Until Next Year

It had all started out so innocently. He had been a burgeoning young man of no less than 17 years of age, she was a boyish and slightly rebellious, but infinitely joyous and eccentricity curious youth of 16.

They’d rarely ever see each other. If they were lucky once a month, very occasionally even once a fortnight, although often and especially as they grew older once maybe twice a year was all they got to reacquaint themselves with one another.

This was the dread of them both, but in the long run it may have been the best thing to happen to their relationship. Her time with him was never for a moment stale, every second of his time with her was full with nothing but conversation and revelry, as they filled up all the conversation of a month or even a year in a short week.

They would always see each other at least once a year though when they went their holiday to a lovely little seaside caravan park alongside an equally quaint town, with not much more than a jot of civilisation for dozens of miles in either direction, certainly being a great deal away from their hometown, Fillydelphia.

The place like them felt new and fresh every time they went, but held a certain overwhelmingly romantic sense of nostalgic, as they had been coming annually for as long as they could remember, as long as they could walk or talk. He remembered his mother saying that they had both went since he was only four, when it was only them and one or two adults.

Every second of their time together was full of such depth and interest in one another that neither had experienced with anyone else. They’d be shocked, maybe even horrified at the extreme change either had went through over the course of their year apart, both in personality and body.

One Summer she’d be no more a silly little filly, the next time they met she’d have a full set of breasts, but would still be naive enough to switch between the simple tops she had worn before and more marely attire that showed just the right amount of cleavage, each no less revealing than the last. She might also have lipstick one year when the last she had none, she might begin to experiment with high hells, vaping and almost sensually dyed red hair. One year she’d be a filly, the next he’d be shocked to find a fully grown mare.

One year he’d be a colt with a high pitched voice and not the hint of a whisker, the next he’d be a stallion with a little more than stubble that he still hadn’t gotten used to shaving and a fully broken voice.

One year he’d find that she had become interested in classics like Shakespeare and science books, she find that he had an interest in history and philosophy.

As much as they grew however after the initial shock they were instantly recognisable to one another, they were still the exact people who had revelled in their own private little traditions every year, some going as far back as to when they were toddlers.

They would explore the great wood behind their caravan park and get lost for hours in conversation, or simply being with one another. Then they’d have sillier little things like buying a different kind of exotic fruit every year, giving it a name and flamboyantly dressing it up before casting it out to sea on the last day.

It was a known constant, they’d almost known exactly everything they’d get up to and all the conversation they would have down to the letter before they had even there. They’d spend every second with one another, taking in as much experience and fond memories as they possibly could.

Yet the year they spent apart made both the place and themselves feel doubly exotic to one another. It was new, it was fresh, it was old, it was nostalgic.

He had first noticed her one year as her breasts had fully come in. There was nothing sexual about it, he had never had any sexual feelings towards her before, nor did he have any reason to believe that she felt any differently towards him.

Still, when he looked at her, when he heard her laugh, when they were simply alone together there was a certain distinctive feeling in his gut, a fiery passionate, but still very much naive and confused feeling.

They had always been perfect equals and felt absolutely no hesitation towards one another. They had a relationship that forbade any kind of consideration for social niceties, when they were together they had always been their own little culture of two, totally unaffected in the ways and attitude to anything broader beyond themselves.

Now he noticed a certain nervousness in himself when he was around her. He felt the need to impress her, to appear dare he say masculine almost authoritative when he was with her, but any sense of masculinity or authority he might have had was swept away by his coltish and almost placative obsession with her.

He had never stumbled or stuttered when they had talked, now he found even the smallest fault to be his greatest anxiety, and in this anxiety was noticeably more bashful. Still, for as much as he had changed all those same old feelings from before were still there, so he was predominantly still as free as he ever had been with her.

For her part she was no less care free with him than she had ever been.

They had been sitting in a quiet bar/restaurant in the caravan park on a long stylish wooden bench alongside many of their other younger cousins and his aunt or her grandmother when it started.

He had simply sat next to her. He had always sat next to her, but this time it was different, had very intentionally sat right next to her. They were probably not much closer if any at all than they had ever been, but all throughout their meal he felt a strong compulsion, a fiery stirring in his loins and stomach to be close to her. He struggled to think of anything else.

He had slowly edged over to her all throughout their meal. A little electric surge of anxiety and excitement coursing through his veins as he slowly leaned over to her, half inch by half inch, until they were almost touching. Indeed he looked for any opportunity to allow her to accidentally graze her side against his, and would very occasionally lean a little more into her before allowing himself to fall back a second or two later.

The feeling of her skin in his, as she wore a simple tank top with him wearing a t-shirt, was indescribable. He felt everything, even the very slight minuscule hairs on her arm seemed to send a jolt of static electricity through his body.

He had continued like this for the entire week, leaning into her, or walking more than familiarly close to her to feel that little spark he had felt before. He found himself insisting to pay for any bus they got on, almost anything she bought that involved him also putting something on the counter, and he’d naturally hold any door for her or sit only when she had sat.

It wasn’t intentional, he certainly wasn’t trying to be a romantic, in fact he felt a little surge of anxiety whenever he did play the part, not wanting to stack up too much evidence of, well whatever this strange and overwhelming, but wonderful thing he felt was.

He felt protective of her, he didn’t want to see her hurt and would feel strange surges of masculine pride whenever he simply expressed that emotion in his own heart. Had no idea why, Celestia knew he wasn’t trying to play up to anything, be anything other than what he was, this was simply how he felt, the emotion was as free and uncoordinated as any other he had expressed towards her.

She didn’t seem to reciprocate, which he never expected, but at the same time she never pulled away or showed any sign of discomfort at his advances.