The Things We Do For Love
© Scribbler, January 2013.
The clouds above Ponyville were thicker than burnt oatmeal and about as appealing. Rain fell in sheets and a howling gale rushed through the little town looking for unhooked shutters to batter about. It was only a very determined or very stupid pony who would venture out into such awful weather.
Bon-Bon stepped through her front door to the sound of groaning. She paused, dripping on the welcome mat. After a moment the groaning sounded again, louder this time so nopony could miss it. Rolling her eyes, she took a moment to wipe her hooves and shed her raincoat onto the plastic sheeting she had put down before she left. Nopony could ever accuse her of being unprepared. She picked up one of the towels she had left on the hooks and vigorously rubbed her face. Her raincoat had protected most of her mane, though her bangs were plastered to her forehead and her lower legs spattered with mud. The groaning came a third time, even louder and more melodramatic.
“I hear you, I hear you,” she muttered. Wrapping the towel into a loose turban around her sopping tail, she went into her living room. “So are you dead yet?”
The bundle on the couch whimpered. “I’m dyiiiiing.”
“You’re not dying,” Bon-Bon said bluntly.
“I am. I can’t breathe, my chest hurts, my joints are all achy and my throat feels like sandpaper. I’ll never be able to eat, even if food does start to taste right again. I’ll have suffocated in my own mucus before I ever get the chance!” The words came out muffled, owing to the layers of blanket, but even through the fabric their nasally quality was noticeable.
Bon-Bon sighed. “You have a cold, Lyra, not bubonic plague.”
The bundle shuffled and a rumpled head poked out. Lyra glared mutinously at her, though Bon-Bon noted she didn’t look as washed out as earlier. Her mint green coat was still dishevelled from two nights of tossing and turning on the sofa, but her eyes flashed and the little burst blood vessels that had peppered them were nearly gone. “You’re heartless.”
“I’m letting you stay on my couch,” Bon-Bon pointed out. “I’d hardly call that heartless.”
“Well, since I got so sick coming over to visit you, the least you could do was not send me home to die of pneumonia.”
Bon-Bon sighed. She had indeed invited Lyra over but had credited her with the intelligence to listen to the pegasi weather forecast. “You were the one who decided to walk here in a rainstorm – a scheduled rainstorm, no less – without any kind of outer wear on. It was your own fault.”
Lyra sniffed. “Some friend you are.”
“Don’t give me that. The only reason you came over was because you knew I was making florentines and you wanted to eat them.”
Bon-Bon didn’t harbour delusions that she made anything as nice as Sugar Cube Corner’s stock, however her family had passed down recipes from generation to generation, especially after moving to Equestria two generations ago. Out of all the old bits of paper Bon-Bon had carefully gathered together and copied into an expensive notebook, nothing compared with her Nonna Cioccolata’s florentines. Lyra was always telling her she should make some for Mrs. Cake to try but Bon-Bon refused every time. She wasn’t interested in horning in on the Cakes’ business. She just liked making sweet things for those she cared about to eat. Nonna had lived by the diktat that love lay at the bottom of a mixing bowl and life tasted better when sprinkled with sugar. Bon-Bon believed her, though Lyra continued trying to convince her that fame and fortune could be hers if only she would make the effort.
“And I’ve suffered for it!” Lyra protested. She flopped back, the back of one hoof against her forehead. “I’m in agony!”
“No you’re not.” Bon-Bon reached into the saddle-bag she had been wearing under her raincoat. It was damp but had kept her cargo from being rain-soaked. She tugged it free with some difficulty and held it out with a curt: “Here.”
Lyra accepted the proffered item warily. She had to hold out both hooves and let out a little ‘whoof’ of air at its weight. “What … is it?”
“Don’t be so suspicious.”
“The last time you gave me a gift it was medicine. Really icky tasting medicine.” Lyra frowned. “Really icky tasting medicine that totally nearly made me throw up. Really icky medicine that you told me was sweetened with honey, but I didn’t taste any honey–”
“I get the point, Lyra,” Bon-Bon cut in, a little sharply. She pointed at the paper bag. It was covered in a frieze of confetti and twisting streamers of pink, yellow and green. “Open it.”
Instead of complying, Lyra looked at the bag itself. “Is this from the toy store?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“But you hate the toy store. You never want to go in there with me. You always claim it makes you look foalish – which is total ponyfeathers because I go in there all the time and I don’t look foalish.”
“Hmm.” Bon-Bon didn’t comment on that one.
“And you don’t like Toola-Roola either. Why would you voluntarily go into her store?” Lyra wiped her nose with the back of one hoof. Bon-Bon reflexively reached for the box of tissues on the floor next to the couch. Equally reflexively, Lyra took one without taking her gaze from the paper bag. “Wait a second; what day is it today?”
“Thursday.”
Lyra squeaked. “Then this is …?”
“Mm-hmm.” Bon-Bon watched with a tiny smile as Lyra forwent suspicion and tore the bag open.
“It is!” she cried in delight. “From the new batch! These only came in this morning!”
“I know. Toola-Roola told me.”
She had also wanted to know why Bon-Bon, of all ponies, would be buying so many. The tiny plastic models were designed with foals in mind, after all. Usually Bon-Bon would have had a witty retort ready, but today she had mumbled something inaudible and paid as quickly as she could, thankful for the rain still keeping most ponies indoors where they couldn’t see her trying to squash an entire box into her saddlebag without overbalancing. Bon-Bon had grumbled, complained, groused and bellyached all the way home. Getting muddy and being smacked with rain that felt like somepony had kicked gravel in her face had done nothing to make her feel better.
Lyra’s expression, however, did.
“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh!” Lyra squealed as she opened the box and surveyed row upon row of shiny little packets. “I thought I was going to miss out! I thought they’d all be gone by the time I was well enough to get them!” She lifted one out, the purple metallic sheen reflecting in her gold eyes. Anyone would be forgiven for thinking she had just stumbled upon the meaning of life, such was her rapture. “Seventh generation blind bags! Oooooh!” Using her teeth, she ripped open the packet and allowed the tiny figurine inside to fall onto her upturned hoof.
Bon-Bon never pretended to understand Lyra’s fascination with these toys. Then again, she didn’t understand her refusal to go to the Canterlot Conservatoire after high school, either. Lyra was a talented musician, her magic allowing her to play instruments an earth pony like Bon-Bon could only dream about. Many times Bon-Bon had invited her over, ostensibly to try out some new confection, just because she wanted to hear her play. It warmed her even on the coldest, wettest, nastiest days to have music winding through her neat little house and Lyra played the most beautiful music. Once, during a school trip to Canterlot, Bon-Bon had heard a quartet of ponies dressed in tuxedos playing for an audience of upper class ponies who all stamped their hooves politely. It had been pretty but hadn’t made her stop still to listen, the way Lyra’s playing could.
Everyone had thought Lyra would jump at the chance to join the premiere Canterlot academy for upcoming musicians. All through school she had wowed everypony with her ability and had even got as far as filling out the application form. Yet she had bucked all trends at the final furlong by staying put in Ponyville where her talents went largely unnoticed. Sometimes she tried to equate her decision with Bon-Bon’s refusal to show her baking to Mr. and Mrs. Cake, but Bon-Bon always called ponyfeathers on that argument. She knew she was just an amateur with a good cookbook; Lyra had actual talent.
“Oh my gosh!” Lyra cried. “It’s Barbie!”
“It is?” Bon-Bon echoed.
“And she’s in her doctor’s outfit!” Lyra held the little figurine out to show her and then hugged it to her own chest in glee. “Look at her little stethoscope! It’s so cute!”
“It’s just plastic, Lyra.”
“She is NOT just PLASTIC!” Lyra shot back. She placed the figurine down beside her and reached for another. One ripping noise later she was squealing in fresh delight. “It’s Sindy! And she’s in her ballet tutu! Oh my gosh, I thought the manufacturers said they’d discontinued all the Sindy models!” Another packet bit the dust. “Oh. My. Gosh.” Lyra spoke with the emphasis of someone giving a keynote speech to room full of members of the board. “Do you know who this is?”
Bon-Bon regarded the little hairless monkey thing. Unlike monkeys it had no tail and was topped by a mass of frothy pink hair sculpted to twice the size of her head. Bits of glitter sparkled all over her equally pink outfit, catching the flickering light from the fireplace. “Should I know?”
“It’s only JEM!” Lyra said reverently. “She’s so rare I didn’t think I’d ever see her, let alone own her. I thought the company lost the rights to her design so they couldn’t make any more of her.”
“Well, I guess they got them back.” Bon-Bon shrugged. “Or something.”
Lyra turned the little plastic face towards her. “This is … epic!”
“I’m not sure you’ve used that word correctly, but I’m glad you’re happy.”
Instantly Lyra froze, hoof poised over the box to pluck out another packet. She let her hoof drop to the blanket over her hind legs and rubbed her nose with her tissue. “Why did you do this?”
Bon-Bon shrugged and pawed at the towel around her tail. “I thought you’d be disappointed if you didn’t go today. It’s all you’ve talked about for the last three weeks, after all, but no way are you healthy enough to go out in that rain.”
“Yeah, but … you hate anything to do with My Pretty Person.”
Bon-Bon studiously avoided Lyra’s eye. “I don’t HATE it; I just don’t understand why you’re so obsessed with it.”
“I’m not obsessed!” Lyra winced as she, too, thought of the lines of carefully arranged figurines on her shelves at home. Bon-Bon had gaped when she first saw all the care the typically messy pony had taken with them. It was not unusual to find Lyra searching through her own garbage to find some precious thing she had accidentally thrown out – up to and including her lyre, electricity bill or school yearbook. Yet each little doll had been carefully placed in a precise order and was dusted more often that the rest of her whole house. Likewise the plush toys and books she had arranged on the shelf below them, and the comics organised in strict numerical order in a special protective box underneath them. In a sea of untidiness it was an island of order and infatuation. “Okay … maybe I’m especially invested, but that’s not obsession.”
“What was the word you used to describe yourself the other day?” Bon-Bon pulled off the towel with faux nonchalance. “When we were talking with Pinkie Pie?”
Lyra blushed. “A hunny.”
It was a portmanteau between ‘human’ and ‘pony’ that made Bon-Bon scratch her head and wonder a little at the state of mind of a pony who would not only invent it, but use it proudly and in public. Anything that made Pinkie Pie shriek in that much delight could not be a good thing.
Yet despite this, Bon-Bon had gone out into the rain to buy up an entire box of little plastic toys. She was an idiot motivated by guilt; that was the only explanation. If she hadn’t gotten all nostalgic over Nonna’s recipe and invited Lyra over to play when the pegasi had scheduled a downpour, Lyra could have gone and bought the little ‘people’ herself. Yes, that was it.
Lyra turned the Sindy figurine over in her hooves, as if inspecting it for flaws. “This was … really kind of you. Bon-Bon.”
“Meh.” Bon-Bon scrubbed at the base of her tail with the towel and folded it up. “I have to go put this in the laundry basket.” She tried to beat a hasty retreat, but Lyra stopped her.
“Hey, Bon-Bon?”
“Yes?”
“Do you … do you want me to play your grandmother’s song?”
Nonna Cioccolata used to sing the same song every night when Bon-Bon was a filly; a lullaby from the faraway country where she had grown up. Bon-Bon had never learned the words, which she had regretted after Nonna died in her last year of high school and took the language with her. Bon-Bon’s mother had wanted to be fully Equestrian, not tied down by the way of the ‘old country’ and had actively refused to teach it to Bon-Bon when asked. That had only added to Bon-Bon’s grief and had nearly derailed her final year completely. All she could now remember was the tune, which she frequently hummed as she went about her daily chores. The grief had never gone away but Nonna lived on in her heart with that lullaby and the scraps of her spidery writing now stored in scrapbooks upstairs.
Bon-Bon turned back to Lyra, who looked embarrassed but hopeful. “Sure,” she said softly. Hanging the towel off the doorknob, she walked to the remaining easy chair and curled up with her chin resting on the side. “Go on.”
Lyra’s horn glowed for a moment. She was definitely getting better; like all unicorns, when she got sick her magic went haywire or failed altogether. Now, however, her lyre floated smoothly out of the saddlebag propped against the wall and hovered in front of her. She concentrated for a moment, closed her eyes and the strings vibrated as they were plucked by an invisible force. It was a complex and beautiful rendition of the old and simple tune; as if one of the little plastic people had come to life, grown pony-sized and was using their long thing fingers to play.
Bon-Bon’s heart twitched. She wasn’t sure if it was because this was Nonna’s song, or because it was Lyra playing, or something else entirely. Whatever the reason, tears pricked the backs of her eyes. She hastily closed her eyes so she could listen without worrying about them falling.
Since she had her eyes closed, she completely missed it when Lyra opened hers and stared across the living room at her. She also missed the little smile that curved Lyra’s mouth; a private, tender thing not meant to be seen by anypony. There was a reason Lyra had not joined the Conservatoire after high school.
As the rain continued to fall, music filled up the little house and the two ponies in it smiled to themselves.
Fin.
Author's Note
Nonna Cioccolata = Italian for grandmother and chocolate (influenced, I admit, by the time Bon-Bon was voiced with an accent that reminded me of The Sopranos).
My Pretty Person = Yes, I could have gone with My Little Person for the full parallel, but I liked the alliteration after I found out that My Little Pony started out life as My Pretty Pony back in 1981.
Barbie, Sindy and Jem = All three of these are fashion dolls of varying fame. Barbie is … well, everyone already knows Barbie, the plastic blonde bombshell whose proportions would prohibit her from walking upright in real life. Sindy is the British ‘rival’ doll whose ownership has changed hands so many times since she was launched in 1963 that even she’s confused (true fact, Hasbro once owned and tried to market her in America before Mattel sued them for ‘copying’ Barbie’s design and they sold her off again). Lastly Jem really is Hasbro’s rival for the Barbie crown, who came complete with her own TV series animated partly by Sunbow, who also did the very first ever MLP cartoon, Rescue at Midnight Castle, and without whom we would have no FiM today. So it seemed fitting to have these interconnected three be part of the My Pretty Person line in this universe. ^_^
