Soarin Smells Sweetly

Three Horses Walk Into a Bar.

Yes, it's the setup to a bad joke.

It's also the name of the local bar.

Most ponies just call it 'Three Horses' for short.

Usually, if you say the whole name, you're just doing it for effect.

Trying to confuse somepony.

Soarin' floated in—floated, not walked, in a literal way, not having had anything to drink yet. Normally you'd expect a horde of groupies to crowd in around him, orbiting like backwashed particles in a clear glass. But this early, almost nopony else was comfortable enough with their liquored solitude to show their face. Only desperates and irreverents hobbled in at this hour, and usually hobbled out only when closing time rolled around at the end of the day.

For what it was worth, Soarin' didn't fly by with any plans to stay that long. Just passing by for a little pick-me-up before practice.

Soarin' approached the bar idly, as though he was more interested in inspecting the lacquer finish for nicks than ordering a drink. In accordance with the pantomime, the bartender seemed to pay him no attention, busying himself by polishing an already clean glass. The two ponies formed either half of a peculiar unspoken agreement, predicated on Soarin' being the first one to broach the subject of alcohol.

"Morning, Al," Soarin said.

"Morning," the bartender said back.

His full name was 'Pony Al'. Soarin had supposed aloud at some point in the past that he must be close or distant family to Pony Joe, but Al had flatly assured him there was no relation. 'Sometimes parents just get lazy', he'd said by way of explanation. Try as he might, Soarin couldn't picture a pair of parents so unconcerned with their child's overall well-being that they couldn't even bother to name him. It was like a foal, naming their pet 'kitty' or 'puppy', or 'reticulated stink beetle'. A function label on top of a theoretically infinitely more interesting subject.

"How's business?" Soarin asked. He leaned on the bar with his foreleg, prompting a raised eyebrow from Al as he did so.

"Fine," Al said back, his voice barely more than a grumble.

"That's good," Soarin said.

"Mhm."

If you listened very, very carefully... you still couldn't hear the sound of Al polishing the glass. A damp rag on glass doesn't make that much noise, you see, and given the acoustics of the bar...

Nevermind.

Soarin cleared his throat loudly and perfunctorally. He already had all the attention from the bartender he was going to get.

"Ahem," Soarin said quietly.

"Somethin' I can help you with?" Al asked.

"Well, now that you mention it," Soarin said, leaning even further over the bar "I just so happened to be in the neighbourhood and thought I might stop by for a, a pick-me-up before practice, if you catch my—"

Al had plunked a glass down and begun to pour before Soarin finished his sentence. Soarin's attention hung on the glass as it slid down the bar until it was only a few inches from his waiting hoof.

"The usual," Al said. He'd found something else to polish in the interim and was busying himself with it.

Soarin inspected the drink. It was bright orange and smelled of citrus and bad decisions.

He took a sip.

Tasted about the same.

Perfect.

Soarin took a few bits out of his saddlebag and laid them on the bar.

Al appraised the payment from a distance before setting down his rag and coming over to collect the bits. He counted them again between both hooves.

"Thanks," he said with an extra 'grunt' at the end for 'thank you'.

Soarin nodded. He took his drink between both hooves and turned around to look for a dark, unoccupied corner where he could enjoy his breakfast.

Given how unoccupied the bar was, it only took him a few seconds to spot an appropriate seat. But as he walked in a beeline to the small booth at the far end, barely lit by a single dingy, halfway malfunctioning bulb, Soarin smelled something far sweeter and more intense than the beverage in his hooves—indeed, more intense than any drink he'd ever had, even including the nefarious concoctions conjured up in his college days...

What was that smell?

As with appearances, Soarin told himself not to stare or sniff too pointedly. He wanted to find the source of that fragrance, yes, but if he got up and started snorking and sniffing around like an over-eager mule, there was a good chance he'd scare off whatever was contributing the flowery aroma to the normally drab bar-room palette of dusty seat-covers and greasy, overcooked food. Even with just a little smell, Soarin could feel the fragrance wrapping around his senses like a kraken's tentacles, gradually pulling him deeper in deeper into reverence for this new and indescribable scent. Soarin wasn't normally one for perfumes, colognes, anything that smelled too much aside from a fresh-baked apple pie... but this smell was even better than that, and possibly better than any pie Soarin could have ever imagined. It was pervasive, permanent and elusive simultaneously.

Whatever and wherever it was, Soarin wanted to find it.

"Ohmygosh. Is that... are you really... are you a Wonderbolt?"

It was at that point normally that Soarin would have grabbed the rest of his drink and dashed away with speed to rival a falling comet... but while he was intensely studying the fragments of perfume-like particles left in his nostrils, somehow his temper seemed subdued, the urgency of every action lessened just a little bit. Surely there was no reason to take off just from a fan, no doubt looking for an autograph? Soarin could use a little ego-stroking to start his day, along with the 'Orange Devil' he was only halfway through.

When he looked up from his table, the inside of Soarin's head lit up like an unchecked brush-fire.

Was the scent coming from him?

'Him', in this case being the fan standing only a few feet away from Soarin's table. Apparently they were uninterested in waiting for a response, and had instead decided to inspect the pony they were sure was famous up close, rather than from afar. Within a few feet, sure enough, their eyes lit up with that familiar 'star-struck' awe, their pupils widening as though they were deeply in love. Without waiting for an invitation, they ran the rest of the way to Soarin's table, practically jumping for joy on their way over.

Despite their speed, Soarin still had a chance to get a good look at them, including when they had mostly settled and relegated themselves simply to swaying from side to side on all fours like an excited foal, or perhaps one who was trying to hold in the need to go to the bathroom. For a reason he couldn't quite articulate, Soarin felt provoked to study this pony intensely, to try and capture every inch of their appearance and essence in his memory, as though he was sure it would remain important far into the future. But how to describe something so it would remain forever? Soarin didn't consider himself much of a writer, and as a matter of fact was barely capable of reading proper Equestrian on the best of days. Still, he had to give it a shot...

Well, they were orange. That was a start. The same shade as his drink, really. Heh. That was a bit of an odd coincidence, though...

An earth pony. That wasn't odd. Soarin had learned the Wonderbolts had fans in all genres of Equestria's occupants, including ponies who could only enjoy their daring feats of flight from afar. And since Three Horses was a grounded bar, really, anypony could have walked in if they wanted to.

Their cutie mark... an orange-and-white swirled candy, overtop a tropical oasis scene, a desert-island kind of bob, with a palm tree and the bright sun overtop, the blue sea at the bottom, and the sensation of a surfable wave just around the corner... Soarin wasn't sure he'd ever seen such a beautiful cutie mark in his life. He wondered, if he licked it, would it tasted even sweeter than his drink?

The pony's mane was the hardest colour to pinpoint, a kind of light blonde, that seemed to taper at times into strawberry, or lighter orange, or even a slight, damp grey... it seemed to shimmer, too, making it hard to pinpoint the specific value of any strand before it had wavered and flickered into a different one. Soarin could have stared into it all day, forgotten about his drink until the ice melted and the cup left that troublesome white ring on the table because he'd forgotten his coaster...

Hello. Hello.

Hello?

Oh. Somepony was speaking to him.

"Hello?"

Yes, it must be them. He'd better say something back.

"Oh."

That was a good start.

Soarin came back into his body all of a sudden. He knew he was holding his drink, and that the pony he'd been studying had gotten close enough to speak to him, and was now trying to do so. Where had he gone just then? Somewhere that smelled even more of oranges and sweet vanilla ice cream...

"Hello," Soarin said. Had he already had that much to drink? Maybe they'd started making them stronger since he'd come in, uh... yesterday.

"Oh my gosh. You're Soarin, aren't you? From the Wonderbolts?"

He was. It was, in all essence, what could traditionally be considered a 'stupid question'... but he didn't feel as snarky as he usually did. Where was the joy in poking fun at a fan's question? They weren't a teammate, no spunk in them to fire back with a quip of their own. Besides which, Soarin felt interested in answering questions, even if they remained simple.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm him... I mean, I'm me. Soarin, I mean."

Why did his head feel full of apple pie?

"Wow." The fan-pony who reminded him of a creamsicle seemed bashful, as though they were even to make eye contact with somepony so famous and important. They kept looking down at the ground and shuffling their hooves in the nonexistent dirt of the... well, okay, the bar floor was a little dirty, nothing dense enough that the hoof left—okay, fine, like lines in the dust, traced in little circles on the playground...

Soarin found himself staring into the circles, despite being otherwise utterly interested in the pony in front of him instead.

"It's an honor to meet you," they said.

Soarin's eyes followed their lips as they moved, intensely studying each little motion that comprised a single syllable's breath from their lungs.

Was it him, or did their breath smell of citrus and ice cream?

"No problem," Soarin said. "It's always nice to meet a fan."

"Wow," they said again. Nothing further. Just an oblique kind of staring, the sort of a young colt fascinated by somepony much bigger and stronger. An older folk to show them the ropes. Take a cute baby bird under your wing and nurse them until they're ready to fly in formation and follow your every word...

Soarin found himself salivating. He rubbed the spittle off his chin with his hoof absentmindedly, not finding himself to care overmuch whether or not the pony in front of him saw.

"Yeah," Soarin said, as though continuing a line of conversation that had gone on only in his head. "Just stopped by to say, uh, hi, before practice... me and the barkeep are old friends, you see..."

The creamsicle pony nodded, wide-eyed, awed and star-struck in entirety.

"Uh-huh," they said. "Hey... do you want me to buy you a drink?"

It's way too early for me to get tipsy, Soarin felt himself saying in his head. The words tried out in his voice didn't fit right, didn't sound like something he overly wanted to say. He waited for another supply from his internal script.

"Sure," he said, the word working its way around and out his tongue like a thick, tropical syrup. "I've still got a little while before I need to go."

If it was possible, the orange pony's eyes lit up even brighter. Soarin found himself staring without word or reason, just looking into the endless expanse that was somepony else's countenance, getting lost in every little furrow and crevice of their brow and jaw, finding himself more or less suddenly in understanding of how portraiture could provide such endless fascination to art-ponies throughout history...

"Great," the fan-pony said. They pushed up a little against Soarin, close enough he could feel their body, slightly warmer than his own. "What should I get you?"

"I'll have a... a..."

"A sunset sparkle?"

Something with orange and cream swirl. Sunfire liked to get it from time to time on their nights out. He remembered it, vaguely.

"Sure." That felt right too.

"Great. Why don't you grab a table and I'll be back in a second?"

"Okay," Soarin said. He sat down at a nearby table, much more well-lit than the one he'd previously occupied. Somehow, now, the illumination didn't bother him. He was happy to sit here all day, if it came down to it. What was the rush to do anything, to get to a practice that would be basically the same as yesterday's? He already knew how to fly, what was the point in practicing it so much... besides which, somepony—a fan, no less—was here to enjoy his company, was getting him a drink even... he felt like somepony in control of his dreams after years of fruitless practice, able to look down and study his hooves and remember the clock on the wall and the passages of books he'd had on his shelf but never read... altogether, to steer an invisible ship in a limitless, tumultuous sea.

Soarin's head felt fuzzy. He'd never been particularly good at fancy talking or flowery words. So why were there so many of them in his head all of a sudden?

The orange pony reappeared in the corner of Soarin's eye as though they'd been waiting for the perfect moment between his thoughts to pop up; like a waitress at a café who actually made sure you were finished swallowing your bite of food before asking you how your order was. Soarin moved his hoof—his hoof moved? Perhaps he was just observing it—to his head and scratched.

Nopony else was in there, right? Plunk, plunk. He tapped his skull a few times for good measure.

"Everything okay?"

They had a voice like afternoon schnapps and the bite of a pillow-case.

Huh?

"Oh." Soarin stopped bonking his own noggin and looked down at the drink somepony had gotten him. This pony. Thank you. Say thank you. "Thank you," he said. "It looks great."

The orange pony sat down across the small table, close enough that their hooves would have touched underneath if he hadn't kept them close to his seat.

Nevertheless, Soarin felt as though they had already started bonking their limbs against each other. Only inches separated them, Soarin could have reached across and run his hoof along the bright orange coat and up into the frazzled, shimmering mane...

"... by the way, in case you were wondering."

Soarin blinked several times. He hadn't started his drink yet, had he?

"Sorry? I uh... got distracted for a second. By work. Thinking about work."

"It must be tough having to practice so hard every day." The orange pony leaned forward, propping himself up on the table with his forelegs bent.

"Oh, it's really, uh... hard." Soarin blinked. He took a sip of his drink. It tasted like heaven. "What were you saying though? I feel like I missed it."

The orange pony giggled.

"I was just telling you my name, silly. In case you were wondering."

"Oh." Blink. Drink. A slow, contemplative swallow, savouring the taste as it ran down his throat. Mhmm. "What was your name, then?"

The orange pony leaned even closer over the table, close enough that the whisper which escaped his lips could be heard only between the two of them.

"Why don't you just call me... Orange Dream."

Soarin nodded, his pupils heavily dilated, his eyes staring forward but simultaneously nowhere in particular.

"Okay," he said. "Orange... Orange Dream. That's a... nice name."

Orange Dream giggled, high-pitched and playful.

"Thank you. Yours is pretty fantastic too... I couldn't think of a better name for one of the fastest ponies in Equestria. Maybe the fastest."

Soarin's face felt hot. He couldn't tell if it was from blush or his drink.

"Aw, shucks. Thanks. I don't think I'm all that, but..."

"Nonsense!" Orange Dream extended a hoof all the way, so that it laid overtop of Soarin's, the one not tending to his drink, and the two of them were touching, like that, the heat and electricity between their bodies all at once connected. "You're definitely the fastest member of the Wonderbolts... and the coolest."

Soarin chuckled. Geez, his face was warm.

All fine though, right? He had a drink, a good drink, better have another sip... and he wasn't late for anything. He was precisely where he wanted to be.

"I feel like I could use another drink," Soarin said, the words escaping his mouth before his head had fully parsed them.

Orange Dream's smile was as sweet and surreptitious as the drink he'd ordered.

"Well," he said, "I have a great liquor cabinet back at my place. I could make you tons of drinks, if you wanted to come back with me..."

Soarin was out of his seat, drink finished in a single swig before Orange Dream had even finished his sentence. The alcohol burned slightly against his lips and the back of his throat, but it was a good burn, the kind that made him feel alive, able to control and concentrate the soft sensation of pain like an early earth-pony wafting fire about with a piece of muddy stick...

"Yes," he said. "That sounds... that sounds great."

Orange Dream smiled even wider.

"Oh, yes," he said. "It does sound pretty great to me."

The two of them shared a chuckle, though Soarin wasn't really sure what they were laughing at.