The Little Things

by TamiyaGuy

Rating: teen
Tags: Suicide / Self Harm, Equestria Girls, Sunset Shimmer, Slice of Life, Wallflower Blush, Romance
Length: 3290

Sometimes, the most important things happen when nothing happens at all.

In the middle of the fray, that’s all you can focus on. That thing, that event, whatever it is, drowns out everything else as it overshadows the rest of the world.

But when there is no fray, and the quiet returns, it’s only then that you can really pay attention to the details.

Sometimes, the most important things happen when nothing happens at all.

Written for Scampy's SunFlower Shipping Contest.

Thumbnail inspired by, and based off, a sketch by avirextin

Published 2021-03-31 19:10:00 UTC
Last updated 2021-03-31 19:10:00 UTC

In Which Nothing Happens

"I still don't get it."

We’ve been sitting on the couch for so long that the cushions have warmed up to body temperature.

"Hm?"

My head’s resting on her shoulder, and she’s leaning into me gently.

"Sunset Shimmer."

If I were the type for hopeless romance, I’d say that she smelled like strawberry perfume, or had the aroma of a verdant meadow.

"That's me."

But no. Just slightly damp, day-old fabric.

"The Sunset Shimmer."

It’s still nice, though.

“That’s… still me.”

I can tell just from her voice that she’s cocking an eyebrow in confusion.

“The Sunset Shimmer, interdimensional magic unicorn, saviour of not just one, but two worlds, and the former student to what near-as-dammit passes as a goddess.”

Sunset squirms against me a little, the first movement either of us have made in ten minutes.

“I mean, I wouldn’t use those exact words, but I see what you mean.”

Of course, my brain’s been making movements all of its own. This tiny little thought, gathering momentum.

“You could be with anyone. Anyone at all, and whether it’s for your intelligence, your humour, your ironclad determination, or just your drop-dead gorgeous looks, they’d fall for you.”

I can feel Sunset’s smile on my head, even though I’m not even looking at her.

“I, er… wow. Thanks Wally, it means a lot that you’d think that of me. But… why am I just a little worried about where this is going?”

It’s a crooked smile, but only just.

“Because and yet… And yet you chose the shy, painfully introverted mess of a person who looks like she is the hedge that people get dragged through backwards and is so wrapped up in anxiety and neuroses that it’s a miracle she hasn’t thrown herself off a bridge yet.”

The only reason I could say that out loud without tripping over my words like an idiot is because I said it to myself half a dozen times in the mirror this morning. But my voice keeps a whimsical tone and there's a wayward smile on my face. I'm joking, of course.

Mostly.

It's raining outside, a cold snap accompanying the typical April showers. Not that I mind – I’ve always liked the rain. An acquaintance would say that it’s because of my fondness for plants and gardening, how the rain helps nurture the flora, maybe even wax lyrical about a ‘deep connection with the earth’ if they were the kooky, spiritual type. While they’re not exactly wrong, it’s a bit… surface-level.

Sunset would probably say it’s because I use it as an excuse to cuddle up next to her on the sofa and, well, she’s definitely not wrong there.

But for me? It’s the sound. That constant, all-encompassing sound, old as time but oddly comforting, a soothing white noise that drowns out the erratic, spiking noises of the world. Like an old hoodie that just fits you perfectly, caresses your shoulders in a comforting embrace.

Your scarred, torn, hideous shoulders.

“You… you chose a failure, Sunset.”

There’s that momentum again. Someone's released the brakes on this train of thought, and I don't like where it's heading.

“Come on, Wally.” An arm wraps around me and gently squeezes, but against my rapidly-deteriorating state it feels more like the lick of flames. “Don’t say that stuff about yourself.”

Shrink back into yourself. Hide from the fire.

“Why not? It’s true.”

But it keeps burning.

“No it’s n-… I mean, I don’t think it’s true.”

I almost laugh. I can hear Sunset’s mind as it goes through that soft reset, mid-sentence, and rethinks her wording. But then I remember who’s making her do that, and my smirk falls away again. The train’s out of control now. I’m not sure it was ever under control.

“Maybe you just don’t know me well enough. Maybe you haven’t seen enough of me yet to realise.”

I’m scaring myself with how calm my voice is. God knows what it’s doing to Sunset.

“And even if that were the case, I’d still want to help you, Wally. However long it took.”

Now that made me bark out a laugh, this pathetic, choking, dying noise sputtering up from my throat. Between the years of therapy, mountains of online pseudo-research, endless calls to ‘the free, confidential helpline’, and the concoction of antidepressants I’ve been thrown on, and Sunset, bless her, still wants to try and help.

“No you don’t. There’s no helping this.”

"So you're calling me a liar?"

That train hops right off the rails and crashes into a pillow factory.

My entire brain stalls for a moment, desperately tries to restart its spiralling thought processes. It fails. In its place grows a strange emptiness as the realisation sets in. Even though I’m not looking at anything in particular, I still cast my eyes down in shame.

“I’m sorry. I’ve done it again.”

“It’s okay.”

Sunset’s trying to be comforting and she means what she says but after freaking out over absolutely nothing for what feels like the tenth time this week, I struggle to take her words to heart.

“It’s… it’s really not. I’ve done it again, and I keep doing it, and I’m dragging you down while I’m doing it. It’s not okay.”

“Wallflower.”

The only time she says my full name like that is when she needs to be listened to.

It’s almost Pavlovian how I crane my neck up to look at her. Against every one of my instincts as to what Sunset should be feeling, she looks… calm. At ease. Silently confident, in that way that you only really notice when everything else is quiet and you can really, really pay attention.

As I look into that serene face, I can feel Sunset’s chest rising and falling slowly in time with her breaths. But not just her chest – her abdomen as well.

Breathing from the diaphragm. She always was one to teach by example.

I begin to follow her lead subconsciously, and it’s only then that I realise how fitful my breathing had been before. It takes me a while to get into a cadence, but eventually we’re more or less in sync. As our lungs fill with air, there’s no sudden inexplicable bond between us, no two becoming one. And when we breathe out together, there’s no releasing all the world’s stresses, no spiritual letting go.

There’s just two dorks, sitting on a sofa, inhaling and exhaling at the same time, with more than a hint of after-dinner breath between them.

But it’s still nice.

In for three seconds.

Hold.

Out for five seconds.

In for three.

“It’s…”

Out for five.

“Okay.”

The only thing that interrupts the moment is me letting loose a little snort of laughter. It must’ve been nearly five minutes between Sunset calling my name and her actually finishing her sentence, and for some reason the only thing I can think is that to an onlooker she must’ve looked completely insane.

Not that she would’ve cared.

“Thanks, Sunset.”

She smiles, and I really wish I could beam out something half as pure to show my appreciation.

“Thanks, Wally.”

And that’s it. Moment over.

The effects, however, linger. My breathing’s deeper, heartrate slowed halfway down to normal, and I come back to the world hearing the rain again, smelling the damp fabric.

That’s just the effect that Sunset has on me, whether she knows it or not. Whenever I’m around her, it’s… it’s like this spring that’s inside my body, this constantly on-edge anxiety, just… uncoils a bit. Relaxes. On a good day it’s completely subconscious, only even noticeable in hindsight. On a day like today, though, she has to try shamefully hard to bring me back from that edge.

And it’s like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. The only thing that even comes close is when I’m in the bathroom, with the lights off, dragging a razor blade across my-…

There are those thoughts again. Trust me and my stupid brain to take the nicest of small blessings and turn it into something horrible. Don’t do this, Wallflower. Don’t ruin this moment like you always-

“You” – Sunset’s voice lifts me out of that hole, a finger gently prodding my stomach – “need a distraction.”

“What do you mean by that?” I wouldn’t say I sound incredulous. More like whiny, as in ‘whiny little shit’. Just like what he used to say right before he-

“What I mean by that is,” Sunset continues, a teasing lilt to her voice, “you need a distraction. You’re doing that thing you do.”

My face flushes red at that. “What thing I do?” I try scrunching my nose up in confusion but it’s not fooling either of us.

“That thing you do when you’re enjoying a quiet moment, then your brain makes a connection, you’re reminded of some repressed memory, and it needs to get caught and nipped in the bud before your mind starts to go down a path that you don’t want it to. Quod erat demonstrandum, you need a distraction.”

I can only sit there, slack-jawed, as my mouth flaps uselessly. Even my inner thoughts couldn’t put it that well, and yet Sunset’s able to say it so casually, like she’s known it since the day she was born.

Damn it, that’s not fair.

“So, how, er… how are you planning on distracting me?”

In response, Sunset slowly leans her head down towards me, her breathing slow and even, waves of red and gold gently shifting around her. We lock eyes, and she pauses.

Sunset watches me, just briefly. Observes. Scans me, completely neutrally, without insinuation or provocation, searching for any hint of reluctance or hesitation that I might hide behind a smile. Her gaze bores into me, but it never feels intrusive or judgemental. Just… checking.

Of course she doesn’t find anything even approaching reluctance.

So she narrows the gap again, both our eyes close, and finally, she kisses me on the forehead.

And that’s it. A kiss. A peck. There’s no fireworks, no butterflies in the stomach, no neon pink sign saying I’ve levelled up in gayness. I barely even blush.

But that spring uncoils itself a little more.

I can only exhale as I close my eyes completely and smile.

“That’s… that’s no fair.”

Sunset’s eyes flick upwards in recollection, and her own little smile returns to her face.

“Maybe… you never know, maybe I just think you’re really cute.”

I close in on myself and mumble, only half to Sunset. “Yeah, try saying that to what’s underneath these sleeves.” I’m doing it again. All of Sunset’s efforts, and I’m still doing it again.

And Sunset pauses. Those intense, ice-blue eyes lose focus and look downwards, just for a moment, as her mind works overtime and her inner thoughts write themselves on her face. Her lips move as well, almost imperceptibly, as if mouthing out her potential responses. Each idea is considered or shot down with a miniscule movement, a furrowing of the brow or a wrinkling of the nose, as Sunset takes stock of the situation we’ve both found ourselves in because of my stupid, stupid brain. It’s a facial expression I’ve unfortunately become quite familiar with over the years: The expression of someone choosing their words very, very carefully, lest some anxious failure takes them the wrong way and drags everyone else into the same pit they’re jumping into themselves.

It lasted all of half a second.

“I would, if you wanted me to. But I don’t think you do.”

She’s got me there.

That’s another thing about Sunset: For all her hits and misses in her attempts to stop my mind doing things that neither of us want it to do, she has a real sixth sense for knowing what not to say. Anyone else would’ve shot down my thinly-veiled implication or, God forbid, gone the cringeworthy ‘battle scars’ route. But not her. My self-hatred-fuelled lashing out keeps setting her up to fall, and she keeps on running anyway.

She really is too good for me.

“I really don’t deserve you.”

Sunset recoils, pushing us apart in a way that somehow lets me know that she wants to pull me closer and hug me until my eyes pop out.

“Oof. I know I’m not the best of girlfriends, but that’s a pretty harsh criticism by your standards, Wally.”

“Because I mean, you’re-… wh- Hey! You’re not allowed to turn this on yourself, that’s not fair!”

We share a giggle together as I give her my own playful poke in the tummy. A tummy that’s gotten just the tiniest bit softer since we started cooking together. Or, rather, since I started trying to teach her how to not violate the laws of chemistry and somehow burn a boiled egg. Not that you’d know it to see her from afar, of course – she’s still got the stunning looks to put anyone in a two-mile radius to shame. But it’s still just a little softer, and I might be the only person in the world who knows that.

I like it. Makes it more fun to poke.

“I am allowed to turn this on myself, and you know damn well I will if that’s what it takes to hear you laugh again.”

I roll my eyes, half-expecting her to follow up with a line about parting the seas just to see my eyes, or running through a burning building just to be able to smell my sweater.

Actually, maybe not that last one. Ew.

Sunset’s expression seamlessly shifts to a coy smirk. “I can read you like a book, you know. It’s… actually really adorable.”

When she’s in the mood, Sunset is one to talk surprisingly big, to let her less-redeemed side peek out for a moment to deliver this brand of cockiness, yet with light-hearted self-deprecation laced beneath it. It’s gloating with self-mockery. Bragging while pointing finger-guns at her own head. It’s surprisingly disarming, even given my own self-loathing tendencies.

“I mean, I dunno, I’m always… I’m always so closed off, aren’t I? Can’t imagine it’s that easy to get a read on something that refuses to open up to you.” I never bite back immediately, of course. I’d never forgive myself if I did.

“Ahh, but you do!” That teasing melody returns to Sunset’s voice, bringing with it the holier-than-thou air of a teacher, or perhaps a big sister. “Just in little ways, you know? The way you shift your eyes around, the way you cross your arms when someone says something that rubs you the wrong way but you’re too polite to say anything. I swear, your body language is easy as anything to pick up on! It’s just a subtle thing. One that deserves to be paid attention to.”

I suddenly notice how fascinating the space between the sofa cushions is as I try not to dwell on just how right she is. And just how much I secretly appreciate her being right.

“Like now! You’re practically blushing with how flustered you’re getting!” But her arm wraps around my shoulder and pulls me a little closer to the warmth. “And I love that about you.”

A tiny, wicked little smile forms on my face.

Perfect.

“Well, y’know…” I can barely hear my own mumbling, but I know Sunset’s listening to every word with bated breath. “You’re, uh… you’re pretty easy to read yourself.”

Sunset just laughs, the kind of chuckle a victor would offer their defeated opponent. “Hahaaa, not a chance, Wally. Aren’t you forgetting? Raised by a diplomat, master manipulator, trained from foalhood to talk, negotiate, even breathe with a silver tongue.”

“Oh?” I’m almost shocked – is that playfulness in my voice? “So then… what about when you kissed me? You… heehee… you paused, you know? You checked to make sure I was okay with it, just briefly.”

Suddenly, Sunset’s mock bravado evaporates. Her eyes have locked onto that same space between the sofa cushions. Clearly, it’s the most interesting piece of furniture in the whole world.

It’s strange. With anyone else, in any other situation, I’d be a nervous wreck at the mere thought of saying stuff like this. That’s just the effect that Sunset has on me, I suppose. At the right time, in the right place, she inspires a confidence that I never even knew I had. But that doesn’t mean I can’t thank her at the same time as heckling her.

“Or just now, when I mentioned my sleeves? The way your face scrunched up a little, your mouth started moving a bit, your eyes darted around as if searching for the right thing to say. It almost gave me the impression that… that you were choosing your words carefully, so I didn’t take them the wrong way.”

Now it’s Sunset’s turn to get flustered. But while mine was a small, feeble thing, closing in on myself as if to hide from my own realisation, Sunset’s is a bit more…

“Pffffff, whaaaaaaat?! F- I m- n-no! No, of c- y’know, I… I mean I-I guess, b- it was… you- pfnaaaaaah no way! I wouldn’t have- you wo- maybe, hahaaaaah I guess you can- hm, th-the, uh, diff- facial structure, uh, pony to human, it’s- I mean hah! Hahahaaa…”

Well, it’s a bit more ‘Sunset’.

I look up at her as she flails her head left and right. Cliché as it is to say, “shimmering” really is the only word I can think of to describe how her hair dances along with her dramatic shrugs and embarrassed laughter.

Okay, maybe ‘spasmodically twitching’ as well.

I’m not awestruck. There’s no dreamy haze or prosaic inner monologue about beauty. But still, I look up at those unruly locks in the soft light of mid-evening…

Crème brûlée might be fun to try, the next time we spend an evening cooking. I think the hardware store in town sells cooks’ torches. Pretty sure all I’d need to do is say the word ‘blowtorch’ and she’d be chomping at the bit to give it a go.

“It’s nice to see this side of you every once in a while, Wally.”

The laughter’s faded now, just that faint air of pleasant, dozy tiredness lingering in its place. Looking up at Sunset is starting to put a crick in my neck, though, so I shift back to her side and rest my head against her shoulder.

She leans into me gently.

At a thousand other times, for a thousand other reasons, I’d have snapped back with guilt and shame at Sunset’s compliment, and I think she knows that too. But not this time. It’s almost as though I can feel that coiled spring relax in Sunset as well, just a little. I don’t even need to say anything.

The rain’s back. I’m not sure it ever went away, to be honest, but it’s only now that my ears once again pick up on its soft drumming upon the window. What have we done this evening? Nothing. Watched TV. Looked out the window. Spiralled. Unwound. But there’s still a smile on my face, and I know there’s one on Sunset’s as well.

“Thanks, Wally.”

“Thanks, Sunset.”

Eventually, the thoughts will come back. They always do. They'll come back and they'll be overwhelming and I'll go to the bathroom and take out a razor blade and do something regrettable and I'll be staring at the wall at midnight wondering what the hell Sunset's going to think of me this time.

But the thoughts aren't here right now. She's pushed them back.

Actually, that's not quite true.

We have.

…

Could have raspberries with the crème brûlée. That’d be nice.

Red and gold.