The barn door swung open with force, the hinges squealing from the lack of oil as the old wooden door cracked against the frame. He strode through the opening, hardly caring for the noise. His matted mane clung to his cheeks, the downpour outside only souring his mood further. His hooves thundered against the hardened ground, quaking the earth even through the thin layer of hay and sawdust that coated the barn floor.

He threw himself onto the haybale with a huff, and it sagged beneath his weight. The roof was leaking again, and he could already smell the mold growing in his new bed. He wrinkled his nose, and huffed, digging into the nearby hay pile for his stash. Glass bottles clinked, metal clattered, until he retrieved what he was searching for. He pulled out the spigot with a grimace, giving it a quick spit-shine as he stood. He made his way over to the old oak barrels. He'd hauled them up from the cellar, back before his sister had taken his key.

He grimaced, forcing the thoughts out of his mind, and focusing on the task at hand. He knows he's gotta make these last, but right now he can't bring himself to care. He slams the spigot into the barrel with all the force he can muster. It teeters, see-sawing as it rolls back and forth. He doesn't care. For all his strength, he still has fine control, and he closes his eyes as he hears the barrel settle back down exactly where he knew it would. The imact shudders the spigot, and a rich, frothy brew pours forth, straight into his tankard. His ears twitch, lost in beautiful blindness, drowning out the whole world with naught but the pitterpatter of rain, and the gentle sloshing of ale.

He deftly flicks the spigot, shutting it off without a glance, and trods his way back to the haybale. He slumps against the rough, itchy cube, careful not to spill a drop. He's still gotta make this last. Carefully, he sets it down, and feels around in the haypile once more. Glass bottles clink, metal clatters, and he retrieves a dusty old photo. The edges are worn and frayed, the picutre yellowing with the mold it's been buried under. But there they are. His family. His farmhouse. His orchard. His home. Bloom is fussing with her bow. Applejack had cleaned her hat all special-like for the occasion. Ms Rarity had even made Granny a brand new neckerchief. That was nice of her. He wishes he'd thanked her at the time.

Too late now. He takes a swig of his cider, careful not to let any leak. It's smooth down his throat, but that spicy aftertaste is what everyone's always after. He brews a damn-good cider, and he knows it.

His eyes settle onto the photograph once more. There he is, in his Sunday best. Not much, admittedly, but he's never needed that much anyways. He had everything he'd've ever needed.

The pastor had come by. The whole family went down to the creek. Dash brought in a gentle cloud cover, Ms Octavia gave a lovely ambiance. The pastor and Bloom had gone into the water. Lotta words. Promises. Commitments. Bloom looked proud. The pastor took her head and laid her down into the water, as his wife pushed the cloud away. Bloom came up gasping in the sunbeam, shivering and beaming with joy. The pastor guided her out of the water, and she tackled him, giggling as she soaked her big brother. He'd chuckled back, pulling her into a bear hug and swinging her around to dry her off.

She'd gotten into the beautiful dress Ms Rarity had made for the occasion, and off they went to church. A beautiful potluck celebration. Ms Pie had outdone herself. Streamers, Piñatas, Pastas, and Pies. It seemed like everyone in town was there for her. A perfect cute-ceañera for all three of them. The Crusaders had finally done it, and he couldn't have been prouder of his little sis.

He sniffs. Damn allergies.

He glanced around the dusty barn. Winnona's inside tonight, and he wishes that Applejack had let her out, but he knows she won't. Not now. He pushes himself to his hooves to gaze out the window, trying to peer into the farmhouse. He thinks he can hear AJ ranting in the distance. No luck. Granny's bolted up the shutters.

He releases a shaky sigh, and looks higher, to the dark and stormy night sky. He prays anyways, despite the stormclouds, for any pinprick of light in the darkness.

He stands there, staring at the storm as it only intensifies. He sighs, closing the window and trodding back to the haybales. He slumps, laying on his side as he scoops up the photo once more. She was so young, so happy, so carefree.

How did this happen? Celestia, why her? He curses the night. He curses the dark. He curses the moon and the stars. He curses Luna herself. Might as well be the Nightmare for all the good she was.

He sets the photo down, fumbling in the haypile once more as he takes another swig. Glass bottle clink, metal clatters, and warm cider fills his belly. Thunder cracks as the rain pours harder. Tonight would be good. The storm would mask the noise.

He fiddles with the shells. Pa always taught him ta be careful with em. One wrong twitch an they'll go off. Wham-blam-theregoesMa'am. He takes another swig. The cider loosens him up. Maybe that'll be enough.

snicksnick-click

It's done.

He flicks the hammer back, feels the smooth, oiled joint cock back and lock into place.

He hefts the barrel. Pretty light all things considered. Heavier than it looks, but lighter than you'd think.

He's done thinking. He sets the photo where he can see, and leans back. He takes a nice, long swig, draining the tankard of every. Last. Drop.

And he sticks the barrel under his chin. It's better this way.

Author's Note

I'm aware this is gonna look pretty sickening. That's kinda the intention. Things aren't supposed to be immediately cut-and-dry here.

Give Mac what no one else will right now. Just give him a chance.