Soarin slipped a bill into the little tip jar that rested upon the barista’s counter, adding a five bit note to a whole lot of spare change.
The barista noticed this and offered him a polite smile though quickly returned to her work preparing two cups of coffee.
One was simple; black, no cream, no milk, no frills. This one was utilitarian, his drink of choice.
The other was a little more delicate, filled with foam and done up like a piece of art. This other one, a cappuccino, was not meant for him but somepony else.
Somepony close, yet so far away.
The barista eventually finished with the second drink and offered both of them to Soarin.
“Are you waiting for someone?” the barista asked.
Soarin smirked. “Something like that.”
She gave him a look but didn’t ask any questions. Honestly, she seemed like the kind of mare who had spent a little too long working in customer service and knew when to let things go.
Instead, she placed the drinks upon the counter and Soarin carefully transferred them onto his wings, walking over to a little booth tucked away in the back. There was no one there, though he soon placed his drinks upon it and took a seat across from the abandoned cappuccino.
Abandoned.
The thought stung. It stung a lot more than it honestly should’ve. Though maybe it stung a little less than it once had. Who knew at this point?
At least he didn’t cry anymore.
Soarin sighed and ruffled his wings, wondering where he should start. It had been a relatively uneventful week after all.
“I’m mad at you,” he began, letting out a cruel snort. “You know that right? Did you know that they caught Fire Comet and Aquamarine going at it in the showers today? And neither of us were there to roast them? Do you know how sad that makes me?”
He took a sip of his coffee and pointed the rim of the mug at the phantom across from him.
“But I guess being mad at you does make me a bit of a dick,” Soarin grumbled. “It's not your fault that you weren’t there.” He stiffened his jaw. “And I guess it wasn’t my fault either. It’s just…” He sighed. “It’s just really hard telling myself that what happened wasn’t my fault. It might’ve been a freak accident but if I would’ve…”
His words eluded him and started to fade, replaced with a coldness that gripped at his core. A coldness that was so frigid that it actually burned when he thought about it. It clenched at his stomach, ebbed through his organs, robbing him of speech, of breath.
It was a familiar sensation and one that Soarin despised having any sort of familiarity with.
Coffee was hot however, so he tilted back the cup and took a couple potent sips from it. These burned a little, but he hardly cared because they gave him something else to be hurt about.
“Spitfires coming by a little later,” Soarin said, his voice hardly louder than a whisper.
He swallowed a lump in his throat. Words were never this hard before but he supposed he had never been one to engage in one-sided conversations.
“I think she misses you but it’s kind of hard to tell with her.” He snorted. “She’s apparently tearing into the new recruits harder than she used to. So maybe that’s how she’s coping with things?”
Soarin took another sip of coffee and looked at the full cappuccino in front of him. He had never drunk one before. Once it had just been too frivolous for his spartan demeanor. Now the beverage just felt too daunting for him to overcome.
“I used to make fun of you for drinking those,” Soarin said, snorting to himself. “What an asshole I turned out to be, huh? Making fun of you for a stupid drink.”
A venom filled his blood, a hatred, mostly at himself. He drew in a breath and forced it down, gritting his teeth so tightly together he was afraid that he might crack a molar.
“Why couldn’t I just let you enjoy things?” he whispered with a shake of his head. “Why did we have to…”
He sighed, feeling tears lick at his eyes. Maybe he wasn’t done with crying just yet. But he denied himself, wiping away at the moisture, knowing that nothing productive would come out of making a scene in public.
“I was thinking about our last night together, the other day,” Soarin whispered.
He smirked and tapped a hoof against the tabletop.
“Do you remember it?” he asked the phantom, laughing darkly to himself. “I remember it, at least.”
Soarin stumbled forwards after a haphazard landing. A ripple of laughter broke free from his lips. It was drunken, happy, some of the last genuine laughter he would ever experience. Though he had no way of knowing that at this moment.
At this moment, it was just another good night on a long list of good nights.
“Did you see that stud trying to flirt with Spitfire,” he slurred.
Fleetfoot snorted. “What a fucking jackass.” She shook her head. “Did he honestly think that he was going to win over the Captain of the Wonderbolts?”
“Hey don’t make fun of him, I wish I had that type of confidence,” Soarin said, unleashing another fresh note of laughter.
“Oh, I’m sure you had plenty of confidence before Spitfire surgically removed your balls,” Fleetfoot teased.
She came up alongside him, bumping into him playfully. She was warm and smelled of sweat and a perfume that Soarin was unable to properly place. Even to this day, he didn’t know which brand she bought. It smelled nice though, inviting and comforting.
“Surgical is not the right word,” Soarin murmured. “There was nothing surgical about what she did to me. It was more like she… massacred my balls.”
“Well how about I kiss them better,” Fleetfoot teased.
She got a little closer still, the tip of her wing brushing against his side. The motion was tender and won over a faint sign of affection from him.
“Fleetfoot,” Soarin whispered. “You know we…”
“Oh, come on,” Fleetfoot whined. “Learn to live a little, I can promise you that Spitfire won’t find out.”
“No, it’s not that,” Soarin said, trying to keep his voice soft and level. “I just… I had a lot to drink tonight and I don’t think my not-so-little cadet would be particularly cooperative, is all.”
Fleetfoot looked at him and blinked before she burst out laughing.
“Alright, alright, fair enough,” she said, shaking her head.
She strolled ahead, giving her wings a little flutter to separate the two of them enough to re-establish personal space.
Fleetfoot hummed. “I’m just thinking about something.”
“What’s that?” Soarin asked.
“Just wondering who I should I gossip with first,” Fleetfoot teased, touching a hoof to the underside of her snout. “The great and virile Soarin was stricken down with whiskey dick when confronted by a beautiful mare. Who do I tell first?”
“I’m going to bite you,” Soarin grumbled.
Fleetfoot smirked and wiggled her rump. “You promise.”
“You better watch yourself,” Soarin said, a darkness entering his tone. “Or maybe I will.”
“I’m waiting, flycolt,” Fleetfoot said, sticking out the tip of her tongue at him.
Suddenly she turned and that’s when Soarin realized that they were standing in front of her place.
The house was suburban and pricey, the kind of home that a Wonderbolt’s salary could get you. Soarin would know, he owned a very similar property in another gated community.
Fleetfoot made her way towards the door, glancing over her shoulder as she did so. “Do you want to come in for some coffee?”
Soarin worked his jaw. “Fleets…”
“Just coffee, I promise,” Fleetfoot said. “I know that your little Soarin isn’t ready to play with me tonight.”
Soarin nodded and blew a puff of air into his cheek. “I…” He smiled. “Fuck it, I’ve trained on less sleep before.”
“That’s the Wonderbolts’ spirit!” Fleetfoot chanted.
She opened the door and slipped inside, using her hindleg to hold it open for Soarin.
Soarin was only a few steps behind, quickly bridging the gap and fluttering in after her.
“How do you take your coffee?” Fleetfoot asked.
Soarin snorted and didn’t say anything.
Did she really need to ask?
“Oh, I forgot that you and the Captain like to keep yourselves regular,” Fleetfoot teased. “Alright, I’ll put on a pot and bring it out black.” She batted her lashes at him. “But one day you’ll have to let me make you a cappuccino? Deal?”
Soarin smirked. “Deal.”
“You didn’t have to buy me a coffee,” she said.
Soarin stirred and looked towards the voice, forcing a half smile.
“Captain,” he whispered.
“I especially don’t drink cappuccinos,” Spitfire said.
Soarin nodded. “Wasn’t for you.”
“I know…” Spitfire offered a weak smile back. “I’ll be right back.”
Soarin watched her cross the room, idly drumming a hoof against the side of his own mug. The steam that rolled off it was warm, reassuring, something that he honestly needed right now. Just like he needed Spitfire, an anchor to keep him in the present and not drifting back to the past.
She ordered her coffee and returned a moment later.
Her beverage was black, just like his.
Spitfire slid into the booth, moving past the phantom and taking up roost in the very corner. She looked intently at Soarin and offered a grim smile.
“You look like shit,” she said.
Soarin snorted. “I knew I could always rely on you for an honest opinion.”
“Mane growing out and that five o’clock shadow just doesn't look good on you,” Spitfire said in a matter-a-fact tone. “If you’d like, I could pay for your mane cut.”
“Don’t need the money,” Soarin replied. “Just like having my mane long.”
“Well, you’re definitely going to need one before returning to the team,” Spitfire rebutted.
Before returning to the team.
It wasn’t a question of if but when for Spitfire. Did she really know Soarin better than he knew himself? It would seem so.
“Who says I’m rejoining the team?” Soarin whispered.
Spitfire shrugged. “I guess nopony but I’ll gladly admit that it would be kind of nice to have my second in command back.”
“We’re co-captains,” Soarin said, smirking at her. “Did you forget?”
“No, I didn’t forget,” Spitfire replied. She took a nice long sip of coffee and smacked her lips together. “I just find it adorable that you think we’re on equal footing with the team.”
Soarin snorted. “Better be careful or I might just aim to replace you.”
“That’d be the day,” Spitfire jabbed.
Something smoldered within Soarin’s breast. He couldn’t quite place his hoof upon the emotion. Was it levity, amusement, or something else entirely? Either way it smothered the crushing wave of sheer depression that he had previously known. It was strange to feel something like this and honestly that sensation of strangeness was nearly enough to drive him back into the status quo of anxiety and worry.
“Do you know what the biggest shame about all of this was?” Spitfire asked.
Soarin shook his head. “No, what would that be?”
“The funeral,” Spitfire commented. “It was so stuffy and rigid and…” She shook her head. “It just wasn’t something that Fleetfoot would’ve liked.”
Soarin snorted. “She’ll probably kick our asses in the afterlife for not bringing a keg into the funeral home.”
“Yeah, well she can calm down because we drank a hell of a lot more than just one keg at her wake,” Spitfire grumbled, sticking out her tongue in disgust “I still can’t handle the taste of cocktail shrimp.”
Her gaze went over to the cappuccino. It had grown cold, steam no longer rising from the foam.
“You don’t talk about her final night very much,” Spitfire commented.
Soarin sighed. “There isn’t much to talk about.”
“Tell me anyways,” Spitfire said, offering a tight smile. “Co-captain’s orders.”
Soarin didn’t know when their lips had come together. He couldn’t recall when the talk had faded and was replaced with something far more intimate.
Her lips were warm, her body warm, her touch warm, everything about her was warm, inviting, kind, and alluring.
“Fuck,” Soarin whispered, drawing away from the kiss. “What did you put in my coffee?”
“Nothing,” Fleetfoot teased. “You’re just naturally a horndog.”
“Am not,” Soarin grumbled.
Her breath tasted of coffee and the cheap whiskey she’d been guzzling at the bar.
At that moment, she was beautiful. Not to say she didn’t normally look beautiful but there was something even more beautiful about her in this state. Her eyes were half-lidded, her mane frazzled, her cheeks rosy with intoxication and lust.
Soarin pressed his nose into her mane and drew in a deep breath.
“What are you doing?” Fleetfoot asked, playfully batting at his chest.
“I’m smelling you,” Soarin murmured.
Fleetfoot giggled. “Is that your fetish.”
“You’re my fetish,” Soarin rebutted. “How did you talk me into this?”
“I asked if you wanted some coffee. It was as easy as that,” Fleetfoot teased. “Then all I had to do was use a little bit of my feminine charm.”
Soarin nodded and closed his eyes. “I could…”
There was a tick, a moment of silence.
“You could?” Fleetfoot began, “Finish that thought, Soarin.”
She brushed her hoof across his chest, stroking at his fluff and burying her snout into the crook of his neck.
“Can I ask you a question?” Fleetfoot whispered.
Soarin nodded. “What’s that?”
“How many foals do you want to have?” Fleetfoot asked.
Soarin’s eyes widened and Fleetfoot started to giggle uncontrollably.
“Kidding, kidding,” Fleetfoot whispered. “Fuck you should’ve seen the look on your face.”
She drew away, a little bit, and grinned down at him.
“So, about the Little Captain,” she began.
Soarin sighed. “Afraid he’s still at port.”
“Lame,” Fleetfoot whined. “I was hoping to get some dick out of this.”
Soarin rolled his eyes and placed a hoof upon her back, pulling her into a warm embrace. He kissed her upon the neck, not once but twice.
“I guess we’re stuck cuddling for the night,” Soarin teased.
Fleetfoot smirked. “Truly a fate worse than death.” She reached out and gently caressed his cheek. “Can I confess something to you?”
Soarin grinned and closed his eyes. He simply nodded, not conceding a word, not trusting himself to, in his current state.
“I think you’re…” Fleetfoot worked her jaw. “I think you’re pretty alright?”
“High praise,” Soarin said, snorting. “I think you’re pretty alright too, Fleets.”
He cracked open his eyes and looked at her.
She was staring off to the side, a shade of indecision colouring her complexion. Her lips were pursed together and it was difficult to discern what was rattling around within her brain. Still, she looked vulnerable, in need of comforting.
And comfort was one of the few things that Soarin was genuinely good at.
“You know…” Soarin began.
Fleet stirred and looked up at him. “I know?”
“We do end up in this situation a lot,” Soarin admitted. “You and I together after a night at the bar, mostly at your place…”
“It does seem to happen quite a bit,” Fleetfoot admitted.
A thin smile soon formed upon her lips.
“Maybe next time we do this, we could go somewhere else instead of a bar?” Soarin offered. “Maybe like a restaurant or the beach or the circus? You know, just the two of us?”
Fleetfoot snorted. “The circus?”
“Just spitballing ideas here,” Soarin said.
“That could be fun,” Fleetfoot admitted. “You know I’ve never been to the circus before.”
“Neither have I,” Soarin said.
Fleetfoot smirked. “We should totally go to the circus then. Though… where does the circus usually take place.”
“I don’t know? Somewhere that Earth Ponies can go to,” Soarin said. “It does seem like a very Earth Pony thing to do.”
“Now that’s just being racist,” Fleetfoot teased. “I don’t know if I want to date some bigot.”
Date.
The word hung heavy in the air, implications practically dripping from it. The activity had a name attached to it now, a label which made it sound that much more real.
Date.
That was the kind of thing a couple went on. Were they a couple now?
“Soarin,” Fleetfoot whispered. “Are you okay?”
Soarin shook his head, coming back to the moment. “Sorry, you must’ve lost me there.”
“A lil too much to drink?” Fleetfoot asked.
Soarin nodded. “A lil too much to drink.”
Fleetfoot sighed and peeled herself away from him, giving him a parting kiss before she pulled away completely.
“Well, I think my chances of getting dick are gone,” she ribbed.
Though her teasing was only playful.
Soarin nodded. “Sorry, Fleets.”
“Eh, it happens,” Fleetfoot replied, stretching and cracking some joints. “Luckily I don’t think they serve any beer at the circus. So, maybe we’ll have better luck next time?”
She moved away from the couch, flagging her tail to the side as she left the living room. It was the last little tease in an evening of them. And it was nearly enough for Soarin to fight through the intoxication that currently besieged him.
Almost, but not quite enough.
“I’m going to take a shower,” Fleetfoot said. “Be back in a little while.”
Soarin nodded. “I’ll…” He yawned. “I’ll be waiting.”
Fleetfoot snorted. “Don’t fall asleep on me now.”
Soarin waved her off, too busy with another yawn to properly address her.
As she left the room, Soarin became very aware of just how heavy his eyelids felt. It was like she was his only source of energy, and with her gone, he was left utterly drained.
The last thing he noticed, before sleep overtook him, was a clock on the mantel. Its digital display told him that it was one-ten in the morning.
“Celestia,” Spitfire whispered.
Soarin nodded and looked down at his coffee. He didn’t wish to speak, so he took the cup and tilted it back. Though there was nothing left inside. Still, he wouldn’t admit that to Spitfire, doing his best to fake drinking it.
“You two were planning to go on a date?” Spitfire asked.
Soarin sighed. “Hope you don’t court martial me for having a relationship with one of my teammates.”
Spitfire snorted. “I’d have to court martial about eighty percent of the team if we started enforcing that rule.” She shook her head and looked at him. “I’m… I’m sorry.”
Those were rare words coming from Spitfire and they cut far more forcefully than he was prepared for.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
“I miss her,” Soarin conceded, sniffling but not letting himself weep. “I really do.”
“I miss her too,” Spitfire replied.
She reached across the table and rested a hoof overtop of Soarin’s own. She stroked at his fetlocks tenderly, smoothing out the wild and unkempt hair.
Spitfire then pursed her lips together and looked him in the eye. “Did she really ask you how many foals you wanted?”
Soarin nodded and let out an amused snort. “She really did.”
“Honestly, that is the most Fleetfoot question ever,” Spitfire teased. “I don’t blame you for having whiskey dick after that.”
Soarin nodded and let out a heavy sigh. He started to move away from the booth, sliding over.
“I’m going to get myself another cup of coffee,” he said. “Do you want anything?”
Spitfire smiled and waggled her cup. “Black, please.”
“Black it is,” Soarin said.
He made his way over to the counter, standing in line behind a business mare who looked like an executive at one of the weather factories in Cloudsdale.
Two black coffees.
He looked at the menu and frowned.
One of these days, I’m forcing you to drink a cappuccino.
The executive grabbed her iced coffee and stepped away, bringing Soarin to the front of the line.
The barista winked at him. “Black coffee?”
Soarin nodded. “Yeah, one black coffee and one cappuccino please.”
The request was out of his mouth before he was even aware of it.
The barrister nodded and went about preparing the beverages. She was quick with the black coffee though the cappuccino took a little while longer to manufacture. There was an art to it, and in that moment, Soarin realized why Fleetfoot liked these so much. They were art pieces, hard work, not just a vessel to ingest caffeine.
“I really wish I had taken you up on that offer,” Soarin whispered.
The barista perked up and looked towards him.
“Sorry,” Soarin said, shaking his head. “Just… talking to myself.”
“We get a lot of that here,” the barista teased. “Seems like most ponies do that until their third or fourth cup of coffee.”
The cappuccino was finally finished and the barista brought both drinks over, placing them upon the counter.
Soarin smiled and slipped her a generous bill, waving off the request for change. An offer which the barista seemed to appreciate.
He then returned to the table with the drinks perched upon his wings, balancing them carefully.
The black coffee went to Spitfire while the cappuccino was placed in the spot he soon occupied.
Spitfire cocked a brow. “Is someone feeling fancy?”
“I promised Fleetfoot I would try one of hers, one of these days,” Soarin explained. “But… I guess this will have to do.”
Spitfire smirked. “Well now you make me feel like a dick for ordering black coffee.”
“I’m afraid to say this Captain,” Soarin teased. “But you are kind of a dick.”
“Only because the crown pays me to be a mean bitch,” Spitfire said. She then nodded towards the cup. “Let me know how it tastes.”
Soarin carefully picked it up, looking down at it.
The barista had left a little design in the foam. It looked vaguely like a heart though might’ve possibly been a leaf.
He sighed and took a sip. As the beverage touched his tongue, he blinked and nodded approvingly.
“Life altering?” Spitfire teased.
Soarin shrugged. “Wouldn’t go that far but maybe something I’ll order when I need a treat. Definitely tastes better than black coffee.”
Spitfire nodded and looked out the window. Her jaw tensed and she seemed like she was about to speak.
This was a moment that Soarin knew well. This ritual was not an uncommon one and he had told the first two parts of his story many times before. But when they neared the third act, he always chickened out, unwilling to discuss the finale of this story.
“Could we…” Spitfire began.
Soarin sighed. “Finish the story?”
Spitfire frowned. “Yeah.”
“Do we have to?” Soarin asked.
“I think…” Spitfire sighed. “I think we have to.”
“Okay but…” Soarin smirked and took another sip of his drink. “You’re paying for my next cappuccino.”
Soarin awoke with a splitting headache. He clapped a hoof against his temple and groaned, clenching his teeth tightly together.
His gaze went towards the clock on the wall. It was a little after four in the morning.
In the distance, he could hear the sound of a shower running.
He got up slowly and made his way towards the kitchen, grunting and groaning through every step he took.
“Go drinking, she said,” he grumbled to himself.
He grabbed a glass and filled it from the tap. Cloud-filtered water, the best in Equestria and the perfect ice-cold solution for any pesky hangover.
He glanced at the stove, noticing the time once again.
And that’s when his stomach clenched.
Fleetfoot did take long showers but a shower lasting over three hours? That wasn’t right, that wasn’t right at all.
Soarin stumbled towards the bathroom, feeling sleepiness and intoxication both bleed away in a matter of moments.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “Please be okay.”
He knocked on the bathroom door, doing so lightly at first.
“Hey Fleets,” he called. “Are you okay?”
No response.
He hammered his hoof against the door a bit more forcefully.
“Fleets?” he repeated, a bit louder now.
No response still.
Soarin felt ice form in his gullet and spread throughout his insides, like an arctic permafrost.
He groped at the knob and turned it, pushing inside. The room wasn’t steamy, the hot water having been used up awhile ago. The curtain was drawn across the shower though there was a dark shape on the other side. A dark shape which rested upon the floor.
Soarin rushed towards it and threw back the curtain.
Fleetfoot laid in a heap. Her expression was contorted into two juxtapositions. One was a panicked expression of utter fear that dominated one half of her face, the other was a slack numbness that took up the other.
A stroke.
“No,” Soarin whispered. “Fleetfoot…”
She didn’t respond.
She wouldn’t respond.
She would never respond again.
“Fuck,” Spitfire whispered.
Soarin nodded. “I can still picture it so vividly.” He sighed. “If I wouldn’t have fallen asleep, I would’ve probably heard her fall or…” He sniffled. “If I joined her in the shower then I could’ve been there to help. Instead, I was unconscious as she was struggling for life.”
“You…” Spitfire looked at a loss for words.
What? Soarin couldn’t blame himself? He wished it were as easy as that.
“You aren’t going through this alone,” is what Spitfire eventually settled on. “You have friends who are there for you. You have me.”
“I know but sometimes that isn’t enough,” Soarin whispered. He picked up his expensive coffee and took another sip. “But it’s getting easier every day.” He snorted. “Hell, I even got through the story this time around.”
Spitfire closed her eyes and shook her head.
“Going to say something dark?” Soarin asked.
Spitfire smirked. “You know me far too well.”
“There’s nopony who I trust more in the entire world,” Soarin said. He then nodded towards her. “Go for it. Celestia knows I could use a little bit of your dark humour right now.”
“I’m just wondering what deity you pissed off to go through something like that,” Spitfire whispered.
Soarin went silent for a moment and then let out a single note of dry laughter. “It does feel like that, doesn’t it?”
“Have you found yourself a priest?” Spitfire asked.
Soarin shook his head. “Haven’t really had any interest in doing so.”
“Well…” Spitfire smirked. “Did you know that the Wonderbolts have a stadium chaplain?”
Soarin blinked. “We do?”
“We do. Not that anyone goes to him.” Spitfire snorted. “We’re all sinners on that team after all.”
“Sounds like you just want me to come back,” Soarin quipped, revealing a thin smile.
Spitfire shrugged. “I mean if you saw some of the recruits that I had to deal with, you wouldn’t blame me in the slightest.” She frowned. “But really, I just don’t want you to be alone anymore. I know the Wonderbolts aren’t the greatest like… family but it’s still a group that cares about you.”
Soarin sighed. “I know.”
“And I miss you too,” Spitfire added. “And you know that Fleetfoot would want you to keep flying.”
“It’s just…” Soarin drew in a breath. “It’s hard.”
Spitfire allowed herself a thin smile. “It wouldn’t be the Wonderbolts if it were easy.”
Soarin actually chuckled at that. He shook his head in disbelief, feeling some of the burden drain away from him.
“Do I still get to be Captain?” he asked.
Spitfire nodded. “I think Fire Comet is just about to pull his mane out over the responsibilities.”
Soarin hissed. “Yeah, that’s not good. That stallion doesn’t really have anything else going on for him except for his mane.” He drummed a hoof against the table and finally nodded. “I’ll be there first thing Monday.”
Spitfire grinned. “Glad to have you back.”
A brief silence soon settled in between them.
“You’re right,” Soarin said, out of the blue.
“I usually am,” Spitfire rebutted. “But what do you mean specifically?”
“She would want me to keep flying,” Soarin answered.
Spitfire nodded. “She would.” She then took a sip of her coffee. “Also, I’m glad you’re coming back Monday.”
“Why’s that?” Soarin asked, cocking a brow.
“We have a palace event next Friday,” Spitfire answered.
Soarin deadpanned. “Did I say I’d be back Monday, I meant…”
“Ah ah ah,” Spitfire teased. “Too late, you already gave me your word.”
Author's Note
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