“Sorry I’m, uh, sorry I was late.”
His voice is warm like chocolate syrup, pouring out into his ear. “Aw, it was only twenty minutes, I wouldn’t worry too much.”
This doesn’t help things. “Still, I shouldn’t have kept you waiting...”
“It’s okay.” He still hasn’t asked the reason why. Fluttershy kind of wishes he would—he feels like it would make this easier. But for whatever reason, the man just doesn’t seem interested. Not in that, anyway. “Hey, I’m glad you called, though! I know you said you would and all, but...” He can see it now, Soarin’s smile, scratching his head abashedly like he did before. “I’m glad you actually did.”
“Of course!” He grabs onto that, holds it like a lifeline. “I had a lot of fun today. I, um, hope that you did, too.”
“You kidding?” The slight rush of breath over the phone is all relief. “So much fun. That was great. You were great. Pie was great. All great!”
“Well,” he says, and he can’t quite keep the amusement out his tone, “as long as you liked the pie.”
And damn it if he doesn’t sound excited. “Sure did. We should go there again! If you want to, I mean.” He coughs, embarrassed. “Doesn’t have to be there, we can do somewhere else.”
“As long as they have pie, right?”
“Right,” he says, and they’re laughing again.
And that’s how it is the rest of the call, this easy back-and-forth, and suddenly it’s an hour later, and they’ve said goodbye, and Fluttershy’s still not told him what he wanted to say. Well, he thinks, staring at the dead line in his hands, maybe that’s for the best. They’ve agreed to meet up again, Canterlot Park, Thursday, and that’s only three days away in any case. Not so long, really. He can tell him then. And there was a reason he wanted it to be by phone, wanted that separation there—a good reason, too—but maybe, he thinks, maybe it’ll be alright on the day. Soarin seems nice. He’s funny, and sweet, and didn’t mind he showed up late, and yeah. It’ll be fine.
Fluttershy holds the phone a little longer, unwilling to let it go. Eventually, he puts it on the charger, and crawls into bed. The mood lamp in the corner flickers slightly. He tells himself it’s going to be okay.
Three days later, Soarin tells him, quite politely, that they’re not going to be seeing each other again.
I’m trans. I hope that that’s okay.
Sure thing babe. See u Tue?
Okay
Fluttershy holds his phone tight in his lap, looking around, trying not to look like he’s looking around. Clouds amble by like sheep upon a great blue field. A poodle pulls a man along beside the swing-set. Kids are playing in the fountain. If he listens, he can hear the train.
“Hey!” A hand comes down on his shoulder, and Fluttershy nearly jumps out his skin. “Oh! Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.”
The man sits down with an easy grin, and Fluttershy tries a smile. “Um, that’s okay.”
“Fluttershy, right?” He reaches out, bending to plant a gracious kiss on his hand.
Fluttershy nods, and adds, a second too late, “Uh, you must be Feather Bangs.”
“The one and only.” If he didn’t know better, Fluttershy would swear his grin actually sparkles. “Shall we take a walk?”
He’s a singer. Good voice, too—it’s not Fluttershy’s style, a little sweet, too falsetto, but damned it he can’t charm the birds out the trees around them. And cute, that too—he catches a couple of, well, not stares, exactly, but glances—and funny, and charming, and really Fluttershy should be enjoying this much more than he is. They grab wraps from the pop-up stand, and Feather orders an odd, sort of sickly falafel thing that Fluttershy thinks has honey in it, but he keeps insisting does not. Fluttershy wants to pay, but he isn’t having any of it, which, well, maybe makes up for the fact he ordered without asking, too.
They eat it by the canal, Feather snaps a pic, and they spend the next half-hour poring over filters till Fluttershy is so sick of looking at it he asks him not to post it. The flaws are all that’s left.
And that thing, that thing that Fluttershy keeps worrying about, that any minute now he’s going to turn around and frown and realise; that he’s going to look him up and down and say, as if he hadn’t noticed who he was with, oh, sorry, I only date real men—that never comes. But the memory of Soarin is still too fresh, or something, and he can’t quite put it out of mind.
It’s 8pm, and Feather Bangs is looking at him like he expects an answer.
“Sorry,” says Fluttershy, “I didn’t, uh...”
He laughs, tossing his hair back, and flashes him another dazzling smile. “I asked what you thought about dinner.”
“Oh.” Fluttershy hopes he doesn’t look as much like a deer in headlights as Zephyr always claims. “Um, I’m not, not quite sure.”
“Not, not?” he asks, something glinting in his eye that makes Fluttershy tingle in all the right places. “Sounds like a yes, to me.” Feather seems to notice his worry, because he drops his voice, suddenly much softer. “We don’t have to do dinner, it’s okay. We could always go straight back to my place.”
He lets the proposal hang there in the air. Fluttershy can feel himself blushing, feel the heat spread through his cheeks, like he’s just stepped into a warm store in the heart of winter, and all the blood’s rushing back into his face. But it’s not even dark, not even evening. He can see the cars passing on the road behind them.
He’s going to refuse, it’s on the tip of his tongue to say it, but he remembers what his friends are always telling him, about risks and opportunities, and taking them sometimes, ya hear me? and he wonders suddenly how many of his answers to the question why not? are just excuses, anyway.
“Okay,” he says, and hopes he doesn’t look as awkward as he feels.
He’s hot, and flustered, and Feather is too, by the sounds he’s making, little impatient grunts that spark electric off Fluttershy’s nerves, and it’s all going great until he pulls his boxers down and Feathers asks which hole she wants it in.
Hey, he asks, later, in tiny glowing letters on a screen, you wanna, like, try that again?
Fluttershy stares at that a long while, and Feather knows he’s seen it, knows he’s just ignoring him, but for whatever reason, doesn’t push. Sleep comes before either of them find an answer, and the next morning Fluttershy checks his phone to see Feather’s made a new post public, full of pink hearts and too-bright colours.
Canal! Honey wraps!! Cute guy!!! Living the dream!!!!
“Okay,” he whispers, and puts the phone away again.
Things were going pretty well. Caramel was good for him, a good fit, that’s what everyone kept saying, and he was maybe even one of the few guys that Fluttershy had ever, truly been relaxed around. And he was trans, too, which had avoided a lot of the usual floundering, which had let them connect quickly over something, that shared experience. The pain what makes us strong, as Caramel was always saying.
“Hm?” Fluttershy looks up, the lull in conversation reaching him at last.
Applejack is shaking her head in what he hopes is amusement. “I was askin how that little bit of yours were doing, Fluttershy.”
“Oh.” He quells his brief flash of panic. The lie is well-rehearsed. “He’s, um, away on business this weekend.”
“Never thought textiles was so competitive.”
“It is.” It actually is. “It’s a national thing. He can’t miss it.” True as well—just one month out of date.
“Not even for family, huh.” He squirms at Applejack’s clear disapproval, and tells himself he doesn’t need to feel sorry for a guy it doesn’t affect anymore. Then he tells himself looking uncomfortable here is only going to help sell the act. Really, he should be offering a defence. He can’t quite bring himself to.
“Maybe next time,” he offers, lamely.
It’s too much to hope that his avoidance goes unnoticed. Big Mac finds him later, staring out a little wistfully over the grey expanse of the town, nestled in between the hills, looking cosy and safe as he wishes he felt. “You alright?” he asks, roughly, stepping up beside him. Fluttershy doesn’t turn to look, just tightens his grip on the balcony railing, and mutters some vague excuse about the weather. Big Mac cuts him off. “Just. You looked about as bad as I felt, in there.” Fluttershy doesn’t need to follow the hard stab of his thumb to know what he means.
“I’m, uh...” He wonders what the best way out of this is. “Lonely, I guess.” He regrets it immediately. Both because it hits a little close to truth, and because Big Mac...
His voice hardens. “Yeah. I get that.” Clearly, he doesn’t think Fluttershy does. Because it’s public knowledge that Big Mac’s just broken up with his girlfriend of seven years, and equally public knowledge that Fluttershy’s happily taken. And he wants to take this obvious dismissal, wants to walk by and back inside with his embarrassment, and not have this conversation, but, well, Big Mac deserves better than that.
“No, really,” Fluttershy insists, and something in his tone must come through, because Big Mac looks down at him in surprise. There’s at least a head’s difference there.
“Yeah?” he asks, guardedly.
Fluttershy nods. “Yeah. Caramel and me, um...” His fingers twine uselessly together, the words just refusing to come. But Big Mac’s never much been one for words.
“How long?” he asks, and there’s no judgement there, just curiosity, and the edge of something a little desperate.
Fluttershy shrugs.
“Why?” he asks, more gently.
“I don’t know. Why does anything happen?” He chances a look up at Big Mac, and finds that warm, green gaze intense upon his his own. “I was going to tell everyone, but...” He waves a hand vaguely, and Big Mac nods. “And then the holidays were coming up, and people just assumed, and, well...I didn’t want to cause any trouble.”
He must sound utterly miserable, completely pathetic, but Big Mac doesn’t say anything. Just holds out an arm, and tucks Fluttershy into his chest when he takes it. He feels hot, chest hard as stone, but safe—like the walls of the Apple family home itself.
“It’ll get better,” Fluttershy says, after a while, the two of them still staring out at the glimmering light of the town. “Right?”
His voice is a rumble, low and steady against him, and Fluttershy finds himself pulling closer almost instinctively. Big Mac smiles. “Eyup.”
They watch the lights together.
It is Christmas, it is Summer, and it is Halloween again. Fluttershy doesn’t like Halloween. He never has. This is something he has told Big Mac, has told him again, and has reminded him of every day for the past two weeks. It doesn’t seem to have made one single bit of difference.
Halloween at Sweet Apple Acres has always been a big event. Hay mazes and apple-bobbing and monsters, oh my! He’s avoided it thus far through sheer strength of will alone, turning down the invitation each October with clockwork cowardice, and he thinks, the last few years, that Applejack has finally gotten her head round the fact that he’s perfectly fine spending the night alone, thank you. Really. No, seriously. It’s okay, go enjoy yourself. Really.
...Which probably explains why she looks so shocked to see him there tonight. Well, it’s either that, or the costume.
“Hi,” is all he manages, before she wraps him in a delighted hug.
“Hi yourself!” They laugh, he makes a show of struggling, and reluctantly she lets him go.
“I’m just here for the maze,” he tells her, and though Applejack is painfully aware of just exactly what that means, she pretends she doesn’t know, or doesn’t care, and leads him round the whole place anyway. She can be a lot like her brother, when she wants to be, he muses.
They go bobbing for apples, and jumping for treacle scones, and Fluttershy does a pretty good job of keeping himself and his costume clean until Applejack rolls her eyes and accidentally trips him next to the treacle bowl, and really, what’s the point after that.
They wander round the farm and monitor the games and Fluttershy lets out a high yelp the first time he feels a tug at the bottom of his coat, but by the fifth he’s just about able to hand candy to the children himself. They drink orange punch from the ‘boring, adult’ bowl (formerly the ‘scary, adult’ bowl, Applejack informs him, changed because it turns out labelling anything scary on a night like this is just asking for trouble. Her arch look leaves no doubt as to who ‘trouble’ refers to. Having been approached three times already by the Crusaders, Fluttershy’s inclined to agree.)
All in all, they have incredible amounts of fun, and while when Applejack asks how he’s doing, Fluttershy just shrugs and offers a smile, he admits privately to himself that really, it wasn’t so bad, all things considered. Hell, it might have been worth it just to see the glow on Applejack’s cheeks (might have—the Crusaders maybe just tip the balance) but that isn’t why he’s here, and howevermuch they’ve both enjoyed themselves, Applejack knows that too.
The night’s winding down, apples away and the punch-bowls dry, when the last call for the corn maze goes up. Fluttershy makes to go for it, but Applejack holds him back with a slight shake of her head, and twenty minutes later, when the last visitors are traipsing out the pumpkin arch, the tractor draws up beside them with a throaty purr.
“Hey,” says Big Macintosh, and it’s like a cord’s been pulled tight within him. He stands straighter, nerves electric.
“Hey,” he says, entirely unprepared for the low, hungry note in his own voice. Neither of them are, either—Applejack’s eyebrows shoot up, and she claps him on the back just a little too hard, like she’s trying to pretend she didn’t hear that.
“Well! You two enjoy yourselves, ya hear? I’m making myself busy clearing this lot up, don’t hurry back on my account.” Torn between warning off her brother or her friend, she settles for giving them both a stern look, and heading back toward the house.
Big Mac gives him a long, slow smile that makes his toes curl.
The tractor rumbles off in pleasant silence, the dull thrum beneath them a steady heartbeat to the journey. Fluttershy curls up inside the frame of Big Mac’s arm and only screams a very little when the scarecrow pops out of the corn ahead of them. Big Mac chuckles, the vibration in both their chests, and holds him tight.
At what’s probably close the the centre of the maze, the engine stills, and before he can open his mouth to ask what’s going on, Big Mac’s lips are on his, and his hand splays out across his back, and Fluttershy finds himself surging up to meet him. When he pulls away, there’s something hot and dangerous in Big Mac’s eye as he looks him up and down.
“Do you like the outfit?” asks Fluttershy, having worn it for this exact reason, and not a little gratified.
Big Mac nods. “Eyup.” He kisses Fluttershy again, crushing his mouth to his, and Fluttershy nearly falls off the tractor as Big Macs leans over him. Only he doesn’t, cause Mac’s there to catch him.
“My—little—rabbit,” he growls, between kisses, as he works his way along his chin, down his throat, nibbling at his collarbone. He frowns, pulls back, and Fluttershy finds himself blushing as Big Mac asks, “Treacle?” Fluttershy protests, but Big Mac only murmurs that he’d sure like to have seen that, him jumping up to grab the scones, sticky liquid running down his face, and by the time he’s done Fluttershy is a blushing, squirming mess, and Big Mac’s arousal is pressing hard against his thigh.
Fluttershy isn’t sure, he thinks, later, as Big Mac’s hands dig into his body, as his cock thrusts and spurts so hard inside him, as they lie there after, bare and sticky and wrapped together for warmth beneath the stars, that he expected Big Mac’s offer of a roll in the hay to be quite so literal.
He can’t say he minds too terribly much.
He doesn’t know quite how to do this. He hasn’t ever had to, really. Where are you even supposed to start? Hey, um, I think we need to talk. Hey, do you have a minute? There’s something we have to discuss. Hey, can we not fuck tonight? I need to tell you something.
Maybe all that is just procrastination, maybe it’s all just mumbling and sidestepping and avoiding the question. I’m breaking up with you.
He feels a little ridiculous, standing here in front of the mirror, practising beneath his breath like he’s a little kid again, working up the courage to come out. Or later, standing in his uniform, repeating Applejackdoyouwanttogotothepromwithme until it separates to more than one word. This is easier than both those times, at least. He supposes he should find that comforting.
How do other people do it? How did— He swallows, allows the thought. How did Big Mac do it?
Okay, new question: how do other people do it without sounding like an absolute prick? Unbidden, Soarin’s face rises in his mind, perfectly polite. Easy for some, he thinks, viciously, and pushes him back down. Yeah. Fuck that guy.
He picks up his phone. Hey, Feather?
ya?
Any advice on breaking up? You know, how to let them down easily?
The reply comes moments later.
Tell him his dick’s too small
But it’s not.
Bad sex?
Nope.
Remind me, why u breaking up with this guy again?
Fluttershy smiles. Cute, but not exactly helpful. He’ll tell Feather that later. He’ll get a kick out of it.
His reflection regards him guiltily from the mirror. Why are you doing this? he hears Bulk asking. What’s he meant to say? Sorry seems so horribly inadequate. You were a rebound people warned me not to take, and now I’m over him, so see you around, yeah? Yeah.
He hasn’t even been a bad boyfriend, that’s the worst part. Bulk is kind, attentive, surprisingly tender—in bed, if not in public—a good fit: hard where he is soft, weak where he is strong. Fluttershy doesn’t share his interest in working out, no matter how persuasive he’s tried to be—but that’s hardly the end of the world. And the attraction is there, he can’t deny that. There isn’t much missing, all things considered, except...
Ugh. How is it that that spark isn’t there when by all rights it should be, but has no trouble turning up full-force for boyfriends who say things like Not now and We’re in public and At a certain time, a guy’s gotta settle down and start thinkin about babies, don’t he?
Bulk doesn’t deserve this. Neither of them do, but Bulk’s not the one standing in front of his mirror looking more and more like he wants to cry. And Fluttershy’s not the one who has to hear it, not this time.
He isn’t ready. He isn’t ready. He’s so fucking far from ready it isn’t even funny, and he can hear the door opening downstairs, the careless clink of keys on the table, the boom of Bulk’s voice up through the hall. He feels like he’s going to throw up.
His half-formed decision to leave it to another day dies on his lips as Bulk gives him a big, warm smile, opens his arms to catch him in a hug.
“Hey,” Fluttershy manages, voice hesitant and not quite steady. “Can we...can we talk?”
Bulk knows something is wrong, there’s no way he doesn’t, but his smile holds steady even as he peers critically down at Fluttershy. He nods, arms dropping but smile bright as he leads him back to the sofa. “Let’s talk. Yeah.”
He is quick and he is sleek and he is unlike anyone he’s ever been with. “Capper,” he’d introduced himself, “Capper Dapperpaws,” and the musicality of it had left him a little short of breath.
“Sorry, sorry,” Flutterhy had managed, when the laughter had subsided, “I just didn’t expect, well...”
His eyebrows had risen in a perfect mock-astonishment. “I’ll have you know that Dapperpaws is a well-respected name around these parts.”
“Is it.”
The man’s grin was infectious. “Not even slightly.”
From there, it has been easy. Before he knows it, Fluttershy is swept up in Capper’s life, carried along in the wind of his coat-tails, acquainted now with all his friends, party to his parties, and finding that despite himself, he really, really likes it.
Likes it enough, in fact, that here he is before the mirror again, running words over and over in his head, and failing miserably to control his breathing. Practising his curtsies, at Feather liked to call it.
He’s a little in love, more than a little in lust, and this would all be fine except for the slightly awkward fact of their not actually being together, yet. It isn’t even like he’s being subtle. It’s been seven months. People are getting tired of asking.
“So, Fluttershy, honey, you’ll be there Saturday to help me set up?”
“Um,” Fluttershy doesn’t even look up, entirely distracted. “No, probably not.”
Capper looks at him with unabashed interest. “Oh? Other plans?” Fluttershy winces. This is unusual, and they both know it. Vague notions of a last-minute cancellation come apart like tissue paper.
“I mean,” he swallows, trying to backpedal, “I only meant that...”
But he’s given the inch, and Capper intends to take the full, entire mile. He gives a thoughtful hum, pacing theatrically back and forth. They’ve stopped in the middle of the path. Fluttershy thinks he can see people staring. “Now, what could draw the mysterious Fluttershy away on a day of such auspicious reckoning? This Fluttershy who is always so eager a helper, this Fluttershy to whom the fashionable backyard party is as flame to the common garden moth?”
As ever, Fluttershy is finding it difficult to tell just exactly how much he’s being messed with. “I’m just—” he tries, but Capper holds up his hand, obviously having far too much fun.
“Let me guess—court trial. Your life of crime’s caught up to you at last, and you’re wishing Sneaky Stripe the Cat hadn’t fallen off that pier those many years ago—with her as your defence you might actually have had a chance.”
“I’m—”
“Moonlighting as a politician? I knew there was a reason Luna did all her speeches at night.”
“It’s—”
“An ancient family tradition? Purify the old soul in the blood of virgins? Jealous.”
“You’re such an ass.”
“Secret party. Secret agent!” He cocks one perfectly formed black brow. “Secret lover?”
“But of course.”
He chuckles, coming round to sling one arm over his shoulder as they start off again. “Okay, I give up. Do tell.”
Fluttershy catches Capper’s confident smile, and decides that hey, this time he’s going to have a little fun himself. “...No.”
“What?”
Fluttershy blinks up at him with big, puppy-dog eyes. “No.”
“You—” For a moment, he seems almost at a loss for words, his great love failing him at last. “Really?”
“Nope.”
He stares, like seeing Fluttershy for the first time. “Seriously? You know I was just kidding, right—I don’t actually think you’re Princess Luna. Wrong...” He gestures vaguely, “...everything, for a start.”
Fluttershy just shrugs, setting off again, listening for the scrabble of shoes on the path behind. It comes a moment later, Capper dashing up beside him.
“You’re really not going to tell me.” He sounds almost impressed.
Fluttershy shakes his head, not trusting himself to say anything—and then the words come on their own, with a bizarre sort of certainty. “Not unless you want to come along.”
“Fluttershy! I have a party, I have plans already!” He pauses, as if waiting to see if that will change his mind. But Fluttershy’s too far gone to back down now, he just presses his lips together and lets his silence do the talking. It doesn’t take long. Capper rolls his eyes. “Alright, fine. I’m in.”
“Really?” The word comes in a rush.
Capper nods. “It’s a date.”
Fluttershy isn’t sure it is, and is even less sure that Capper knows it—but perhaps it can be, if he plays his cards right. If he can pluck enough courage from the mirror to just say the words.
Now all he needs is to figure out what the hell he’s doing Saturday.
Dinner is ramen tantanmen with vegetable gyoza and a side of salted fries. Fluttershy still hasn’t got the hang of chopsticks.
“Darling,” says Rarity, looking appropriately concerned, “you haven’t touched your dumplings.”
There is something in Rarity that always makes him vaguely uncomfortable. He thinks it’s the way she’s always fussing—like without her watching he’ll stumble out of the nest. He takes a dumpling anyway.
The room is full of warmth and conversation, good food and friends, the too-spicy steam of noodles weaving between it all like gauze. Across the table, Capper is talking. Capper’s always talking. “And,” he says, raising his hand dramatically, “this man says—he says—‘You can use me if you want.’” The table erupts in laughter, and Fluttershy smiles, despite himself.
“In fairness,” Fluttershy manages, “he was only wearing a bathrobe.” More laughter, and this time he joins in. Capper catches his eye, and the smoulder in his smirk reaches right down to his toes. Fluttershy has to take a drink to hide the blush.
“I wish you wouldn’t tell that story,” he says, later. Capper peers up at him, shifting in his position across his lap.
“Oh? Pour quoi, mon chérie? I know you like it.” He wriggles his hips as if to prove the point.
“It’s...embarrassing.”
He blinks languidly. “Are you embarrassed by me?”
“What? No!” Fluttershy looks down, sees the amusement in his eyes. Of course. “I just think maybe...” His hand trails across Capper’s stomach, tracing idle circles. “...it should be our story.”
Capper’s voice is almost a purr. “I fear it may be a touch too late for that, dear thing.”
“Too late?” Fluttershy sighs theatrically, diva on divan. “Alas, time flies. A pretty bird, whose feathers all too soon are gone, a sparkling plumage withered, struggling in that great temporal river. Memories flitting by like, um, fishes...”
Capper’s chuckle travels up into his body, settling there like it belongs. He clears his throat. “Ah, time! That vast immortal enemy, that battlefield of human spirit, that current carrying us all towards the final, futile destination. Birds and fish alike swept by, fleeting lives like fires in the night, burning, burning—gone! Flashes of imagination, glimpses here of life and love, and there of awesome sorrow, a fabric weaved of little lives, threads small and large that appear, cross over, sometimes join, but in the end all vanish, fall off the loom, patched up now by different string, but never quite the same. A swirl of chromatic energies,”—Fluttershy traces it along his chest—“whirlpool of time and tide, black hole narrowing to one fine point where all are joined and parted. Tomorrow yesterday before we know it, stars bursting long before they’re born,”—little starbursts on his belly— “all we see the streaks of light against the cosmos,”—lines reaching down toward his hips, which shift delightfully against his side—“a billion years of light told in an instant—that tickles!”
“Sorry,” murmurs Fluttershy, not sorry at all.
“Hmph. Comets trailing—trailing history behind them, same as the mouse inside its nest, same as the trees leave in the wind,”—mice nibbling at his belt-line, hot breath of wind against his boyfriend’s pants—“call it fate or destiny or entropy, moving inexorably towards conclusion—you’re making this really hard,”—a moment later—“nope, you didn’t need to test that!” Capper takes a breath, trying to keep his concentration. “It eats at us—damnit—nibbles us—fucking hell—and however much we may deny it, uh, swallows us in—in the end...”
Fluttershy moves his head back, looking along at Capper innocently. He licks his lips. His hand doesn’t stop moving.
“Tomorrow,” tries Capper, valiantly, “and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from... Oh, fuck it.” He surges up, catching Fluttershy’s mouth with a hard, needy kiss, and when they pull away his eyes are glowing, and Fluttershy can’t keep the smile of his face.
“Does it still feel like I’m embarrassed?”
“You’re not blushing nearly enough.”
“Sounds like someone isn’t doing their job.”
“You had a head-start.”
“Catch up?”
The purr is back again. “Gladly.”
And they kiss again, and fumble on the couch, and in the midst of it, Fluttershy whispers, “Let’s keep this one between us, mm?”
Capper murmurs something about wanting to put this somewhere else entirely, and they laugh, and move, and join together.
The mug is smooth, shiny, and entirely plain—sitting in its box—until Fluttershy turns it over and sees Mr & Mr stencilled on its side.
“Hey, that’s nice.”
“It’s from Feather Bangs. I guarantee he didn’t mean it that way.” In fact, Fluttershy knows he didn’t, can almost smell the sarcasm on the ceramic.
Capper shrugs, and wraps him in a hug. “I like it.”
“Mm.” Fluttershy turns it over again, and decides that maybe he likes it, too. Not that he’s going to tell Feather that.
“Why, you’re awfully quiet today, Flutter-thing.” He leans over, nuzzling into his shoulder. “Something eating you? Not eating you?”
Fluttershy pulls away a little, very little, from Capper’s nose along his jawline. He frowns.
“Is something the matter? You know I still have the receipt, right? We can take it back if you really don’t like it.” Not the mug, of course—Capper’s talking about his own present, which sits sleeping, still bundled in its cage beside them. Fluttershy reaches over it protectively, and Capper’s chuckle warms them both. It’s enough, they move on—setting up the litter tray, feeding fish, then themselves—a cozy sort of celebration, even if Applejack has to go earlier than he would have liked. And it’s later, and Capper reaches over, and Fluttershy just shakes his head.
“I don’t think I’m in the mood. Um, sorry.”
“That’s okay.” He withdraws, settling back against the couch, foot tapping idly at the floor. “You are okay, right?”
Fluttershy raises an eyebrow. “I’m okay, Capper, yes.” After a moment’s pause, he leans over, nestling his head on Capper’s shoulder. “More than okay.”
His pleased hum fills them both, until—
“You’re thinking about something,” he accuses.
“Stop moving your leg.”
The tapping stills. Capper waits.
“Is that a crime?”
“Only when I don’t know what it is you’re thinking about.”
Fluttershy rolls his eyes, feeling the gentle rise and fall of Capper’s chest beneath his hand. “Okay, so what am I thinking about?”
“Hmm.” They both know he can’t back down from a challenge. “You’re thinking about...what to call the cat.”
“Twenty years too late.”
“Really. What’s its name, then?”
“Mr. Mittens.”
“Ah! But it’s a girl cat. Feline female.” He drops his voice. “Of the second sex.”
“Well...”
“Transing the kids, now the kittens?” Capper shakes his head reprovingly. “First they came for the children, and I did not speak out, for I was not a child. Then—”
“He’s a tomcat.”
“I can assure you he’s not. Unless he wants to be, that is. I have the forms around here somewhere...”
“Did you...check?”
“What? It hasn’t said a word! Look, the moment it tells me its pronouns—”
“You bought a tomcat.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“Damn.”
“Sorry.”
Capper eyes him suspiciously. “...Non-binary cat?”
“Cat/cat.”
“Cat’s okay with that.” He gives a daring grin. “Long as I don’t have to share you with another guy.”
“...Demiboy?”
“I can live with that.”
They fall into a companionable silence, and Fluttershy’s about to close his eyes, when—
“You’re thinking again.”
“Oh, no.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s a quick-fire round! How good a birthday present Mr. Mittens was.”
“No.”
“The fact that Mr Mittens would have been worshipped as a god five thousand years ago.”
“No.”
“Mr. Mittens’s inexplicably gendered name?”
“No.”
“Mr. Mittens’s—”
“It’s not about Mr. Mittens.”
“Mr. Mittens’s sadness you’re not thinking about him.”
“N-nope.”
“How cute your laugh is?”
“It is not!”
“How wrong you are?”
“How wrong you are.”
“How right your desperately attractive boyfriend always is?”
“Never.”
“If it’s not about how hot I am, I think I might be running out of ideas...”
“A little bit how hot you are.”
“Hah! How much you want to kiss me?”
“Not even close.”
“The slow and inescapable tragedy of ageing.”
“...I am now.”
“Ah, Fluttershy! Who could have guessed such terrible thoughts lurked behind such a pretty face?”
“Not a guess.”
“I give up.” He pouts. “Tell me.”
Fluttershy looks away.
“Having made me go through all that, you are legally required to tell me what you’re thinking.” His fingers catch Fluttershy’s chin, turning his head to face him. “I’m getting a little worried.” His gaze is slow and searching, and this time Fluttershy resists pulling away. “What is it?”
“I...” He reaches for the words, which fail to come. This is not something Capper understands. He’s still watching him, and every second longer just seems like a delay. It’s not, though—really. He’s not trying to avoid the question, he just doesn’t know what to say, and...
“Fluttershy?” His voice is quiet, reserved. Fluttershy can hear the guard now in it, as if he thinks he’s going to retreat, when really all he wants to say is—
“Sorry. I just...it feels fatal, you know.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. It feels real? No, it’s just that...” Fluttershy sighs. He holds his hand out, and Capper takes it a moment later. He squeezes. “This is the longest relationship I’ve been in. It’s starting to feel like maybe, it might actually last.” Like a cat and a partner and a mug now sitting on the kitchen shelf.
“Oh...”
And he laughs, realising that Capper doesn’t know what to say now, either. That’s okay. Maybe, he thinks, they can work it out together.
“I just love you, you know?”
The hug is tight, and fierce, and Capper mumbles something back, and he says he didn’t hear, and Capper’s mouth is hot against his ear as he whispers “Love you too, silly,” and smiles, and Fluttershy doesn’t even know which one of them is crying.
Fluttershy’s drunk, and this party sucks. Christmas at Sweet Apple Acres is a family tradition, and since Applejack’s so insistent Fluttershy counts, here he is again. Of course, in recent years the definition’s loosened up, so maybe that’s why Fluttershy feels such a stranger, standing here. Well. Drinking was invented for awkward silences, and Fluttershy’s been radiating one since the moment he stepped through the door. Alcohol to fill the gaps, phones for when the gaps stay stubborn. Chin up, chin down, quick look around. At the TV, Applejack sitting in a burly group. Clustered in the corridor, Granny Smith, her Bingo girls. By the punch bowl, Big Mac’s leaning into Sugar Belle. As he watches, he scoops her in a kiss. Ugh.
He finds him later, standing out upon the balcony, staring blankly at his phone. “Hey” he says, roughly, stepping up beside him.
Fluttershy doesn’t turn to look, just tightens his grip on the case and mutters some excuse about the weather. Big Mac doesn’t take the hint. “Fine night tonight.”
Is it? Fluttershy bites back his first response. Something neutral. Boring. “How’s married life?” He regrets saying it immediately.
Big Mac looks at him in surprise. “Oh, you know. Good.”
“Trying for a baby?”
He gives Fluttershy a long, measured look. “Not yet.” He squints. You alright?”
And suddenly Fluttershy is wrenched backwards years ago, to this same balcony, this same cool air, this same damn conversation, and all he wants is to say the same thing now he said back then, but looking at Big Mac’s ruddy, happily married face, there’s no chance in hell it’s happening.
“Sorry,” he says, instead. “I have to go, uh...” he gestures vaguely at the crowd inside, and fails to shake off the self-hatred. “Bathroom.”
Away, away from this suffocating reminder of what was, anywhere but there, anywhere but now, shouldering through the corridor toward—
“Fluttershy!” Rarity steps out in front of him, and he’s so shocked he doesn’t even think to wonder why she’s there. “Darling, long time no see. Doing well?”
And no, fuck you, of COURSE NOT. “Excuse me.” He leaves her standing there, praying no-one’s in the bathroom cause if there is he’s probably going to die.
Door. Knocking. A guilty couple, whipping past, door slam—relief. Fluttershy tries not to cry, and fails.
Applejack’s a good listener. She’s always been a good listener, honest and direct. Right now, it’s been ten minutes and she’s trying to get a word in, but Fluttershy’s far past even noticing.
“Flutterhs—”
“Flutt—”
“Sugarcube, don’t—”
“Aw, hell. How much have you had to drink?” She clicks her fingers in front of Fluttershy’s face. He blinks, a second later. “Right. You sure ain’t going home like this, sugarcube. Why don’t we take you upstairs. Look, I’ll grab a basin, and...”
Words. Applejack’s saying something, and Fluttershy’s trying to listen now, he really is, but all he can focus on is her mouth, opening and closing in front of him, apple-red lipstick bouncing up and down—he’d say cherry, if he didn’t know her—making small delicious sounds that only kinda filter through.
“Apple Bloom!” she’s calling. “Where is that girl? Ugh, I sound like Granny Smith. Apple Bloom!”
It’s all slow-motion, like he’s seeing underwater, nodding along to a rhythm from the surface he can’t quite understand. Memories flitting by like fishes— he reaches out and grabs one.
A-a-a-applejack, do, um, do you, do you have a date to the dance already?
Her mouth still moving, opening and closing and opening again. Her lipstick’s a little smudged, he notices. That’s nice.
“Okay, all right, sugarcube. You just put your arm around my shoulder—”
“Okay!”
“—eyup, like that, and I’ll hold you here, and why don’t we start heading upstairs. The guest room’s probably free, or at least it better be.” She turned her head. “Hey, Apple Bloom!” Back. “Apple Bloom’ll be up in a minute with a basin, you just hang on t—mmph!” She pulls away. Fluttershy blinks. She says something else, and Fluttershy leans in again, and—
“Nope!”
He stumbles back, and hits a wall. The wall looks down at him. “Everything alright, Applejack?”
They are upstairs. Hours later, sun hovering above horizon. Big Mac passes him another glass, and the water only spills a little, this time, as he drinks it. Fluttershy is sitting propped up in bed, watching Big Mac on the chair beside him. He looks tired.
“Nope, I’m fine. Nothin a little bit of shuteye won’t cure.” He yawns. “Nope, really.” Then: “Clearin up to do come morning. Better stay over here.” A smile: “When did you get so persistent?” Then: “Nope, I’d better not. Wouldn’t look right, anyone else saw it.” Finally: “If I climb in there with you, I ain’t gonna stay awake.”
And this really isn’t the kind of mistake Fluttershy should be making. But fuck it, maybe he’s past caring. “I know something we could do to keep you awake.”
Big Mac stares. His bright green gaze is searching. “You’re drunk.”
“Not as bad as I was.”
“Old bed. Loud springs.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“I have a wife.”
He takes a deep breath. “I don’t see her.”
Big Mac nods, like he expected this. “I missed you, you know?”
Fluttershy closes his eyes, pulling the covers open. “Shut up,” he whispers.
The bed, indeed, has loud springs.
It's a tricky answer, love
This party sucks. Fluttershy’s not nearly drunk enough. He doesn’t know anyone here. Well, that’s not technically true—he isn’t here alone, and he’s met several of his partner’s friends, colleagues, advisers before, at lunches, dinners, gatherings like these—but that doesn’t count. That isn’t knowing. He doubts his partner even knows them. He certainly doesn’t trust them.
He needs a drink, he needs his phone. Except he’s been told not to drink, and the lines of this dress don’t even have room for underwear, much less a mobile. That’s what handbags are for, he supposes, except he’s left that with the attendant. Well, drink it is.
He’s standing by the punch bowl when it happens. Waiters wander round in little fluted jackets, trays of even-numbered glasses floating mysteriously before them, somehow managing never to stumble, spill a drop despite the throngs they weave through. But places like this always have a punch bowl. It’s the frat-boy in them, college instinct. Usually, it’s next to the cocaine bar. Here, it’s over by the discrete black box he knows from experience is probably a condom dispenser. Someone calls his name.
He turns—it takes a moment to place the source—and suddenly wishes he hadn’t. He’d thought he didn’t know anyone here.
“Fluttershy! Dude! How’ve you been, girl?”
“Um,” says Fluttershy, to the approaching figure, “I’m okay. It’s, uh, been a while, Rainbow Dash.”
The wonderbolt laughs, a low, easy sound, and reaches round him to take a glass. “What, year...? I don’t even know. I don’t even wanna think about it. But, like—wow! What you been up to? I honestly didn’t even recognise you there, I was just coming over here to chat up the pretty gal by the condoms.”
Fluttershy winces. “Oh. Um, well...”
“By which I mean you. Single?” She winks, tongue darting out to catch the last drop of her glass. “Kidding. Not kidding. Like, I was halfway over before Soarin said he knew you.” She waves a hand at the figure behind her, and Fluttershy swallows. He’s staring at him. He isn’t even pretending not to be.
“Did, um, Soarin say how he knew me?”
“Said you two used to go out!”
Fluttershy narrows his eyes. “Oh, did he.”
Rainbow giggles, touching his elbow as she leans in to whisper, “How big’s his cock? We have a running bet.”
He’s still staring. Fluttershy smiles. “Honestly?” There is a steel in his voice as he says, quite politely, he’s leaving. “I can’t say I even noticed it.”
She lets out a very loud snort, clutching his arm as she stumbles. “Bru. Tal.”
“You didn’t hear it from me, though.”
“Course not.” She flashes him a bright, breezy grin. “So, it, uh, just men you’re into?”
Fluttershy looks past her at Soarin. It isn’t much, but she did ask about his dick, and he is still watching them. So he’s about to say something about how no, perhaps (s)he’s a little more flexible than that, and give her an enigmatic smile, when he hears the low male rumble of a voice, and an arm snakes round his waist.
“To whom do I owe the pleasure?” asks Sombra, in tones that suggest equal parts fine day, is it not? and I already own you. He blinks in charming mock-astonishment. “Ms. Dash! Do you know my lovely partner?” He picks up her hand and presses a kiss to it. She tries not to snatch it away. She looks between the two of them. Fluttershy shrugs.
“Uh, me and Fluttershy were just catching up,” she says, uncertainty fading quickly. Her easy grin returns. “Used to go to school together, actually. Course, that was a bit ago now.”
Sombra is all astonishment. He laughs, he enquires, he makes some comment about the shop they bought his dress from, and does an excellent job, all things considered, of seeming like a human being. Fluttershy smiles, and nods, and adds in here and there, and leaves out the fact Sombra never takes his earpiece off, fails to mention that he hates wearing the dresses Sombra buys, and omits completely that he hates his life, that Sombra has all the tender loving of a lion and the moral code to match, and that no doubt he’ll get a talking to tonight about the proper company to keep and how that company does not include the sort of person who hangs around the punch bowl, football star or no.
They smile, exchange numbers (Fluttershy laments his missing phone), and drift apart, Sombra gently guiding him back to decent conversation.
It’s not till later, not till Fluttershy is on his own again, that Soarin comes over to say hello.
“You look...different,” he hedges. In that moment, Fluttershy despises him.
“Nice to see you, too. If you’ll excuse me...”
“Wait!” Soarin catches his arm, and looks about as shocked as Fluttershy to see he’s done it. He drops it quickly. Like he’s been burned, thinks Fluttershy, unkindly.
“I just wanted to say, uh,” he shrugs. “Sorry, I guess. I treated you badly, I was ignorant, and I’m sorry. But, uh, hey. No harm done, right?” He nods encouragingly. “You look like you’ve really found yourself. Congrats.”
And he’s away again.
And Fluttershy is alone.
And later, back at home, after the conversation and sex and sneaking out of bed, it’s 4am, and he’s staring at a small, chipped mug pulled out from a box in the cupboard.
Mr. & Mr.
And he’s thinking: there’s a pie place on 7th Avenue.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Fluttershy looks up. He manages to keep the guilt off his face, just about. Quietly closes the article he’s been reading. “Hi.” He looks again. “Um, what are you wearing?”
“Not a fan?”
“Just...surprised.”
Soarin sits down beside him with starling grace. The motion is too fluid for his broad shoulders. “Not as surprised as me. What happened to the dress?”
Fluttershy grins. “Felt like a change.”
“Uh huh.” He shares the grin.
I don’t normally wear dresses.
Cool. Is it a fluid type of thing?
Staring at the phone screen for a moment, a thousand conversations flitting by...
I’m a guy. Let’s leave it at that.
Noted. So where was this place again, guy?
“This it?” He gestures at the building they’re sitting outside of, short and garish and smelling like frosted sparkles. “Can’t believe I’ve never heard of it. I know every pie place in this city, just about.” He considers. “They do vegan food, too? It smells pretty...buttery.”
“I didn’t know you were—”
“Huh? Naw. Well, trying to eat less. Fraid not very successfully. I just remember you...”
“Oh.” Years back. “Um, yes, I am.”
He nods. “Cool, cool. There’s a place just over, uh...there, a bit, which does a really good plant-based special. Run by this lesbian couple—”
“Hey, I’m buying, remember?”
Do you know how much I got paid for last week’s match alone?
Do I want to?
I’m not even allowed to say.
That low? I can pay for the train too, if you want
Hah. Hah. I got this. I’ll write “sorry for being an asshole” on the bill, if it makes you feel better.
Lol
Seriously though. My treat.
Suuure
There’s a queue outside, now. Lunchtime rush. Fluttershy suggests they just go in, but Soarin persuades him to wait it out. “Less chance of being spotted.” Fluttershy points out that maybe he could have chosen a less guilty-looking hat, like seriously, he looks like a bank robber, he’s not exactly blending in, but Soarin just shrugs and says darkly this is better, trust me, and that maybe they should take a walk to pass the time.
There’s a dainty breeze among the leaves, merciful against the sun’s dry heat, and Soarin takes his jacket off to let it cool him. His shirt’s too small, button strained against his pecs, and Fluttershy ribs him gently for it all along the path, till Soarin rolls his eyes and says he sounds exactly like his boyfriend.
“Another wonderbolt?” asks Fluttershy. He counts them in his head.
“Who, Thunderlane?” he snorts. “Please.”
“Come on, then.”
Soarin gives him a sidelong glance. “It’s private.”
“Aww...pretty please?”
“Yeah, we don’t really tell anyone. Don’t want trouble with the press.”
This makes sense. A good policy. Probably the reason why Fluttershy hasn’t heard anything about this, much as he was looking. It doesn’t help his curiosity, though.
“I promise I won’t tell a soul. Scouts’ honour.”
“You were never in the Scouts.”
“Sure I was.”
This earns him a suspicious glare.
“I was!”
“I thought they...you know. I mean, I know it’s different now, but back then, wouldn’t they only let in...?”
Fluttershy gives him a look of absolute, blissful ignorance. “Hmm?”
“My regiment was pretty firm on that, at least. Very strictly, uh,” he coughs, “strict. I guess it might have been different elsewhere...um.”
He’ll let him stew a little longer. “I’m not sure what you mean?”
“You know. Just that, not that I agree with it or anything, cause I don’t, but definitely in Canterlot they were quite...homo-genius, is all.”
Fluttershy snorts.
Soarin rolls his eyes. “You wanna help me out here?”
“I’m sure I don’t—”
“Yup.”
“In fairness, I never said which scouts.”
“Do you have gun handy? I’m getting the strong urge to shoot someone. Probably myself.”
Fluttershy laughs, despite himself. “So who’s the guy?”
Soarin hrmms.
“Who would I even tell?”
His answer is instantaneous. “Sombra.”
Fluttershy winces. “Okay, aside from Sombra.”
“Aside from the, like, third most powerful man in Canterlot, who’s apparently also your boyfriend.”
Or something like that. “I promise I won’t tell him.”
He lets out a long, slow sigh. “Can we talk about something else?”
So they do, begrudgingly, and by paces and by turns their conversation leads them back to the initial bench, where the queue is much diminished, and the building taken on a neon glow.
“...It’s Iron Will.”
“Your manager?”
“Shhh!” He looks panicked, and in the soft pink light Fluttershy can see his fear is genuine.
“Your manager?” he repeats, much quieter.
There’s a strange mix of embarrassment and pride on Soarin’s face. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t.”
“Cause you’re one of, like, five people in the world who knows, so if it gets out I’ll know it was you. And I’ll...” he seems to deflate, the righteous intensity diminishing.
“Be very disappointed?” Fluttershy suggests.
“Something like that.”
“I can’t risk that, then.” Soarin gives him a strange look, and Fluttershy finds, oddly, that he means it. He smiles, standing up to offer Soarin his hand. “Pie?”
Soarin grins. “Sure.”
“I still can’t believe you’re fucking your manager.”
“Shut up.”
They laugh, and head into the glow. And the only thing wrong with any of it is that it turns out Pinkie Pie’s does not, in fact, sell pies.
Fuck OFF.
Sorry not sorry
Absolutely NOT.
xxx
How the HELL did you pull that one off?
He uh. Just asked me
Fuck OFF.
You’ve used that one before
And how does Daddy feel about this?
Um...
He didn’t take it well. Which is to say he nodded, ignored the fact completely, and not till Fluttershy actually moved out acknowledged it was happening. So then they’d talked, and argued, and Sombra had thrown a fit in that icy volcanic way of his, and blocked the door, demanded he apologise, asked what the fuck he thought he was going to do with that worthless fucking life of his, now that he had no job, no income, no future, shouted that he would see him two years down the line on a street corner and wouldn’t be able to live with himself, thinking his dick had been inside that at one point, asked for and been granted a pity blowjob, and eventually been left snoring on his bed as Fluttershy packed quietly around him. And there had been the letter, two weeks later, with a printed note from his assistant saying he was sorry Fluttershy had chosen to put an end to their arrangement, stapled to a bill for new lock fittings “as the current are no longer appropriately guarded.”
That is gone, that is in the past, and now Fluttershy is in his own place, in his own time, and can wear what he wants again.
“You look nice,” says Soarin, as they are walking back to his new place. Fluttershy is buried in an old and rather faded hoodie, freshly washed and smelling of detergent.
“It’s no sequin dress.”
“No,” he agrees, with an easy laugh. “You look better in it, though.”
It isn’t easy. Soarin spends a lot of time on the road. Fluttershy wants to follow him, but he can’t afford to do that and keep his own flat, and they’ve talked about it, but Fluttershy needs his own place. Soarin can afford it, he’s reminded, Soarin’s willing to just flat-out buy the place. Call it a Christmas present, if he wants. No strings attached. But Fluttershy knows where that road leads, and besides, he’s got Mr. Mittens to look after. The cat, at least, appreciates his sacrifice. Mr. Mittens is no fan of the move, but he is a fan of Fluttershy, and his presence there at night, curled up atop the sheets, makes the hard days so much easier.
On weekends he gets the train down, or flies out (these he does let Soarin pay for) to whichever city his boyfriend’s playing in. The whole arrangement’s a little awkward till the wonderbolts get bought out by someone else, and management turns over.
They call most nights, of course; still, when they come together it is fiery and passionate, intense, a little desperate, charged even when they aren’t doing anything, just lying on each other, watching movies, eating out, with a kind of necessary madness. Making up for too long missing.
One day Fluttershy comes home to find a letter from Manehattan. A postcard and some petals: Soarin in full-costume, giving a practised, gleaming grin. All it says is: love you.
One day Fluttershy flies over, on a whim, and gives Soarin an unexpected backstage blowjob, nearly getting caught when Rainbow Dash walks in.
“I’d like to meet your friends,” says Soarin, hand tracing gentle patterns on Fluttershy’s bare back.
He blinks. “Yeah?”
“Sure.”
“I haven’t met your friends.”
“You’ve met some of them. Thunderlane, and Rainbow Dash...”
“Have I met them...”
“...Spitfire, and Lightning Dust...”
“I know who the wonderbolts are...”
“...Fleetfoot...”
“Okay, friends I’ve met and spoken to, not just nodded to in passing.”
“Hey, it was Rainbow who gave you my number in the first place.”
“It’s fine if you don’t want them to know about...” Fluttershy trails a finger down his boyfriend’s belly. “...this. But just introduce me as a friend.”
He sighs. “It’s complicated.”
“We can work it out.”
Soarin’s smile doesn’t miss the we. His hand stills on Fluttershy’s waist, warm against his skin. “I don’t know. I might need more persuasion.”
“Mm.” Fluttershy leans closer, the very tips of his fingers teasing at the tip of something else. “I can be persuasive.”
“Yeah.” His breath is hot, his breathing growing subtly less even. “Wanna put your money where your mouth is?”
“You celebrities, always worrying about the money...” Fluttershy smiles against him as Soarin’s palm slides down to cup his bum. “I think I’ll just use my mouth.”
Soon the conversation is forgotten, tongues occupied by other things, and then there’s only steady breathing, drifting in and out of harmony.
...Mr. Mittens watches from the door.
“You realise, of course, that marriage is just another system of control, right? Patriarchal pairing-off, a ritual designed to commodify female sexuality as yet another means of production under capital?”
“Of course, darling,” says Rarity.
Dusk Shine smiles. “Well, as long as that’s clear.”
The priest bows, the bride is kissed, and Fluttershy’s up with the rest of them and cheering. Soarin mumbles something about a fly caught in his eye, and Fluttershy laughs, and kisses him.
Home tonight?
Practise with the bolts. Catch you in the morning.
The wedding cake is Soarin’s present. Eighteen layers of different-flavoured sponges, six tiers, and a tiny replica of Rarity and Dusk on top, complete with tiny diadem and astrolabe. Pinkie gave him five free pies out the deal, as well.
Dancing, speeches, more dancing, more speeches, careful drinking, drunken dancing, taxis hired, back at home. “Nice suit,” says Soarin, pushing him up against the wall.
“Nice cock,” counters Fluttershy, giving it a squeeze. The fire in their eyes burns brighter, brighter, blazing—afterglow.
“You ever think about something like that?” asks Fluttershy, covers wrapped around them.
“What?”
“You know.” He’s playing dumb. Fluttershy indulges him. “Suits, dresses, ceremonies... Happened recently. Starts with love and ends with ‘—edding’?”
Soarin considers, brow crinkling in handsome mock-frustration. “Bedding?”
He giggles. “Well, that, too. I’m meaning the other one.”
“Yeah,” says Soarin, vaguely. “That one.”
He props himself up on his elbow, peering down at Soarin. “Ever thought about it?”
A sigh. “Aw, I don’t know. It all seems so...distant, you know? Abstract.”
“Abstract.”
“Yeah. Like...I hadn’t ever seriously considered it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I just never.”
“I mean, why not consider it now?”
Soarin stares. Fluttershy stares back. “...Really?”
“You’ve never even thought about what you would wear?”
“Don’t look at me like I’m the weird one here! It wasn’t even legal for me till, like, ten years ago.”
He can’t help but laugh, at that. Tomorrow passing gradually into today, and suddenly today is yesterday, and no one even noticed. “Well, maybe think about it, is all,” he says, kissing him, and turns off the light.
I feel like eating out. Want to try that new prench place?
Sorry. Late home again. xx
“Rarity.”
“Yes?”
“Do you ever feel like... I don’t know. You’re doing something wrong, somehow, and you can’t quite work out what it is?”
She frowns, setting down the teapot with a dainty tap. “Something the matter, darling?”
“Just a...thought experiment.”
“Having second thoughts?”
“Um, just theoretically, please.”
She purses her lips, circling the edge of the teacup with one long, purple fingernail. “Artistically speaking, all the time.” One perfectly shaped black brow drops flat. “I suspect, however, we’re speaking on more...prosaic terms.”
Fluttershy sighs. “And on more prosaic terms...?”
“Just ask.”
“Sorry?”
“The great advantage of the real world is that it’s real. ‘Am I doing something wrong?’—you might even get an answer. Depends on who you ask, of course.”
“What if I’m not sure I even want to ask?”
“The unasked question never gets an answer,” says Rarity, each word pronounced with the drama of a dying breath. “Well, that’s not quite true, but it’s not far off. More like, ‘the unasked question gets an answer far later, often when it’s too late to do anything about it.’” She giggles. “At least, that’s what I told myself when asking Dusky out.”
Fluttershy looks down. “What if I don’t get an answer? What if asking him just makes things worse?”
And for the first time, Rarity looks a little uncomfortable. “Darling. I fear that counts as an answer.”
Are you going to be home tonight? I want to talk
Not tonight. Tomorrow?
Tomorrow’s fine
Sleep well.
I love you
You too.
They talk. Eventually, Soarin suggests that “Not forever, just till we can get things sorted out. Just till this season’s over and we can figure some stuff out, yeah? ...Maybe, we should take a break.”
He hasn’t drank at one of Applejack’s parties since that old, disastrous night they both agreed to never talk about again. Ever. Please. Thank you. But fuck if a drink wouldn't really help right now.
It isn’t that Fluttershy’s huddled in some corner, staring out at people dancing, chattering happily to one another, observing the tides and ripples of the crowd. It isn’t that he’s out standing on the balcony, watching wistfully the far-off lights and waiting for someone to come along and carry him away. No, he’s talking. Laughing. Dancing. Catching up. Being involved. Part of the party, not apart from it. Still, he wishes he wasn’t here. He isn’t lying, exactly, when he laughs at Sugar’s joke, when he tells a story about a bathrobe, when he teaches Rarity to bow. It’s just that something isn’t right, through all of it—something’s a half-step off. Like he’s talking louder than he should to cover up the trace of silence. The half-step remnants of a missing person.
Applejack notices, of course. She’s always noticed. “What’s eatin you, sugarcube?”
Fluttershy opens his mouth to deny it, say that it’s nothing, just he’s a little tired—Applejack would leave it there, he knows, Applejack’s not one to push—but instead comes out: “Sorry. It’s nothing, really. Just, um, Soarin and I are taking a break.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You want a cup of tea?”
Applejack sets the teapot on the kitchen counter with a plonk as Fluttershy explains. When he’s finished, with a shrug and distant “...yup,” Applejack frowns. “Think it’ll work out?”
That’s Applejack: painfully direct. Fluttershy shrugs. “He’s meant to call tonight.” He taps his pocket. “I don’t know. Do these things usually?”
She shakes her head, eyes raised to the rafters like commiserating with someone he can’t see. “I ain’t the person to be askin there. Me’n’romance took a break when I was five, and I ain’t given it much thought since then. I’m a practised ear at listening, but I ain’t one for advice. Rarity’d be your better bet for that.”
“Maybe.”
“I can say it’ll all work out though, if that’s what you’re lookin to hear.”
Fluttershy smiles. “Try it.”
“Sugarcube,” says Applejack, taking him seriously by the shoulders, “It’s gonna be fine. It’ll work out, you’ll see. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, and all that. You two’ll work it out.”
He stares, almost believes it. “Thanks, Applejack.”
“Yeah, well.”
“You’re much better at lying than I remember.”
“Practise makes perfect!” She gives him a sarcastic grin. “The trick is, I don’t know, so it ain’t strictly lyin, see? Big Mac comes to you enough times with boy trouble, you learn a thing or two.”
Fluttershy looks around for Big Mac, sees him wandering toward the sofa, three-year-old clinging to his shoulders.
“Boy trouble.”
“Yup.”
“How many kids does he have now?”
She laughs. “Three. With another baby on the way.”
“Is he...” Fluttershy bites his lip. The smell of hay at night. A guy’s gotta settle down. “How’s he doing with that?”
“He’s...managing,” says Applejack. “Just about.”
“How’s Sugar Belle?”
Her expression darkens. “Left early. Usually does, these days.”
“Oh.”
And Applejack’s look turns hard. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Please.”
“Why bother?” She looks around, seeming to search for something, but doesn’t seem to find it. “With all...you know.”
“Love?”
“Not love. Dating. Romance. Sex. All that.”
“It’s...” Fluttershy closes his eyes. Sees faces there, one after another. Rising, wanting, hurting, fading. Soarin hovering among them, the latest in a long line, and probably, if he’s honest with himself, not the last. “...I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t seem worth it, to me.”
Soarin’s face. Soarin’s body. Soarin missing. “Yeah. Maybe. You have to keep trying, though, I think.”
Applejack snorts, and shakes her head. “If you ever figure out why, give me a call.”
Later, party dying down, low embers on the grate, Fluttershy finds himself out on the balcony again. Big Mac is off...somewhere. Back home, with any luck. To his wife and kids and empty bed. He isn’t going to be out here, isn’t going to come with that rough voice and bring the past and all its failures back.
The distant lights are twinkling, new stars against the rosy shade of dawn. It seems impossible, so far away, and yet—
It ends. It all ends, and starts again, and changes, never quite the same. Fluttershy smiles, and turns away.
His phone goes off.
“You never changed your name.”
“You think I should?”
“No! Course not. I love your name.” His voice is warm like chocolate syrup, pouring out into his ear. “I love saying it.”
Fluttershy giggles, soft noise in the night. “I love to hear you say it.”
“Fluttershy.” His hands cup his cheeks, feeling the warmth of blood in them.
“Mm.”
“Fluttershy.” His body is like fire, touch flickering upon touch.
“Mmm.”
“Fluttershy.” He smiles, and the whole world is in that smile.
“Yes?”
He leans in close. “You haven’t answered the question.”
Fluttershy snorts, pushing him away. He resists, holding him tight, arms wrapped around like wood, only soft, cause if Fluttershy really pushed, they’d move. My name...
“I don’t know, really,” he says, after a moment. “I know some people do. Like Dusk.” Soarin nods, listening intent. He shrugs. “Why didn’t you ever change your name?”
“Cause it’s marketable,” he answers, with an easy self-assurance that makes him want to kiss him.
“But if you could?”
“I dunno. It’s just me, I guess. Soarin is me, and I am Soarin.” His eyes widen. “And Fluttershy is you, and you are Fluttershy.” He sounds so pleased Fluttershy can’t help but pull him close.
“Silly.”
“Love you.”
And he is Fluttershy.
And Fluttershy is now.
And Fluttershy is many things, but above all that—at this place, in this moment, with this person—Fluttershy is perfectly in love.
