Felicity

There were a lot of strange and inexplicable things that Flash Sentry found himself having to endure since waking up from his blackout. One of the oddest ones was an ever-increasing sensation—more like a gnawing habit—to simply... sit down somewhere and cry.

Flash Sentry had always prouded himself on being strong, resolute, and emotionally stable. That was nearly half-a-decade ago, however, when he was considerably more... manly, to put it lightly. True, in high school Flash wasn't quite as meatheaded as many of his fellow friends, and he certainly didn't deny himself a certain "softness" which he indulged in privately. Flash was always a romantic at heart, and he longed to someday be the supportive rock upon which another... far fairer person could depend on. He had long dreamed of someday becoming the perfect husband, holding his lover close and drying their tears with his patience and ever-loving kindness.

These days were much... much different. He didn't even have to be stressed out or traumatized or shouted at. On the drop of a dime—without much warning or cause—he'd simply feel the need to curl up in a ball and... weep. At first, he thought it was simply depression. But it occurred to Flash that he ultimately felt better after having himself "a good cry." Depressed people, for all Flash presumed, failed to feel anything. And for all of Flash's woes and all of his moping about, he still had some nebulous thing in the back of his mind to shake a fist at.

Only he couldn't. While Flash could manage to be bitchy, he simply failed at being mean... or aggressive... or outright angry. It was as if the tender softness that once hovered quiet and intimate and secret in the center of his being had spread to every extremity over four years of oozing unconsciousness. Now he was all feathers and fluff, as weak on the inside as he was on the outside. He had no strength or spine for shouting at the universe, so he settled for imploding inward instead. The result was that every bit of his essence—that which was sweet as well as that which was sour—was forcibly squeezed out in regular cycles. It was as if Flash's outer shell was too porous and gossamer-thin to hold any of the passions within, so he simply had to release... multiple times in a single week.

This worked well for when he was in bed... or in the shower... or locked up in the dark of his room—which he had conveniently arranged for himself as often as possible. Oftentimes, it would come without warning. He'd feel the pit forming in his throat. Then his eyes would inescapably tear up. And then the hiccups and the sobs would come and he'd have no recourse but to curl up into a tender little ball, hugging a pillow to his chest as he let the emotion melt its dauntless course through him. In a few minutes—very rarely an hour—he'd be spent, and a tiny flutter of energy would motivate him into the closest thing that resembled purpose. It very rarely happened in public—much less broad daylight.

Except—it was happening now. Out in the open. An open field, with the noon day sun creeping blindly overhead and catching his sobbing face at all angles.

He kept as quiet as he could, hoisting his hood over his head and face and tears and just... praying the cascade would complete itself. He lingered in this lonesome fight for far longer than he wanted to. For half an hour, he had sequestered himself away from the others, hoping to endure the tearful exorcism on his lonesome. On the southwest edge of the field—bordering a fenced-off intersection—there was the tiniest smattering of trees. Two trunks had fallen over at some point—likely due to a heavy thunderstorm that had blown through months ago. Cleanup crews had never gotten to clearing the debris, or perhaps the city simply didn't care. In any case, a smattering of overturned foliage allowed Flash a place to perch, partially obscured by the rest of the field, with a touch of shade above to keep sweat from mixing with the tears.

Flash loathed the lack of control he suffered in his life. He was powerless to gain back the years he had lost in the blackout... or the flesh and muscle that he had unwittingly sacrificed in the same span of time. All of his fuss and his angsty seclusion and his mopey day-long naps in the shadows of his bedroom were at least functions of agency—where he had very little other recourse to prove that he owned himself. There was—of course—the ever-prodding need to get a job or pursue a college education or start a career... but where he was uninspired, he was also weak.

After all... what good would he be in the adult world when he would inevitably break down at any random moment? Furthermore... how dependable could he be when his body and spirit were barely capable of staying upright much less supporting others?

Flash once was a man-in-the-making. He was bold... he was dashing... he was brave and charismatic and strong-willed. But now? He was hardly even one fourth of a man. If anything—at his best—Flash Sentry was a damned sissy.

Sunset and Twilight had done so very much for him—and were willing to lend so much more. But he never gave them the respect they deserved, because if he actually tried to make a difference, he was convinced he would fail them. The path he was taking—even if it was no path at all—felt like the better recourse. But it was hard to hold much faith in that notion when people like Scootaloo had gone through so much worse and still came out ahead of the curve. It felt veritably poisonous that the friends he once knew treated him with just as much love and support as they treated Scootaloo. What did Flash deserve, after all? What had he possibly earned after so many years of aimless waste and wankery?

Nothing. He had earned nothing—for he was nothing. After a collapse he didn't ask for, he inherited an existence he didn't understand. Save for one gleaming certainty: he was somehow convinced that—one way or another—his current state of being was ultimately his fault. And every time he tried to rationalize why, he loathed himself for trying to make excuses. He should have been angry; he should have been outraged. But instead, all he felt... was the need to cry.

And so he did. Helplessly and shamelessly. With Nietzsche knows how many women—young and old—witnessing the pathetic display from their distant soccer games. What a stupidly sad damper he was on a hapless crowd enjoying a beautiful day.

He truly... sincerely was a sissy. And like all good sissies, all he could do was hope and pray for someone—anyone—to come rescue him—

"Hey there, sweetie..."

Her voice was like honey to the ear drums.

The second thing Flash sensed was a spicy floral scent. Like lilacs sprinkled with cinammon. It made him gasp—and it wasn't from a choked sob for once.

Slowly, his head tilted upwards. He peered out from the veil of his hoodie, scanning the horizon for danger. Instead, the person he found turned out to be purely divine in every conceivable way.

She had light fuchsia skin: soft, bordering on bubblegum pink.

Her eyes contained a royal violet sheen, lively but not too bright. They added calmness and poise to her already-radiant face.

Her hair served a masterpiece all on its own: long and flowy and alternating in pristine bands of violet, pink, and gold. There was a shine to every thread, and from Flash's angle he could swear her bangs actually sparkled.

Her beauty was already quite otherworldly, but this hardly restrained the woman from indulging in a bevy of cosmetics. Her lipstick was full and glossy: a daringly darker shade of pink on top of her bright pastel complexion. She wore dark eyeshadow with enviably luscious lashes. Then—to top it all off—she wore a narrow shade of blue eyeshadow. At first, it wasn't clear what this accent was meant to highlight, until Flash noticed that her nails were painted the same ocean-colored hue. If he hadn't noticed this, Flash would have had no recourse but to think that the eyeshadow was somehow reflecting his predominant hair and eye tone.

For being so damnably gussied up, the woman was far from compensating for anything. Her beauty was clearly quite natural, and her exterior accessorizing merely extended it in a creative and playful way. She wore delightfully comfortable and casual fashion: a stone blue open jacket over a pink blouse with teal capris. She was undeniably shapely, slim yet curvaceous. And tall. She was a whole lot of woman, and Flash—even from his lofty angle—was already guessing she stood brazenly over ten feet. An average man would see her eye to eye. A boi like Flash could barely scale above her shoulders.

Or so he imagined... for in the scant few milliseconds in which his bedazzled eyes drank her in, he felt this accursed longing to float down towards her. It didn't help that when she spoke, it was with a remarkably mature and womany voice. A spark of youth still echoed between the ripples of her breath, but an innate wisdom and grace permeated throughout. This—more than anything—was how he knew that she wasn't just some painted hussy from the street, but an honest-to-Joan-of-Arc heroine of beauty and elegance.

Somewhere—in a million multiple alternate universes—an oceanic flood of Rarity's were fainting in overwhelming awe. Flash too felt like fainting, if only for the simple fact that he—or anyone for that matter—paled in comparison to her. And yet there she stood, felicitous and feminine, physically and soulfully embodying all of the colors of a little girl's toy aisle, and she bequeathed him—of all beings—with a patient smile that could cut diamonds and soothe hurricanes all at once.

And she still smelled really... amazingly good.

Just what had she even said to him in the first place?

A continental shift later, Flash's heart leapt to hear more words coming from her pink pearlescent lips: "Is everything okay?"

His voice locked up in his delicate throat. It wasn't that Flash refused to speak by proxy of some angsty mood; he simply didn't know any words that could measure against the mountain of majesty that hovered all about her, emanating from her, embodying her.

The woman—the goddess—was far from impatient. She gazed up at him with her hands humbly clasped together, a motherly smile haloing. Doting and cherishing and enlightening all at once. Flash's lofty position atop the fallen tree trunk afforded him a self-renewable sense of security, and she didn't even pretend to forcibly scale the ramparts of such.

"I do hope you forgive me," she purred, lacing the edges of his floundering heart with each syllable. "I was enjoying a calm stroll when I noticed you here." A slow exhale, and Flash realized there was more to her that smelled enchantingly fragrant than just the floral touch. "It looked like you were in distress. It wasn't my intent to intrude."

Flash felt himself trembling. He hugged his knees to his chest, struggling not to show it. He wanted to show something; he didn't want to disrespect this spontaneous manifestation of beauty. But—at the same time—even the slightest movement might lead him to imploded. With Twilight and Sunset, he had discovered ways to hide when the cry urge kicked in. This was no meager accomplishment, especially considering that one of his roommates was a telepath. But with this seraphim stranger...

...he could barely think, much less squeak forth a reply.

"It looks like you found a really cozy spot to sit down and reflect." She smiled, and his insides melted twice over. "I-I must say..." Her breath shook with a giggle, a youthful island in an ocean of voluptousness, and the boi could barely sit straight. "...I'm rather envious." She took her first bold step forward since announcing herself, gliding towards a perpendicular log on lady legs. Her manicured fingers pointed at the potential seat in question. "Do you mind if I sit here for a bit?"

She had posed a question that didn't entirely necessitate a vocal response. Flash had never felt more thankful for anything in his beleagured young life.

Sniffling, he shook his head.

Once more, there was no rush. Her words—her motions—were gentle as falling snow. Fluffy and pink. "I am not bothering you?"

He wiped his eyes with a dainty wrist. Again, he shook his head.

She exhaled through a smile, as if having endured some challenging labor. She sat demurely on the adjacent fallen tree, seated like a princess riding side-saddle. "Hmmmm..." She hummed, delighting in something. Was it life? The natural scent of the tree? The warmth of the noonday sun? She exhibited the confidence of a pink-bound tome that harbored countless secrets and the pages could spill out at any second. "...you can see the whole field from here. Every team competing against each other. Their parents and their families..."

Flash breathed easier and easier. Each inhale was filled with her floral greatness. Flash felt like he was in the perfume section of a department store. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine a garden of flowers blooming all around him.

Without knowing it, he had calmed considerably just by her being there.

"Funny how—sometimes—the only way to manage life is to do so along the margins," she said. Her hand brushed through her fountainous pastel hair. Her eyes were exposed more to the sun, glittering in all their rosiness. "There's absolutely no cowardice in it. The world is our arena, and there are many angles by which to appreciate all the finer details." She gazed up at him with a tranquil expression. "I've long chosen a place in the center—by both heart and profession—but from time to time... I must admit it's very nice to relax in the corner... to rediscover myself." Her hands folded politely in her lap. Even when inviting herself into his company, she had chosen a spot that was lower. Whether it was out of respect or something else, Flash was too stunned to tell. "We must never lose sight of ourselves... of looking out for ourselves. Before we can care for others, we have to be in a good place with the first friend we ever make. The lonely person in the mirror." A giggle. "Sounds silly when I put it that way, I know... but it's okay to laugh. Just as it's okay to cry."

Flash sniffled.

"That's right. It's okay," she said. Softly. Like a whisper—a whisper that Flash could hear at any spot in the world, even the most remote corners. "It's okay. Even if it doesn't make sense. There's a purpose to it—to everything." Her hands clasped together. "Why would we even be given such a gift if not to use it? It all comes together nicely when we need it to, don't you think?"

Flash sniffled. He felt another tear running down his cheer. He rubbed it away with a girly wrist—not thinking about it. Not thinking about anything.

Maybe—just perhaps—that was why he let slip the words without hesitation: "You smell nice~" It came out rather melodically, and he winced.

"Heeheehee!" Her own giggles cut off any chance that she might have noticed his grimacing expression. "Thank you~" Her melodic voice mirrored his, and she fluffed her bangs with elegant pride. "Midnight Meadows."

He blinked at her curiously.

"The name of the perfume. Yes—I like wearing it in the daytime. It throws people off—and what better thing to flabbergast people with than something that's pleasant?" She looked at her own wrist, then held it up and towards the boi with the fingers dangling, like a Queen might do in expectations of a knight's kiss. "Here. You may smell it if you like~"

Flash felt his heart pounding. There was the inkling of an ancient urge—to rebuff her friendly offer like all the kind words from Twilight and Sunset—but too much of him had melted at this point. The remnants of his angsty self flowed downstream, carrying his so-called "spine" with it, so that he leaned—nearly teetered—and hovered just a skin's lick away from her offered limb. Flash took a liberal inhale, and his insides were filled with lilac and cinammon. He felt the urge to weep, but performed an emergency pivot, translating it into a murmur:

"It sm-smells nice," he hummed.

"I would hope so~" She smiled. Proud. Pearly teeth. She brought her hand back down, clasping it back in her lap—sitting ever like a pink porcelain statue. "I always like smelling nice. Looking nice. Feeling nice. Is it vanity?" The subtlest of shrugs. "So long as it doesn't encroach upon what others desire or tolerate, then what harm is there in doing everything we can to feel good?"

Flash blinked at that.

"We all deserve to feel good. At any and all times. It's a battle worth fighting, and hills are meant to shine on... not die on." She exhaled slowly after that, as if having climbed such a mountain. Her gaze upon him was long, lingering, and thoughtful. At some point, she punctuated the expression with a thinning of her eyes. "Is that blue hair I see?"

Flash bit his lip.

"May I see more of it?" she asked in a sweet tone. "Only if you're okay with it, that is."

Flash fidgeted where he sat. He felt himself powerless. But it didn't happen suddenly. It was eons ago that the young man had sat himself on that lonesome tree. What purpose did such an ancient forebearer have? How much did such an age of isolation weigh against this blinding baptism of color?

His hand moved up and slowly lowered the hood.

She was gasping—even as his gesture was halfway complete. "Oh...!" Her hands clasped over her heart, but her smile was no less genuine. "How so very gorgeous! Like the ocean itself!"

Flash felt his breath leave him. If this was any other person, he'd hiss in scathing disgust at the very notion of such a compliment. But not here—not with this inexplicable nymph. Instead, he felt a euphoric toastiness bubbling up within his center. Flash's eyes watered, but not for the same reasons as earlier—

"I can already tell it must be incredibly manageable." The woman's cheeks flushed with something sincere and loving beyond the fuchsia veil. "Why, if I had hair like that, I'd grow it as long as possible." A slight giggle, and the blush intensified as she rolled her eyes. "I suppose you must forgive me. I have... something of a bias when it comes to the color blue." Another giggle, but she cleared her throat. "But I do mean it, sweetie. Your hair is wonderful." A solid breath. "And so are you."

A new pit formed in Flash's throat. He looked at her—eyes slick and disbelieving... about to slip into an insurmountable abyss of blinding possibilities. The pressure was just so much, and yet he felt light as a feather. It was like lingering upon the precipice of untold rapture. It scared and delighted him all at once.

Someone with divine intervention might have had the impulse to freeze the moment before it overwhelmed him. And—indeed—the woman in question turned towards the fields beyond.

"Oh goodness..." She slowly stood up from the lower trunk. Flash felt himself being peeled away—layer by layer—with the initial signs of her inevitable departure. "...I think I heard some of my students calling me. There's one last game left. Blast it. Well..." A motherly breath—along with an accompanying shrug. "...duty calls~"

Standing up, the woman brushed her ankle pants clean of tree bark and dust. It was obvious that a weight of obligation was tugging her back towards the soccer fields. Nevertheless, she fought gravity—if only for a second—to turn and gaze lovingly up at the boi one last time.

"I really enjoyed talking to you, my dear," she said—practically sang. "My name is Cadance~ I do hope we get to meet again sometime." With that said, she pressed a set of pretty fingers to her lips and blew the boi a kiss... and a playful wink. "Take care of yourself. You deserve no less."

And with a twirl of pastel colors...

...she was gone.

"Cadance," Flash exhaled, his heart throbbing to fill the cold space left in her absence.

She was a pink dot against the emerald horizon by now, and yet her fragrance remained.

"Cadance."

The warmth of her gaze and the melody in her voice as she addressed him from across the universe.

"Cadance."

Flash hugged his knees to his chest again. The urge to cry still remained.

But so did a very strange thing.

A smile.