybe you’ve made the cut and joined Equestria’s most elite flying unit, but if you can’t live up to that responsibility, there’s usually a reservist with your name on them.”

“Like the teeth of a shark, there’s a never-ending supply.”

I snort. “Well, that’s an analogy I’ll never unhear.”

“Because it’s true?”

“Unfortunately, so it seems.”

He hums and smiles, satisfied, then turns and heads towards the combined space of the lounge, dining room and kitchen, the sofa and entertainment system on the left, the table and chairs on the right. Without shoes, his feet hardly make a sound on the smooth, varnished flooring. “If there’s one thing I know for certain, Fleetybee, it’s that no matter how many times we portray the apocalypse on screen, we’re never going to run out of people. There’ll always be someone there to fill the gap.”

“Yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes as I trail behind him. “And Rainbow’s been after my job the second we let her in.”

“Oh-ho, so that’s why you three were heaping all your clothes on her, right? To teach her a lesson about the chain of command?”

I waver for a beat, tilting my head up to him as my brows furrow confusedly for a moment, then blink in realisation and continue shadowing him. “Actually, no. That was just a happy accident. I mean, happy for us, but not for her.”

“Then why’d you do it?”

I shrug. “Because.”

He turns around to look at me in surprise as he reaches the island counter. “So, you, Soarin and Spitfire treated her like some packanimal just for the heck of it?”

“Whaaat? No.” I come to a halt and smile at him innocently. “I mean, they’re my commanding officers, so I was just following their lead. It’s not my fault if there was some collateral damage in the form of a bruised ego. And besides, it was funny. Did you see the look on her face?”

“Mortified.”

“Exactly.” I trot a little closer and hop onto a stool, folding my forelegs against the edge of the counter. “Nothing beats watching the high and mighty taken down a peg or two.”

He smirks, eyes gleaming with mirth. “And Rainbow’s both, is she?”

“Well, she’s on the shorter side of things, sure, but if you get her talking about herself, you’ll wish you’d clogged your ears with superglue.”

“Oof.” He winces. “Getting a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

I pause, then shrug again, looking away. “Eh. I’m an asshole sometimes. One of the many pitfalls of stardom, if you’d believe it; you start getting entitled.”

“Entitled to act like a douche to your fellow fliers?”

“Yes, actually.” I return to him with an amicable smile. “Before RD came along, we had nicknames based on our biggest, most humiliating moments while flying in the Wonderbolts. Rainbow Dash became Rainbow Crash. Soarin was Clipper.”

He cocks his eyebrow again. “And what was yours?”

My smile narrows into a smirk while I squint and point a hoof at him. “Oh no, don’t think I’m telling you, big guy. Letting you call me Fleetybee is punishing enough — no way I’m letting—”

He snaps his fingers. “Flatfoot.”

I blink with widening eyes, jaw dropping, the cool brush of chilling feathers running down my spine.

He blinks in a similar sentiment, his face ending up much the same as mine.

“…You didn’t just guess that, did you?”

“…And if I said I did?”

I blink once more, then lower my gaze with a gentle frown. “Huh.”

He pauses, waiting for the stunned air between us to slowly dissipate — for the atmosphere to return to normal. And then he chuckles and sets his ukulele on the countertop, swinging back and strolling around the island toward the fridge. “Well, isn’t that something?” he muses aloud as he opens it, retrieving two mugs of our favourite flavour of milkshake and slides one over to me, shutting the door with his heel. “Maybe it’s a sign. You know, that we’re more in synch than we realise.”

I catch the mug in a hoof, the cream and caramelised popcorn on top swaying a little as it comes to a sudden stop. Mine, like his, has a striped, curly straw sticking out of it — a childish addition, but sometimes the silly things make stuff all the more special. It also smells less appetising than I know it’ll taste, but such are the perils of refrigeration. “So, what? That song you sang, about this being destiny… that was you legitimately questioning whether—”

“No.” He shakes his head and leans on the island as well, taking a small nibble from the cream of his milkshake. “Hell no. I’m not delving into that subject, because there’s already enough contradictions that both free will and fate seem to be just as unlikely.”

I snort. “Because that makes sense.”

“Precisely. Why can’t this world just make up its mind?”

“Because ponies like you won’t leave well enough alone.”

He smiles, saluting with his mug. “Well then, here’s to that, or else we’ll never know what possibilities await us.”

I smile in turn, then idly salute with my own. “And where would we be without your sense of adventure?”

He hums again, his smile widening, then taps the counter with a finger as he stares into the distance beyond me in thought. “I’m not sure,” he confesses, still on the light side of things, but clearly giving the notion what respect he thinks it deserves. “Not sure I want to think about it either, to be honest. But with that said… I’d argue that you’re the most adventurous between the two of us.”

“How so?”

“Well, you made the first move, didn’t you? Told me you liked me while we were sitting in that bar up in the Empire. Took a lot of nerve, I bet, coming out and saying that.”

I remember. I remember it well. The smell of wood and salted fries, and alcohol of various varieties and quantities. And the heaviness in the air and tightness in my chest, as if the atmosphere itself were wrapping two very powerful forelegs around my barrel and squeezing with every breath I took. And the aftertaste of whatever drink I’d been sipping. And the feeling of the cushioned seat and backrest. And how close everything felt, and… intimate. And the way he held my hoof, and how he smiled…

The slightly embarrassed flutter of a giggle escapes me and I look down, a smile rising to my lips just as a warmth rises to my cheeks. “So what if it did?” I say, reaching a hoof up and tentatively brushing back my forelock.

“So… nothing.” He shrugs. “Just a thought. If it weren’t for you, I might never have been slapped with that kind of ultimatum: do I accept that my best friend has feelings for me?”

I huff a laugh. “Way to sap all the romance out of it.”

“Well, I mean, was it romantic?”

“It was to me.” I pout in mock indignation, and in a way that I hope looks at least marginally adorable. Not enough for him to have a heart attack, but enough to weaken his resolve somewhat. To what end, I don’t know. Probably just a little fun. “You said yes.”

“Correction, Fleetybee: I said that we were good.” He points and nods toward me to emphasise his victory. “And it was sweet. Terribly, terribly sweet, and I still need to get you back for it. But I wasn’t completely sold on the idea of having a pony girlfriend yet.”

“But how could you not have been?” I query enticingly, leaning a little closer and resting my chin on a hoof, batting my eyelashes and grinning as sweetly as I can manage. “Am I not everything you’d want in a mare?”

He pauses, then takes a sip of his milkshake through his straw. “You’re many things, Fleet,” he quietly says, staring past the creamy surface and into the void where thoughts are had. And then he returns to me, just as warm and appreciative, but with his smile having shrunk just a touch. “Beautiful. Compassionate. Selectively empathetic. So many qualities that I simply can’t put into words. And I never thought I’d find myself saying this but… yes, you are indeed the mare of my dreams.”

“Not Princess Luna?”

“Luna?!” He laughs and slaps the counter, shaking his head. “Oh my god, that’s… that’s an idea right there. But fortunately for you, Fleet, no, she’s not on my radar. Trust me, dating you has been enough of a rollercoaster ride that I don’t need to be thinking about anybody else in my life, let alone royalty.”

“I guess you’ll have to settle for stardom.”

“A tragedy, I know.” He leans closer in turn and his eyes grow half-lidded. “But I could learn to live with that.”

I’m sure he could. He may be a slow learner, but he’s come a long way. We both have. And what a journey it’s been, from strangers to friends to something… more. Sentimental hogwash, I know, but I’m nowhere near letting myself get swept off my hooves over some pretty words. He can make me blush, he can make me swoon, but I won't melt like butter on his account. For as fast as I fly, I like taking things slow between us — grants me the opportunity to milk a good feeling for all its worth.

Some might call that cruel, but I don’t see him complaining. Personally, I think it shows integrity on my part, and some strength of character.

“So,” he begins again, standing back up and calmly, casually strolling around the counter for the lounge, “one more movie before you hit the road?”

I chuckle, rubbing an eye with a wingtip. I’d honestly escorted him home just because I wanted to spend a little while longer with him — make the most out of the night and ride this warm, bubbling high I’ve had ever since he sang to me on the beach. “One more movie and I might just pass out,” I reply, yawning shortly after and hopping down from the stool, mug in hoof.

“No harm in that.” He sets his milkshake on the DVD cabinet and kneels down to open a drawer and browse. “You’re welcome to stay the night if you want.”

I shrug, though I know he can’t see it. “If it’s not too much trouble, I guess.”

“Oh my god, Fleet, we’re dating,” he exclaims good-naturedly, looking over his shoulder to me and smiling amusedly. “I like you, you like me. We like each other. We’ve held hands, kissed, made out… done other things we’d best not mention in polite company. You get the picture. Offering you a place to sleep is, like, the bare minimum of what it takes to be a good boyfriend, let alone a good person. Of course it’s no trouble.”

“Okay, alright, I’ll crash here.” I laugh and hop up onto the sofa’s peninsula, then stroll across the cushioned seating until I find a good place to sit, at the very end on the opposite side, a few small pillows between me and the armrest. And then a point an idle hoof at him. “But if this makes it to the press somehow, I’m blaming you.”

He scoffs, returning to the search. “You’re a few days late to the party.”

I pause, brows creasing slightly as I cock my head. “What do you mean?”

He peers at me again and quirks an eyebrow. “You haven’t been paying attention?”

My thoughtful frown deepens. “To what?”

He lingers on me, then takes a slow, deep breath in and out as he switches back to the drawer, momentarily inspecting a DVD cover, but deciding against it. “I don’t know why, but they’re… starting to increase coverage on us,” he says, running a finger down the line of cases, hunting for a title we both would enjoy. “This early morning entertainment show, they had your photo next to mine, and they were talking about our latest public sighting, and asking the crowd whether we will or won’t. Haven’t seen that for a while.”

I roll my eyes and groan. “Why are you even watching that crap?”

“Because I get up early and I want to know what kind of traffic I can expect. You know, like, if a camera guy is going to pop out of the bushes and flash me.”

I snicker.

“Oh, grow up,” he grumbles, glancing at me with a scowl, but I can tell by the tone of his voice and the faint, upward curl of his lips that he can see the humour in it too. “You know what I mean. Heck, you were there for some of them too.”

And I remember them well enough — some overzealous or simply downright obnoxious reporter pushing their luck and risking a hoof to the jaw, if Philip’s guards didn’t get to them first. Twice I recall being blinded, and twice I’ve seen our shocked expressions make the front page of the latest gossip magazine. “Any idea why they’d be taking a sudden interest?”

“I told you, I don’t know.” He shrugs. “But if I had to guess, maybe it’s because we’re spending more time together.” He turns back and waves a hand between himself and I. “More open about… this.”

My eyebrow quirks again as I take a sip from my milkshake. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“It makes me conscious. Of the fact I’m dating you.”

I wait patiently. Expectantly. Surely he has more to say than that.

He glances at me once more, but he finds his gaze lingering and lets out a sigh through his nose, turning around and sitting cross-legged on the exposed floorboards between the cabinet and the shaggy rug. “It’s not ideal, is what I’m trying to say,” he quietly explains, then looks away and rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, setting aside the fact that you’re a celebrity, and my only claim to fame is that I’m the only one of my kind here… I don’t want the world watching me. Watching us. Expecting us to… I don’t know what.”

Nodding pensively, I take my time and try to think of something to say — something with some actual weight behind it, like it’s worth pondering over. “What was that you said a while ago in Whinney? Something about not caring so much about what the world thinks?”

“That was different,” he replies decisively, though it doesn’t come across as snappish or defensive, and part of that comes from the fact he isn’t looking me in the eye. “You thought something bad would happen if the world found out about us, if they hadn’t already. I was trying to calm you down. Now they’re catching wind of how things have been progressing, and…”

Again, I wait. But when it’s clear he needs a little motivation, I do just that. “And?”

Philip keeps his gaze on the rug, and I can’t tell if he’s brooding or hesitating. “I don’t know,” he finally says with a shrug and a gentle shake of his head. “I just don’t want them getting all up in our business.”

“Neither do I.” I slowly nod. “But… that’s the price of being a star.”

“Or being saved by one.”

My ears twitch, and I can’t help smirking mischievously. “So, what, you’re saying I’m a punishment?”

He snaps to me, eyes wide but not in shock — more out of a genuine sense of surprise that I’d ever consider saying something like that; he knows I’m only joking, but he’s taking it to heart. “No,” he breathes, limply shaking his head, then clambers to his feet and rushes in a crouched stance toward me. “No, no, far from it.”

A flutter of surprise takes flight in my core, tickling my barrel, withers and the base of my wings, and I watch him closely as he sits beside me and stares at the ground with a determined, but altogether hesitant look. He has something to get off his chest and he needs and wants to say it, but isn’t sure how to phrase it.

Not yet.

But after wringing his thumb for a few seconds, he turns to face me a little more squarely and looks me in the eye with a sense of heartfelt earnesty. “Fleetfoot, I love you,” he says plainly, and although he doesn’t smile, I can hear it in his voice. “I love you, and I love that I can say that without a shred of doubt, and I will always love you so long as you keep being who you are. And I’ll never, ever ask you to change.”

In some ways, expected. In some ways, not. But there has to be more to this. There always is. “I feel like there’s a but coming."

“No buts.” He shakes his head again. “I just need to accept that, whether I like it or not, for better or worse… a relationship with you is an inherently public affair. That’s an idea I’m just not used to — all those prying eyes and… stuff.”

I pause, brows creasing in concern. “Do you want it all to go away?”

“I want…” he begins, but soon drifts off, his eyes slowly travelling from mine to my snout, muzzle, lips, cheeks, tracing the outline of my face all the way up to the tips of my ears. He doesn’t appear rapt, exactly, but it does appear like he’s realising something about me — losing himself, in a way.

My chest feels warmer. Heavier. An invisible string is being pulled, urging me closer.

Eventually, though, he regains focus, and before I can complain — not that I honestly mind all that much — he takes the milkshake from my hoof and leans over to rest it on the floor. Then he returns to me and takes my hooves into his hands and gives them a gentle, comfortable squeeze. “I want whatever you want,” he answers resolutely, though it’s quiet and tender; a tone that begs me to hug him close. “I want you to be happy, and feel safe and loved… and to never think I’d want anything less than that. And if—”

I dart forward and silence him with a kiss, wings twitching at my sides.

His startled mumble quickly subsides, fading into a satisfied hum. And when I break away, his eyes stay closed for a moment longer, savouring the feeling, and possibly the taste of vanilla. “Let me guess,” he murmurs contentedly, smiling. “I talk too much.”

I let loose a small giggle. I know he likes those. “Maybe.”

His eyes glide open, and he gazes into mine for a while as if put under a spell. But gradually, its effectiveness wanes, and the warm, comfortable air between us lightens into something more serious, like his entrancing smile. “But still, that all makes sense, doesn’t it?’

A shame that good things must come to an end. I sigh and lower my attention to our joined hands. “It does,” I confess, ears angling back a touch. “I’m just worried you’re putting me on a pedestal.”

“Well, why shouldn’t I?” He sidles a little closer, his expression grateful. Imploring. “You saved my life, Fleet. My time with you here has been amazing. Letting you live your life the way you want is the least I can do, don’t you think?”

My lips press together and my wings tuck in. “So long as it doesn’t hurt you.”

“Trust me, Fleet, I’ll learn to live with it. It may take some time, but I’ll get there eventually. If I can do it once, I can do it again. I just want what’s best for you.”

“I know. And I don’t want to pressure you into this either.”

He gently nods, his soft smile widening a fraction. But then his attention drifts to the pendant around my neck, and the bracelet around my fetlock. And as the seconds drag on, the very same smile dwindles into obscurity, replaced by a somewhat troubled, intensely reflective look. “Speaking of pressure, I have to ask…”

I kind of wish I hadn’t ditched my shirt and shorts on the beach right now; him looking anywhere below the shoulders feels… revealing. Which isn’t an entirely bad thing, I remind myself: we’ve gone further than this before, so this is completely safe. He can’t see anything if I don’t allow him.

“…What you were saying about your clothes, back at the fire pit…” he continues, looking up to me with concern. “Was that really it? You’ve just been wearing stuff to look nice?”

“And so you didn’t feel uncomfortable,” I quickly add, but hopefully not like I’m trying to cover something up. “You know, like, so there’s at least somepony else who’s all dressed up.”

Doubt seeps through. However, he does his best to make sure that I know he’s not accusing me of anything. “Even though I’ve seen you… bare before. Plenty of times. And not because you were… afraid?”

A nerve is plucked inside of me, perking my ears and stiffening my wings and tail. “…Afraid?”

“To let me see you… as I saw you. On… that morning.”

I pause.

I hesitate.

And then I look away, ears folding and wings shuffling as I slowly pull my hooves from his grasp, facing him side-on, sitting on my haunches. My lips twist unpleasantly while an unsettling feeling bubbles up from below — not the rotten one like so many times before, but a sense of unease. Of ice-cold pinpricks from my head to my tail, which radiate through me like a breeze damp fur. They piece through all the way to to stomach, and fester there in a disconcerting cocktail of an emotion I can’t quite place. But whatever its name, it’s not good.

I was being truthful out there. I really was. It just wasn’t the whole truth.

And now I’ve been caught out.

“Oh my god,” he whispers to himself in stunned realisation, then immediately reaches out to touch me, and just as immediately yanks back, his hands shaking and eyes wide as he tries in vain to decide what to do. “Fleet, I am so, so sorry.”

The impulse to shy away increases, but I only let it materialise as a wince. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is. Or was, or whatever.” He balls his hands into fists and rests them on his knees, clearly agitated, but exercising restraint as best as he can manage. And he sits like that for a while, trying to calm himself down, until he feels steady enough to speak again. “Look, I don’t care if you say it’s water under the bridge, or it’s okay because everything turned out fine in the end: no one should ever, ever be scared into fearing their own body. And to think that I did that to you—”

“Philip, stop.” I turn my head and face him at an angle. “I’m not afraid anymore.”

He blinks at me, hesitating, then glances away and leans a little closer, like asking an embarrassing question. Memories of the tram station in Baltimare spring to mind. “…Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I answer calmly, for as much a sense of calm as I can muster. These are unpleasant thoughts, and everypony on the beach did their best to help me combat them, even if they didn’t know the full extent. I can’t let their effort go to waste. And besides…

A heat rises in my cheeks as my forehooves fidget and I look away again, smiling shyly.

“I… wouldn’t have offered to give you a peek if I didn’t think I could handle it.”

The silence that follows is as telling as it is humid, and after a lengthy pause, I hear him let out a bashful chuckle. “I guess you’re right.”

That makes me smile all the harder. I can’t say why, I just do. But I also know that if he’s bringing this up again, despite his promise to me back in Whinneyapolis, there has to be a good reason behind it — something gone unaddressed. And I don’t doubt there has been, knowing how hard we’ve tried to deny that particular morning’s existence; issues unresolved, concerns unaddressed.

A failure of communication.

Just this once. You can bend the rules just this once.

“Philip…”

In the corner of my periphery, I see him turn my way.

Slowly, I turn to meet him too, ears still low, chest still tight, a certain sense of anxiety coursing through my core. “When you said those things… they hurt. A lot. And I ran away because… I didn’t know how to deal with it.” Hesitantly, I shimmy over just a tad and lay a hoof his closest knee. “I’d… wounded you… and I didn’t want to risk making a bad situation worse. I couldn’t think straight, and you weren’t in the mood to listen. I want to say it’s nopony’s fault, but that just sounds like I’m deflecting responsibility. But if I say it’s both our fault… that feels like I’m casting blame where there shouldn’t be any.”

“But I was at fault, Fleet.” His hands relax, and one of them lays over my outstretched hoof. “I told you in Las Pegasus, I shouldn’t have acted like that. You were my best friend, and I treated you like crap — like you took advantage of me.”

“I did, though, didn’t I?”

“I don’t care how it happened.”

I blink, ears rising, drawing my head back a little way.

“It did. That’s what matters.” He swivels around to face me directly, then adds his other hand to my shoulder, his fingers and thumb applying just enough pressure to feel reassuring, matching the beholden look in his eyes, and the small, sincere grin on his lips. “Like you said, it was an honest mistake. I’m just glad that, now, after everything, I can sit down with you and hold your hoof and look into your eyes and tell you that… I’m so, so happy to have you in my life. You complete me, Fleet.”

My lips part, and I feel somewhat empty. Not it a bad way, just… empty. Slightly warm, perhaps. But then I finally finish processing what he’d said in its entirety, and I realise what a cliché line he’d ended on, and that prompts me into action. “No, Philip. I don’t complete you.” I shake my head and lower my gaze, though my tone is surprisingly flattered, though thankfully not terribly obvious. “We were happy before we met each other. And when we did… we were happy staying as friends.”

“Did we ever stop?”

“…We didn’t need to be anything more than that.”

“But we are.” A curled finger reaches under my chin and gently guides me to face him again, and his kind, empathetic smile. “And I think that I’m a better person for it. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here, yeah, but if it weren’t for you… I’d never have met you. And I know how cheesy it’s going to sound, but I mean this from the bottom of my heart, Fleet: you make me feel things I never thought possible. Not just for a pony, but… anyone.”

A shaky, barely held together smile of my own creeps up on me.

Why does he do this to me? How? Every damn time, I’m certain there’s nothing he could say to phase me — that I’m the one meant to reassure him. But somehow, it always flips back and forth, and it always ends with him saying something sweet, and I’m left basking in the warmth of an invisible sun, its rays wrapping me up and like fresh drycleaning. And sometimes, like now, it tugs at my eyes to let loose a tear or two.

I really have found a good one.

The hand on under my chin floats up to cup my cheek, and I can tell he’s fighting back some of his own. “I love you, Fleetfoot,” he whispers, as if speaking any louder would cause his voice to break. “And for the record, I find you very—”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

And so he does, like a spring-loaded trap whose tension has been building since long before we walked through the doorway. It’s sudden, it’s bold… and it’s wonderful. Eager. Raw.

I squeal giddily.

The scent of vanilla is on his lips as I lean back and pull him closer, a hoof around his neck and another under his arm, reaching his shoulder. The pressure of his nose against mine is noticeable, but not unpleasant — I’ve grown used to it at this point, and it’s nice to share what little breath we can. To feel the air between us grow humid. It’s like a drug in its own right. And, oh, how addictive it is.

I’m hooked. I have been for a long time now, even before he gazed at me from the other side of the table and told me I look nice. Star-crossed lovers we may be, if the morning we don’t talk about is anything to go by, but I found him and he found me, and maybe we’ve helped each other find ourselves.

What the heck is that supposed to mean?

I don’t know, and I don’t care; it sure feels good thinking it.

No time for thinking, though. Not with him so close. So present. So… there. Here, with me, my lips toying with his, and his with mine, and our tongues teasing with them, but never venturing further than the teeth. Maybe I’ve grown braver, or maybe it’s just for tonight — this marvelous blend of a birthday gone right and some quality time with him, giving me the bravado to entertain the thought of breaking my own rules. But I’m still conscious enough to know my limits and preferences.

I won’t be a slave to temptation, tempting as it may be.

At what point I closed my eyes, I can’t be sure, but I open them as the back of my head reaches a pillow on the armrest, now fully reclined, and I examine him closely.

If he closed his, I don’t know, but as soon as we meet each other’s drunken, half-lidded gaze, our smiles widen to grins, and he picks up the pace — the intensity. He constantly switches focus from me to my snout, as if he could actually watch himself go at me, and was getting all the more excited for it. And somehow, this pleases me, knowing that he isn’t doing all this just for my sake. If I told him to stop, I’d basically be kicking a puppy.

Can’t have that.

I feel his legs shuffle into a kneeling position, supporting his upper body as a hand travels from the cushion underneath me to the space between my jaw and nape, his fingers in my mane, supporting my neck, massaging it in subtle, soothing motions. The same happens with the other hand not long after, but focussing on my withers, and all the while, his toying and teasing continues. It’s warm, welcome, and stars above, he knows how to make me feel appreciated.

I can’t let him have all the fun, but my hooves aren’t nearly so dextrous. My wings are, however, and as I do my best to match his enthusiasm and increasingly heated breath, my heart hammering, I unfurl and reach them up to his back. Not to pull him in, because I don’t need him crushing me, but just to… rest there. Be there. Tell him that I’m here, I’m aware, and I know who he is and what he means to me, and what I mean to him, and that he’s doing a good job and shouldn’t let up.

Funny how actions speak louder than words — say more than they ever can.

Better tell him I’m paying attention.

The feathertips spread up and down the fabric of his hoodie, gently but firmly pressing and rubbing, massaging his back as best they can, returning the favour.

He hums, closing his eyes and pausing his efforts as he soaks it in, which gives me the perfect opportunity to snatch as many deep kisses as I can manage. “That’s nice,” he remarks, partly muffled by my mouth over his. “You’re good at that.”

I giggle, nose pressed right against his cheek. “You learn a thing or two in the locker room. Sore muscles and the like.”

“Oh, and I’m aching for you.”

Another giggle. “Only one cure for that.”

His eyes open again, small and half-lidded, but extremely expressive, and they tell me he’s hanging on every word like it were honey.

Another kiss. “More of this.”

He takes a deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth, and as he does so, he shudders — I feel it through my wings too. “I love you.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Because I do.”

He gives me a peck on the side of the snout.

“And I’ll keep saying it, because it’s true.”

A second on the cheek.

“And because it can’t be said enough.”

A third on the jawline.

“I love you, Fleetybee.”

The neck.

“So.”

Lower.

“So.”

Lower.

“Very.”

Lower.

“Much.”

And then he reaches the point between my neck and shoulder, and buries his face in it, humming again with a satisfied sigh, and the heat of his breath permeates my fur and seeps through to the skin beneath. And all the while, one hand has continuously kneaded my withers, and the other has steadily travelled southwards, now rubbing the side of my barrel, close to…

Should I warn him?

His little finger brushes past the base of my wing for only the briefest, most fleeting of touches, but my breath hitches all the same. The trail of kisses was definitely a pleasant experience, each peck ringing throughout my body like windchimes in a winter breeze, but that glancing blow was something else entirely — a lick of flames, a taste of fire. Doesn’t hurt that massaging the muscles beneath them puts me on a simmer, and I clamp my eyes shut and moan through a bit lip.

My back arches toward him somewhat, and I hold on tight as I slowly begin to wriggle our mutual grasp, partly to find a more comfortable position, partly to beg him not to stop, and partly because I just can’t help myself. No way for me to give him any pecks on the cheek as recompense from this angle, but I still have my wings.

One of them, anyway; the other is fidgeting and trying hard not to stiffen. I slide the free one down his back and slip it under the jacket — it’s easier for him to feel me through his shirt than padded cotton. “You’re good at this too,” a murmur, pressing and rubbing my cheek against the back of his head.

“Practice makes perfect,” he mumbles into me, blindly reaching the hand on my withers up through my mane. But he knows where he’s going — grown familiar enough with my form that he doesn’t need to see — and eventually, he finds his mark: my ear, where he pinches it and gently but firmly strokes it up and down and all around.

That makes me shudder, and although it twitches and pins back under his ministrations, I grin and hum contentedly, pressing against him all the more. “Always room for improvement, isn’t there?”

“Always.” It’s an automatic response, and when he lifts his head to lock lips with mine again, his eyes tell me that he’s found himself in something of a trance, no longer focussed on me, but the connection — the feeling. How my snout wrinkles just a little whenever he pushes in, and savouring whenever I hold him there.

“Always,” he repeats, but quieter, more distant, and his efforts slow to a halt. “This is… You’re—”

“Shush,” I softly whisper, imagining that I’ve put a feather to his mouth silence him, then reach up and give him another quick peck on the cheek before bringing my muzzle to his ear. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“I love you.”

“And I love you,” I say, then give the top edge of his ear a quick, sensual, tentative lick, just to see how he’d react.

A low, guttural groan escapes him as his eyes flutter shut and his whole body gently shivers, leaning in the odd way you do when part of you wants to shy away from something, but you stay there, relishing it. “Oh jeez…”

I giggle. Either he hadn’t been expecting that, or he really did get something out of it. In any case, I might have to remember that for later. But for now, I resume the kisses and smooches and teasing and toying, delighting in how easy he is to stun — how stunning I am to him.

Slowly, he begins to return my affection, but sloppier. Needier. And with every kiss comes a moan, and his hands begin to work their magic again; the one resting by my ear slides back down to my withers, and the one at my side grips the base of my wing, its thumb digging and grinding into the muscles just below the joint.

Eyes squeezed shut, I gasp, exposing my throat to him as the sharp breath I take rushes in, and comes out in a stuttered whimper. A fierce heat courses through me, stiffening every limb to where they all quiver from the strain. He’s never touched me there before. I forgot about that part. Stars above, I am so out of practice when it comes to this kind of thing.

But I’m glad, at least, that it’s happening with him.

Though I never gave him any forewarning, he doesn’t seem to question what he just did, and appears only to be encouraged, kissing and moaning and nuzzling me under the chin. He smells me, takes in my scent — he’s always had a thing for that — and rocks and sways as he does his best to hold me near. To close the limited distance between our bodies. His chest, my barrel; flesh separated by fur and fabric.

It tingles. Everything. The probing fingertips — so foreign; so enticing — how they poke and prod and trail cool, pleasantly ticklish lines wherever they go, whatever they do. They’re blunt, recently trimmed, but for all I care, they may as well be sharp as dragon claws, but so restrained that they never pierce the skin. And the thought makes me tremble and sigh, my efforts to massage him and hold him close in kind soon falling by the wayside as I’m lost to the sensation of his indulgence.

The hand around my wing slides lower to my loin, supporting my hindquarters.

With the pressure gone, I’m finally able to come down from the intensity of whatever I’m supposed to call that high — that sweltering, exciting, intoxicating paradise. The heat remains in my brows, ears, cheeks, chest… other places I’d rather not mention right now, and strangely enough, even the very tips of my feathers. I can’t massage him anymore — they’re too rigid, and feel like they’ve been held over an open fire. They tremble like it too. Instead, my forehooves pull him in, belly to belly, and my hindlegs finally shift from their relaxed, splayed position to hug him by the waist, further locking him in place, telling him that I need him here, with me; I need to feel him. His weight, his skin, his touch, his… Everything.

Him.

Always him.

His hand wanders lower. Reaches my flank. Rubs in firm circles.

I tense up, grunting, eyes squeezing shut all the harder, and I do my best to bury my snout in his hair — to take in his scent as much as he’s taking mine. And he smells of… strawberries. Artificial, but strawberries; the cologne faded a long time ago, but the shampoo remains, and he always liked the kiddy stuff more than what they advertise for adults. He’s funny like that, but in a sweet way. Right now, it’s as heady as tequila.

Lower still, his hand goes. To my rump.

It gropes me.

And then my eyes open. They don’t snap wide, or bulge. They just… open. And I find myself staring with blurred vision over the fuzzy outline of his head and heaving torso, feeling the warmth of his palm and fingers fondle and knead.

It’s… nice.

I like it.

But it’s also…

Well…

We’ve been here before, haven’t we? A few days ago, on the carpet, just over there. I shoved him off because I didn’t want to risk the situation escalating, and I still think that was the right call — we promised we’d take things slow, and I was standing by it; I needed to be sure that it was what I wanted. Back then, I wasn’t — first times of any sort are always fraught with second guesses — but now…

I mean, it wouldn’t be hard for him to just…

It’s right there…

I am bare...

And… would I really mind all that much? Complain? Protest? Object?

The tension in my hindlegs, tail, and the soft, warm pulse between all three doesn’t seem to think so. Neither does the cool, subtle sheen of sweat on my brows and cheeks, or the tightness in my chest, or the heaviness in my heart and how heavily it pounds, like every beat is the chiming of a bell, and I’m stuck inside the echo chamber. And I have the sudden, silly fantasy that if I stay as I am… maybe I won’t have to decide. Maybe I’ve already made my mind up, and I’m just waiting for him to take the hint. Lead the way. Take charge. Take… me.

But I need to be sure. We both do. And judging by the way he’s slowed himself down, and his hand isn’t grasping anymore but simply resting… holding… I think he’s come to that realisation as well. And when he gradually lifts himself to look at me in the eyes, his face flushed as he quietly pants, I know he’s thinking along the same lines as I am.

“What do you think?” I softly ask, just to be safe.

He pauses, blinking, then lets his gaze wander along the outline of my face, neck, upper body, barrel, and maybe allows himself to catch a brief glimpse of something — or two somethings — a little lower than my belly. “I think I like how firm you are,” he says with an anxious, short-lived chuckle, giving my rump an equally short-lived, but not unappreciated squeeze. But then his eyes return to mine, and his hesitation shows. “But I also think… we’ve been here before.”

Not quite what I’d meant, but it gives me a chance to collect myself a little more. And if he has something to say, I may as well listen; that’s what special someponies do, even when it interrupts the flow of things. But this isn’t so much an interruption as it is a breather — a period of mutual respite. We’re both okay. No frustration yet.

“It was my birthday,” he continues, watching the hand from my withers drift over my shoulder and down to play with the fur on my chest, which puffs up at his touch, and his breath hitches somewhat at the sight of it. “A… song was sung. We went back to mine. Someone asked for a kiss, then…”

Ah. So, it’s the similarities that are tripping him over. But he doesn’t seem too sad talking about it — more like it’s all a curious notion that begs further thought, and he’s entertaining it, though it doesn’t quite entertain him; pensive, but too lost in the moment — in me — to feel as sullen as he normally would.

His ministrations cease, and he looks up at me again, but empathetic now, as well as enraptured. “What do you think?”

I hear a lot of follow-up questions in my head after that; should we stop? Are the parallels to great for us? Has he killed the mood? Are we always going to have this conversation whenever we get this far, and will it always stop us? And what about him? Do I like his butt, or… anything else about him?

But he doesn’t ask them, and that means he’s only after some general thoughts, and probably my opinion on where we should go from here. What we should do. What I want.

The onus is on me now; I am in control. And I think that… it’s been a long, long time since we first admitted that we like each other as more than just friends. We’ve spent plenty of afternoons together, and some mornings and evenings, and they’ve been rather pleasant to say the least. We’ve also had some mishaps, and points where we failed to act in a mature, appropriate manner. But through it all… here we now stand.

Well, rest. In a very inappropriate, very compromising position. Indirectly asking if, perhaps…

I mean… if he asked me, I…

…I don’t think I’d say no.

The warmth in me rises to a burning heat, and my face, chest… the entirety of my upper body feels like it’s being lit on fire, like an absolutely ferocious blush had coloured all my fur red-hot; I know just what to say, what to do… and it’s dumb, but I’m doing it anyway, because I can’t think of anything better, and… I know what I want. Who I want.

Stars above, this so embarrassing.

But I love him.

And I think it would be nice if we… maybe…

I slowly slide my forelegs away from him and curl them up before me, not unlike I’m begging, but with one hoof over the other — perhaps a learned behaviour from him and how he holds his thumb. And then, bowing my head toward a little way, still looking up at him, but now with big, wide, puppy dog eyes and a shaky, playful, hopefully not too nervous smile, I coyly mumble:

“Want to give this girl another birthday present?”

Silence.

His breathing has stopped.

His eyes are widening.

His jaw is dropping.

Of course, none of it happens in the sudden, dramatic, exaggerated fashion they do on TV or in the movies, but it may as well; he’s stunned, simply put. Shocked, but not in a negative way, like he’s pushing the knowledge that he’d heard me loud and clear as far away as possible. No, this is something else.

He is awestruck. Captivated, enthralled, spellbound.

Mesmerised.

I’d laid on the table for him a very enticing offer — told him that I’m ready and willing, if only he’d take me up on it. And my heart beats heavily at the thought that, behind those small, brown, entranced eyes, the little cogs in his head have been thrown for a loop; had I actually said what we know I said? Am I truly as ready as I say I am? Is this indeed what the entire night had built towards?

Or am I the one asking those questions?

This is a pretty big step, after all.

Is this really what I want?

…

…

…

…

…

Yes.

Yes, I think it is.

“Should we… take this to your room?” I carefully, quietly, anxiously whisper.

He continues staring, his expression never changing.

…Stars, I haven’t broken him have I?

Wouldn’t be the first time. Funny and, in a way, flattering, but not ideal; there’s so much more he could be doing instead, if only I were a little less striking. And I take a guilty pleasure in how vain that makes me sound, even though I know that’s what he’s stuck on.

But then he slowly backs away, his hands leaving my rump and withers as he stands, letting the relative coolness of the room take over, making me feel just that little bit more vulnerable. But before the thought that I’d said something wrong takes root, he steps closer, facing me from the left, and bows down, wrapping an arm around my croup, and another around my shoulders, careful of my tense, but not entirely stiff wings. And then, without a sound or the barest hint of any effort, he lifts me from the sofa and cradles me. And his eyes never break contact with mine.

A fluttering, instinctive chuckle dies in the back of my throat, and it comes out more like a stuttered breath; I feel weightless, floating through the air without the need of my wings, and all the while, the warmth inside me grows to almost unbearable temperatures.

I give a dopey, even giddy smile. Scarcely able to believe that, after all this time, this could finally be happening, and he — the strangest, most foreign, most lovable pony I know — is actually saying yes. I popped the question, and he answered.

Merciful Sisters, it’s weird to be thinking about this. I feel like ponies could be watching, listening. This building complex houses hundreds, easily. Any one of them could be awake, even at this hour, on the floor above, below, in the apartment on the other side of the hall, or a door down. They could be sipping milkshakes themselves, completely unaware. Or they could be imagining what their neighbours are up to. Heavens above, they could be… Probably are…

…Some might be up to something very similar.

Celestia, I feel naughty. If my ears aren’t on fire, they sure as heck should be.

He turns in place, holding me both literally and figuratively in an almost reverent embrace, glancing away only occasionally when he starts taking his first few steps in the direction of the bedroom. They’re cautious, tentative, as if I’ll shatter into a million pieces, and it only makes my heart beat harder, knowing he cares about me so. The air is tense and confusing — a swirling mixture of so many emotions and sensations at once: fear, trepidation, wary excitement, desire. Palpable, heavy to breathe, weighing on my barrel like iron weights pulling me down to the depths of the ocean. But I don’t resist.

He has me. He’d never let me go. Not in the ways that matter.

I look at his chest, and how broad it seems despite us being a similar size, and how positively different he is to so many other creatures; I remember what I saw a few days ago, and the vast tracts of bare skin. So obvious — so clearly in unison with the rest of his body — and yet so… bizzare. Inviting, strangely. And, equally as strange, I find myself resting my head against it.

It’s… comforting.

Yeah, it’s comforting.

Another silent, breathless chuckle; stars, when did this become so easy for me? To just… relax and… let him take me someplace secret, where we’ll do things nopony will have to know — things I never had any interest in for seventeen years. But the drought I’d been so happy to let be is over, and here I am in his arms, soon to be on his bed.

“Oh dear,” I absently whisper to myself, and my ears perk up in case he’d heard me, which he doesn’t appear to have. Rare thing, for a thought like that just bursts out of me like I don’t know any better. But what’s the point of being embarrassed? This whole situation is embarrassing!

And… I’m loving it.

Through the doorway, into the room. Not much further to go.

His bed is large — much too big for a single pony — the blanket and pillows flaxen, decorated in vine-like patterns of earthly reds, greens and blues. That’s where it’ll happen, that welcoming, comfortable-looking place. My hindlegs cross, but there’s only so much they can cover without the help of my tail, and they bobble with every step he takes, slowly coming loose. It’s too much effort, pretending to be modest; we’re way beyond that point. No use denying it.

And then he turns sideways, and gently lays me down with as much grace as he can manage. And it’s like I’ve been swept ashore upon a tropical tide, the still, shallow water warmed by the sun and immensely soothing. And it doesn’t matter if I’m putting too much thought into how all of this feels, because it’s happening. And as he pulls away to stand again, then leans over me and sets a fist on either side, his lap pressed against my rump, I notice the look on his face hasn’t changed; he’s still as engrossed as ever.

Is he even conscious anymore, or just running on autopilot?

“You still there?”

“Oh, I’m always here, sister.” He smiles with a hint of trepidation. “Just admiring the view.”

I smile too, just as restless. Talking dirty is very different from a dirty joke, because then you can’t bluff any more than you can back yourself up; no team to carry me here, only me and him and… however long we have before the tension grows too much to bear. And all the while, we see how tense we can make it — how tense we can make each other. “Well, there’d be a lot more to see if you’d just… look a little lower.”

He shakes his head. “You tempt me, Fleet. You tempt me good. But as much as I’d like to… what’s the main course without an entrée?”

Oh, he loves his wordplay, doesn’t he? Quick with his tongue when it counts.

Could be useful in other ways…

“What do you have in mind?” I question innocently, curling and crossing my forelegs like I’d done before.

He hums, looking up for a moment in exaggerated thought. “Why don’t you decide? It’s… your night, after all. I’m just along for the ride.”

“Oh, so this is a favour, is it?” I wiggle my rump, grinding the cheeks of my flanks into him, and giggling to myself when I watch him instantly tense up and squeeze his eyes shut. It’s adorable, in a way. “You’re not doing this because you want to?”

“Believe me, Fleet,” he murmurs huskily after a short pause, then opens his eyes again to show me a slightly pained look, “you’re making it very hard for me to resist you.”

“I bet that’s not the only thing I’m making hard.”

He keels forward with a barely stifled snort, covering his mouth. “Oh my god, did you seriously just do that?”

I grin, eyes narrowing knowingly as I wiggle a little more. “Well, am I wrong?”

The hand pulls back and grabs my flank — not a slap, but definitely harder than he normally would — and I let out a soft grunt as I feel his fingers dig in as far as they can go. But like he said, I’m firm. Not that it’s a terribly appropriate thing to brag about, and not that I’ve compared myself to many others’ backsides. I know I have a bigger rear than Rainbow, at the very least. But then again, who doesn’t? “You’re not wrong, Fleetybee,” he says slowly, almost fully composed again, “but my question still stands: what would you like me to do?”

I pause. He did say he likes the girl dictating the terms, but somehow, I’m still a little taken aback: even with me in a position like this, he doesn’t want to risk upsetting me, however slight my discomfort may be.

But that might be too strong a word for it — implies I’d be put off by whatever he had in store. For all I know, it could be a welcome surprise, like what he did with my teats. I could even ask if he’d like to give it another shot right now, because Celestia knows that was an experience. Might tide us over for a while until we’re ready to kick it up a notch.

But that would just be playing it safe. We both know he’d like doing that, and we both know I wouldn’t mind it. And I know it isn’t the best idea to get experimental on the first go, especially with the species discrepancy, but that doesn’t mean we can… test the waters, so to speak. And as the thought of what I’m about to say crosses my mind, another breathless giggle and a small, dopey grin snakes its way across my muzzle, my cheeks and ears burning, a gaping pit of giddy anxiety opening within my chest.

“S-s-suck my feathers.”

“…What?”

“Please.”

The emptiness expands, makes me feel more vulnerable.

Ever since my… awakening, shall we say, some twenty-one years ago, when I had the misfortune of hearing what my parents were doing in the other room, I’d admittedly always been a little curious. By itself, it did practically nothing — preening without a purpose, basically — but when combined with other personal activities… it almost felt salacious. And considering how heated I got from simply having my wingtip held…

“I want to know what it feels like when somepony else does it,” I shakily whisper, on the verge of sounding needy. “When… you do it.”

His eyes are wide, stunned again, looking straight at, or perhaps, through me. Hesitant, surely, but not because he’s off-put — at least, that’s not how he appears to be —more that he’s just processing what he heard and is trying to formulate a response, verbal or physical. And then his gaze slowly drifts to my side.

My wings aren’t splayed, but they are open somewhat, not quite relaxed enough to fold all the way in. And they twitch every now and then, the feathers shivering as if they themselves are cold, despite the air inside the bedroom feeling lukewarm at the very least. And my body, of course, is something else entirely.

But it wouldn’t be fair if I make him do all the work, and I begin to unfurl my left wing and reach it up.

His right hand catches it before it gets very far, however, but before the pang of worry compels me to ask if I’d been too forward, he silently gulps and pulls it toward him, glancing up at me for assurance. Whether he meant it for his sake or mine, I can’t tell — quite a bit harder when you’re only offered a fleeting glimpse. All I know is that, right now, my heart is practically aflutter, every pulse almost painful to feel.

Merciful Sisters, he’s doing it.

There’s a second of hesitation before he brings it to his mouth, which stretches on for a long moment, and then what feels like a short while. And then he looks at me properly without moving his head, either asking for permission or my guarantee that this is what I want.

I bite my lip and nod in small, stiff motions.

He returns to the wing. He licks his parted lips. He takes quiet breath. And then he slowly pulls it that little bit further, closing the distance between the tips of endmost primaries and his open mouth — pitch black in the limited light bleeding through the doorway behind him, but no less enticing.

And then it gently shuts, and I feel the soft tug on the quills that only confirm what I see: he’s holding my feathers — holding me — in his mouth. And I can’t rightly explain why, but the idea and sight makes me shudder. “Oh my…” I say absently, and I can’t bring myself to feel ashamed enough to try covering it up.

His expression brightens somewhat, smirking, but returns again to the wing and makes a show of gradually, teasingly sliding the primaries out, only to open his mouth once more and repeat the whole process. And without any good reason I can possibly think of, I find it immeasurably satisfying. And that must surely be the understatement of the century, or at the very least the wrong word for how I feel.

My breathing is getting faster. The warmth inside me rises. Everywhere; face, ears, chest, wings, all the other parts that are begging at a whisper’s pitch for me to somehow translate all this general affection into something more animal. More carnal.

But I’ll let them go unanswered for now. I’m quite happy where I am, even if I’m close to drawing blood with how hard I’m biting my lip.

“Having fun?” Philip queries after the stars know how many repetitions; ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred — doesn’t matter. He’s sucking my feathers for Celestia’s sake! How much better could this possibly get?!

I nod. Vigorously.

He chuckles. “You definitely look the part. Never seen you this red in the face before.”

“You’re very good at that.”

“Feather-sucking?”

I nod again, just as enthusiastic.

“Hmm.” He inspects the primaries, turning them this way and that in slow, deliberate movements. “It’s… strange, I’ll admit. A good kind of strange, though — like sucking a finger, I guess, but… more tender. And it’s interesting, being the one who’s doing the sucking for once. Just don’t expect me to get them further than halfway, alright? I’m pretty sure I have a gag reflex.”

“Shut up,” I retort with a giggle, punctuating the order by batting him with the other wing. “You’re ruining it.”

“What’s there to ruin?” he asks, chuckling as he tries and fails to swat my wing away in time. He settles for brushing his hair back, then lets go and leans over me with his fists on either side, smiling. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” He reaches out and daintily grabs a forehoof, laying the other hand over it as he stands more upright, using the bed and my rump for a little extra support. “And no matter how many times you say otherwise, I’ll keep saying it. Do you know why?”

This is a setup for something cheesy, without a doubt. But screw it, I’ll bite. Can’t be worse than all the other piece of shit one-liners he’s spouted day after day, week after week, somehow never losing their misbegotten charm. “Why?”

Through the dimness, I see his grin shrink to a humble smile, and his eyes stay locked with mine as he bows his head and gives the edge of my hoof a long, fond, heartwarming kiss. And when he breaks away, his expression changes: it’s still sincere, and clearly adoring, but now there’s an element of outspoken insistence; whatever he’s about to say, he needs me to understand.

“Because I love you,” he states, plain and simple. “And that’s all there is to it.”

…And the bastard has done it again. Just when I thought I had my heart under control, he toys with it like a kitten does with a ball of yarn, and it’s sent all over the place, unravelling so completely that I’m not sure I’ll ever get it together again. “I hate you,” I say ineffectually, with all the striking power of a newborn foal. And my voice is starting to catch in the back of my throat. “I hate you so much.”

“Well then, if you despise me so…” Philip bows forward and kisses my hoof once more, twice, thrice, and a fourth time higher up, on the fetlock itself, where I feel his warm breath on my skin beneath the fur. A fifth goes even higher, and I realise what he’s planning. “Tell me to stop.”

I don’t dare say no.

He huffs a small, quiet laugh through his nose, then returns his attention to my foreleg and resumes blazing a trail of kisses all the way up to the bend of the elbow, and further still to my shoulder.

By this point, he’s leaning so far forward that my hindlegs can’t give him any more room so long as they’re between us, so I edge them out from under his stomach and let them hang around his waist instead. Quite the compromising position, and if I were in a more sensible state of mind, perhaps I’d care. But I’m not, and I don’t, because his journey continues along the shoulder toward my chest, where he takes the opportunity to bury his face and release my hoof to rub his hands up my sides.

And, admittedly, there’s something else.

He’s unintentionally applying just enough pressure to my cooch to keep me at a simmer.

I don’t dare say anything about that either.

Closing my eyes, I hum contentedly and smile, letting my head rest on the blanket as I lay a hoof on the back of his. “Keep going,” I murmur in a dreamy haze. “I like it, but… please, don’t keep me waiting.”

A soft groan escapes him — the pleased kind, more gruff than a moan — and he looks up at me from a sideways angle. “That worked up, huh?”

“Don’t make me think about it,” I softly warn, opening my eyes once more to narrow slits and peering down over my snout to him. “I just know that… I really want you. Right now.”

“Oh.” His smirk falls, and his brows faintly rise. “So… we’re done with foreplay, then?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just…” My head flops back as I blow a humid sigh, then breathe heavily for a few moments before looking down at him again, this time with an insistent yet imploring gaze. “I’m sorry, Philip, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… I’m really horny right now. And all of… this?” I quickly, limply gesture to us both. “It’s not making me any better.”

Philip pauses. “Okay,” he utters weakly, then nods to himself and clears his throat, blinking and refocussing on me. “Okay. I can do that. Just… let me finish up, alright?”

“Thank you,” I whisper sincerely, almost instinctively, a relieved, demure smile slithering across my lips. “Thank you…”

He nods once more, seeming a little more encouraged, if red in the face, then looks down at my chest and begins his kissing, caressing journey anew. He starts at my chest from where he’d left off, and slowly, sensually travels southward, his hands stroking my sides all the way up to my shoulders and withers in long, smooth motions, sometimes rubbing in circles. Occasionally, his fingertips tease the sensitive patches under my wings, which always makes my breath stutter and hitch; I supposed he’s already picked up how nice it feels. A slow learner in some respect, but in others…

Just goes to show where his priorities lie.

I chuckle. Partly because of the thought, but mostly because he’s reached the top of my stomach, and he isn’t stopping. Further down, warmer and warmer, coolness of a delicate sheen of sweat slickening my brows as it feels like, at any moment, he could bite into my extremely vulnerable underbelly. I guess that’s the primal part of my brain kicking in, from the days when ponies had to worry about that sort of thing, but we’ve since grown past that innate fear — now it’s not much more than a strangely compelling thrill.

Further still, around my navel, backing up a little way and taking a knee to gain a better angle, his chest pressed between my legs, my thighs around his shoulders. Gradually, bit by bit, we’re getting closer — closer to the inevitable, immeasurably alluring conclusion, where he’d…

Stars, I’m shivering just thinking about it.

Ever southward he goes, his hands now on my flanks, his mouth now dangerously, enticingly close to the twin mounds he so inexplicably covets. And when he reaches them, he pauses, studying them with the same sort of interest he’d had when I’d given him his first proper glimpse: he isn’t sure he should he gawking, but he can’t bring himself to look away either. And every slow, humid breath through his parted lips makes me all the more conscious of how exposed they are, and how unusual it is to find a pony who’d give them more than a single thought.

He doesn’t want to keep me waiting, but he can’t get over them either.

There’s only one way to settle this, then, even if it means putting my own ambitions on hold. And who knows? Maybe I’ll actually have some fun like last time.

His tongue pokes out to moisten his lips.

…Oh yeah, I’m definitely going to have some fun.

“Go for it.”

He looks up at me, no less entranced.

“You heard me,” I purr, and bubbles boil in my chest, their heat rippling through my body, my entire head a sweltering mess. And I lower my eyelids to half-mast in an evocative way for emphasis. “You know you want to.”

During the brief moment of tense respite, his eyes narrow and he smirks roguishly. But then it ends, and he dives in, ploughing his face between my teats and huffing, low and gruff.

A tiny, startled squeak escapes me, which quickly morphs into a series of bashful giggles; he’s blowing raspberries into the exposed flesh, and it feels… weird. Not off-putting, but certainly not like anything I’ve ever experienced or fantasised about. I didn’t know there could be a good kind of awkward.

Raspberries become kisses, and unlike the ones he’d used when travelling down, these are proper snogs, using his tongue as well as his lips to playfully nibble at the mounds, eyes fluttering shut and humming and grunting with blithe, carefree gusto. And the sheer, unexpected enthusiasm with which continues his unapologetic endeavour… Sweet Celestia, his moans and groans are as exhilarating as the sensation of his teeth brushing up against the skin, every touch spreading a cool, fuzzy tingle throughout my lower half, going as far as my rear hooves and the tip of my tail.

It’s sloppy, it’s strange, and it’s utterly, bizarrely delightful. And it’s making me wonder whether I’d be as into it as I apparently am if he hadn’t mistaken me during our mutual exploration session — if this has always been a secret kink of mine, or I’m only enjoying it because he is.

It’s certainly getting me more than a little aroused.

And then his mouth climbs higher and higher up the left teat — only an inch or three — until it engulfs the tip and begins to suck.

My eyes go wide and my jaw drops in a silent gasp. Not in an overwhelming sense of pleasure, though there is something… intriguing about the sensation, but in genuine astonishment. Kneading was one thing, kissing and massaging was another, but actively doing that? I never would’ve imagined this happening, and definitely not on the first night — even with his… unusual tastes. More than anything, because this isn’t really all that pleasurable, ostensibly, it’s the absolute audacity that’s getting to me, and making my cheeks flush and ears burn and wings tense up and flitter, and forelegs and hindlegs stiffen and tremble.

If this is what I can expect going forward… sweet, merciful stars above, why would I ever want to take even a single step back?

I’m loving foreign.

He lets the tip go, panting quietly, his breath cooling off the wet patches left behind and sending me into another shivering fit, my teeth chattering as I grin up at the ceiling. And then he resumes his southerly course, backing up as he pecks his way further down, shifting his focus to my inner thigh as he enters the region of my groin. He massages my flanks, digging his fingers in as his efforts slow, growing less needy and more tender. Devoted. Reverent, in a sense, as if he wanted to savour every waking moment before he finally reached his ultimate destination.

I shut my eyes and bite my lip, breathing heavily through my nose and bracing myself by hugging my barrel tightly, quaking all the while like an Abyssinian stranded in the middle of the Frozen North.

And when his tongue and lips at long last touch the outward edge of that twitching, winking, frankly eager entrance, each pulse a soft tingle aimed directly at my core… he pauses. His breath tingles and teases — so close, yet so far — but he doesn’t go for the kill. Maybe he needs some extra encouragement.

“Well?” I query, chest heaving and stuttering on every exhalation. “What are you waiting for? You wouldn’t leave a girl hanging, would you?”

“Fleet…” he hoarsely, absently murmurs. “You’re… Oh my god…”

I quirk an eyebrow, then open my eyes and lift my head to look down at him.

He takes notice and glances up, but only for a fleeting moment, returning to gawk with an open mouth at whatever has frozen him up; the answer is obvious, but he’s seen my private parts before, so it’s not like he should be that dazed all over again.

Unless, of course, there’s something different.

And as the seconds drag on, that difference becomes all the more apparent.

I reach a hoof down and, in his face and unashamedly so — much to my own surprise — drag it up along my folds, too focussed to get much pleasure out of the action, then bring it closer and inspect the edge. But I already know what I’ll discover by the faint shimmer of a short-lived string of fluid: I am soaked. Almost, if not just as bad as the time I got back home from our little escapade, where I barged open my cumulus door and locked it behind me, then rushed for the bathroom and locked that door too.

I’d never been so voracious in my entire life. Easily rubbed half a dozen out in the next hour, and only stopped to fetch a drink of water and see if I couldn’t handle a few more. By the time I thought I’d finally gotten everything out of my system, I was a sweaty, quivering mess, wings aching from being so constantly rigid, legs shaky and barely able to support my own weight, and my hindquarters completely and utterly drenched. It took all of next morning to totally wash out the funky smell, and even then, I decided to give it another three or four shots.

This boy does things to me, and the steamy memories of those hot, humid, downright blissful hours only makes me shudder all the harder. But they also serve as a warning — one I’d be foolish not to heed, for both our sakes.

“Philip, get some towels.”

He blinks at me. “What?”

“Towels,” I repeat, meeting his gaze, teeth chattering as I do my best to restrain myself — to think straight and keep my mind on what we need, rather than what we want. “You have some spares, don’t you?”

He blinks again, then gulps and furrows his brows in confusion. “Yeah. Why?”

“Because when I… peak… I get very wet.”

Once more, he blinks. And then his eyes widen, he draws his head back, mouth agape, and his bottom lip quivering. “You mean you… You’re a—”

“Mm-hmm.” I stiffly, vigorously nod. “And we don’t want to be ruining your sheets, do we?”

He stares vacantly for a few seconds, then suddenly bolts upright and strides for the entrance to his bathroom to the right of the bed. His attention lingers on me for the first few steps, then switches to the path ahead of him, where he then reaches through the doorway and flicks on the light switch, then disappears inside.

Taking the opportunity presented, and now with some extra illumination, I wipe my hoof thoroughly on my stomach and hoist myself up and roll over and stand on the bed, then unsteadily plod across for the pillows at the head. My wings are tall now, rising every minute, and I’m so lightheaded that it feels like their added weight could topple me over at any moment, or the mattress could give out beneath me.

Or I could simply trip over and land with my face buried in the blanket any my rump stuck in the air. Which would probably be an inviting sight for him, and… it might be something I’d enjoy… but being mounted from behind is so basic — practically the norm, the way I hear it, from what little I’ve cared to hear; heck, it’s the only position they describe in sex ed. Tonight, if this is what we’re doing, which we almost certainly are, I want it to be special. To see him, and have him see me. And if that means doing things unorthodox, then so be it. Screw the rules, because we’re already as far from a normal couple as we can get.

I am in control.

Deviating for a moment to take off my pendant and bracelet, I rest them on the nightstand, then mosey over to my intended destination and flop into my flank. From there, I do my best to flatten my wing so I can turn and lie on my back with my head between the pillows.

“Hey,” he calls from out of sight in the bathroom, sounding somewhat winded, “before we do anything, I just want to be clear: you’re sure we won’t need, uh… protection?”

I huff at the bedroom window ahead of me, opposite of the en suite. The curtains were already closed before we came in, so we won’t need to worry about any onlookers. Not that what we do in our spare time is anypony else’s business. “Yes, I’m sure, Philip,” I reply, trying and largely succeeding in keeping whatever frustration I feel out of my voice, then give my wing a solid, rather painful tug and flop down. Uncomfortable for the time being, but I’m quite certain I won’t be complaining soon enough. “Even if we were compatible, I’m not in heat at the moment, so it’d be next to impossible anyway.”

“Heat?”

“Estrus. You know, like… the prime time to have a foal.”

He pauses. “Well then, what about me? Don’t I need—”

“If you’re talking about condoms, Philip, please don’t take this the wrong way, but they literally wouldn’t make any your size.”

“Oh.” He pauses again, and I can practically hear him looking down at himself. “Well, that’s exactly what I needed to hear, isn’t it?”

“Stars above,” I exclaim with an amused smile, slapping the back of a hoof to my forehead, “don’t tell me you’re that insecure about it.”

“What? No.” He chuckles and pokes his head out from the doorway, and I see that his shoulder is bare — shirtless at the very least. “Told you before, didn’t I? Of course I’m not nearly as impressive as your big, hunky stallions. Just the way things are.”

Taking the mickey out of the situation, then. That’s fine. A little odd to hear and see him acting so nonchalant about the whole thing, but he has been here for almost two years — plenty of time to come to terms with certain things, even if some wounds might not have healed completely.

…No, I’m not going there. Not tonight. In one way or another, I’ve been waiting a long time for this, and I won’t let some bad thoughts that have no place here ruin it. This is our moment — his and mine — and we’re going to have some fun. A lot of fun, if the restlessness in my core has anything to say about it.

Merciful Sisters, I sound nothing like my old self. To her, sex was sacrosanct: both something that should rarely ever be discussed, and a special occasion reserved for only the most special of ponies. But now? I sound like I’m giving it as much thought as any other pastime, like flying, or a casual date.

No, I want this to be a special occasion, shared with the most special of ponies. And it is. I just need to get myself in the mood for that kind of mentality. No more jokes, no more tangents, except for one final hurdle. Just so we can put the subject to rest once and for all.

“Look, if you’re that worried about it… just say when you’re close and pull out.” I shrug and shake my head, glancing away briefly. “Really, I won’t kick up a fuss if you do. And I’m sorry, but the more I think about this, the more icky I feel, so if we could please hurry up and get on with it…”

He widens his eyes and shuts his mouth, possibly gulping, but it’s difficult to tell with the light pouring in from behind him. Nevertheless, he strides out from the bathroom with two blue towels folded under his arm, switching off the lights behind him and turning on the nearest bedside lamp, basking the room in a soft, neutral glow. With a knee on the mattress and a foot on the floor, he spreads the first towel underneath my tail.

“Thank you,” I whisper earnestly, making sure to lift my hindlegs enough for him.

He looks up at me in acknowledgement, but offers no reply. Even less so when his eyes spy my privates again, and his mouth hangs open as he lets out a throaty whuff, and his gaze grows distant.

Great. When he’s not cracking one-liners, he’s getting hypnotised by female anatomy. I know it’s almost been two years, and part of me is genuinely flattered that he finds me so literally breathtaking… but seriously, how desperate could he be? I mean, I’m certainly ready and willing, but I wouldn’t say I’m frothing at the mouth like he may as well be. “Keep going,” I beckon in a sing-song voice, wiggling my rear a little.

That seems to snap him out of his trance, and he shakes his head and blinks a few times, then shuffles closer and wedges his hands under my croup, raising my lower half to create enough space for the second towel. And when he’s done, my rump lies within his lap, hindlegs once again around his waist, his eyes trained on mine, his chest stuttering with every breath.

His yearning is almost palpable. Celestia, it would be so easy for him to just reach up and tease me open with a finger or two, and then plunge them in and out and swirl them all about…

I shudder, and my wings press into the mattress ever harder. I’m almost tempted to tell him to forget taking off his shorts, and instead just go to town on me any way he likes — never mind his satisfaction; I need a release ASAP.

“Could I ask you something?”

I blink, and try to get my thoughts in order. “Y-y-yeah?”

“Do you think we could… do this without your contacts?”

I blink again with slowly rising brows. “My contacts?”

He takes a forehoof with a hand and lays the other over it, but never looks away. Not even for the briefest instant. “Please,” he implores at a whisper’s pitch. “If we’re doing this, I… I want to see all of you. The real you. The you I saw at my bedside in Ponyville. The you I’ve always wanted to see ever since.”

My heart beats heavier, and my cheeks, already flushed, are blushing even harder. “Really?”

“Yes,” he answers devoutly, bowing to plant a kiss on my hoof. But even so, his eyes continue to watch mine with care and adoration. “I keep wondering when I’ll see them again. Maybe tonight is as good a time as any.”

Such a simple request, and quite easily dismissable. But conversely… it could be granted quite easily as well. And really, would it be so bad to spice things up a little? I mean, I don’t think it’d do all that much for me, but for his sake… if it makes me seem more… desirable… “You’ll have to do it,” I quickly reply before my voice breaks and I lead him on to how hot under the collar this is making me. “Hooves are too big, and my wings… aren’t so flexible anymore.”

He pauses, a flash of uncertainty crossing his face. “Are you sure?”

“You want them gone, right?”

Another pause, another flash. “If it’s not too much to ask.”

“It isn’t. But you’ll have to do the deed, alright? Carefully, please.”

He hesitates, but eventually nods, then leans forward, his stomach almost lying on top of me, and cautiously reaches a finger and a thumb.

This isn’t how I imagined our night turning out, and I’m pretty sure the wide-eyed look I’m forced to give him isn’t the most attractive either, but if this makes the night more special for him… then really, who am I to argue? He has his preferences, and if it doesn’t hurt me or make me feel unsafe, then indulging him is the least I can do. I’m not above a little experimentation.

His hand is steady as it approaches, and as it brushes past my lower eyelashes, I strain to keep their fluttering in check — to keep the window of opportunity open, so neither of us panic and I end up partially blind. But the tip of his thumb finds the edge of the plastic, and his finger keeps it steady as he lifts it away, and once he stores it safely within the grasp of his other hand, he does the same for the second. And the moment he plucks my other contact free, he stops and stares.

I blink once more, glancing from left to right as if I don’t know what he could possibly be gawking at. “What?” I query ineffectually. “What’s the matter?”

“…You…”

The ways he says that, so… lost. Transfixed. As if nothing in the world exists except for me and him and the eyes he peers into — the gaze he holds so gently, so tenderly, like it would vanish if he so much as breathed. It fills my barrel with a warmth that spreads throughout me, but not the sort that begs him to hurry up with anything.

No, this warmth begs for something else:

Eternity.

For this second, this moment, this little snapshot in time to stretch on and on and never end, and for the world outside to melt away.

Like ice to a flame, or snow in the sun.

Like butter on toast, or sorbet on the tongue.

I’ll have to remember that if I write another song.

His free hand softly sweeps a few stray hairs from my brow, then trails down the side of my face to cup my cheek. “You are so beautiful,” he finally finishes at a whisper’s pitch, his smile small, soft, earnest… a thousand words rolled into a single action, and what a captivating sight it is.

I wrap a hoof around his neck and pull him in for a kiss.

It takes him by surprise, and his startled grunt is muffled by my lips on his, which quickly turns into a hummed chuckle. And with every new attempt, every nip and tease, his humming become more needy, more hungry, more desperate, until he drops all pretence and plainly and simply moans.

I do too, and wrap my other hoof around his back to keep him close as my hindlegs lock around his waist, like I’m trying to give him the biggest, tightest hug possible. I don’t think about any of this, I just do — it comes to me instinctively, and feels almost as natural as flying, despite never having been in this situation for nearly two decades. Even then, I don’t think I was much good. Can’t tell if I’m any good now either, but I’m too elated to care, and he’s certainly not complaining.

Each breath he takes, he shares with me, and his hands run all over my body — down my neck to my shoulders, withers, sides, rubbing and massaging, caressing and kneading. One goes as far as my flanks and rump, and isn’t shy about giving them a firm squeeze, which makes me groan a little and swish my hiking tail. Even now, I never spare a thought for what it all means, too swept up in how delightfully heated this all feels. Even when his hand slips away to fiddle with something just out of reach, and something unbuttons and unzips, and fabric shifts, and he sidles further into me and…

My eyes snap open and I break the kiss, staring directly at him.

His eyes flutter open and he stares at me with a slightly panicked sense of confusion.

I look down.

So does he.

His shorts have come undone, and what they’ve been keeping hidden has missed its mark and lies at an angle on my groin, between my thighs. It’s stiff, and its tip is wet, and it bobs faintly whenever I wink, its base pressed flat against my cooch. The hair is… visually distracting, and somewhat ticklish… but it isn’t horrible. I’m just surprised that I hadn’t seen this coming, even though this is where we’d always been heading the second he picked me up.

I look up.

He meets my gaze, and in his eyes, I see a question.

I can only answer.

“Please.”

He lingers on me, breathing silently as his jaw quivers weakly in the dim light, part of him seemingly not there — not present. Running on impulse as much as conscious thought. But then he blinks and shuts his mouth and gulps, then looks down again and shifts his weight back, sliding free from me and using a hand to readjust.

And then he slips inside.

It’s a quick entry, and a slow, eye-widening, breathtaking remainder that clamps a vice around my barrel and stiffens my limbs to the point where they’re all quivering. My heart rattles against my ribs like a jackhammer as I feel an inch, then two, then three, deeper and deeper and steadily losing count as I concurrently lose the will to care; it’s there, and it’s going in, and I’m sure the weeks of mounting anticipation is exaggerating everything, but it feels so…

There has to be a word for it.

If there is, I can’t think of it right now — too absorbed in the moment and knowledge that, after however long I’ve been awaiting this, it’s finally happening. And, oh, is it enrapturing.

Is that the word?

Can’t be stuffed — let’s say it is and roll with it.

He shuts his eyes and furrows his brows, laying a hand on and gripping my shoulder as he breathes in and lets out a stuttered, euphoric sigh, his mouth open and lips curling in an expression bordering pained. “Oh my… god…”

“Keep going,” I quietly whimper — such an effortless action that I think it actually may have been subconscious. “Keep going.”

He nods, sliding the same hand gently to the point between my withers and nape as the other slithers across the blanket for the pillows, his body gradually falling toward me, and edging himself all the deeper. And when he comes to rest on his elbows, his head drooping over my shoulder and his torso pressed up against mine, our chests rising and falling and shivering and shuddering at odd times, never synchronised, he gives his hips a smooth, solid, easy thrust, and he bottoms out.

A tiny squeak escapes me, in the face of all my best efforts to keep myself composed, and I shut my eyes and cover my mouth with a hoof as if that would take everything back, all the while a blissful buzz racks my entire being. I feel my lower lips twitch, winking in small, fleeting, almost reticent motions, as if my own body were shy to admit how special this is, the heat in my core doubling in intensity, radiating its glow throughout me.

“Sweet mother of mercy, that feels amazing…”

Despite the situation, the flutter of an anxious giggle bubbles up, and so does a bizarrely flattered warmth in my cheeks and ears.

He isn’t massive. Not by a longshot. In fact, there’s more than enough space for him to… jiggle it around, if he so wished — though the thought alone is rather embarrassing, more so for how silly it sounds than anything else. And the feeling of his bush pressed against the bare skin of my entrance, tickling the tender flesh inside whenever I wink is marginally distracting. But to simply have him there, inside me…

I tremble with a euphoric sigh, and whether I meant to or not — I can barely tell where consciousness ends and instinct kicks in — that constricts the passage around him.

He lets out a whimpered grunt, arching his back downward and raising his head, and if he weren’t pressed up right against me, I’m sure I’d have seen the most adorably stimulated grimace. “Holy—”

“Shush,” I whisper, drawing out the command as musically as I can manage in my lecherous state, shakily smiling with half-lidded eyes at the back of his head. I gently pat him on the shoulder with a hoof as the other sneaks under his arm and hugs him closer, and my wings strain to stand tall with how reassuring I’m being. “Just let it happen. Let it happen.”

He stays where he is for a while, panting heavily, then buries his face into the crook of my neck and reaches his free hand down to his rear, where he wiggles his hips from side to side and fiddles with the waistband of his shorts and underwear, trying to pull them lower.

The feeling of him shifting about inside me is enough to keep me tense, but the feeling of his groin grinding against mine, even with the itchy hairs, and his thighs rubbing against my rump…

I shut my eyes and smile as I tremble and clench again.

“Guh.” His body freezes stiff. “Oh, sister, you have no idea how good that feels.”

My smile widens; as a matter of fact, I think I do. But simply hearing that from him, along with his fervent moaning, and the pressure of his fingers on my nape, and his chest on mine, and his warm breath in my fur, and the soft, faint tingle as his stomach teases the tips of my teats… it all blends together into the drunken buzz of ecstasy. And I want more of it.

Stars, if I knew how good this would feel, maybe I wouldn’t have been so cagey about it.

No time like the present.

“You like that?” I murmur, an unsteady quaver in my voice.

He nods into me and mumbles something incomprehensible, if it was ever meant to be heard.

A chill cuts through the heat like water to a hot iron, running across my withers and up and down my spine. He isn’t a gibbering wreck yet — though the thought is intriguing — but to think that I’m too good for words is a foreign, yet immensely satisfying feeling. “Want to…” I begin, then find myself gasping a little as I apparently hadn’t been breathing properly for a while. “Want to keep going?”

He’s already pretty still, but now he seems even more so. “Do you?”

I hesitate, but only for a brief moment. I’m grateful that he’d ask me — I really am — and that he’s always concerned for how I feel about everything and always wants my input. But sometimes… perhaps I wouldn’t mind if he not only seized the initiative, but held it. The problem, I guess, is that I’ve always been there to question him, or offer him an opportunity to doubt himself within a safe environment.

What he needs, I suppose, is a little encouragement — something that appeals to his primal side, which he has shown to me on occasion, and how enticing it can be. And I don’t need to make a fancy speech to do that.

I smirk again, tightening my grip on his torso, narrowing my eyes in that way you do when you know something will work and you know it will benefit you, then slowly, quietly grind my nethers against him in an upwards, then downwards, motion. The hair around his crotch is a noticeable irritation, always prickly and getting into places I don’t want it to, but the sensation of dragging my winking bean against him, and of his length shifting about inside, still hilted, more than makes up for it.

And his resultant shudder and long, drawn-out groan. They’re nice too.

I didn’t expect him to push into me, though, trying to edge himself deeper.

“Oh,” I uselessly exclaim, eyes widening at the ceiling as I feel him stiffen, his rounded tip touching and stroking me just right. “Oh my…”

He emits a single, low, soft grunt — the stifled sound of a chuckle, judging by the smile he etches into my fur — soon followed by kiss and a light nibble on my neck that sends another chill down my spine. If he’s a biter, I’ll have to condition him out of it, because that certainly isn’t my cup of tea, but for now, it isn’t that bad — a little thrill and nothing more. I can appreciate that.

His hips wiggle some more, and his knees readjust to help slide his shorts and undies further down, and whether he’d intended it or not, this puts more pressure on me. There’s not much more of himself to sink in, but the sheer weight of him bearing down on me, and the fingertips digging into my withers, and the fact that he’s there, doing this to me… It’s like a sauna in my head right now, and my nethers, and everywhere; humid, inescapable, hot, heavy — pleasurable. Sisters, if I could catch this feeling in a bottle…

“Oh my stars, yes.” My grip tightens, and my eyes flutter shut as I focus on the feeling — the burning in my core and the ache in my wings. “Sweet heavens above, right there. Right there, that’s good.”

And then the wiggling stops, and the pressure lets up.

It’s still nice, certainly, but…

I open my eyes a smidge and peer at him. “…W-why… why’d you—”

But then he cuts me off by pulling his hips back, only to push in again.

My breath catches, more so in surprise than delight, but the effect is practically the same, and the slight numbness I feel when he hilts himself once more quickly dissolves into cool, fuzzy shivers of satisfaction. “Oh my gosh…”

And again, he pulls back, and pushes in — a slow motion, followed by a fast one — so fast that I can hear the faint squelch of sticky fluids, and feel it spreading further and further outward when he repeats the action a third time, and then a fourth. They were irregular at first, without rhyme or rhythm, but now he’s picking up a pace, and it’s the tender sort: needy and powerful, but restrained and unaggressive. And he works his hips like they’re pistons in a steam engine.

My inner thighs clamp around his waist, and my hindlegs do their best to lock behind his back. I’m not flexible enough to entirely succeed, but I need to secure my position here, beneath him, and let him have his fun and let me have my fun, because this is, without a doubt, fun.

It’s making me squirm just thinking about it, let alone feeling and hearing and smelling; my natural musk — tart, but also somewhat sweet, like vanilla in hay — mixed with the scent of his shampoo and deodorant giving way to sweat. Whose sweat, I can’t rightly say, because for all I know, we might both be guilty, but I never thought it could smell so… nice.

Or maybe I’m just telling myself I like it for the sake of the occasion.

Doesn’t matter; whether I like it or not, it’s there, and I’d better get used to it, because I’m sure as heck liking everything else about this: his cadenced movements, the soft clap and rub of flesh, the heat in my core that burns all the way to the tips of my ears, wings, hooves and tail… What’s not to love about this?

Except the hairs. Those, I could do without.

But still, nine out of ten isn’t bad at all, and I suck on my lip to make sure an upcoming groan is nothing more than close-mouthed moan. I’m not sure why, but I kind of like the idea of trying to keep this whole thing quiet — just between us, and nopony else, not that anypony would actively be listening.

And still his tempo never falters, the hand he’d used to pull down his pants now squeezing and groping my flank and forcing me to tense up even more, which results in another grunt from him, and finally, there’s a reprieve.

“Oh, you’re very good at this,” I murmur huskily, giving his shoulder another gentle pat and softly rubbing his sides. Even my hindlegs caress his waist, for what little good I imagine it doing — more for my sake, I reckon, to keep him moving inside me, and to keep the steam in the sauna flowing.

He doesn’t reply, taking several long, deep breaths with his face buried into the base of my neck, raising the humidity beneath my fur. And then, without much ceremony, the hand on my flank strokes its way up my side to the sensitive patch just below the wing, then digs its fingers in and swirls them around in small, slow, firm circles.

I stifle a yelp, but only just, and channel it into a mute whimper, eyes squeezing shut as my entire body seizes up under this new, electrifying sensation.

He grunts again as I clench around him once more, then immediately resumes thrusting, now at a quicker pace. No deeper than before, but the strength, the hunger… Sisters, it’s like a whole other beast has awoken, and he isn’t afraid of getting just a little rough.

Can’t be sure which way I like it, though. Not yet. And right now, I’m in no mood to complain.

My hindlegs and forehooves grind into him hard, trying to find the best angle to hold him — to grant him access to as much of me as he can take. And while there’s no real way that he could go any deeper, I relish the feeling of him delving in again and again, each attempt ending in a solid smack, and the juicy sound of moisture dampening my lower lips; each attempt warm and chilling and invigorating and thrilling and, oh, how I never want it to end!

Why would I ever want it to? It’s with him! My own; the one who found me as much as I found him, and whose company I’ve always enjoyed no matter where, no matter when. And after almost two whole years, it’s finally happening.

Now I’m feeling about as dizzy as I am excited, and it’s an exhilarating experience.

But it could be so much more.

“S-s-sit up,” I stutter, patting his shoulder yet again as he continues pumping away. “Please. I-I-I want to see your face.”

His rhythm slows, coming to a halt midway through an outward pull. And part of me feels empty — yearning for that sense of being filled; a strange sensation, especially as my walls relax, all the while the winking only intensifies. His chest heaves and spasms with every breath, like mine, but less composed, more irregular. His fingers remain where they are, teasing the sweet spot, supporting my withers, but no longer move.

A pause follows.

He’s heard me loud and clear, he’s just… getting himself together.

Still, better safe than sorry.

“Y-y-you good?”

He nods. It’s stiff, but a nod.

“You still want…” I begin, but my voice catches, and I gulp to clear and moisten my throat. “You still want to keep going?”

Another pause follows — silence, except for our combined panting, and my feathers twitching and flittering against the blanket, and the rigid swish of my tail. But then he brings his knees in, wedging them beneath either side of my rump, and I’m able to breathe a little easier as he uses the leverage to remove his chest from mine. Cool air fills the space, tickles the fur, and as he lifts himself, his length slides in and he bottoms out once more; crotch against cooch, frustratingly stimulating.

I put a forehoof over my barrel, perhaps to feel my heart as I stretch and squirm in place, and the other, much to my surprise… reaches for the mounds just below my stomach, as if I were about to fondle them. I tell myself that I’m only trying to cover up, but that still begs the question of why, and now that they’re in my grasp, the temptation to just… feel them… is hard to ignore.

Stars, I hope he hasn’t started me on a dark path of foreign kinks and fetishes.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I croak with yet another breathless giggle, eyes opening to halfway.

His are still closed, even as his hands slide down my body to the sides of my belly, finding grip on the leading edge of my flanks, just in front of my own hips. And again, without much ceremony, he leans forward as he pulls back, then drives into me once more, thighs and groin slapping against mine in a firm, wet, meaty whack.

I grunt myself and shut my eyes, and I let my breath go in a long, shaky moan as he dives in over and over — not nearly as fast and zealous as before, or even instinctive, dare I say, but still forceful and potent; there won’t be any bruises tonight, if I have anything to say about it, but it’s entirely possible that I’ll be aching in the morning.

But I can’t think too far ahead, or I’ll lose track of how fantastic this moment feels. Celestia, was it always this erotic, or has it really been so long that I’d forgotten how good having something inside me felt? Not that I’ve ever craved it in any sense of the word, of course, but… Merciful Sisters, the sensation of him moving about so freely, grinding along a slick, velvety interior, making noises that shouldn’t be heard and pasting the dampness onto the flesh and fur around the entrance…

I shudder for the umpteenth time this night, not that he seems to notice, and throwing all caution to the wind, I unsteadily smile with an open mouth and peer at him through heavy-lidded eyes. “Do that… that thing with my… with my teats again,” I stammer through my laboured breath. “I liked that.”

He doesn’t reply, continuing instead to thrust and plunge and huff and plain and simply rock my world — the whole room melting away to just me and him, and whatever bliss we can find in each other.

Probably hadn’t heard me, too lost in his own little slice of heaven. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ll have had to snap him out of a daze, and the thought draws another giggle out of me. “Philip?” I coo as well as I’m able, considering the circumstances. “You there, hun?”

He nods quickly, stiffly, and only once. At least he isn’t totally gone. But when he finishes giving his response, I finally notice that… something seems slightly odd about him; his brows are creased and his lips are pressed together, and while this wouldn’t normally be a concern — not that any of this is normal — his overall expression comes off as… agitated. Tense. And not in a good way.

“Philip?” I call again, somehow regaining some composure in this pleasantly humid haze, which is now only making it more difficult to think straight. But I don’t tell him to stop just yet, in case I’ve misread the situation. And besides, it still feels nice. “Philip, is… is something wrong?”

He shakes his head, no less rigid than before, and scrunches up his face a little more, and the next few thrusts are harder, stronger… but they lack something. I can’t pinpoint what, but I know it was there when he started, and it isn’t there anymore. And although his determination to keep things going is welcome, and it threatens to derail my train of thought from instant to instant, I can’t ignore this.

And then I hear something from him, beside the general smack of our bodies and his rhythmic, controlled panting; something he whispers to himself with every exhalation. It’s mumbled — he barely moves his lips — but if I listen closely…

“Come on… Come on… Come on… Don’t stop…”

My ears perk up, and an anxious chill radiates in shivering waves from my core, widening my eyes, slackening my hindlegs, making the passage he drives himself into feel hollow and tighter all at once. “You’re not… close, are you?”

Again, he shakes his head, and it just as inflexible as before.

Whether that’s a relief or not, I’m not sure, and I don’t spare it a second thought either. “Then… what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he quietly, curtly answers, shaking his head for a third time, and without much difference compared to the last two. But the curtness isn’t directed at me — I’m sure it isn’t; it’s aimed at something else. Something that can’t be seen. “Nothing. I’m… I’m fine.”

“Then look at me,” I softly plead, reaching out a trembling hoof to gently touch his cheek. “Please.”

He flinches, grimacing as his head turns sharply away from my touch, snatching my fetlock in his hand to keep it from a second attempt, struggling to maintain balance and momentum, huffing through his nose, diving into me as far as he’s able to go.

His grasp is firm, and… that scares me a little. All this time, he’s only ever been tender and slow and sensual, and I’ve never had to worry about him physically doing anything to hurt me. Ever since we made up, all he’s ever concerned himself with is my happiness balanced with his, never forcing something on me and never daring to threaten any violence. Not really. Some teasing here and there, but no legitimate danger.

This isn’t the Philip who started making love to me. This Philip doesn’t mean to do me harm either; actions speak louder than words, and his strong grip and his expression tells me all I need to know, even with how difficult it is to focus with him continuously pumping away: this Philip is desperate, clinging on to something so he doesn’t have to face something else. And I think I know what.

Gradually, I regain some more control over myself, closing my mouth and knitting my brows together, giving him a look of pity, as my ears pin back, even though I know he can’t see it. Not yet. “Open your eyes, Philip,” I placidly implore, sparing a tentative glance at the hand around my fetlock. “Please. I want to see them.”

His pace slows, becomes less rhythmic. But he doesn’t stop. He’s composing himself, trying to calm down, focussing on his breathing by limiting his exertions. But he can only do so much before, inevitably, guilt weighs on him — makes itself evident on his face — and makes him feel compelled to act.

Carefully, and with a heavy air of caution about him, his eyelids part.

First, a sliver of shadow.

Then, a crack.

Finally, his gaze meets mine in full, and peering through the gloom… are the two brown eyes that have captivated me since our very first meeting. They aren’t stunning, or necessarily all that attractive, but I’ve come to appreciate them, in their own way.

And they look sad. Caring. Ashamed. Despairing. Conflicted, and struggling to come to terms with a very simple fact, for as much kindness and compassion I know they hold; he doesn’t want this… this… this uneasiness bubbling up within him, but the sleeping dogs have been awoken, and he can’t put them back to bed anytime soon. Especially not on his own.

Now he slows to a halt, hilted within, but it doesn’t feel pleasurable anymore; it’s there, like his hand around my foreleg, and all the stimulation is being sapped away by an air of tension that settles between us.

At this point, it’s fruitless to ask, but I do so anyway. Perhaps out of some misbegotten sense of politeness, as if part of me can’t fathom the answer without his word. “What’s wrong?”

His jaw is quivering, teeth chattering behind slightly parted lips. His eyes shift — not immediately, but, again, gradually, and with no small amount of hesitation — their focus drifting up, down, side to side, tracing the outline of my face. They see a lot they like. And he and I both know that’s exactly the problem.

“I love you, Fleet,” he whispers, peering into me once more with upturned brows, and quaver in his voice. “I… want you.” And then his attention wanders southward, to where we’re both connected. “But…”

A lead weight drops inside me, builds a lump in my throat.

There’s only one possible way that sentence could end.

“…I’m a tiny horse,” I finish, swallowing what little pride I have left, but refusing to sound all that indignant about it, because I’m not; this isn’t his fault. It’s been a problem that’s stared us in our literal faces from the moment we saw each other, and he warned me before about how he was afraid reality would come crashing down on him. He is what he is, I am what I am, and like it or not, we can’t change that.

No matter how hard you try, there are some stains you just can’t wash out.

He avoids my eyes, and my body, sheepishly and ruefully staring off into a shadowy corner on the far side of the room. “And I think it’s because… you’re also my friend.”

I blink, feeling largely numb. But then the words sink in, and the whispers of confusion make themselves known upon my softly creasing brows.

“My best friend,” he clarifies, perhaps a touch more confident — enough, it seems, to meet my gaze again. “Like… you’re so many things to me. And you’re amazing, and I love you for that. And… I want to do this with you.”

“…But?”

“…I don’t know if I can.” He silently gulps, then looks down to my barrel with a troubled expression. “It feels… wrong. Like I’m doing this to you, not… with.”

I blink once more, and some of the weight is lifted. Not all of it, but a fair amount. Enough to feel something genuine again: warmth. A deep, rising warmth that spreads from my chest like syrup on pancakes, or whatever saccharine metaphor I’m supposed to use. Yes, what he’s saying isn’t the most encouraging, but it’s not as bad as I thought. I think. I’m pretty sure it isn’t. No less delicate, certainly, but… I can work with this. I’ve dealt with worse, and I didn’t give up then either.

I am in control.

Gulping in a similar fashion, I take a few deep breaths to get my thoughts in order, then gently pull my hoof from his grasp and place it under his chin. The air is humid, and feels ever more damp. Or maybe that’s just the sweat on my brows, cheeks and forelegs. And as I draw his focus back to me, I give him a small, weary, but hopefully sympathetic smile.

“Do you trust me?”

He pauses, watching me with a yearning look from behind upturned brows, lips parting, seemingly mesmerised once again. Sometimes, he really can be too easy.

He nods.

I let my breath go, trying to quell the anticipation building in my core — to stop it from getting the better of me, however that would supposedly happen. Biting my lip serves the same purpose, but judging by the faint sparkle of interest in his eyes, it has the added bonus of making me look that much more enticing. And that, strangely, grants me the courage to wrap my other hoof around his nape, and slowly, sensually bring him in for a kiss.

His eyes flutter closed again and his lips begin teasing mine. Not with any sense of needy desperation, but… calm. Tender. Like his usual self, so soft and restrained and… oh, how I love this boy.

I know we say it over and over, but I really, truly love him, and the many ways he makes me feel, for better and for worse, and how it's always never enough.

And because I love him, and because he loves me, I must do what needs doing, if he doesn’t want to throw the towel in just yet either.

The hoof under his chin slides down and hooks around his back, pulling him closer, allowing me just enough leverage to sway him over to the left.

His eyes open again, glancing down as if he could properly see the hoof, then returning to me with a look of recognition, which soon fades into a slight sense of bashful obedience, as well as a hint of excitement; he’ll cooperate, even if he isn’t totally sold on the plan itself, and whether it’ll do the trick.

A leap of faith. That’s all I ask. If this doesn’t work, we’ll call it a night. It’ll have ended in disappointment, sure, but at least we’d get to say we tried, and that it was fun for a while. Not all first times get to be so lucky, or even — stars forgive me for thinking such hedonistic thoughts — last as long as we have.

Further left I take him, despite the painful strain of a wing joint being forced to bend against its will, rolling him onto his side where we smooch a little longer. And then, with a soft groan of effort, I wedge my hindleg between him and the blanket, anchor my hoof around his shoulder, and carefully hoist myself up, gently pushing him onto his back, straddling him, wings free and tall.

And all the while, I make certain that he never slips out.

Finally, I break the kiss, sitting up, inspecting, and perhaps appreciating this shift in perspective. His bare chest welcomes me, and I rest my hooves on it for support, just above his rounded stomach — so much more defined than my own, complete with its curiously indented navel.

You don’t get to do this with a stallion every day, that’s for sure.

“So, uh…” I quietly, awkwardly chuckle, then notice a few hairs dangling in my vision and fling my mane back. “How’s this?”

His hands, with nowhere else to go, find themselves lying over my hooves once more, and he practically gawks at me with wide, slowly blinking eyes, his gaze drifting up and down and all around, like he can hardly believe what he’s seeing. His mouth is open a little way, breathing deeply and heatedly, and when he spies with his little eyes that I’m still winking on occasion, sending tiny jolts of pleasure up into my core, he shudders and sighs.

“Ay dios mio…”

I giggle, but not loud enough that it could be considered unapologetic — this is still a pretty awkward situation, after all, even though it’s… kinda-sorta cute of him, to talk in that foreign tongue of his. Español, if I recall correctly. “Better, you think?” I absently wonder aloud, bowing my head slightly to gain a better view of myself and see what he’s seeing. “I mean, this is pretty new to me, but I’ve heard about it. Maybe. And you won’t have to do anything if I just… you know…”

He looks at me.

I look at him.

There’s another pause, if not complete stillness.

And then, gently, I rock my hips back.

He squeezes my hooves with a gasp, shutting his eyes, his entire body tensing up, including a soft twitch from within, which only prompts the passage to tighten around him and makes me grunt and bite my lip.

“Mm, much better,” I hum, eyelashes fluttering to halfway closed, peering down at him with what I trust to be a seductive gaze. “So, is this… more to your liking?”

He stiffly nods. His expression treads a fine line between pain and bliss.

A cool fuzziness rises and bubbles away in my chest, trickling down my spine as far as my flanks, groin and croup, and my tail swishes idly between his legs. It really shouldn’t affect me as much as it does anymore, but I guess part of me will never get over how speechless I can make him, either through my words, my songs or — again, stars forgive me — my physique.

But it wasn’t always like that, was it?

And look how far you’ve come.

…Yes. Yes, things are different now, and I am, undoubtedly, thankful for it. Just a strange thought, I suppose, to think about how long it’s been, and what mental gymnastics we’ve had to pull to reach this point; I didn’t always want him, and he didn’t always want me. And yet, here we are. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I love you,” I quietly say, then continue rocking my hips back and forth in slow, sensual motions, making it harder to keep my eyes open and stay locked with his gaze, and forcing me to take deeper, more heated breaths. “I love you… so much.”

His breathing grows more laboured as well, and he, too, tries maintaining eye contact. But his resolve gives out after only a few seconds, biting his lip, letting his head flop into the pillows with a guttural moan as his hands climb my forelegs and firmly grip the upper ends of my fetlocks.

Overwhelmed, I suspect — I don’t detect the same air about him as he had when he was purposely avoiding me… and that makes me smile and encourages me to up my game. So, I do just that, leaning forward, putting some more of my weight on his torso so my hindlegs don’t have to work so hard, grinding my crotch into his, spreading the damp, ignoring the hairs, hearing the sounds we make together, feeling him inside me.

Sisters, I could almost kiss him for letting me do this.

Warmth finds its way to my head again, burning my cheeks and brows, setting my ears alight, practically bringing the sweat on all of them to a simmer, sizzling away as I continue my efforts without reservation; I’ve waited so long for this, I just never knew it — needed this sooner than I thought I wanted it — and with every rock, every sway, every movement I make, I savour the sensation and try to heighten it.

Harder and harder, side to side, a little wiggle here and a little shiver there, hooves pawing and rubbing at his torso as I close my eyes for the time being and focus on the feeling. There’s more I can do, I know, but I want to just… challenge myself, I guess — see what’s possible with only a few moves available. Besides a strangely compelling sense of curiosity, there’s no real reason to do this, but… I want to. And it helps me build a rhythm, like he had. And also like him, I take it slow. Forceful and needy, but slow. Agonisingly so, and it hurts good.

My teeth chatter as I groan and shudder, wings more tense than steel cables pulled to breaking point — so taut that they quiver under their own stress. Their joints send a pleasant, tingling ache into my withers, which echoes and resonates throughout my body, cramping up my flanks and thighs and every muscle in between.

Philip lets out a vocal, gasping grunt, tightening his grip for an instant as he rides out the ecstasy. Then, his eyes open to halfway, and while he lacks the resolution to lift his head from the pillows, he at least meets my gaze again, and shares with me a pleading look. He, too, shivers, but more faintly, like a cold gust had swept through and he isn’t wearing enough to protect himself… which is a pretty self-evident analogy, but the point still stands: although he says nothing, it’s clear that he’s enjoying this as much as I am.

And then he starts getting adventurous, his hands slowly wandering up my forelegs in long, smooth, firm motions, grabbing and kneading and massaging, fingers ploughing through the fur to the skin beneath. His nails add a delightful prickle to the paths he carves all the way to my shoulders, where he continues stroking and caressing and lessening the tension even as it mounts within me.

Relaxation and excitement. Never thought the two could coexist at once — always one or the other at any given moment — but here he is, proving me wrong yet again. And like so many things about him and about what he’s shown me is possible, I want more of it. And that desire, that yearning only grows ever more intense when the hand on my left leaves my shoulder and travels up my neck to cup my cheek, leaving ruffled fur and a cool, satisfying chill in its wake.

I close my eyes and lean into it, rubbing against his palm, welcoming, cherishing his touch, and letting out a stuttered, euphoric sigh that makes me feel as light as the clouds I walk on. A lone bead of sweat descends from my brow, soon absorbed by the bridge of my snout, and I quickly realise that I’ve lost track of time — I can’t remember how long it’s been since we started. Mere minutes? Half an hour? Surely not a full one, let alone two; I’m a tough nut to crack, but not that tough.

I also realise that I’ve slackened off, letting myself get so lost in his embrace that now I’m only moving in small, tender motions, so minute that it could scarcely be called sex; doing, but not feeling it. And while it isn’t bad at all, because I’m just happy to be here with him… we didn’t come here just to fool around.

A faint smirk lazily crosses my muzzle, drunk on the bliss I’ve found myself in, before it fades with a quiet gulp as I pick up the pace and move my hips like I’d originally intended, finding myself comfortable in a faster, more hungry tempo. It’s forced at first, but when I catch a taste of that carnal passion once again, it all slides back into place, and it takes very little effort to convince myself to raise my hips and bring them down.

His body goes stiff as he lets out a low, raspy, protracted groan while I take my time and try my hardest to consciously clamp around him, tail twitching and swishing as I do. I grit my teeth and smile as well — shakily, of course, because the sensation of his length gliding against the slickness of my folds is… is so natural, so… so gripping; so many things at once that it’s almost impossible to describe, and I’m racked with the most intense, the most heated shudder yet as I take him to the fullest extent he’ll go.

Ceasing the soothing ministrations upon my shoulder, he waits for the trembling to stop, or at least patter out to a more manageable level, before breathing once more with a deep, silent gasp.

I’m not sure who’s faring worse, but I sure as heck don’t plan on stopping, so I allow myself a short, inaudible chuckle and raise my hindquarters and lower them again, and again and again and again. And the drive, the need for more only increases, and the wet kiss of flesh steadily fills my ears — fuels the fire raging at my core. It’s less about excitement now than it is about… release. From stress, from the world, from myself. From everything. And it’s coming. Slowly.

Merciful Sisters, I hope it never does. I don’t want this to end.

But I soldier on, hindlegs pumping my rump like a piston, fast enough to satisfy, not enough to relieve, and always with an added sway. There’s a cadenced pattern to my panting too — a trick to keep the stamina high, taught in basic Wonderbolt training. And that’s a little funny, come to think of it, how I’m translating experience I’ve gained in my career to forward my agenda in a totally different context.

But I don’t focus on that. No, it’s the pleasure that I’m after. Yes, the perpetual, self-defeating pursuit of boundless pleasure, where everything you’ve ever wanted can become yours for a moment, if only you had the will to seize it. And right now, I’m feeling a mite famished.

I slide myself down his shaft and begin grinding into him once more, dragging my winking bean against his bushy crotch — slightly bothersome, but so much better than nothing. And the juicy sounds of our connected bodies…

If only we were close enough to kiss, and if only he could fondle my teats from that angle…

Well, I suppose I could, but… it’s his thing, not mine. Not yet, at least. Not yet.

And then the hand on my cheek leaves, and it taps my shoulder.

I don’t know when I’d shut my eyes, but I come to a halt and open them, peering down at him.

His face… is practically beet red, so flush for so long that a thin but definite sheen of sweat coats pretty much all of his bare skin. His brows are furrowed in an upturned manner, his mouth hangs open and his jaw quivers, and his stomach wobbles with every breath. And if nothing else, his gaze tells me everything I need to know.

“You close?”

The words hang in the air, plain, and yet profound.

And then he stiffly nods.

“Me too.”

Silence follows, and anticipation bubbles up — the question of where we go from here. And of course, in a way, the answer is blatantly obvious: we formulated a plan, and now we have to act on it; we’re only waiting for either one of us to give the word.

But neither of us do.

Maybe we’re just too anxious.

Maybe.

…

…

…

…

…

Unless…

…

…

…

…

…

“…Do you want it inside?”

More silence.

Absolute stillness.

His eyes slowly widen, his expression slowly softens.

Mesmerised.

“…Me too,” I finish, then gradually begin to sway once more, building momentum, pumping up and down, back and forth, rolling my hips in smooth, rounded motions, using him as much as possible.

His breathing starts off in a similar manner, synchronised with the pace I’m setting, becoming progressively louder and less composed the more I do — the more of him I take. His grip on my shoulders grows firmer, fingers digging through the fur and into the skin, letting go momentarily and grasping again to find better handholds, and all the while, his eyes flutter shut against his will, and he buries his head into the pillows some more.

…Gosh, that’s so hot.

It’s not the control I take pleasure in, although being able to do things myself is nice, but seeing him so… lost… To know that he’s losing himself in me… To think that at any point, he might just…

I shudder. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve done that. And these are all thoughts I wouldn’t normally like, but it seems that context changes a pony — makes them wish for silly, depraved things and lets all restraint fall by the wayside. Impulse takes over, and it takes the form of passion — not a hunger, or a thirst, but a drive. An urge. An itch. Something that nags at me, compels me to act because I know that whatever happens, I’ll find that release I’m after; an end to the restlessness bubbling and boiling away in my core, stomach, chest, wings — my very being.

Rising, falling, harder and harder, flesh slapping in sharp, wet noises, an addictive ache surfacing in my crotch and emanating upwards, making me shiver even more intensely. My thighs are starting to burn, and there’s a soft sting in my tail from hiking so high and flapping about so much.

But no matter what, I never stop.

I need him.

And then his hands begin to shift, one climbing to clutch at my withers, and the other stroking along my side, teasing the sensitive patch beneath the wing, sending a humid wave rippling through me. It continues down, past my hips, and finds its resting place on my flank, groping and massaging and, oh, how I love it.

My whole body moves now, bobbing, swaying, rocking, rolling, grinding, fucking. No romance here anymore; there’s no room for it. All that matters is that we get what we both want: climax. Rapture. The end to something and the beginning of something else — labels without names, just pure sensation.

And then his hips start moving too.

It takes me a little by surprise and my efforts falter somewhat, but I quickly recover and pick up the pace and open my eyes to look down at him.

Philip was already looking at me, and when I meet his gaze, I see a fragile sense of devout determination in it, and I know what he’s trying to say: if we’re doing this, we’re doing this together. He won’t let the burden fall squarely on my shoulders.

Whatever convinced him to go back to being an active participant, I don’t care. I’m not complaining. Rather, I’m glad, and I smile because of it, and the lustful sting I feel when our nethers reconnect in a loud, moist, hefty smack, and I bow my head while long, throaty groan escapes me as it happens again and again.

He, on the other hoof, struggles to keep his weary, limited focus on me, jaw quivering as he pants heavily through an open mouth. “F-F-Fleet…”

My ears perk up. I know that tone of voice — what it means; there’s only one possibility.

And still, I keep pumping.

He gulps, anxious — eager and hesitant all at once, unsure which he should be.

I can’t blame him: I’m not sure of myself either.

“…Fleet, I—”

And then I dart forward and silence him with a kiss. No words are needed. Not here. Not now.

He lets out a muffled grunt of surprise, but his shock quickly fades, and his grip around my withers and flank strengthens, and he moans with every breath as he toys and plays and nibbles away at my lips with his own, and I do the same in turn.

But it doesn’t take long for his efforts to slow — for his attention to be drawn elsewhere. And soon, his moans grow higher and higher in pitch, until they’re nothing more than muffled whimpers, and his eyes squeeze shut, and the hand on my withers claps down and grabs my other flank, and he pushes into me with a few weak, desperate thrusts.

And then he breaks the kiss and gasps.

And deep within me… I feel him.

Warmth. Pouring, spilling, oozing forth, mixing with the dampness already there.

I come to a halt, embedding him, rubbing my crotch against his in firm, flowing, measured motions, riding it out. Panting with laboured breaths, timed with every shift in direction, I close my eyes and do my best to focus on how it feels, rather than what I know it is.

Thick, pasty, slick, gushing in rhythmic spurts, spreading everywhere, coating everything — every fold and crevice, massaged in as I continue to rock and sway, and he continues to gently hump against me, grunting quietly in absolute bliss. I can almost hear the small, weary smile in his hushed voice.

And that, in a strange way, gives me the strength to smile in turn. Faint and feeble, even shaky — barely wider than a covert smirk — but a smile nonetheless. And all the while, I gyrate and grind, but slower and slower, until I reach a complete standstill, and the only movement from me is my stuttered breathing, my quivering wings, my twitching flanks and tail, and of course, the winking of my entrance, all outside my total control.

And still he’s humping, and still he’s cumming, and my insides only seem to tighten around him, milking him for all he’s worth — for all he has to give. There isn’t as much spouting into me as there was initially, but it’s nearly impossible to keep track of how many strings he’s shot with so many sensations to feel all at once; pain, pleasure, awkwardness, fulfillment…

And then he, too, lets himself slow down, the last few strands to slithering up and leaking out like honey poured from a jar, or squeezed from a bottle.

His climax is over.

Some of it might be dribbling out.

But although it’s… nice… I never reached mine. And it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface, just waiting for something, anything to give it that one last kick to just… send me over the edge. And the longer I’m forced to wait, the heavier that kick needs to be. Else I’d just have to finish myself off the old fashioned way, with my hoof to my cooch and a furious amount of rubbing and stroking. And maybe, for the heck of it, I’d get him to suck on my teats again.

…Merciful Sisters, I think he has awoken something inside me, and not just a newfound appreciation for unorthodox positions with unconventional partners.

Despite myself, I chuckle. Breathlessly, of course, but it gives me the motivation to peer up at him from behind weary brows.

He stares back, eyelids heavy, lips parted as he huffs through an open mouth, essentially spent by the look of things — so flushed and sweaty that I can pick out individual beads across his forehead in the light. His hair is frazzled and the air around him drips with fatigue — it’s exhausting to even see him — but his gaze… seems out of place, considering his otherwise exhausted appearance.

Determination.

It’s weak, but it’s there. And it’s growing.

And before I have a mind to ask if something is wrong, my eyes go wide as I’m racked with surprise, and my entire body stiffens as I feel him grab my flanks and thrust into me again. Solid, too — enough to send a sudden, pleasant jolt up to my core and tease the simmering heat residing there. Even the thoughtless grunt that follows is delayed, like it can hardly believe that this is happening either.

He had his fun. He’s already finished. He shouldn’t be up and ready to go for a second round. Not so… so soon, at least. It’s just plain and simple biology.

But here he is, rocking his hips and pumping away.

And here I am, not doing anything to stop him, and finding it increasingly more difficult not to make a sound that isn’t a guttural, delighted groan, or to allow myself to rock with him, or to keep my eyes from fluttering closed.

Everything that comes out of me sounds choked and sputtered, like they’re all half-baked thoughts and I’m just babbling to fill the silence. And in a way, I guess that’s pretty accurate. But eventually, I decide that, yes, although this isn’t how these kinds of engagements are supposed to go — once again, from what little I’ve heard and cared to hear — it is, undoubtedly, gratifying. And if it ultimately leads to that final release I’ve been quietly pining for, then so much the better.

I shut my eyes and loosen up my joints, and I try to move in harmony with him, but the second I try raising my own hips, a sharp pang springs up from my thigh and I force myself to stifle a yelp; he doesn’t need to think he’s hurting me. I’m just cramping up — a sign that I might actually have overdone it, or we’ve been doing this for much longer than I thought we had. Either or, really, and in any case, I heave a low, aching growl and bow forward at an angle, pressing my forehead into the pillow beside him.

A hand on my flank returns to my withers and pulls me closer, chest to chest, pinning my forelegs underneath my barrel. And still, he dives in, again and again, building a steady pace as the sodden, squelching slap of our nethers fills the air.

Stars, he’s really giving it his all, and I find my muzzle scrunching up as I attempt to hold back a relieved moan, and fail. Fires rage in my cheeks and ears, and dance along my withers and down my spine, all the way to my croup, and hiking tail, and everything in that general area. And although I can’t offer the same level of involvement, I shift my weight to favour a side and hoist my rear up to grant him better access.

He doesn’t waste time, pausing for a moment to shimmy in place, bringing his feet in and sticking his knees up into the air, with the added benefit of suspending his hips. And then, after turning his head to kiss me on the cheek, and leaving it there for whenever he wants to give me a peck, he strengthens his grip and hammers into me, harder and faster, practically in a frenzy.

I whimper, burying my face in quilted fabric to dull the sound and squirming in his grasp, too restless to just sit tight and take it, even though it’s all I can do at this point. And the whimpering grows higher-pitched and more frantic the longer he continues, and my forelegs edge out from beneath my own weight and clutch at his shoulders, and my rear hooves grind into the blanket.

This is too much, and I feel the pressure inside me mounting like leaden weights — a tension that can only be settled one way and one way only; I need more of this — of him — and now isn’t the time to be shy about how badly, how desperately I want that release.

“Don’t stop,” I huskily whisper, panting into the pillow. “Don’t stop, please. I’m almost there. Just a bit more. Just… a bit… more.”

He kisses me again, this time on the muzzle, huffing through his nose.

I turn and kiss him back, good and proper, sharing his humid, pungent, laboured breath, tipped with a hint of vanilla. But my kiss is weaker. Distracted. Short-lived. Not done with all my heart, as much as I want it to be, because I’m teetering on a knife’s edge, and if one more thing happens that…

And then I feel it.

The hand on my withers meanders a little lower.

Its fingers travel between my wings.

And then…

…They dig in.

And swirl.

Piercing warmth, rolling over me like an ocean swell smashing against the rocks, like molten lava through the veins, spreading everywhere, radiating heat. It shoots up my wings, my neck, my legs, stiffening them all, down to my stomach and core, and especially my winking nethers and the passage inside, which feels engulfed in flames and quivers and twitches violently. And deeper within, a rumbling comes, weakening my haunches and making them wobble like jelly.

And then it all comes crashing down, and I bury my face into the pillow as I scream my heart out, a violent, penetrating spasm clutching at my insides with iron claws and holding fast. My hindlegs widen and lock, shaky, but strong. And then, from a shuddering, convulsing, boiling interior…

Fluid.

Hot, sticky, and lots of it. Trickling, streaming, gushing out in spurts, dribbling onto is groin, his stomach, glazing his length, lathered against my rump and entrance with the sopping wet and meaty smack of skin and flesh. And every time we connect, more juices flow, and a dull, painful, pleasurable twinge shoots up and into my core and withers, stealing my breath and forcing me to squeak out a grunt.

The world dissolves, all but for the places I touch — my snout and hooves in the fabric, his body against mine, the sensitive and satisfying ache as he drives into me even now; weakening, but he hasn’t stopped. And the sounds — oh, the sounds… To hear him pant into my ear, and the soft, sharp squelch, and my own stuttered, stammered breathing…

I’m in heaven.

I have to be.

Nothing worldly could possibly feels this good.

…But I know that’s a lie: there’s something even better.

Him.

Being there for him, spending time with him. Relishing every moment with him.

I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

The wonderful, blissful crash of ecstasy subsides, fizzling out in warm, fuzzy, tingling ripples. Fluid still spills out of me, and the passage within me still quivers, but they’ve lessened now — grown less intense. Less filling. Less distracting. And the trembling, undeniable ache in my flanks makes itself known.

My hindlegs collapse and I flop on top of him, hips colliding with an audible, weighty thwack that makes us gasp and grunt at once, before we both go limp and ride out the last few waves of utter and addictive delight. My wings flitter, lowering a little way, and my thighs twitch and spasm, and so does the passage in which he’s still embedded.

But he doesn’t thrust anymore. No, we’re both too tired for that.

So, we lie, and we wait, and we catch our collective breath.

And…

…I come to a realisation, and I smile.

He hadn’t been trying to push for a second round.

He was just trying to get me off.

And he succeeded.

We succeeded.

We…

…

…

…

…

…

…Oh my stars.

We did it.

Goodness gracious, we actually…

I mean, I can’t believe we…

Did we really just…?

…

…

…

…

…

Yes.

Yes, we did.

And… I’m happy.

No, I’m better than happy: I’m glad we did it. And it was fun. Fun and exciting and thrilling and exhilarating and good. Better than I ever imagined it could be. And now I’m starting to think that, maybe, it really is a shame that I can’t remember how we got into bed on his birthday, if these are the kinds of memories I’d have. An inappropriate thought, certainly, but… stars, I can’t help myself.

We did it. And I’m proud to admit that. For the time being, at least. I’m sure it’ll come back to bite me in the ass somewhere down the road, but my ass is too sore right now to care all that much, and a quiet, breathless chuckle flutters up from deep within me.

And slowly, he begins to chuckle as well.

It’s an odd feeling, having his torso bounce beneath mine, but it’s welcome — exactly the kind of awkwardness I need after coming down from a drunken high like that. And it’s good to know that he feels the same way, and we’re both finding some joy in all of this, because it is joyful. I enjoyed it, he enjoyed it; merciful Sisters, we enjoyed each other.

My chuckle becomes a giggle.

His becomes a laugh.

I don’t know what makes this situation so funny. Perhaps it’s disbelief, and we’re trying to cope with the shock of it all. Or maybe we’re letting off some extra steam, unwinding our nerves the only way we can think of. But whatever the case, I gradually find the strength through our mirth to bring a hoof to either of his shoulders and, strenuously, lift myself up.

Cool air sweeps in to fill the space, and I also realise how sweaty we are — what a humid environment we create with my fur against his skin. How long I’d been lying there, I can’t rightly say, but the change in elevation leaves me a little lightheaded. Nevertheless, I soldier on, tittering all the way as I ascend, sitting upright, then open my eyes to halfway as the laughter fades, peering down at him with a small, tiddly, open-mouthed grin.

He meets my gaze, and wears a similar expression.

And we stay there like that for a good, long while, watching each other, taking the other in as our breathing slowly returns to normal.

His hand reaches up, lax and gentle.

I bow my head slightly forward and press my cheek into it.

His grin widens.

So does mine.

And he keeps his eyes locked with mine as his hand begins to wander, tenderly stroking and exploring, treading paths it’s travelled a hundred times over; scratching behind my ear, caressing down my neck, kneading my shoulder and withers, and further and further still.

I purr at the attention, steadily rolling my head and upper body to give him all the help he needs; I like that, I say without saying anything, and I definitely wouldn’t mind more of it. Better still if he finds a muscle he could massage.

And then it comes to rest on my flank.

I linger on him, maintaining my smile, then slowly look down at it. And from there, it doesn’t take much for my gaze to drift idly for the point between my thighs.

And then I stop smiling, and my eyes faintly widen.

He’s still inside me. And I’m still winking.

Granted, he isn’t as… rigid as before, but…

I look up at him.

He looks up at me, having seen the same sight.

Together, we stare. And there’s stillness. And there’s silence.

And then, slowly, very slowly, and oh so tenderly…

…I rock my hips.

His breath hitches, and the other hand grabs my other flank.

My forehooves lower from his shoulders to his chest, gaining more support and I grind my hips again.

Within me, he twitches, and I feel him growing stiff again.

We aren’t done yet. We still have more of ourselves to share. And together, by the dim light of his bedroom lamp and whatever pours in from the living room beyond, breathing in the musk and sweat with heavy, heated breaths, holding each other’s awestruck gaze and for the second time tonight… we gently build our pace back up.