A Serious Talk Among Best Friends
Just as I’m about to shut the door, Hitch barges in and kicks it closed behind him. No warning, no invitation. I thought that trying to slip inside as quickly as possible would’ve given him the hint that he’s not wanted, but I guess being sheriff has gotten to his head – even the lighthouse isn’t safe anymore. And that’s what I want to feel: safe.
He just makes me angry.
“What?” he grumbles, frowning at me as I frown back at him, ears angled rearward. “You knew this was coming. Didn’t think you could get away that easily, did you?”
I turn for the kitchen with a snort.
“And you’re still running away!” He tails me, practically strolling like he owns the place – his hooves fall slower, softer than mine on the floor. “Why, because you’ve run out of ways to defend yourself? This can’t keep happening, Sunny, not like this. And you can pretend all you want that you’re making a difference, but nothing is changing and nothing will change.”
“Only because you’re not standing up for me!” I retort, twisting in place to stare him down as I sling my shoulder bag onto the island counter. He knows this already. He knows what I expect. That’s what friends are supposed to do.
But instead he stares at me in much the same way, like I’m the one who’s being unreasonable. “I’m the sheriff. I don’t take sides. I enforce the law, that’s it. If you wanna go around disturbing the peace, don’t look to me for help, and don’t blame me for doing my job.”
“Your job is to protect the town. How am I a threat? Or unicorns and pegasi for that matter? Why does Sprout’s mother get a free pass for designing technology to fight and trap them, but I’m the one in the wrong for speaking out against it? For reminding ponies that things don’t have to be this way?”
He rolls his eyes with a quiet sigh. “Being removed from the premises doesn’t mean you’re wrong, Sunny, it just means you’re unwanted.”
A chill pierces through me like a dagger made of ice. It’s bad enough when he’s the one to drag me away and march me back home, but to hear that from him too…
“Not like that!” he hurriedly blurts out, stealing half a step forward. “I mean, you’re unwanted there, at Canterlogic. Which, let’s be honest, is understandable from Phyllis’ point of view. And after she’s done cleaning up the mess, she says she’ll look into some formal action – that being, banning you from her property until further notice.”
“And you’d be happy to enforce that too?”
“Happy? No. But I’d have to. And knowing you, I will have to! Because who are we kidding? You just can’t keep your opinions to yourself, even if it means turning everypony against you.”
“Oh, so I’m supposed to stay silent while we let fear dictate who we can be friends with?”
“If it means they’re happy, what’s the harm?”
The question is like a slap in the face. “What’s the harm?!” I baulk, recoiling from the blow, then glance around the room as if to pick up my broken pieces. “What-what-what— Are you serious?! There are pegasi and unicorns out there, Hitch! Not to mention every other species we’ve lost contact with!”
“Who haven’t been seen in stars know how long.”
I slam a forehoof on the counter. “That’s not the point!”
“I get the point,” he says firmly but calmly, pacing to the island and propping himself on the edge. “What you don’t get is that you’re talking to a brick wall. This town is afraid and that’s a bad thing, sure, but how do you suppose we convince them that their imaginary threats aren’t threats at all? By lecturing them on something nopony can prove? By reminding them of times long past, for which we barely have any evidence? They’re myths! Legends! Everything happened centuries ago! You’re not changing the world, and until the day it’s ready, the world isn’t interested in changing.”
My frown softens. The anger I once felt is vanishing, replaced by… something else; an emptiness. I want to speak up, to smack him down – how dare he say it’s impossible, what with all we’d been taught about how anything is possible, so long as there’s still hope and the will to carry it out. But this feeling paralyses me, like the ground is sinking beneath my hooves. I haven’t the words for it, only the torturous sense that something isn’t right.
“That doesn’t mean I don’t believe what you believe,” he continues, gentler, “because I do. I want to. But if other ponies won’t listen, there’s not much else we can do. I’ve accepted that. Why can’t you?”
“What happened to you, Hitch?”
He blinks, squinting as his head and ears cock to the side.
“You were there with me.” I stab a hoof at the dining room table just across from us, the vacant seats an echo of days gone by. “You were there. With me. When Dad told us about Twilight and her friends and all the adventures they had, and all the times they saved the world – from Nightmare Moon and Discord and Chrysalis and Tirek – you loved it just as much as I did. You were happy to play as them, to pretend like things were like they were back then. But now…” I shake my head. “Did it mean nothing to you? Did he mean nothing to you?”
“Of course he did.”
“Then why am I the only one doing something about it? Because this, what Phyllis is doing, what’s happening to Maretime Bay, that’s everything he feared – everything he warned against! Everything that history tells us led to where we are right now: divided.” I slip away from the island counter and stride from the kitchen to the living room, and find myself losing my way, losing focus; if I’d come here with a purpose, I’ve lost it now. And I sigh. “It’s not enough to just remember him, or to feel that he’s gone. He deserves more than that. I need to do more than that. And so do you.”
The silence that follows is something I’m used to. If I’m not listening to music, practising a chant or thinking aloud, it fills this place. A lighthouse isn’t meant for just one pony alone. But there’s nowhere else for me to go, and nowhere else I’d rather stay. Even now when the sun outside is setting, bleeding the light of a darkening sky through the windows, part of me still feels at home. Because where else could home be, if not the place where good memories once lived?
And they still live. So long as somepony does something about it.
Behind me, Hitch returns to all fours with a sigh of his own. “Sunny… you know I care. About you, about Argyle. About what he stood for.” He treads slowly, carefully. His hoofsteps barely make a sound. “And I want to do right by him, I really do. But you have to understand—”
“There’s nothing to understand!” I snap to him and clutch a foreleg to my breast. Hoof to heart. “If you believe in something, you fight for it. You keep it alive. This is how I fight, and this is how I keep even a small part of him alive. And if that’s too much of an inconvenience for you, then why do you bother putting up with me?”
He baulks, frozen midstride, wide-eyed and eyebrows high. Then he quietly gulps, as if I’d drawn a knife on him, and slowly, tentatively lowers his forehoof to the floor. And he seems to shrink in on himself, his gaze drifting to my shadow. Far from the sheriff that first barged in. Not at all the Hitch I feared he’d become. “Because you’ve been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. And although we have our… differences, that doesn’t mean I don’t respect you or want you to be happy, or want what we have to come to an end.”
What we have. Something we don’t discuss much. We’ve never had to, because we’ve always known what the other wanted, what boundaries we could test. And I don’t want it to end either; this… bond of ours. We grew up together, shared stories and experiences together, became the obvious choice for each other together… and even now I remember how and why. But things aren’t the same anymore.
He may be taller, he may be handsome, he may have a reassuring smile and eyes as warm as a hearth in winter, and he may have started as my first real and best friend, but what use are these in the present? Or perhaps that’s too harsh. Perhaps, instead, what I need is certainty.
“And what do we have?” I ask gingerly.
His ears perk up.
“Friendship? Is that what this is?” My foreleg falls, as if I’d lost the strength to hold it up. “Agreeing with each other in private, but out there when it counts we’re nothing but enemies?”
He meets my eyes again with a sense of surprise, then stands a little straighter and shakes his head. “I’m not your enemy.”
“It feels like you are, sometimes. The worst kind of enemy. We spend day after day butting heads and locking horns, and we always end back here: you, committed to your job, and me, committed to the truth.” I frown at myself, staring off into the space between us, searching for an answer. “What does that make us, Hitch? Uncommitted to each other?”
More silence.
“Say something! Please. I need to know.”
“Know what?”
“That you… will stick up for me when I need it. And I need it, Hitch. You don’t have to agree with everything I say, or do, but this?” I gesture at the ceiling, the walls, the lighthouse as a whole. “This being the only place where we can get along? Where we actually feel like… like more than polar opposites. It isn’t good enough. We can’t go on like this. I can’t.”
He frowns as well, but not in anger or confusion. Instead he seems gentle. Sympathetic. And at the same time hesitant, which he demonstrates with a solemn shrug. “Then how do you suggest I change things, Sunny? I was elected sheriff because the ponies out there trust me. They trust me to uphold and follow the law, and they trust me to be impartial. If I support you publicly, I lose that trust, and I can’t help from a position of authority if I don’t have that authority.”
“Well then, maybe that trust is worth losing.”
“Not if they replace me with somepony else who doesn’t see things from your point of view.”
And that would be worse. Much worse. I’m already the town nuisance, the clown they’re happy to throw tomatoes at, and that’s with his mediation. I can scarcely imagine what another sheriff might allow, or do. In fact, I don’t want to.
“Sunny, I like you. I like being around you, I like spending time with you, and I admire what you and your father represent. And I always have. Always. Even before we started…” He trails off, the words catching somewhere in his mind as he glances at the sofa, then clears his throat. “But, look, what I’m trying to say is, this whole situation is a little more complex than you might be giving it credit for.”
I know what that look meant, what he was thinking; it’s inescapable, because we have been here before. Many times. And an insipid chill pricks at my spine. Try as we might when we argue, it’s hard to forget the elephant in the room, especially one so familiar. But the point still stands, and I need to answer, so I sigh and hang my head. “I know. And I know it’s not your fault.”
Hitch cocks an eyebrow, then narrows his eyes and peers side to side. “So why act like it is?”
“Because there’s nopony else I can blame.” Shame has burrowed into me, makes me yearn for someplace to hide, for some small amount of safety, reassurance. But where can I go if not my own home? “I wish there were, or that I could blame them, because part of me is just… so angry, so sick of them being so unreasonable… but if I do, they’d never want anything to do with me again. And you’re just about the only other pony around here anymore who isn’t like that. There was Dad, but he…”
“I know.”
Emptiness again, now with a broiling sensation in my core. Anxiety. It tenses my muscles, clenches my tail, sends a shiver through my withers and compels me to move, and I find myself pulled closer to him. Closer. Closer to his presence, his smell, his warmth, until I’m touching my neck to his, thankful that he’s here. That he lets me. That he lays his chin over my nape. “You’re the only one left, Hitch. The only one for me. But if you leave, I… I don’t—”
“You know I wouldn’t.”
I pull back, look him in the eye. He’s being honest, but is it true?
“Never.”
My lips part, then seal, eager to ask and yet afraid. “How do you know?”
There’s fear in him too. Fear of saying or doing something wrong. Fear of me. That he’s not good enough, or that I’m too good for him. Perhaps neither of us deserve each other, but neither of us pull away either, so we stay staring, waiting, unsure what to expect, yet certain what will happen.
And then it does. Whoever moves first, we meet halfway, and it’s like a thread has been cut; no more control, only impulse, only instinct – only scent and taste and heat and humidity. A kiss becomes deeper, fuller, hungrier, nose to nose as our tongues push and delve and explore the spaces they remember so well. All the while we glide across the floor, across the carpet, turning and reorienting to where we always knew we’d find ourselves.
He doesn’t shove or pick me up so much as he guides me to the sofa, and I recline at the feeling of it against my hindleg. My forehoof wraps around his withers, keeping him close and steadying myself as I go. We need no words, nothing but our touch and memory – we know how we like it. Even so, I peer down the length of my body, between my legs, and shudder in anticipation as I see him already dropping, already twitching with the beat of a racing heart.
I do that to him, I remind myself. Me and nopony else. Only I can flick that switch inside him, get him from the stoic sheriff to a powerful mass of muscle and raging hormones. And only he can do what he does to me in kind: my teeth chatter, my cheeks and ears burn, and just as I’m excited that this is happening, there’s also embarrassment. My body goes through the motions, knows what it wants, what I want, and all I can do is manage its reactions; my tail hiking, my flanks stiffening, awaiting what’s coming… I’m as much a spectator as I am a participant.
Before he’s even fully erect he’s bumping into my thigh, too impatient to aim, grinding his girth into the mounds between my hindlegs. That alone gets a grunt out of him, his breath heady, spirited, intoxicating, and even though he knows he missed, he nudges himself a little further forward, then back, over and over.
I simply watch for a while, somehow mesmerised by it – both how fast he’s growing, how thick he’s becoming, and that although we haven’t begun in earnest yet, he is transfixed. Spellbound. I am his weakness, his strength, his muse, just as he is mine. But fascinating as he is to watch, how content I am to see him enjoy himself with me, I don’t merely want but desire more, and I reach a hoof down to ease him back, and let him find his way from here.
He flinches at my touch but more from surprise than sensitivity, and rests his head at the base of my nethers. At the same time I feel a heaviness on my brow: his lips. Another kiss. Now he’s rubbing his cheek against mine, as if to comfort me, to tell me it’s alright. That he’ll be gentle, the chivalrous colt. But the act doesn’t always last too long, especially with the right encouragement.
Without any input, though, he dips inside, and tingling nerves cause me to gasp as I feel myself wink around him. He dives deep on his first breath, he always does, and as he bottoms out I bite my lip and whine and clutch his shoulders as best I can. No need for thanks when my actions can speak for themselves, so I peck his cheek and caress his side, and as he withdraws a quiver runs through me – a hollow mixture of yearning and relief.
Before it settles completely he plunges in again, and again and again, not with rhythm but a desperate passion. For his pleasure or mine? I don’t care, it doesn’t matter, not right now as the aching pleasure begins. Every thrust is heated, powerful, but never painful, losing momentum just as our hips meet. And I am meeting him, pushing myself with my flank and shoulder to match his frenzied motions, to pull him further in, to keep him there. He fills what needs filling, does what nopony else can do, and I want him to stay.
He obliges, his forehooves now grasping my waist, and slows the pace to a more deliberate speed: each repetition ending within me for long enough that I can feel his member twitch. Surely he can feel the same – sense my pulse echo through me, thrumming in the walls that surround and envelop him. Love him. Each retreat in turn is quick, short-lived, because we both want to stay in the moment, to drift in the bliss we create.
But bliss alone is not enough. He knows that I need more. My body demands it, already slickening with sweat across my forehead, throat dry and sore as I breathe in cool air. We can’t have been at this for much longer than a minute, or has it only been a few seconds? Time ebbs into eternity, and I wish with all my heart that we could last forever like this – no world beyond our shared delight, no beauty but his imposing silhouette, lit solely by the night behind him.
Too soon is he panting in a higher and higher pitch, urging himself to hold back yet pining for release. Far too soon. The tension inside me has barely begun to build, instead I’ve been too focussed on rejoicing that we’d started. We won’t finish together, as is too common the case.
Still, it never bothers me.
I lock my hindlegs to his sides in a silent plea, and will myself to break the spell that binds me to my ecstasy, just for long enough that I reach up and stroke his chin. And as he peers down at me through dreamy eyes, as if this were a reverie, I whisper to him tenderly.
“Don’t leave me. Please. Not tonight. Don’t leave.”
Seemingly subconsciously, he nods – subtle as a breeze on a still summer’s day. His motions become forceful, harder, no longer holding back but giving in to his urges. Giving in to me. And what a beast he can be, working his hips like the piston of a steam engine, pounding with the strength of a hammer, frantically enough that it’s almost painful. By now his arousal is creeping through the air, bitter and exhilarant at once, and the sound of my own wetness begins cutting through our tangled gasping.
He is close. Nearly there now, on the precipice; the tell-tale plug is growing, raking my insides, announcing its intentions – his intentions, exactly how I want them. Each plunge somehow feels deeper than the last, like it could be the last, inching torturously slowly to my most covetous centre. If the season were spring we’d be more cautious, but all I can think of right now is how we both ache for his release, and all it takes is a little squeeze.
Instantly he bucks forward, throwing his head back with a grunt as I grip him tight, hindlegs locked around his rear, forehooves wringing his shoulders, lower lips cinching and sore around his loins. And then the shudders start, accompanied by an adorable whimper.
I never feel what happens inside, much as I sometimes wish I could, only imagine it – imagine his flare at its extent, bursting forth and overflowing with his essence. I feel it coming, though, in the throbbing of his girth and the slight shifting of the orbs pressed firmly against my rump. And oh how well I savour it, the lurid details of our carnal pleasure, the relief that sweeps over us even as we’re still straining to milk the experience for all its worth. Pride and shame will come later, when we think about how easily we let ourselves get carried away. For now though there’s only euphoria.
The stress of the day is fading away.
He collapses somewhat, nearly burying me with his bulk if he hadn’t caught himself midfall, and heaves for breath. His whole face is flushed pink, spent. Typical Hitch to run the town all day, and barely have enough energy for me.
I giggle at him as I let my limbs go limp, then sneak in another kiss just below his ear. “You did good, big boy. Thank you.”
A chuckle escapes him as he trembles at my touch, but he manages to compose himself enough to nuzzle against my cheek, eyes still closed as if opening them might mean I vanish. “I told you,” he says, panting into my neck, “I’m not leaving you. Never.”
More or less, but a pang worries into the back of my mind as he mentions it, and from there my doubts resurface. I shake my forelock out of the way and draw my head back somewhat, trying to get a better look at him. “You still didn’t answer me. Not really.”
Though it’s a struggle to keep himself calm and collected, he tilts toward and peers at me from the corner of his eye. And then, gradually, he lifts a brow and beams a faint smirk. “Didn’t I?”
I blink and frown at him slightly, puzzled.
Hitch crawls rearward, and as he does so his softening member slides out with a delicate pop and sends shivers up my spine, the air now cold against my damp and winking lips. And just as I recover from whining and curling my rear hooves and tail at the shock of it, the thrill, I spy him settling into position directly between my splayed thighs.
There’s a flash of his tongue, and he murmurs huskily, “Actions speak louder than words.”
My heart skips a beat, cheeks and ears and chest ablaze, and soon I’m swooning at his ministrations, hardly conscious at all. Practice has made perfection. In some regards, at least.
We are not perfect. Far from it. He has his flaws and… perhaps I do too. But for now it’s good to know that we can still work, that his presence alone is enough to soothe me. Even without this, he’d still be there. Near me. Reassuring me. And I could ask for nothing more.
Unless that involves another round…
