Soarin’ groaned, covering his eyes to shield them as best he could from the morning sun lancing through a gap in the curtains. It was far too bright. His head throbbed at the slightest movement, and the inside of his mouth tasted like dry mould. The worst thing about hangovers, in his opinion, was that they always felt so deserved. This one especially so.

He groaned as he pulled himself upright. His one solace was that Spitfire would be feeling just as shit as he was, at least once she woke up. Soarin’ glanced over at her sleeping form. Ever ungraceful, her limbs sprawled all over the place, a small puddle of drool beneath her open mouth. Soarin’ hesitated a moment before grabbing a tissue from the bedside table and wiping it up. Spitfire groaned, but didn’t wake up. At least that was easy; Soarin’ was glad the much larger, now sticky puddle between them on the sheets wasn’t his problem.

He dug his hooves into his eyes, as if that would somehow calm the pounding headache.

Well done, Soarin’, you’ve done it again.

Yes, he had. And he would be lying if he said he regretted it. Oh, he would, in time, but not yet. Not until Spitfire woke up and acted as though nothing had happened, as though last night meant nothing. Sometimes he wondered if she just forgot. She’d drunk enough, it wouldn’t have surprised him.

The worst was when she woke up before him. It was rare, but sometimes Soarin’ went just as overboard, and when he woke up she barely even looked at him, and he had to leave wordlessly, as though he was some fucking stud for hire. He couldn’t deal with that today. Best to be gone before she woke up. He gave Spitfire one last, long look, brushed a loose strand of her mane out of her eyes, was rewarded with a particularly unladylike snort, and then headed towards the door, where he could start forgetting about this as soon as possible.

“Soarin’?”

He stopped. This was new. Soarin’ turned as Spitfire yawned loudly, stretching her hooves above her head.

“Hey,” he said, dumbly.

“My head hurts,” she muttered.

Despite himself, despite everything, Soarin’ smiled. It was something Spitfire would have said all that time ago, or at least, the way she said it was like that. He couldn’t really pinpoint what had changed, perhaps just that she was talking to him at all, but something made her seem more… genuine than she had for a long time.

“You’ve only got yourself to blame,” he chided. “I told you to drink some water.”

“It wouldn’t have helped,” Spitfire grumbled. “And besides, I was occupied.”

His smiled faded. “Yeah.”

She looked at him thoughtfully, long enough for him to feel uncomfortable.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, and then her eyes lit up. “Hey, let’s do something today.”

“Something?”

“You know, go out, just you and me. Go for a walk, maybe find a cafe and get something to eat. I’m not fussy.”

Soarin’ frowned. “You’ve never asked that before.”

“No, I haven’t.” She shrugged, letting the bedsheets fall away from her bare shoulders. “But you know, I think I want to start doing things differently.”

“We’ve got a carriage to catch,” he pointed out.

She sighed heavily. “Our next show’s not for a week. I think we deserve some time off, don’t you?” Spitfire slipped out from between the covers and over to him, stopping so close from Soarin’s face that all she would have to do is lean in another inch and they’d be kissing. Again. “So, how about it?”

She placed a hoof gently against his chest, and that was something else she’d never done before, or at least not for a long while. It was too caring, the kind of touch a mare would give a lover, not a… whatever he was. And yet here they were, and Spitfire leaned in to murmur into his ear, so close that her lips brushed softly against his fur. “Sound good to you?” Her breath was warm, and so was she, and Soarin’ swallowed.

It did.

It sounded perfect.

“Yeah, I think it does,” he answered with a grin, and on the other side of the coin Spitfire smiled too. Maybe it was too late to make that gap smaller, but she was damn well going to try.