Used Books and Vinyl

by GaPJaxie

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Romance, Moondancer, DJ P0N-3
Length: 5525

The unlikely romance of Moondancer and Vinyl Scratch.

The unlikely romance of Moondancer and Vinyl Scratch.

A Jinglemas story for axxuy.

Published 2019-12-23 00:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2019-12-23 00:10:01 UTC

Chapter 1

The greatest of magical treasures were invariably guarded; some by lock and key, some by guard and ward, but the greatest of all, the oldest, the cleverest, needed no such artificial protection. They built their own aegis, pulled others into their orbit. Around them were raised temples, overgrown with wild things, monsters and beasts of all varieties were called to them, nesting in their aura and awaiting the unworthy explorer.

Many such creatures had Moondancer faced, on her journey to that temple which honored the lost arts. First were the Thrashers, the New Wave, the Post-Punks, those ponies who had surrendered their souls for eternal youth nestled in the power of the Riot. On their boards they circled her, calling, jeering, but they were harmless so long as one did not show fear, and they could not follow onto the carpet, or any surface which did not permit their skateboards.

Such a kindness could not be spoken about their brethren, who lived further inside the temple. Those creatures of the Glam, of bubblegum, of goth and grunge and hardcore. The monsters that wore leather, and carried spikes, and that surrounded themselves at all times with an impenetrable miasma of smoke. Cannabis, tobacco, and vape pens had been the downfall of many an explorer, who inhaled the fumes and became lost, never to return to the civilized world.

But Moondancer knew her way. Wet cloth held over her muzzle, dark sunglasses hiding her eyes, she navigated her way through the beastly hoard. Into the temple. Into the back.

Where it was quiet. Where the shop kept the used magic books.

On one particular day in spring, she was there because she heard rumor of a copy of Telekinesis: The Subtle Art. Who would write a book on telekinesis? One would do as well to write a book instructing grown unicorns how to walk, and so it had not sold well, and had quickly fallen out of print. And yet, every scholar who had a copy raved of the sublime character of its writing and the incisive nature of its insights, and refused to part with it for any price.

Moondancer had to have it. At the top of the spiral stair in the back of the shop, where there were long wooden shelves full of dusty books arranged in no particular order, she searched. By magic, she rearranged the shelves to alphabetical order by author, leaving the store nicer than she had found it. And there she saw.

Telekinesis: The Subtle Art, Revised Edition.

It was all there was to find, and after another hour of searching, she relented and marched back down the stairs. The monsters at the front of the shop were agitated by something. The cloud of smoke around them swirled with the motion. Discs were being played and scratched, things were being signed, and a circle had formed, no doubt of some ritual nature.

Moondancer paid for the book, declined the offer of a bag. She didn’t need a bag to carry one book home. Floating it beside her would be fine.

The crowd she had passed through on the way in was tighter on the way out. Ponies were packed shoulder to shoulder. No longer was a gentle nudge sufficient to pass through the mob. She had to shove, then shove harder, push and bump and poke with her horn. Finally when two alternative ponies blocked her way, she had to apply her shoulder. Each of the pair had extra heads and six limbs, to show their true opposition to conformity, and they dug all twelve of their hooves into the carpet. But she wedged between them, and with that leverage, applied her two strong hind legs.

With a yelp, she surged forward, popping out of the mob of ponies like a cork from a champagne bottle. She was in the middle of the circle, facing the object of these beast’s ritual desires.

It was a unicorn. She was a unicorn. A unicorn with the right number of limbs, with no tattoos or piercings, who didn’t dress in leather, and whose hair was a perfectly reasonable electric blue instead of some garish dyed shade. Bright purple sunglasses hid her eyes, to match Moondancer’s own.

The mysterious mare turned at the sudden interruption, facing Moondancer. She had a pen floating beside her, and it took Moondancer a moment to realize she was giving autographs.

“Oh, hi,” Moondancer said, her mouth suddenly dry. “Um. Are you somepony famous?”

The blue-haired mare levitated away Moondancer’s book. Her grip was powerful, the touch of her magic dispelling Moondancer’s telekinesis with no more than a casual touch. “Oh, no, wait,” Moondancer said, tension rising in her voice. “I don’t need an autograph. Really. I was on my way out. Please, give that back.”

The mare did not give it back, but instead tucked it into her saddlebags. And from those same bags she produced a worn, dog-eared book, which she held in front of Moondancer.

Telekinesis: The Subtle Art

No “Revised Edition.” First edition. Read hundreds of times, by the look of it.

“Oh, um…” Moondancer bit her lip. “Wow, that’s uh… do you… I mean, are you suggesting we trade?” She laughed. “Because, I don’t, I mean. I heard the revised edition isn’t as good. I wouldn’t want to…”

The mare with the blue mane opened the front cover of her book, signed it, and then handed it to Moondancer. She nodded, once.

“Oh, um… thank you.” Moondancer laughed. “Thank you! That’s actually really nice.”

The blue-haired mare nodded again. Then she turned to another pony who wanted an autograph, and the conversation, such as they had one, ended. Moondancer made her way out.

“Oh feather me,” called a pack of Thrashers as she passed. They circled her on their boards, sniffing for blood, for fear, for signs of artistic conformity. “Sweater mare met DJ Pon 3.”

“Who’s DJ Pon 3?” she asked.

“She’s the once in a generation artistic genius who just signed your book, dummy!”

Moondancer cracked open the cover, but she didn’t see anything about a DJ. Instead, in flowing cursive script, she saw a name: Vinyl Scratch.

Then below it, an address and a time. “I’m giving a show,” read the elegant lettering. “Swing by backstage if you like.”

She signed it with a heart.

Moondancer didn’t like alternative. She didn’t like thrash, post-punk, new wave, punk, steampunk, glam, grunge, goth, or hardcore. She didn’t like rock. She didn’t like metal, death metal, or heavy metal. She didn’t like any music you had to be on drugs to fully enjoy, and didn’t like any music that was better when it was played very loud.

She didn’t like Vinyl’s music. Even backstage, even with the perfect acoustics, even seeing the crowd go mad every time Vinyl so much as glanced in their direction, she couldn’t get into the spirit of things.

And frankly, she thought the show used too many smoke pots and lasers.

She’d gone because she was curious, and she’d stayed to be polite, and when the show ended and the crowd roared, she resolved she’d say hello and then head out. Vinyl waved one last time, then marched backstage, pushing through the curtain. Her crew was around her at once to celebrate, fluffing her ego, telling her how well she landed, telling her the club would be happy to rebook her for a second night.

She shrugged, slipped her iconic earphones off her ears and onto her neck, and then marched over to the center of the backstage floor, where Moondancer stood alone.

“Oh, um, hey,” Moondancer said. “That was um… nice.”

Vinyl tilted her head to one side. Her wide-rimmed sunglasses hid her expression above the muzzle, and below her muzzle, she smiled faintly. But so far as Moondancer had seen, Vinyl always smiled faintly. No other expressions had been definitively observed.

But the head tilt, she thought that meant something.

“Oh, sorry.” She laughed. “I don’t mean nice like, nice, like, the crowd loved it. It was good! I’m sure it was good. But it’s not my thing. It’s kind of grating and loud and… you know. My ears hurt.” She pointed at the exit behind her. “I’m just gonna go.”

Vinyl considered that in silence, then pointed at another door labeled “Exit.” One at the top of a flight of stairs, instead of on the ground.

“I should use that one?” Moondancer asked, and Vinyl nodded. “Um… I came in the other way. I mean, I know that exit is fine, it, um…”

The weight of those impenetrable purple glasses, the pressure of the soft smile below them, it wore down her defenses, which were already weakened by auditory bombardment. Too quickly, she said, “Alright,” and took a stumbling step towards the alternative door.

Vinyl followed her, up the steps, through the exit, and out onto the club roof.

When the door shut behind them, the silence was so powerful, so sudden, so different after the pounding heat of the club below, that Moondancer actually shivered. It was spring, and the air was warm, but she found she had adapted to the noise, and her body resented its absence. The roof, she realized, had once been a garden of some kind, but the club evidently made no use of the space. The garden boxes were abandoned or overgrown with weeds, the railing at the roof’s edge dirty and rusted.

But there were benches, facing Canterlot, places to watch the city at night. Vinyl pointed at one with her muzzle, and Moondancer sat.

“So, do you ever talk?” Moondancer asked, as they both looked out towards Canterlot palace. It sparkled in the nighttime, lit not by garish electric lamps, but by the subtle and natural glow of fireflies.

Vinyl pointed at her throat with a hoof, and shook her head.

“Oh. You’re mute?” Moondancer asked, eliciting a nod. “Right. I probably should have figured that out by now. Sorry.”

A long silence passed between them. Moondancer scrunched her legs up around herself. When the stillness grew too much for her, she spoke again. “So what do you want to talk about? I mean… not talk. I don’t know. Is that offensive?”

Vinyl Scratch tapped her chin with a hoof. Then, she pulled her headphones from her head. With a single spell, she disassembled them into their component parts, holding them in front of Moondancer like an engineer’s exploded diagram. Then they came back together, just as quickly.

“Oh, right,” Moondancer said. “The book! That’s what you wanted to talk about, right?”

Vinyl nodded.

“Well, of course. Duh. I should have realized.” Moondanger laughed. “Oh, sorry. I jumped to conclusions. You know? I’m not that into alternative music, and I thought I had to be nice, and, you know. Sorry. Totally misread that situation.” Vinyl nodded once, which she took as a sign to go on. “It’s really good. Thank you so much for trading books with me. I feel like I’ve been doing magic wrong my whole life.”

With the tip of a hoof, Vinyl pointed at her horn. Then, she perked her ears, just a little.

“Oh, you mean…” Moondancer hesitated. “Why… all, magic? Instead of just telekinesis?”

Vinyl nodded.

“Well, actually, in practice, most unicorn magic is derived from telekinesis, because we learn the telekinetic forms first. It’s not explained that way in most textbooks, but flaws in a unicorn’s telekinetic technique are strongly correlated with diminished performance in other magical fields. Now I know what you’re going to say—” Vinyl said nothing. “—correlation vs causation. Obviously the unicorns with less magical potential have flawed telekinesis, so it’s not causal. But that’s actually not true. I’ve got a great paper in my saddlebags about remedial education in adult unicorns that shows improvement in telekinetic forms is strongly correlated with improvements in both cutie-mark and learned magical abilities. Oh, let me find it.”

She fished through her saddlebags, and Vinyl continued to softly smile. They spent hours like that. Moondancer talked about magical theory, about mathematics, about architecture and spells, about history and the causes of the Seven Years War with the Griffons, and about why that war was still relevant even though it happened five-hundred years ago.

Vinyl only smiled and nodded. Sometimes, she perked her ears, or tilted her head, or pointed at something with a hoof. But, not much. Only enough to keep Moondancer going.

They were in the middle of an improvised lecture on the origin of spirits when the deep chime of a gong echoed across Canterlot. A flock of bats rose from Canterlot palace; bats who were also ponies. They rose from their posts, and other bats took their place, the whole of the army rising in a manner that had no leader, but that was tightly coordinated. A flock, taking to the air.

“Is that the… changing of the guard?” Moondancer squinted. Then, she looked at the sky. “Oh my gosh, it’s midnight. I didn’t realize how long we’d been here.”

Vinyl shrugged, then got up from the bench.

“Right, right, of course.” Moondancer rose as well. “We should um… we should go. I guess?”

A moment of silence passed between them. Then Vinyl leaned over, and nuzzled Moondancer, nose to nose.

“Oh.” A hot blush spread through Moondancer, starting with the tip of her nose and sliding down across the rest of her body. Her hooves scrunched tighter together, and her tail tucked between her legs. “Sorry, I mean, um. Sorry. But I don’t think I’m that kind of mare. I mean. I don’t kiss on the first date.”

It was true, insofar that she had never kissed on any date.

Vinyl shrugged.

“I mean, you’re not mad?” She stared into Vinyl’s glasses, cursing her lack of an expression. “I mean, of course you’re not mad. I mean, you’re not, right? You’re fine if I just want to go home now.”

After a moment, Vinyl nodded.

“Good. Good. I mean, I’m not saying I do, exactly.” Moondancer sped up. “It’s just a lot to, you know. I mean. You get it, right?”

There was no immediate answer. But when the silence grew too long, Vinyl reached out and put a hoof on Moondancer’s shoulder. She pointed at her with a muzzle.

“You’re um… you’re saying it’s my call, right?” No answer was forthcoming, and Moondancer forged ahead without one. “I mean, of course it’s my call. Sorry. I’m really anxious.” Again, she was left to act. “Look, I… don’t. Kiss. On the first date. I don’t. But if you want to keep hanging out, that would be okay.”

Vinyl nodded, jerked her head towards the stairs leading down to the ground floor.

“Oh. Great.” Moondancer followed in her wake. “Where are we going? It’s not a club, is it? I hate clubs. I mean, not this club. This club was nice. But clubs in general.”

They went back to Vinyl’s apartment in downtown Canterlot. It was tasteful, upscale, good view of the mountain, and she had a proper library all her own. Moondancer gushed over her collection of obscure and out of print books, and Vinyl fixed them each a drink.

A bit past 1 AM, Moondancer slid back into Vinyl’s embrace. “I’m sorry,” she said, “this is wonderful, really. But I… I can’t.” No response was forthcoming, and she felt compelled to go on. “It’s not that, like, you know, I’m a prude. I’m sure you’re great. Really. This has been great. But I’ve never…”

She laughed. “I’ve never been kissed, so. You know. This probably isn’t the best—”

Vinyl kissed her. On the lips, close and hot and passionate, the same strong grip that had stolen Moondancer’s book pulling the two of them together. And when the time came that they did pull apart, it was Vinyl that stepped away first.

“Oh,” Moondancer said. “I don’t…” She looked at her hooves. “I don’t really know how this works.”

And on that warm spring night, Vinyl showed her.

Spring turned to summer, summer turned to autumn, and Moondancer fell in love.

She and Vinyl had a routine. Moondancer would receive a bouquet of flowers, or a good book, or some other small gift, and within it would be tucked a card. Upon that card would be the time and location of a show, where the staff knew that Moondancer had a backstage pass. Sometimes, she’d put in earplugs and read until the show was over. Sometimes, she’d actually listen, and she even started to appreciate some of Vinyl’s less intense songs.

When the show was over, they’d run away together into the night, and Vinyl would guide her to some exotic locale. They went to the secret places of the Night Guard, to magical libraries that could only be accessed under moonlight, to places of strange magic or esoteric learning. Once, Vinyl brought a picnic basket, and they went down into the Caves of Canterlot to admire the crystals.

In that picnic basket was exactly three things, for that was the next part of their custom: a weak apple martini for Moondancer, three shots of straight vodka for Vinyl, and a blanket for them to lie on when they made love.

Whenever she saw Vinyl, Moondancer learned things. She learned things about magic, about the world, about herself, things that a virgin mare does not know.

When morning came, Moondancer awoke alone. Vinyl was an early riser. But she always left something, as a token of her affection.

Moondancer even started to like the creatures that followed in Vinyl’s wake. One of the ponies with six legs and two heads was actually a quite gifted wizard, with a love of spell theory exceeded only by his love of tearing down the wall of fascist lies that was society. A few of the Thrashers told her she was cool, and that made her blush.

As winter came, Moondancer was thinking of how best to raise the question of Hearth’s Warming. Vinyl had no shows then, she knew, but they could hardly spend the holiday apart. Would it be better to spend it together at her place? Or at Vinyl’s? Or perhaps, dare she hope, they’d take a trip together to somewhere exotic?

It was all going so well. Until her trip to Ponyville.

“Oh my gosh,” Twilight said, “you’re seeing Vinyl Scratch? That’s great! Moondancer, congratulations.”

“I know.” Moondancer blushed, taking another one of the cookies that Spike had made. “She’s so amazing. I’m so lucky.”

Twilight held her cup down so Spike could refill her tea. “Are you going to visit her while you’re here?”

“Huh?” Moondancer paused.

“Oh.” Twilight hesitated in turn. “I just meant, while you’re in Ponyville. I was wondering if you were going to see her.”

“She’s not doing any shows here. Is she?”

“No.” Twilight hesitated. “She lives here. She only goes to Canterlot to do performances.”

“That can’t be right,” Moondancer said, shaking her head more firmly than was strictly required. “I’ve seen her apartment. It’s in Canterlot.”

“I think she has an apartment in every city she does regular gigs in. Octavia told me once that Vinyl’s record label pays for it, or something.”

“Oh.” Moondancer looked down at the floor. Then she shrugged. “Well. I guess she never mentioned that. I thought she lived in Canterlot.”

“Well, you know. She does do a lot of shows there.” Twilight’s moved quickly, waving the matter away with a hoof as though she was swatting a fly. “So, how did you two meet?”

“Oh, in a bookstore.” Moondancer lifted her head, and some energy returned to her words. “She slipped me a note and we went to see one of her shows. Ended up hanging out after. She was so sweet.” She hid her smile with a hoof. “And a great listener, you know? I mean, I know. Ha ha, she’s mute. But really. She has this great way of showing she cares.”

“Aww, that’s cute.” Twilight smiled in turn. “‘Met in a bookstore’ is a pretty good first-date story.”

“Yeah, I was…” A bit of a blush appeared on her face. “You know.”

“I know.” Twilight’s words were warm, and she dipped a cookie in her tea. “What was your second date?”

“Oh, um. Just kind of the same. Did a show, hung out after.”

“Hey, don’t knock a good thing.” Twilight pointed, and they both laughed a little. “Third date?”

“Um.” Moondancer cleared her throat. “Did a show. Hung out after.”

“Ah.” Twilight said. That was it. She didn’t elaborate.

“I mean, it’s not like that,” Moondancer laughed again, stiffer than before. “I mean, gosh, sorry, I’m not explaining this well. She’s really romantic. She does something special every time.”

“Oh, I’m sure. You don’t have to explain anything to—”

“Like, flowers or trips to the caverns or… books. You know. Good books. She’s got great taste. And yeah, we mostly hang out after shows, but…” Moondancer paused a moment. “I mean, probably because she doesn’t live in Canterlot. Right? So she’s only around when she does a show. That’s why that’s the only time we see each other.”

“Moondancer, you—”

“I’m not a groupie,” she blurted out.

Twilight stared for a long moment. Then Moondancer asked, “Right?”

Twilight gave her Vinyl’s address in Ponyville. It had no monstrous horde protecting it, no concrete for skateboards, no Thrashers, no cloud of smoke or altars raised to the Glam. It was a quaint little cottage, just up the way from Sugarcube Corner.

Moondancer knocked so hard the door rattled in its hinges. The only way for her to knock harder would have been to turn around and kick it with her hind legs. “Vinyl!” she shouted.

When the door opened, it was not Vinyl Scratch, but some mare she did not know. A grey earth pony with an exotic black mane, adorned with a bow-tie. “Excuse me,” she snapped, her voice so prim and proper. “But who are you and why are you so rudely knocking on my door?”

“I’m here to see Vinyl,” Moondancer said, summoning up all the bluster she could manage. “Where is she?”

“Vinyl is in Manehattan this week.” The mare turned her nose up at Moondancer, as though dirtied by her presence. “And you haven’t answered my question.”

“You answer my questions first!” Moondancer demanded. Her voice was shaking. “Who are you and why are you living in Vinyl’s house?”

“I’m her roommate you lunatic,” the mare snapped.

“Vinyl has enough money to have like, six apartments.” Moondancer sneered. “Why does she need a roommate?”

“Excuse me,” the mare in the door lowered herself to Moondancer’s level, challenging her with the strength in her eyes and the snap snap of her words, “but what business is that of yours?”

She pointed at herself. “I’m Moondancer.”

And the grey mare said. “Who?”

Moondancer froze on the spot. Her shaking legs went still, and her sneering muzzle went slack. She blushed, not in heat, not in embarrassment, not from a flush that spread from hoof to tail, but like she’d been slapped. What was a blush but a red mark that appeared on her cheeks, left in the wake of a blow?

“You’re Vinyl Scratch’s roommate,” she checked, “and in the last six months, she’s never mentioned anypony named Moondancer?”

“I don’t think it’s your business what Vinyl and I discuss in the privacy of our own home.”

“Our home?” Moondancer repeated. Then she looked at the mare. At her exotic hair, kept long and elegant. At her full tail, her wide hips, her striking purple eyes and aristocratic bearing. She could be a model, except that she would never lower herself to be beautiful for the commoners.

And her cutie mark. She was a musician. Beautiful, well-spoken, rich, talented. And she shared a home with Vinyl, who had never bothered to mention her.

“I see,” Moondancer said. “Well. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

Stiff, robotic in her motions, she turned away from Vinyl’s house and stumbled off into the streets of Ponyville. She did not know her way, and soon became lost. There was an alley behind Sugarcube Corner.

She hid there so nopony would see her cry.

Two weeks before Hearth’s Warming, Vinyl sent Moondancer a bouquet of red and white flowers. A card tucked into them said her last show of the year was tomorrow, and that it would wrap up around seven.

Moondancer didn’t go. She stayed at home, drank too much wine, and buried her nose in a book about the history of aluminum siding.

At seven-thirty, there was a knock at her door.

“How do you even know where I live?” Moondancer demanded. If her aggressive manner and uneven steps were not proof enough, the smell of cheap wine was pungent on her breath. “I didn’t know where you lived. Twilight had to tell me.”

Vinyl pointed at the stadium. Nodded, once.

“Of course.” Only then did it occur to her she’d before complained about the noise. “What? Did you check every single house around here? Bother my neighbors? Huh?” Vinyl shrugged.

“Well,” Moondancer continued, every word laced with vitriol, “forget it. I’m not interested in flying on an airship, or seeing the lost tower of so-and-so, or whatever other magical adventure you’ve cooked up to sweep me off my hooves.”

From her saddlebags, Vinyl produced a brochure. She passed it Moondancer’s way. It was for the Canterlot Hearth’s Warming Village. There was a little train that ran in circles, giant candy canes, a pegasus team that gave sleigh rides to all the little earth ponies and unicorns, and after dark, caroling.

“This is it?” she snapped. “This is where you wanted to take me?”

Vinyl nodded.

“Fine,” she said, then she glared at the ground. “Fine. I don’t know why I’m saying fine. But, fine. Fine I’ll go. Because Celestia knows I don’t know any better.” She swallowed hard. “You think I’m easy, don’t you? The mare who says she doesn’t kiss on the first date, then you give that smooth look, and next thing you know we’re in bed and my tail is so high it’s touching the ceiling.”

Vinyl did not answer. She put a hoof around Moondancer’s shoulder, lead her away from the house, and off into the streets of Canterlot. They walked together in silence, until the sounds of Hearth’s Warming Carols and sleigh bells tickled their ears.

The Hearth’s Warming season was all around them. In fact, the brochure had undersold it, though through no fault of the designer. What piece of paper could capture the smell of cinnamon cookies and nut bread in the air, or the sound of snow crunching under their hooves? What picture could capture the natural motion of foals at play, and the transcendent delight upon their faces at receiving the smallest of gifts?

With the tip of her hoof, Vinyl poked Moondancer’s shoulder. Then she pointed ahead, where a pegasus team wearing fake reindeer antlers were giving rides to foals. One of the fillies was loudly asking which of them was the real Dasher, explaining that Dasher was way cooler than the other reindeer.

“Why are you doing this?” Moondancer snapped. “I’ve been to Ponyville. I met your ‘roommate.’ And I don’t know if she’s your trophy wife or your trophy girlfriend, but either way, ten out of ten. She’s got great hips, really. You two must have crazy sex.”

Vinyl tilted her head to one side, then stepped away to a booth where a stallion with an ace-of-spades cutie mark was letting little children play poker for candy. She stole one of his extra deck of cards, and made no show of hearing his shouting as she walked away with it. From her bag, she produced an ink pen, and upon the Three of Clubs she wrote: I have never slept with Octavia. She is only a friend.

Vinyl’s writing was elaborate. Elegant. The same flowing script with which she had signed Moondancer’s book.

But, Moondancer rolled her eyes. “Yeah, sure. Even if that’s true? And it’s totally not true. But even if it’s true, it doesn’t matter. I thought I was your special somepony, and it turns out you haven’t mentioned me to her. Like I didn’t matter.”

From the deck, Vinyl produced the Ten of Diamonds, and upon it she wrote: Octavia and I don’t talk much.

Then, the Eight of Diamonds: I don’t talk to anypony much.

Slowly, Moondancer bit her lip. Her eyes flicked between the Eight of Diamonds and Vinyl. Then, upon the Jack of Hearts, Vinyl wrote: But I like listening.

Each card in turn was read and discarded. Moondancer tossed them away, letting them flutter down into the snow. “I…” She looked away, then let out a sharp breath. “Fine. Vinyl. Fine. Whatever. But even if you never… cheated on me. Or anything. We’re not… we’re not what I thought we were. Okay?”

Stalking off into the snow, Moondancer forced Vinyl to chase after her, talking as she went. “And maybe that’s not your fault. Maybe you didn’t mean to break my heart. But I thought we were something special. And I’m just now realizing, I don’t know anything about you. I didn’t know where you live. I don’t know what you when we’re not together. I didn’t even know what color your eyes were under those glasses until after we’d had sex.”

She let out a brief, barking laugh. “I guess seeing each other’s faces is something you save for marriage.”

Vinyl’s horn glowed. Slowly, she removed her glasses, tucking them into her saddlebags. Behind them, her eyes were a sharp red. They clashed with her mane.

Then, from the deck, she produced the Two of Hearts, and upon it she wrote: The only way I can express myself is in a language you don’t think is beautiful.

Card after card fell into the snow. Vinyl’s pen worked so quickly it tore the paper.

I know that you hate my music.

I can’t write like the authors you love.

We don’t have much in common.

But I wish we did.

Because I like the way you care.

About how everything works.

Not because it’s useful.

Or you’ll get something from it.

But because you want to know.

And because you like sharing.

I can’t share anything back.

So I try to be romantic.

I know I’m the first mare you’ve ever dated.

And I don’t know if it will work out.

Sometimes, relationships fail.

Even if everypony means well.

But I want you to have fond memories of us.

And me.

Maybe I’m being hormonal and stupid.

Maybe I picked you up because I liked your tail.

Maybe this is only a crush. I don’t know.

But I like it when you’re happy.

And I like it when I can make you happy.

And I’m sorry I made you cry.

When we met, I-

With a soft metallic twang, the tip of Vinyl’s pen broke. Ink splattered over the Ace of Hearts, black droplets sprinkling over Vinyl’s white coat. She stared at it for a time, her red eyes wide. Then, she grabbed her saddlebags and rifled through them. When that produced no results, she upended them over the snow.

An ink bottle fell out. A map of Canterlot. Some coins, a broken pencil, a spare set of glasses, her tail brush, and a hooffull of gemstones. They landed in the center of a swirl of playing cards, each covered in writing, each abandoned.

She didn’t have another pen.

From the back of her throat emerged a faint sound: a whine like broken bagpipes. And when she looked at Moondancer, her perpetual faint smile was gone. And in her eyes, in those red eyes, Moondancer saw something else.

And so she said, “Shhh. Shhh. Don’t show you’re scared now. No fear or the Thrashers will tear you apart.”

She put Vinyl’s glasses back over her eyes. She laughed, and then they both cried. Vinyl couldn’t cry properly. Water flowed from her eyes, rolling down her face and into the snow. But the sound that emerged from her throat was like a dying cat, when there was any sound at all.

“You’re pretty good,” Moondancer said, “at nodding when I talk. So I’m going to guess what you wanted to write on those cards. And nod if I get it right. Okay?” And it was done.

“When we met, you thought I was cute. But it grew into something more.” And Vinyl nodded.

“You’ve never had a real relationship either. You’ve brought mares to bed, but nothing serious.” And Vinyl nodded.

“You’re ashamed you’re mute. Because we can’t talk. Like a couple should. You can’t tell me how your day was. Or how you’re feeling.” And Vinyl nodded.

“I love you,” Moondancer said.

It was at that exact moment that a pegasus, carrying mistletoe, passed overhead.

Vinyl grabbed Moondancer by the shoulders, pulled her into a kiss, and spoke volumes without uttering a word.