Some minutes pass with us just lying there in the dark, alone and awkward together. On the other side of the bed I can still hear him moving, but now his breathing has evened out some. He could be sleeping, I'm not exactly sure yet, but he's definitely calmer. If he decided to listen hard, I'd bet he could hear my breathing coming much more nervously than his now. Good thing he's not quite as perceptive as all that, at least that I know of.

Still, I can't make my brain turn off. I had been so tired only a moment ago, but now? Now I'm tense, uncomfortable, unsure of myself, and pretty damn wide awake. I feel a prickling of anger that he gets to calm down and sleep where as I have to stay up, thinking too much. That's sure as hell not fair, considering that he's the cause of all of this. And that I deserve sleep more than he does. Some part of me, yet vengeful, decides that if I can't sleep, he can't sleep. I clear my throat and I feel his breathing catch a moment at the noise. Good, he's still awake after all.

"So," I say, slowly and loudly. "Did you see much of the party on your way in?"

He pauses, his breathing catching for a moment, but he does speak up. Good. No rest for him yet.

"Nah, I saw the lights and heard the music..."

"Could you tell if Pinkie was still playing her music mix?"

"Yeah. A lot of high pitched electronic bubblegum style stuff. Really childish, and stupid catchy. I assume that's her."

It sounds like he could let the conversation end there, but I'm not ready to let him do that yet.

"But what did you think of it?" I continue. "Is it your kind of music? Would you prefer something else?"

"Eh."

Nope, you're not getting out of this that easy, don't even try.

"So you're liking it all I assume, even if you didn't stick around the party for long? The fun, the ponies, the alcohol. Bet it's a fuckton better than the shithole Earth. Bet their parties suck," I say with a knowing smile.

I'm baiting him at this point. I know that he shit talks Earth all the time, I suspect mostly because of the unpredictable weather (thank god for Pegasi) as well as the other people there, but he's quick to defend it sometimes too. There's some weird pride there that I suppose we all have in some way for the place that we call home. For him, there's some sot of homesickness that comes with it. I'm banking on that to tick him off some, keep him talking and complaining or defending.

This time, however, he surprises me. He's silent a moment, and again I feel the vibrations of his breaths skip, like the question has unexpectedly moved something in him.

"It's...different," he says slowly. "It's good to finally be traveling, I always wanted to do that when I was on Earth. It's an opportunity I didn't know if I would get."

His tone is serious, and I quickly begin to read that there's some subtext under what he's saying, something deeper. This is the first time he's really been abroad I guess, but why would that be in question if he was back on earth? What would have prevented him from traveling? I can feel that this is personal to him, but I've always been a sucker for mystery and curiosity. I can't help stop myself from asking.

"...why wouldn't you travel back on Earth?"

I hear him take a very slow breath in, and I think for a moment he won't answer. He sounds like he's wrestling with himself and debating something, maybe what exactly to say. I'm about to withdraw my question, when I suddenly hear his voice. He sounds withered, dry, like he's all used up inside. The crispness of the tone catches me off guard and I suddenly have nothing to say.

"I'm dying."

It's a blunt phrase, and it feels like the small impact of punch inside the base of my throat. I want to say I'm sorry, because it's the natural impulse thing to say. But I also know he won't want that. He doesn't want me to be sorry. It's not what I'd want anyway. So I remain silent as he goes on.

"I found out when I was a teenager back on Earth. It's slow, not like that cancer-style insta-death or anything. But I'm supposed to be dead before 30. It's a genetic disorder involving the immune system that causes anemia, fainting spells, organ failure..."

He pauses and I'm pretty sure he takes a look over at me, as if trying to read my expression.

"Sorry, I don't know if you even know what any of that means, if they even have that here."

"We do," I say. "And I know it's pretty serious for us so..."

"Yeah pretty serious for us too," he goes on with a short scoff. "I don't know exactly when I'm going to die, and a lot of different things can cause it, but it'll probably be when I'm pretty much an invalid, in a hospital bed, and it'll be painful. My...mom didn't handle it well, but I guess I was sort of getting used to it. I was even beginning to make jokes about it and stuff, even though the jokes always seem to make people sad. There's not many means of fighting it, there's not a lot I can do except try to take good care of myself. I was trying to plan year to year, to get as much done as I possibly could just in case, but it got to me sometimes over there. I never knew if I'd get to do anything I wanted to do in life, follow any dreams, fully...be me I suppose."

I stare wide-eyed into the dark. I can hear my heart beating loudly, painfully. How could this happen? How could this happen to someone else? Instead of pity, I find a strange anger building in me. Doesn't death have any propriety, that it would target just anyone instead of people who really deserve it? It's not fair.

"It's amazing you can talk about it like that," I murmur, and he doesn't respond right away. I'm not even sure he heard me. After a moment of quiet, he speaks again.

"I just feel so..."

"Broken," I say hollowly. It's not a question.

"Yeah. Broken."

He doesn't question how I know this, and I can hear that he's almost in a trance talking about this. He's a million miles away, he's completely engrossed in some part of himself which is demanding a very uncomfortable indulgence. I know that trance. I've been there myself, just lying on the edge of the bed, staring out into the expanse of the wall beside me. Just letting myself feel, letting emotions and thoughts overwhelm me then, when I'm alone, so they won't overwhelm me later in public.

"It's not fair," he says simply.

"It's not."

We both know it, and it's an obvious thing, but it still feels good to say it.

"It's scary sometimes, you know?" he says, still sounding distant.

This human, this friend of mine sits baring his soul to me right now. He admits he's scared. And I had wanted him to suffer. I suddenly know that what he's saying has less to do with fun and parties than I thought it would.

Again, my scheming and bravado sink into the pit of my stomach. I've touched a nerve, without any intent of doing so. A nerve that I too have and know the weight of. Shit, good move, idiot. I open my mouth to apologize, change the subject, anything I can think of, but he continues speaking before I can derail us.

"I mean, I wanted to do this, traveling I mean. I thought about it a lot, and I planned for it for a while. But I couldn't be sure I'd get there, and now that I finally am, even if it's not in the way I expected or wanted...I guess it just doesn't seem real yet. Even after months of being here, away from home and traveling to a new land, it all feels like I could wake up and have it not be real. It's why I didn't want to go to the party, why I sometimes leave suddenly or hide in quiet places. I'm still kind of...adjusting. Explaining it would just add one more thing to deal with."

There's a silence, and I want to break it more than anything, but I don't have the right tools, the right words. Does he know how hard this hits me? Does he know how close to home these words are? He can't possibly know, and yet...every thing he says burrows down into the pit of my stomach. I feel it, nestled up with my own feelings of doubt, of a lack of time. My hoof slides over across the mattress, through the darkness to find his hand. I don't know why, but I just want to touch him so much right then. I want to feel that he's alive, that I'm alive too. He doesn't react at all to my touch, and I don't pull away from it either.

"I...don't want to go yet," he says suddenly. "And I don't want this opportunity taken from me. I know I have to die, probably sooner rather than later, but I don't want it yet. I just got here. I have so much to see."

He goes quiet suddenly, like he's just realized he's still talking. He gives a bitter little laugh beside me in the darkness.

"Sorry, I don't usually talk about this stuff. I don't wan't to upset you or anything, I know death is a rough topic. Just...for some reason I find it easy to talk to you right now. Not sure why. Anyway, sorry."

"No, it's ok. I know what you mean," I find myself saying, a little surprised at myself.

"Yeah?"

I can hear the surprise and newly awakened curiosity in his voice. The mattress moves as I feel him roll over. Maybe onto his back, I don't think it would be like him to be staring at the back of my head while I speak. Even then, I feel the hair on the back of my neck prickle with nerves. I swallow hard and the feeling subsides somewhat.

I didn't want to tell anyone. I wanted to be strong enough to carry it inside me. But I can feel myself compelling my mouth into words. Maybe I can just tell him. I have to let him know that I understand how he feels.

"Earlier this month," I say haltingly, "I found out I'm in the early stages of liver failure. It's...not reversible at this point."

I take a moment to listen, see if I can hear him drinking all this in. I feel so sick to my stomach, but I also find myself still pressing down against his hand with my hoof. He hasn't noticed and I now use that point of contact as a source of courage. It's barely enough to let me continue.

"I've been keeping it a secret," I say. "The doctors told me that I can't drink anymore or it will speed the process along. I did this to myself, apparently, to many years of a reckless lifestyle, but I'm not even sure I regret those decisions. Maybe I do. I don't know. They're not sure if it'll be a year, maybe two, maybe less. But I'm only looking at a few more years before...yeah."

I can't say it. He said it so easily, so simply. I'm dying. Say it, Berry, say it out loud like he did. But I know that he's lived with this longer, that he's braver and better at dealing with this than I am. It's a pretty poor excuse, but I bite my lip for a moment before I speak, still unable to admit out loud what exactly is going to happen to me over the next few years.

"And you know, it feels really surreal to me too," I say. "Like I might be making it up or imagining it, like I'm fine and this life and impending death aren't real. I can't drink, can't tell anyone, can't know exactly when my body is going to shut down and I'll just...go. And I don't want to upset any of the ponies, I don't want them to pity me or know what I'm going through. I know these ponies, and I don't at the same time. And they don't fully know me either, even if I thought they did before. So...I know I'm alone with this. Just my dying body and me. But I still have to carry on, still have to find a way to be me. So yeah, I'm...still adjusting too."

"You don't act like it."

"I'm good at hiding it."

"Got it," he says. Then, he starts to talk again, and I can hear that far away trance is back in his voice. "I wish I was better. I envy you that, heh. Feeling this way is hard enough without having to see it in the mirror every morning. I almost...want to talk about it. But I also want to be brave enough to get through this on my own, without help, without putting this on everyone else. Know what I mean?"

I know that, unlike me, he isn't reading any subtext in my words. He's wrapped up in our words and feelings, so he isn't hearing me say that this whole thing has me terrified. Not scared like I'm having to fight some terrible dragon, or like someone is breaking into my bedroom to stab me in the night. No, this is more preventative. I'm scared I'll fuck up. I'm scared I'll let too much slip about who I really am now, how I'm doing, what's wrong with me. I'm afraid that I'll have a panic attack in front of everypony at some point, and that I'll faint or throw up or just die right then and there. I'm scared I'll finally break down and drink a few bottles of wine, then be dead by my own decision, before my body can take me. I'm scared I'll mess up the happy time I might have left by making it sad or hard work. So yeah, I'm adjusting, but seeing these ponies drinking at parties, and especially talking to Anon about this has my brain going a hundred miles a second.

But I can't think about how easy it would be for me to die at any second. I can't think about how much I miss wine, the fun, the parties, the not ever giving a shit about what anypony thinks. The taking any stallion I like back to my bed, the free mugs of cider, the constant laughing. Especially the laughing. If I think about how much I miss that, how tired I feel now without it, then I'll start to think about sleep. And I especially can't think about that.

I used to like sleep but now...it's hard to find. It's scary. The scariest thing in all of this, to be honest, because I know that there's a chance I'll close my eyes and just never wake up. I'll never have a last word, a final lovely thought to focus on. I'll just slip away and never even know I was gone. People talk about dying in their sleep like it's a blessing, but every time I close my eyes the thought of that happening snaps them right back open.

If I let myself think about that all the time, I might as well curl up and die now, because my life would be effectively over.

All I say though is that I'm adjusting. I lie there in a bed that somehow feels smaller now, next to a mostly naked human I barely know, adjusting. I swallow a breath of air to calm the tightness that's suddenly in my stomach. I don't feel like baiting Anon anymore or attacking him. This conversation has taken an unexpected turn and doing that would feel so cheap and fake now. I'm fine with masking how I feel, sure, but not outright lying about it. Not to someone who seems to actually get it.

I want to stop talking, stop hearing him say things that make me feel this way, that make far too much sense, that tell me I'm not alone.

And...I also never want him to stop talking. Because for all the times I didn't have the words, for all the times when I was at so much of a loss, I can now feel my voice through him. I can touch these feelings with my own, and for once I don't feel alone. That's terrifying, and I don't want it but I also do. I feel like someone, just by the nature of their being, understands how I work and think now. And the only reason I'd have to explain myself to him is because I would want to. Otherwise he'd already know, and simple words would be enough to express exactly how I was feeling without saying anything outright. I want to hear his voice over and over, speaking things I wouldn't dare to say. I want to hear him be braver than I am by speaking up. I want to hear him be more honest than I can be. Just as long as he doesn't stop talking.

I feel dizzy, sick, hurt, but I don't want it to stop for my sake. I have tears in my eyes, though I'm not sure when they got there. I wipe them hastily away and am steadily aware of one feeling, beyond the anger at this situation, beyond my own hurt. I just want him to be happy. He deserves that much. Don't I deserve that much? If I do, he deserves it doubly so.

"Do you ever..." I force myself to say. "Get scared that you'll die in your sleep?"

I need to know if I'm the only one who feels that. He responds instantly.

"Every time. Every damn time."

And I know he gets it. All of it. And I hate that he gets it. I can feel the room around me now. It buzzes with the bright lighting for the party outside, it echoes with the words and actions of ponies in different nearby rooms. But here, we're just quietly talking in the dark. In a different place than all of them, even thought we're on the same farm. The air is crisp. The sheets are thin. I'm shaking a little, but I'm not fully sure it's from the cold. Beside me I hear him breathing slowly, still too far away to feel my hoof on his hand.

“Anon?” I venture.

He doesn't seem to hear me, but he does keep speaking.

“I'm just,” he says slowly. “trying to not let all this bother me, you know? The thoughts, the worries...I usually just keep it all in like you do, but there's a lot of it and I guess sometimes it just comes out."

His voice is suddenly gaining in strength. It's shaking, but rising like it's ready to crash over the edge of something, a tide finally breaking. I want it to stop then, I want to help hold it back and embrace it all at once. I want all this to go away for us. Even just for a moment.

"...A-anon..."

"But I won't let any of them see that. I won't let anyone see what I'm feeling because it would hurt them, and it would hurt me too, and I don't want that. Or the pity. Anything but that. Fuck no. I don't want anyone to think-”

His words break off sharply as I press my lips against his.

I haven't felt my body move. I haven't asked or willed it to do anything, and as my mouth comes down gently but decisively against his, I'm almost as surprised as he is. The next word he was going to stay still makes a short noise in his throat but dies almost instantly. I feel his body go tense underneath my hoof, which I realize is resting gingerly, flat down, on his chest. My eyes are shut, but I imagine his eyes flying open in shock, and somehow the idea pleases me. Under my other hoof which rests still on his hand, I feel his palm flatten against the bed with his fingers splayed out.

And most of all I feel his lips. They're warm, soft, a little rough from the dry farm air. And they scarcely move against mine, but I can taste their heat and sense their will to indulge in what is happening, even if the rest of his body has no idea what to do yet. I let the sensation of kissing him flow through me like a roll of electricity that reaches to my hooftips, shoulders, and even more intimate places inside.

It's a simple kiss. No tongue, mouths mostly closed, but a very intimate one somehow. It's one that has a lot of words behind it, even if I'm not sure exactly what those words are.

I'm kissing Anon...what am I doing? What just happened, how did I get to this? It's like I'm coming out of some sort of drunken stupor and just recalling memories of debauchery the night past. Except those things are still happening. What in the hell am I doing?

My eyes open as I fall back into my own body, away from the overpowering sensations of lips and breath. I see his face, way too close to mine, eyes open and looking up at me. I pull my head back slowly, breaking the kiss with a soft, whispery noise and look down at him, trying very hard not to gasp at my own behavior. He regards me with a look of absolute bewilderment, but his trance of sadness, anger, and hurt is gone. Like some sort of terrible prince charming, I've woken him with a kiss. But now what? He studies my face as I look down at him, totally frozen by the situation and the feeling of my hoof still poised on his very warm chest. He blinks, and I catch the light off his eyes like a spark.

“Berry?” he asks in a whisper, his tone one of wonder, bemusement, and bafflement.

Now I do gasp in a sharp breath and pull back away from him. Like I've been burnt. In a flash I have rolled back to my side of the bed, my back to him, my head on the pillow. I pull my back legs in a little and hug my hoof against my chest as I try to catch my breath. What the fuck did I just do? And better yet, WHY? My head is absolutely spinning, and I try to catch random thoughts and emotions as they fly past. I can feel my chest pounding, the lingering warmth of his body still pressed there under my hoof.

What's going on in my head, in my body, that I would even do something like that? How is he not running out of the room screaming? I mean, that we would be discussing something so personal, so serious, and suddenly I lean over and kiss him just like that? Besides being a totally inappropriate reaction to all this, it's so out of the blue. I've never NEVER thought of him as sexually attractive or a potential romance. I mean...he's weirdly shaped, he's a different species! He's always been a casual friend that I just tease and try to make jokes with when drunk. Sure, he is pretty cute in his own way, his eyes are really nice to look at. There's honesty in his words and voice, not to mention the sexy Earth accent, and his smile really is just so piercing. I'd almost like to know what he...

Damnit, you cut that out.

You're not supposed to have a sudden crush on this guy, especially after this sort of a conversation. Pull yourself together, stop being so absofuckinglutely insane. Ok, so he's kinda hot. And you're kind of definitely attracted to him. And you're kind of having a moment here in bed with him. He's probably lying over there, still trying to figure out the license plate number of the bus that just hit him, and you're in a semi-fetal position on your side in silence, hugging your hoof like it's a stuffed animal. This is not normal behavior, and he's probably so confused, the poor fuck. You should say something.

I stare wide-eyed into the darkness on my side of the room and say nothing.

What the fuck would I even say to him? Sorry I kissed you? Your lips taste nice? Sorry we're both slowly dying? I mean...

I feel a warm hand on my shoulder.

Now it's my turn to tense all over at an unexpected touch, and I feel my breathing stop cold in my throat. The hand is large, gentle, but also very intentional in how it rests on my shoulder. My fur prickles under it, and I feel the hair rise across the back of my neck. And I can't help but admit...it's not all an unpleasant sensation.

The grip on my shoulder tightens just a little, pulling me back from my curled posture. Almost like a ragdoll, I turn over onto my back, facing upwards. As my head rotates, I feel another hand imperceptibly slipping behind the back of my neck to cradle the lower part of my head. I let it happen, a deer caught in the headlights. As my eyes adjust to the vague lighting, I can see his outline. He's propped on one elbow, looking down at me as I lie there. His look is soft, gentle, and though there's still a fair amount of confusion there, he doesn't seem shocked or horrified like I had feared.

My eyes flick back and forth across his face, rarely letting our looks cross, and he studies me as well. We're both quiet, and the air feels taut around us, waiting. He smiles then, just a little, but it's the one I had been looking for, not forced or fake. It's one of surrender rather than joy, but it's natural, and the sight of it makes my stomach feel funny. I want to say something to him, I don't know what or how, but I feel words on my tongue, forming.

But before I can manage to put them together, Anon leans slowly down and kisses me.

-*-