"What was that?" Octavia exclaimed to her friend while opening the door to their mutual apartment.

"What was what," her friend returned. Despite the question, she didn't quirk an eyebrow or cock her head or otherwise betray any signs that she was even vaguely interested. Rather, she entered the apartment without a further word, a carefully crafted neutral expression on her face.

Octavia stifled a huff and entered the apartment behind her friend. Once inside, she began to drop her load, grunting with exertion: cello, saddlebags, and music binder. "You know what I'm talking about, Viola. That man, Midnight Melody. How could you simply brush him off like that?"

Viola, too, dropped her burden, though she curiously had two viola cases strapped to her back, rather than the one she normally traveled with. "I don't know what you mean, Octavia. He was a suitor. There are hundreds like him."

Now free of her heavy baggage, Octavia collapsed onto a nearby chaise lounge, failing to stifle a groan. She rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the soreness that came with lugging a cello around all day long. "There are not hundreds like him, and you should know that," she said, exasperated. "How many stallions do you know would gift a Stradivarius from his collection as a gesture of appreciation?" She gestured to the extra viola case Viola had propped up against a wall.

Viola glanced over at the case, but only for a second. When she returned her gaze to Octavia, she did not look impressed. Then again, she never quite looked impressed. "We are taught to be cautious in picking our suitors, for fear that they have alternate intentions," Viola said levelly, turning to the kitchen to set up a pot of tea.

"Yes, we should be cautious, but do you really think that Midnight had any malicious alternate intentions with you?" Octavia said. "He said he appreciated what you do, and that you do it better than he ever did. He's a former member of our orchestra, Canterlot Philharmonic, but he quit and moved to Fillydelphia because he lost his passion for music. And you inspired him to start playing again. If that isn't genuine, I don't know what is."

Octavia slouched back in her chair and sighed, bringing a hoof up to a shoulder in an attempt to ease the tension in it. "I just don't understand why, Viola. He was courteous, kind, respectful, and generous. He practically pushed that viola into your hooves when you refused at first. You must agree that he was all those things, right?"

"Yes."

Octavia blinked. " . . . Yes? That's it?" she cried, throwing her hooves up into the air. "Then you must agree that he deserved a chance, or a lunch, or a more open-ended response, at the very least. Not something like . . ." Octavia straightened up in her chair, chin high, and donned an utterly neutral and proper expression, the same that Octavia adopted when facing more obvious sycophants, and the same that Viola had on all the time. "Thank you for the gift, sir, and thank you for your patronage and support of the CPO. We hope to see you in the future."

Viola looked at Octavia making a caricature of herself impassively and merely returned her attention to her tea when she was finished. "Perhaps. And perhaps I should search him out and offer him out to lunch," she said.

Octavia dropped her imitation and studied Viola more closely. Cocking her head to the side, she said with a skeptical look, "You don't really plan to do that, do you?"

"Not really."

Octavia sighed again, rubbing her temples. "At least bring me a cup of tea."

"Of course."

Octavia slouched back in her chair again, splaying out her limbs haphazardly against the ample cushions. It had always been like this, really. For as long as she had known Viola, she had always been something of an enigma, showing little to no emotion, no matter the circumstance, no matter the pony. She was always—and had always been—infuriatingly indifferent.

Octavia's colleagues in the orchestra asked her questions as well, and every time they asked, she could answer with nothing but a "yes, she's always been this way. Don't ask me why; I don't know, either." She still didn't know why Viola seemed to get along with her but didn't choose to associate with anyone else.

"Remember back in high school, when there was that classmate of ours you were giving math lessons to?" Octavia said, half to herself, half to her friend. "He tried to speak with us a few days out of every week, sitting at our table rather frequently. By the end of the year, he and I had become good acquaintances; we still speak occasionally. But if you talked to him now, I wouldn't be able to tell if it was the first or the hundredth time it happened."

"I was his tutor, not his aunt."

"That doesn't mean you needed to be so cold and brusque every time you met him." Octavia shook her head, irritated. "You know, I don't even remember the last time I saw you smile."

Viola looked back at her from the kitchen. She pointed a hoof at a picture on the wall. Octavia followed the hoof and saw a group picture of their entire orchestra, taken at their last holiday concert. Viola was a few rows back in the picture, but indeed, the corners of her mouth were curled upwards.

Octavia looked back to Viola. "You know as well as I do that you weren't smiling in that picture. No one was. We had just finished our longest concert of the year, and everypony wanted to go home. Including us."

Viola only stared at Octavia for a moment more before returning her attention to the tea she was preparing. "Does it matter that I prefer not to smile as much as our peers," she said. Her intonation suggested it was a statement rather than a question.

"Yes, it does," Octavia insisted. "Not just because you don't smile, but because I've never seen you moved by anything. You're never happy, or sad, or angry, or irritated. Just . . ." She gestured helplessly to Viola and her perpetually impassive expression. ". . . that. You can't keep bottling things up like that. It's not healthy."

Viola did not answer. Instead, she silently finished steeping the tea and brought out a kettle from the kitchen to the living room on a tray. She poured two portions of tea into two cups, but instead of immediately drinking her own, left it on a table in the center of the room and moved behind Octavia's chair instead. There, she placed her hooves on Octavia's shoulders and began massaging them gently, working out the tension caught in them far more effectively than Octavia herself could.

Octavia failed to stop a groan of relief from escaping her throat; it felt good to be pampered, at least a little, after a long day. Nevertheless, she also knew that Viola's day had been just as long as hers. She said, "Thank you, but you don't have to massage me. I'm fine."

"You're first cello of the orchestra. I don't want you getting hurt carrying yours around."

Octavia shook her head. "You know I've been doing this for years, and I've carried my cello for longer than today without injury. I'm just feeling a bit sore right now, nothing more. I'll be fine," she reasserted.

"We have that concert this weekend, and you need to be in top form. Soreness will inhibit your ability."

Octavia opened her mouth but closed it a moment later, instead leaning back in her chair and letting Viola knead her muscles without protest. It was yet another one of her friend's facets that was difficult to comprehend: while she was cold in words, even with her, she was warm in action and spirit. Viola was always looking after her well-being like a big sister. A quiet, confusing, refuses-to-acknowledge-herself-as-anything-of-the-sort kind of big sister.

For the umpteenth time, Octavia sighed. "What is it about me that you would be my friend but no one else's?"

"I'm not your friend."

Octavia rolled her eyes. "Fine, my 'not-friend,' then answer me this: who else would massage another's shoulders when they're a little sore, or buy her a new endpin when hers snapped off, or be the first to volunteer to cover her when she breaks her hoof and insist that she stay home and rest?"

There was a long pause before Viola responded. "I don't know. A concerned colleague? Someone looking out for the greater good of the orchestra? Anyone who had an interest in keeping you performing would do those things."

Octavia turned back and looked at Viola's face. Once again, it was impassive, as if the only thing she had said was "yes, I would like a cheese sandwich for lunch." She shook her head and pushed Viola's hooves off her shoulders. "You are just . . . incomprehensible sometimes, do you know that?" she groused.

Seemingly ignoring her, Viola stopped her massage and returned to the tea tray, retrieving her cup and taking a sip from it. Shaking her head, Octavia heaved herself from her chair and took hold of her own cup. She sat down in front of the table and slowly nursed her tea.

Several minutes passed, neither of them speaking. While they drank, Octavia started to silently muse on her "friend." At least, "friend" in the sense that she believed it was so, even if her "friend" seemed adamant in not using that term to describe her or anyone else. Octavia would use the word "friend" to describe Viola, though she'd also use the words "confusing," "unemotional," and almost contradictorily, "compassionate."

Viola had a very strange, dichotomous way of showing that she cared for Octavia. She would buy her gifts or do her favors, but always under the guise that it was for business purposes. For as long as she had done that, Octavia still couldn't tell if she was just making excuses to her or if she actually believed them herself.

Octavia's memory of her foalhood was foggy, but as far back as she could remember, she had always known Viola, and she had always been confused by her. It was impossible to explain their relationship to others, given that Octavia couldn't really explain it herself. So unexplainable that Octavia often introduced themselves to others as nothing more than roommates—it was just easier that way.

Octavia sipped her tea. It was still steaming, but she didn't think it was overly hot. Regardless, Viola probably wouldn't have reacted even if the tea were boiling straight from the kettle. Pain was an emotion, after all.

"Goodness me. Your parents must have had a wonderful time raising you," Octavia mumbled her thoughts aloud. "You probably never cried, or laughed, or anything."

Octavia took another sip and glanced up from her cup. Viola was looking down at her own tea, eyes averted, her lip pulled downward a little.

Octavia blinked a few times and slowly put her teacup back on the table. It was something that few other ponies would notice and nopony would comment on. But Octavia had known Viola for years, and she knew what was and wasn't uncommon for her. Viola never frowned.

Perhaps she had struck a nerve? She didn't even know that Viola had any. For any other pony, Octavia would have stopped before upsetting them further, but in this case, she was, in a perverse way, glad that she managed to eke out some emotion from her friend, no matter how slight and negative. Maybe it was time to dig a little deeper.

Octavia spoke up, this time making sure that Viola could hear. "No crying, but no giggling or laughing or any love of the sort? How would they have treated you, caring for what seems like somepony else's foal?"

She felt awful, throwing around vitriol and thinly-veiled attacks as she was. She didn't want to upset her friend, she really didn't. But "upset" was an emotion. And judging by her friend's lips that had curled down further, she was feeling it. "Feeling" and "Viola" were mutually exclusive concepts that only seemed to join very rarely, and Octavia wanted to know why.

"I mean, you never call me 'friend,' and I'm your friend! They're your parents! If you're so cold to me, I can't imagine how cold you were to them. Did you even care for them at all?"

Viola brow furrowed downwards visibly, and she intensified her gaze on her teacup. She squared her jaw like she was clenching her teeth together.

Octavia pressed harder still. "No, I'm sure you didn't. How could you? You don't care for anyone, least of all me, or Midnight Melody, or anyone else. Especially not your pa—"

A sharp bang stopped Octavia's words. At her own hooves was a teacup knocked over, leaking its contents on the table. At Viola's was a teacup slammed down, clenched tightly by a hoof now stained by tea. Octavia looked up and saw a pony she had never seen before, one she'd much rather back away from than call a friend. Her breath caught in her throat.

Viola's brow was angled into an sharp "V," and her eyes were narrowed dangerously. They glinted with something Octavia never saw before, and something she never wanted to see again: an anger so deep-set and immense that Octavia, for the first time, felt scared of Viola. Her nostrils were dilated and her teeth clenched and bared, audible breaths coming from between them. "Don’t. Bring them up again," she growled.

Almost unconsciously, Octavia got to her feet and backed away from the table a few lengths. "V-Viola?" she squeaked, her voice choked with fear.

Viola's glare softened, and a dozen different looks flashed through her eyes at once. She closed her eyes for several seconds. Her mouth closed and she leaned back as her body language cooled. When she opened her eyes, they were back to their usual impassivity, but they were pointed off to the side, away from Octavia. "Sorry," she mumbled.

Slowly, cautiously, Octavia shuffled back up to the table with the pony she knew she didn't know. "It's . . . alright?" she said. If she didn't know any better, she would have sworn that there was a bit of regret in Viola's eyes.

"I shouldn't have done that."

"No, no, it was my fault," Octavia said. "I shouldn't have needled you on like that, and I really didn't mean any of those things I said."

"No. I shouldn't. Have done that," Viola insisted in a way that bespoke of far more than her words suggested.

Octavia opened her mouth to respond, but closed it when she realized she didn't know what she could say. Viola had always been incomprehensible, but this episode of hers only proved to her how much she didn't know about her.

Once again, the silence stretched on, this one far more uncomfortable.

". . . Fine. Do you want to know why I don't care?" Viola said. Her eyes were pointed to Octavia's again, and they betrayed nothing of the acid she had for her only minutes before.

Octavia was going to respond with a "no." She didn't want to put Viola through any more distress than she already had. But this was her chance to finally understand. Octavia had broken through the impenetrable walls, and now Viola was offering her heart to her while the wound was still open. She wasn't sure how far she made it in, but it would be folly not to explore while she had the chance.

"Yes . . . but only if you're comfortable with it," Octavia replied carefully.

Viola glanced around the room, as if checking for bystanders, then sighed and gestured to the chair Octavia was sitting in earlier. "Have a seat. This will be a long story."