Rarity's Boutique

Rarity was elated.  Well, elated was perhaps not quite the word she'd use.  Overjoyed?  Ecstatic?  Regardless of the verb, she was feeling better than she had in months and she gave her tail a slight swish as she worked, humming a wordless tune in time to her own internal beat.  Her mind wandered a bit as the fabrics circled around her.

Bruce.

She giggled at the name.  Such a silly name for a pony but it fit him altogether too well.  He was brash, coarse and could often be disagreeable.  But there was another side to him, another side that poor confused colt hid with all his brutish mannerisms.  Soft.  Sad.  Lonely.  So many words for 'damaged goods.'  Rarity's mouth pursed as the thought entered her head.  He was that, she supposed.  She levitated the fabric she was working on up to the light, trying to determine if it was of heavy enough material to work as a proper cloak.  She floated it aside and placed the pattern on top of it - satisfied with the thread count - and began to snip away at it.

Bruce's history was still quite unknown.  He was confused, that much was certain.  Deluded perhaps.  Unknown parentage, unknown history, unknown everything.  Schooling seemed a bit hit-and-miss - in math he was ahead of almost everypony his age but history and civics were so lacking as to be laughable.  And his penmareship was atrocious.  Yet his other skills were so advanced for his age.  Rarity floated the now cut pieces over to a rather small ponnyequin, adjusting the fit and position with pins until the three pieces flowed naturally over the flanks.

"So sad to see such a thing," Rarity whispered aloud.  Abuse was uncommon but not unheard of among ponies.  While fillies outnumbered the colts almost three to one, colts unfortunately took the brunt of the abuse.  It was said once that not a single colt went through to adulthood without some sexual advances made on them.  "Such a shame."

"What's a shame?"  Rarity almost dropped her scissors in startlement as the soft voice of a colt interrupted her concentration.  A glance backwards showed Bruce - his newly made saddlebag hanging at an angle - blinking at her from the now opened door of her inspiration room.