I hate the rain.

Well, no, that isn't strictly true. I love the rain … when I can view it from a distance. Preferably with a solid hunk of wall or glass between me and it. And maybe a mug of hot chocolate, or Celestia willing, a glass of cider.

I hate having to fly in the rain.

Not that I have to, but a Wonderbolt has to be prepared for any condition imaginable. The best fliers are those that can cope with anything thrown at them, and I wouldn't be in the Wonderbolts' Reserves if I baulked at a little drizzle, would I?

Then again, this is a bit more than a drizzle. And it doesn't help that the muted blue of the sky is giving way to the blackness.

When you think of perfect flying weather, this would be the exact opposite. This is a horrible, relentless torrent; a constant, dirty blatter fills up my eyes, and no matter how much water I blink out or wipe away, my vision doesn't quite improve. It's a good thing I have four other senses to rely on or this could be really dangerous. If I was operating by sight alone, Ponyville and the surrounding surrounding landscape would be nothing more than a grey, smudgy blotch.

Perceptions, I learned long ago – I didn't sleep all the way through flight school, despite what some of my contemporaries may say – weren't always to be trusted. You were given your other senses for a reason, and it took a lot of training to unlock their full potential. Getting to the point were you factored in everything your body was telling you subconsciously was difficult, but again, something a true Wonderbolt needs in their arsenal.

My exceptional hearing lets me know that there are some trees I'm hewing a bit too close to, as they rustle in the howling wind; my heightened olfactory capabilities let me know that I'm passing close to Sweet Apple Acres, and my belly is only too happy to confirm that a cinnamon-filled apple pie has just been baked; my sense of taste, brilliant though it is, is fairly useless up here, as all I'm getting is rainwater in my muzzle.

And salt.

Salt? That's not right, is it? I scan my memory, trying to figure out what's wrong with that. I'm sure someone explained to me once why rainwater has no taste. That same someone also said something along the lines of, if you can taste something in rain, then it means that there's something wrong with it.

I slow down and fly lower, almost hugging the ground; it doesn't take me long to spot the source of the problem, though I didn't realise it was the source of the problem at first. I saw my friend. Slumped against a tree. Crying.

She hates storms, I find myself thinking. Why would she be out here right now? The limited number of possibilities eventually boils itself down to the one likely scenario. “Who's missing?”

She doesn't answer, but instead, lets her head droop until her flowing, pink mane covers her face.

I'm confused by this non-reply, and I'm about to restate the question – thinking that, maybe, she hadn't heard me properly because of the wind or something – until I realise why she is looking down. My head slowly drops to her hooves and I see the small, twisted form nestled there in the grass. “Oh,” I say dumbly. “Um, I'm sorry.”

It slowly dawns on me what that salty taste was.

*

I escort her back to her cottage; she seems a bit shaken-up, but otherwise all right. She always takes the deaths of critters so personally, as if she were at fault for not looking after them better. It isn't her fault that it got spooked and ran off into a storm, but try telling her that. I leave her sitting on the sofa, still shivering, while I go and make some tea.

I'm not the right pony for this. Someone more equipped for this kind of thing should be here; more sensitive, more empathetic. All I can do is offer the drink and an ear, and I feel like that isn't enough.

Holding the mug in her forelegs seems to be enough to get her to stop shivering; I wonder how much of it is the cold and rain, and how much is the shock. She seemed lost when she got through the door, and the first thing I did was find a towel to dry her; her mane looks ridiculous and frizzy, but it kinda suits her.

Hell, she'd look good no matter how it was styled. She has an inner grace and beauty that requires no additional artifice.

“Thank you,” she says, blowing on the warm drink to cool it before drinking it. “I'm really glad that you're here.”

I'm looking at her lips, thinking that they're puckered into the perfect shape for a soft kiss. “Don't mention it,” I reply. My lecherous thoughts send a tremor of guilt through me, but I can't help it. Not when it's her.

It's getting late and the storm is abating; I think that now is probably the right time for me to leave, before I say something I shouldn't. I've somehow managed to keep my big trap shut thus far, instead letting her do the talking; I think she just needs someone to listen at the moment, and I'm doing the best I can, but it's so difficult when my mind is pushing me somewhere I shouldn't go.

Not now. It wouldn't be right.

She seems to sense my indecision. Softly, she says, “You don't have to go. If you don't want to, that is.”

I look at her, she looks at me. Our eyes are locked, and something passes between us. Something subtly shifts in that moment, and I'm slowly closing the distance to her, all the while making sure my gaze never wavers.

She doesn't approach, but neither does she retreat from my advance. My forelegs reach out to her shoulders and she slumps into my embrace, pouring out a flood of emotion that leaves my coat soaked. When she finishes, she looks up at me. I have to brush her mane out of her face to see her properly. Her eyes display apprehension.

I kiss her. It's no more than a peck on the muzzle. She freezes up in my arms. I don't know if it's because she's startled or revolted by my actions. “I'm sorry,” is all I can say.

She disentangles herself from me, and trots off in the direction of the staircase. I can feel my heart shred itself in two until she says, “Are you coming?”

*

If I had to be honest?

Yes, I've had better. Physically, that is. Mentally, however, this trumped every fumble in the dark or one-night-stand I'd ever taken part in before.

She lay herself out on the bed, her still damp mane clinging to her body and instilling in me the image of her as a gift to be unwrapped. I'm normally the type to tear off the wrapping paper in order to get at the goodies as soon as possible, but in this case – acutely aware that it was my friend's first time and I had a duty to make it as enjoyable as possible for her – I decided to take my time and treat the revealing of her form as a reward in itself.

I placed myself gently on top of her, slowly pushing her hindlegs apart with my own until we were together; I didn't demand any more from her than she was willing to give me, and I was resolutely focused on making this as memorable and as pleasant for her as I could. First times didn't always have to suck, and it definitely helps to do it with someone who cares for you. I wish I'd known that when I was younger.

Our coupling is quick and intense, and it brings a flush to her chest and cheeks; I pull the covers up around us, and entwine her trembling body in my legs while she recovers her breath. “Are you okay?” I ask, concerned.

“Yes,” she replies, not quite looking at me. Even now, even with the glow of a post-coital haze suffusing her, she still manages to look innocent and child-like.

“Are you … do you regret this?”

“No.” She seems offended at the implication. She turns to me and caresses my face with her hoof. For something that spends most of its time trampling over hard ground, it's surprisingly soft and tender. “I've wanted to be with you for … forever.”

Soon, she drifts off to sleep, and I'm left alone with my thoughts; her body is warm against mine, and her feathery wings brush against me as whatever dream she is having causes them to flutter agitatedly. I've wanted her for so long, and now I have her. But what about tomorrow? What about the day after? Even with all of my super-senses, I can't see the future, and that worries me. I can't bear the thought of losing this closeness.