Rarity’s eyes were shut, and the velvety darkness behind her eyelids was soft and comforting as Opalescent’s fur. The only sound was the crackling of the logs on the fire, and the only sensation the delicious rise and fall of her marefriend’s ribcage. Twilight was asleep, or so close to being asleep that it made no difference. There was no tension left in her forelegs as they embraced Rarity, no stress. In these beautiful moments together, suspended on the boundary between waking and rest, all the anxiety and the nervous energy just fell away, leaving just two mares together.
Just two mares in love.
The soft hiss of Twilight’s breathing tickled Rarity’s ear, and a smile flickered across her muzzle. The warm glow of the firelight on her face, the velour of the chaise longue beneath them — not even half as soft as the strands of Twilight’s tail as it trailed across her flank.
Languidly, Rarity opened her eyes and looked across the room. The window was only half-visible behind the dusky red curtains, but the little square of midnight blue was inviting, in a strange sort of way. She could see white flakes of snow drifting down across it, and she was wonderfully warm with the knowledge that no matter how cold it was out there, she and Twilight were toasty warm in here.
"It's so beautiful," she murmured, her gaze flicking now to the dark swan-wing sweep of lowered eyelashes across Twilight Sparkle's cheek.
It wasn't the snow that she meant, or the fire, or even Twilight herself, as undeniably beautiful as she was. No, it was the moment itself, this single crystallised moment of fellowship and warmth and love – that was the beauty Rarity meant.
If she was a time-mage like Starlight, this was what she would want to capture. To encase the essence of it in a bottle or a jewel, like the glittering wings of a dragonfly caught forever in amber. Ephemeral turned eternal.
If she was a poet, she would write a sonnet on it. It would be titled Warmth in Winter, or something equally trite that ponies would scoff at, but when they read it they would find it was full of subtle glory. Like a midwinter sunrise.
But Rarity was neither a mage nor a sculptor. She was, she thought, as she levitated a soft angora blanket over Twilight, something more simple than either. A lover. Just a lover, nothing more. The fabric settled over Twilight's supine form, and she gave a little hum of contentment. Rarity felt it reverberate through both of their bodies and sighed at the sheer bliss of the moment.
Her eyelids were growing heavy again, but something caught her attention. There was something unusual there, in the way the soft striped wool fell across Twilight's stomach, the folds of it draping down to the floor in graceful loops and swirls. Almost against her will, Rarity studied the way the fabric lay, and in her mind it began to take shape.
The dress would be red, of course, a deep burgundy like the curtains. White fur would trim the high collar – a peek of snow showing through. Or maybe a hood would be better – a wide, floppy hood, to be drawn up over the ears to wrap the wearer in its soft depths. The forelegs would be exposed, like Twilight's were right now. A belt would cinch the waist, gathering the fabric tight to give the whole thing shape. And the belt would have to be metallic, muted reds and oranges and yellows that would glow like the coals in the fire. But the glory of the thing, the true glory, would be the skirt. With Rarity's dresses that was so often the way. The skirt would be the same soft red fabric as the rest of the dress, angora wool just like the blanket, and she would pleat and gather it just right, so that it would fall in exactly the same gentle sideways sweep that the blanket fell now.
She was no mage, and this moment could not be frozen forever, preserved in amber – but perhaps she could do it another way. It would be simpler, humbler. But it would still be beautiful, like this was beautiful.
Yes, it would be stunning. A wintry masterpiece. Rarity would sew it according to the measurements she knew so well, and Twilight would model it. Rarity replaced the blank ponyquinn in her mind's eye with Twilight's living, moving body, mentally added wing-holes, and watched in delight the way that full skirt would trail behind Twilight as she moved across a room. Heads would turn to watch her; not just Rarity's, but everyone's.
Stunning.
And Rarity was not a jealous mare. The jewel she possessed was the rarest, costliest, most magical jewel in the world, and she wanted everyone to know that as well as she did. On those rare few occasions a year when Twilight could be persuaded out of her lab coat and into a ballgown, Rarity always made sure she looked every inch the princess she was.
But even as the thought formed in her mind, Rarity was looking at Twilight's face, eyes closed, a faint half-smile on her muzzle, her mane rumpled and an ink-stain on her cheek, and she knew with an ironclad certainty that Twilight had never looked more beautiful or more regal than she did right now.
Red wool, soft as cloudpuffs. Red the colour of a Hearthswarming night. Where could she find a wool like that? Perhaps Yona would know. There was nothing like Yakyakistan wool.
Her mind filled with thoughts of suppliers and dyes, Rarity basked in the evenglow of the firelight and let her thoughts drift.
And just as she hesitated on the very brink of sleep, wrapped up warm in the love of her own true love, a voice murmured something in her ear.
"I love you, Rarity. I love you so much."
Later, when she awoke, she wouldn't be sure if she had dreamed it or not. But dream or real, it was true, and in that second she felt the truth of it in every fibre of her being.
"I love you too, my darling," she mumbled into the fur of Twilight's chest. "I always will."
"Always," the voice echoed back at her, the gentle depths of it resounding through Rarity's very soul.
And Rarity smiled as she danced across that nebulous border into the land of sleep, to dream of summiting mountains, vanquishing monsters and dancing at balls – always beside the same lilac-furred alicorn.
"Always."
