All the Boys I've Loved Before

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.