“No,” Seventh String says. “It’s in minor, there.” He plays the chord, one string at a time, creating the haunting tone. You tap a bit on your knee and watch Noteworth and Seventh hammer out that measure. Octavia stands to the left, cracking her neck. She adjusts the strap on her bass, a damn sexy instrument. The neck and frets are obviously worn, but that’s more than fine. It’s blood-red and white body have fantastic, jagged patterns, but it’s more than art.

You scratch your back with the drumstick and tap a quick beat on the bass drum impatiently. Medley clears her throat and tests her microphone as the two guitarists start rocking. The wanky little tune Seventh wrote is pretty cool. You tap on the rim to keep his crazy 9/8 time. Octavia rolls her eyes as he continues to lose Noteworth.

“Waitwaitwait,” the grey-haired guy says. “Where the shit is one?!”

“RIGHT, HERE!” Seventh shouts over the shrill tones of his amp. It’s not his fault, or the amps, or the pickups or the guitar or any of the equipment, he’s just playing a harsh pair of notes.

“What? Why don’t we just do it in five and then four?”

“That’s what I AM doing!” Seventh keeps up the lick, strumming extra hard on the accented beats.

“Like this,” you say. You smack the snare five times, sixteenth notes, then syncopate the next four beats. The last four beats are straight sixteenth notes, alternating arpeggios, on the guitars naturally. The drum can’t arpeggiate, so you just switch every note between the floor tom, snare, and three other toms. Cool stuff, if only everyone could figure it out.

“Oh,” Noteworth says. He tries it, slower, and picks it up the first go.

“Awesome!” Seventh says. “Wank with me, brother!” The two of them instantly pick up the riff, almost humping the air between them. It’s excessively gay, in a way, but also sweaty and kick-ass.

Octavia walks over and stands next to the cracked cymbal. “Do you like that part, Slav? I don’t think it fits that well.”

You struggle to feel the odd time. If it were in seven, you’d get it no problem. You thud the bass along in time, feeling it more and more. “It’s wanky, really wanky, but if those two nail it, I guess we could use it. What if you were with them, but playing something a bit harder and and easier to listen to?”

“Do you mean harder as in harder, more heavy and like an impact, or harder as in more difficult?”

“Heh, the former.” You catch yourself looking at the cymbal, right next to her chest. You force your eyes elsewhere, lest you get distracted.

“I assumed, I just, heh, wanted to clarify.”

“It’s cool. Yeah, but, what if you did a rhythm not as syncopated, and I did one really syncopated, that way we’d have a constant gallop going on? Oh, and leave out the ninth beat, that will showcase those two some, and keep us all on track. Ya dig?”

“Sure,” Octavia half-shouts. “That actually sounds really cool. Care to show me what you mean?”

“Yeah yeah,” you yell back at her. You feel the for the ninth beat as Seventh String tries his best to keep the tempo up. You burst out eighth notes hard on the snare, bass drum, and crash, then set up a simple little gallop on the cymbal, rolling out on the snare and tom until the ninth beat, then you silence everything and burst again on beat one. You follow for four bars until Seventh String and Noteworth do the arpeggiated riff. For that part, you do a punky bass and tom trade off, careful not to overpower those two, not that it would be easy to. The 9/8 picks up again, this time with Octavia slapping and ramming out a bassline in time. She’s the perfect emulsifier between the hard drums and the infected guitar riff.

The four of you get a great groove going, and soon the ninth beat develops into a sacred security of semi-silence, no bass or drums on the Sabbath beat. The arpeggiated riff, fucking beautiful and gnarly as it is, carries on for double the length, ending with a simpler solo in eight to carry on to the next part of the song. Everyone rides the train without any trouble, and the crushing wall of sound makes your spine tingle and your balls jiggle with joy.

The consistency everyone delivers, especially after the experiment, is unbelievable. Your double bass has never been more solid, Seventh’s vocals and riffs are spot on as well. You catch yourself watching Octavia during the songs, always concentrating hard and digging into the music with all her might. She’s not completely consumed by her parts, so she can add plenty of stylistic additions that make it so much easier to follow and listen to. Constantly, you think about her lines. The lyrics flow through your head like the train of the entire song, making the message and the sound carry through your sticks and feet perfectly.

Finally, the symphonic-quality ending rolls along, and you dial back the volume some. Octavia’s voice carries back to you just enough to be audible, and her perfect alto tones are far beyond beautiful. You almost lose it all, listening to her quiet backup singing. She needs to have more singing lines, you’re sure of that fact like it’s common knowledge.

“FUCK!” Seventh String screams out, fixing his glasses and grinning dumbly. “THAT SHIT WAS INTENSE!”

“Fuck yeah, it was,” you hear Medley scream. She’s a talented vocalist, but rather homely looking and annoying. The entire band, you figure, looks fairly unnatractive, save for the bassist. You consider yourself average or better, but humble pie is the side served with the mixed results your band has been given.

“We still need a title for that song,” Octavia adds, wiping sweat away from her brow. You undo the wrist weights and stretch some as Noteworth fiddles with the licks. He’s always fingering or strumming a minor.

“We’ll think of something, Medley,” Seventh String added solemnly. “I mean, it’s about a giant space battle, we’ll think of something.

“About that,” he continues to Medley. “My friend said he had a bunch of caps, and he’d give us two grams for a ticket.” Seventh kills his amp and begins to set his stuff down. He isn’t particular, this is his music room, after all. The well decorated and acoustically tuned room is a blessing.

You undo your ankle weights, now sure you’re done with those. Your shirt is stained at the pits and collar from sweat. Seventh’s thick writing always makes each rehearsal a real workout. You stretch your calves some and think about jamming some more. You begin to drum out a simple swing beat on the high hat. Octavia turns, smiling softly and making deep eye contact. She begins an insultingly simple twelve-bar figure. Noteworth fucks around until he finds the key, and the three of you smile and rock your heads left and right, creating a dumb little song. Seventh and Medley dance like retarded monkeys some, only raising the ambient temperature. You and Octavia look at each other, grinning wide with amusement.

You catch Noteworth’s eye and make a serious, murderous face. His grin screws into a hateful grimace, and the two of you keep up the look and look at the bassist. Her smile falls to a stern frown, and you begin to slap the snare a bit harder. Noteworth adds some hateful triplets here and there, and Octavia switches to a minor every twelfth bar.

You nod at her on the next fourth phrase and they stop, letting you switch to a hard, hard bass pedal. You keep the swing, but slam into each and every beat like it insulted your mother. The guitarists come back in and create an oozing sound, and Seventh and Medley go from a jitterbug to a stupid, happy dance, praising Nightmare Moon, or praying before sacrificing the last virgin to the angry Star gods, whatever pagan ritual fits best.

Octavia turns her amp up some and rattles off a haunting little melody, making Noteworth take note. You use your double pedal to keep up with her little song, not caring about anything fitting. The sounds made are kind of lame, not really inspired or cool, but fun and fun to make. After a ten minute cool down of just simple musical masturbation, the five of you stop for the night. You find yourself loving the break, no longer sweating or breathing hard.

“So, Slavik,” Medley says seductively. You cringe at the natural thoughts of her topless, her unshapely form exposed to you. “Strings and Notes and me are gonna hit up C-top’s place, get some fungus. You in?”

“What?” you ask, genuinely confused. “You mean mushrooms? Or, STI’s, what?”

“Shrooms, meng!” Seventh shuts down his pedal switches and puts some stuff away. “We’re gonna go trip balls, man. You in? I’d ask you, Octavia, but I know you’re not into that.”

“I appreciate your offer, I suppose,” she says. Even though she’s in a death metal band, she’s so posh. Not posh, per say, but still grammatical and, what’s the word? Regal? No, not posh and regal, but correct about herself, true, not nerdy. Well, a bit nerdy, but that’s a-okay.

“Nah,” you say, more than happy to get home for some rest. “I’m pooped, I worked a full shift earlier.”

“Alright, then,” Medley attempts to say sexily. Her weak advances are most unwanted. She’s either just flirting, or genuinely in need of a dicking. You couldn't care less. Now, if Octavia made advances-

“Be safe, everyone,” Octavia adds, turning off her equipment. “And are we recording here next week, or at my girlfriend’s studio?”

Fuck, that’s right, isn’t it? Octavia’s claimed already.

“My mic’s are shitting out, lately,” Seventh says off-handedly. “Can we really use her studio? Wait, she has a studio?”

“Er,” Octavia fiddles with a switch on her instrument. “It’s the label’s, but she gets time there. She doesn’t need it, really. She uses sound bytes and doesn’t need to record much at all. Still, she finds uses for it.” The subtle redness in her cheeks can’t be innocent. Well, maybe they can be, but you decide to assume the hottest. You’ve seen a few pictures of Vinyl Scratch, wearing not much at all. She’s damn hot, and her girlfriend’s model material, easy.

“Dude. A professional studio, for us!” Noteworthy adds. “Whatever we do, we have to max out EVERYthing. I mean, not our shit, let’s make the lines turn red, amirite?”

“Fuck yeah!” you add, hyped about crushing things with an unstoppable force of pure sound.

“Whateva niggas. Everyone’s kicked out of my house. Have fun knitting or whatever you pansies do,” Seventh String says as he grabs his keys,chuckling a deep, nearly pubescent laugh, heading for the stairs. You stand and follow him and the others while Octavia brings up the rear..

“But nah,” String adds in the foyer of his parent’s spacious house. “It’s cool, you two. It will be kind of lame without you, though.”

You bump his fist, the summer’s duck air cooling the sweat all over your torso. “Whatever, man. Have fun, don’t play in traffic.”

“Just think,” Octavia adds, adjusting the strap on her bass carrier. It falls between her sizeable breasts, making you groan inwardly with loneliness, or some comparable feeling. “Without us, there will be more for the three of you.”

“And C-top and what’s-her-face, Blondie,” Medley adds, lighting a cigarette. Menthol, of course, nasty.

“Right,”Octavia adds. “I’ll hit you up tomorrow, mach Spaß, Bubs.”

“Da,” Seventh replies, saluting with a backwards middle finger and a silly smile. He fixes his blond pony-tail and about faces, his sneakers crunching the gravel. The three bandies hop in his shitty sedan and peel out, leaving you and Octavia in the dust.

The two of you stand in silence, watching as the blaring music and red tail lights fade away. You take a look around, thinking the obvious, but not moving.

“We, should have-”

“Yes,” Octavia finishes. “It’s three miles back to town and I’m wearing my sandals.”

“... should have gotten a lift,” you say, scratching your neck. “Sorry,” you say to Octavia. “I completely forgot that my friend gave me a ride to Seventh’s place. What time is it?” The sun is gone, but just barely.

Octavia pulls out a cellular from her bra and opens it, assaulting her face with manufactured light. “Almost nine,” she says with a sigh. “And my ride’s in Manehattan still. Well, it looks like I need to walk home tonight.”

“Yeah,” you say just as disappointed as she, down, sharing the boat with her. You both made a mini-fuckup and no one’s to blame but yourselves. “That sort of sucks, doesn’t it?”

Octavia looks to you in the driveway, the dusk darkening around you both. “Well,” she begins with an uplifting, down-to-business tone. “At least Ponyville isn’t so bad at night. Manehattan, however, that’s a town you don’t want to be stranded in. You live in this direction, right?”

You take her pace and make for the street at the end of the driveway. “Naturally. Oh, wait! Let me try Seventh’s phone.”

You fish out your cellphone from your pocket and find his name, then hit call. It rings for thirty full seconds. You try again, then Noteworth, then Medley, you don’t look forward to her noticing a missed call from you. Nothing. You send Seventh a quick text explaining, resigning to your hike-filled fate.

“Nothing?”

“Not one.”

“Not one what?” Octavia asks.

“Thing,” you reply. “No thing. Hey, we must be lucky,” you say, beginning down the driveway. “Where I’m from, there’s a curfew, and we’d either be hiding out here or sleeping in jail. Or, worse. Dead, beaten, maybe raped a bit. If you were pretty.”

“That’s hardly fair,” Octavia says, the gravel crunching softly under her feet.

“The last part was a joke, you know.”

“Uh,” she says, hiding a smile. “I knew, I just... uh, didn’t know how to respond, really.”

“Hmm. Hmm. I’d call my friend, but he’s working at the moment.”

“Oh. That’s too bad. Where at, may I ask?”

You remember your friend and savior’s words: “Re-living my girlfriend’s university nights.” He’s fucking, you forget her name, but he’s busy regardless. Liam would walk home in your case, so you spare him the trouble. “He, uh, works at the hydroelectric plant.”

Octavia looks at you as you turn onto the street, heading into town now. “At sunset?”

“He-he’s the foreman, or whatever the manager-type position is called. He is required to be there.” You think you got the Equestrian right.

“That’s a bold-faced lie, and you know it,” Octavia says with a smirk. She stops to pick a pebble out of her shoe, then picks up your step again. Her fragrance is naturally intoxicating, and you’re thankful for the still wind tonight.

“We-okay,” you surrender. “He’s just busy, and I don’t want to disturb him, alright? He’s an old friend, Liam is.”

“Did he know you when you were in Soviet Unicornia?”

“Yes,” you say, almost stunned. If you hadn’t been required to recite the national anthem for the other band-mates, you’ve been able to keep that segment of your life, the entirety of your upbringing, under a sheet of ice.

“Well, then he must be a close friend. I, well, I suppose I’d be lying if I knew how that felt, but it’s a respectable consideration.”

“You know,” you say, watching for the main street. “You talk with a lot less, um, slang, than most others I’ve met here in Ponyville.” You’re both easily a mile from the main road, and you’re three more beyond home.

“That’s because I’m not from Ponyville,” Octavia says flatly. “I’m from Manehattan, like Vinyl Scratch.”

“But her speech is a lot like people from here.”

“If you know anything about linguistics, you’d know that one’s manner of speaking is nearly entirely dependent on one’s close ones during infancy and early childhood. Ergo, your accent, and my more proper vernacular.”

“Um, well, that makes a lot of sense, actually. I just thought it was interesting, is all.”

“Of course,” Octavia lightly says, not mocking or downplaying you, but truly understanding. Her tone sends your heart in a small trip towards your throat. Such a beautiful voice, face, body, she makes you dumb with admiration. If only she weren’t spoken for! You curse anything, everything holy. And her mind! That beautiful, smart, fun mind! You wish you could walk home with her every night.

Silence continues, save for the soft footfalls. You turn the corner and come across a gas station, one you’re familiar with.

“Hey, you thirsty?” you ask Octavia.

She gives a shrug. “I suppose. I’ll just get some water, I have sparkling cider at home.”

“Sarsaparilla, two for a bit!” you read and walk a bit faster for the door.

“Hey,” the sleepy cashier says as you hold the door for Octavia, catching up.

You wave brightly at the dude, navigating around the coworker lazily restocking shelves with tiny packages of shampoo, pills, condoms and other things. The bottles of Sunrise Sarsaparilla are big and cold, two for one buck! You take two out and make for the register.

The clerk rings up your stuff, easily convincing you to get some gum. You thank him and turn to find Octavia walking away from the condom aisle. Hands in pockets, she’s not buying anything it seems.

“Ready?” you ask her, offering a glass bottle. Her fingers grace yours just a bit, even if she could have grabbed anywhere else on the bottle.

“Yes,” she sighs, a bit of red in her cheeks. “Let’s.”

“Something over?” you ask her, feeling wrong. “Or, up? Is that it?”

“It’s... Yes you’re right, up. I just miss Scratch, is all.” Octavia takes the lead, and you follow, coincidentally taking the fastest route to your home.

“And why is that, if I am allowed to ask?” You take a swig of the brown drink and realize why it’s so cheap.

“I,” Octavia hides her face a bit in the darkening street as you catch up. “Nothing. No reason.”

“Don’t do this, Octavia! I’m going to die of curiosity.”

She smiles, you can tell, a rare and precious sight. “Fine, Slavik, if I must.” She sighs again, falling into your step. “We haven’t seen each other in over a week, and I have, um...” her voice trails away quickly.

“Yes? You have, have what?” You feel a bit rude for prying, but she’s rude for piquing your interest! “Close friends shouldn’t keep such secrets, Octavia.”

“N-no, you’re right. I should fill you in.” Octavia looks straight ahead and stops walking, the sudden absence of pebbles being kicked is deafening. “Vinyl knows just how to touch me, and it’s just not the same by myself.”

“That’s all?” you ask softly, standing an arm’s length away, just close enough to sense her essence. The light perspiration, her natural scent and maybe a bit of perfume, it’s intoxicating.

“T-that’s all?” she quietly screams. “Yes, yes I imagine that’s all.”

“She’s your lover, yes?”

“Yes,” Octavia says, beginning forward again.

“Then that’s hardly an embarrassing feeling,” you softly say. “I miss my lover nearly everyday. I loved it when she touched me, and I would gladly have a woman give me a hand than take care of myself!” You laugh heartily, the vulgarity taking just enough root to instill a smile on the bassist’s face.

“Come on,” you say lightly. “I’m funny, sort of. Sometimes. Okay, maybe just to me, but still! I try!”

“It was... humorous, Slavik.” You can almost feel the heat radiating from her cheeks.

“Want to maybe... talk about it?” you ask, offering conversation more than anything.

“About what?” Octavia replies. She’s smart, but perhaps a bit new and uncomfortable with the topic.

“Um... sex? I mean, if you’re not in the right way to talk about such a thing, I mean, that’s fine. I’m just trying to make conversation with a close friend. Me and my friends back in the village, we’d always make up crazy stories. Mine were usually lame and truthful by comparison. This one night, one of the oldest boys said he bedded three supermodels while he was in Stalliongrad.” You look to Octavia, gauging her interest. She’s humoring you, at least, so you go on.

“What three supermodels were doing there, in that tourist trap of a shithole, is a mystery. Why they would want to be with that ugly son of a dog is pure fiction. He spun some lie about saving them from undead Germanes, raised by some American radiologist, killing four zombies with a single cartridge! Sascha, that was his name, I remember, he was always overflowing with manure. Oh, wait, I messed up a word, but you know what I mean, yes?”

Octavia smiles and rolls her eyes. “Yes, I understand just fine. If you mess up an expression, I’ll likely get the gist.”

“The what now?” you ask, red flowing to your face.

“The um, general idea.”

“OH! Oh, right, I was confused, heheh. Right. So, I’ve told you a story, your turn.”

“Hmm?”

You hold out your hands and explain. “Back in the village, we’d always move at night. We’d do what we needed to do, get what we absolutely needed and not much more, then sleep in the day. During dawn and dusk, that was when we had to just wait. That was when we had time, and that was when we were together. That was when we told stories until the sun came up, or went away. It was tradition, to tell stories and make plans during dawn and dusk. We traded stories to make sure no one was too popular and no one was too lonely. Look at me! I’ve gone twice, now you owe me two.”

“Oh, right, interesting! I’d love to hear more about you, Slavik. But, I suppose I do owe you some tales, don’t I? Do, do they have to be non-fiction?”

“Huh?” You look around out of habit, knowing your bearings perfectly already. “No, no, we’re not rubbing anything.”

“Fiction!” Octavia clarifies. “Not frictio-”

“Right! I’m sorry, go on. Oh, no, they can be tall tales or recollections, or either.”

“Either/or,” Octavia calmly corrects. “Alright, I think I have one,” she goes on before you can complain.

Octavia tells you about her childhood, and her first musical instrument. Back in early grade school, her well-off parents forced her into different fields of study. She was not very good with crayons or colored pencils, proficient at math, passable at piano and a promising vocallist. However, she was a natural with a viola. Despite her small stature, the sizeable instrument obeyed her plaiting fingers.

While other kids scraped knees, traded scabs and caught colds from contact, Octavia learned and learned music theory. She even wrote some pieces when she was ten. Ten! She still writes, mainly for the band, however.

As she grew, so did her affinity for the bass clef. She rented a cheap cello, then quickly was given a priceless antique from her great aunt, a mildly famous cellist and arranger. On the fast track to college, Octavia had very few friends. You listen intently as she tells about her first year at college, and how she met Vinyl Scratch, the famous DJ P0n-3.

Admittedly a silly name, Octavia had a soft spot for her ever since they hurled insults during week one. Their relationship evolved from an understanding, side-by-side secret trust to an against-the-world comradeship. They laughed together, they conspired together, they sent sappy messages in the waning hours of the morning. Soon, they were holding hands, shopping together, counting the hours until they could be together, rescuing each other from trouble as fast as making it.

Then Octavia’s mother found out. Such a cruel, limiting beast was unknown to you, and the acts under the regime of the the terrible and great Vladimare Ilyich Lenin IV have been deemed war crimes this past year. Apparently, half of the college faculty had an ear to the ground for the prized daughter. Word of a possible lesbian relationship spread to her eventually, and there was hell to pay.

But not before she lost her virginity, of course. Not her actual virginity, but her first sexual encounter was with Vinyl. Octavia lets out more detail than you’d expect, about how Vinyl struggled at first. You listen to how they learned each other’s bodies, and how to best please each other. Before you know it, you’ve been given a crash course on how to make Vinyl’s eyes, beautiful and radioactively red eyes, go cross with a single finger.

“But,” Octavia goes on happily. “When she tried it on me, it wasn’t that great. Not compared to the thing she did with her first finger inside, anyway. I mean, do you know about that spot? It, it’s just amazing.” Octavia dreamily sighs, clasping her hands in front of her, her shoulder nearly bumping your arm with every step.

“Yeah,” you answer. “I’ve found that spot, Octavia.”

Her reaction is priceless. She was so absorbed in her memories that she must have nearly forgotten about her traveling companion. “Oh! Dear Celestia, I’m such a chatterbox!” Her voice is tiny and tense, thick with stress. “I’m so sorry for rambling, I, I-I-I don’t even, oh, you probably think I’m-”

“My opinion of you has only gone over. Or, up, I mean. That counts for quite a few tales, Octavia, I think I owe you my first time story. It’s a good one, to be sure.” By the street names, you guess you’re less than a mile from home. Actually, just ten or so streets down.

Octavia’s blush is hardly visible in the dark shadows of the tree-lined road, but it’s definitely there; you can feel it like heat from a dead fire yearning for a fresh twig. “S-sure, Slavik, I’d like to hear it sometime.” Octavia swings her empty bottle around a little as she walks.

“Before I do, Octavia, I have a question, a personal one.”

“Um,” she starts. “I think that’s alright, Slavik. Um, what was it?”

“Scratch and you really became quick friends, huh?”

“Yes, of course,” Octavia says, nearly bored.

“And, you became lovers.”

“Yes, where is this going?”

“You love her, then?”

Octavia pauses, and stops walking, three intersections from your home. “Without a doubt. When I wake up and remember who I am, I smile, knowing that she’s mine, and I’m hers.”

You smile and put your hand on Octavia’s shoulder, keeping your arm straight. “That’s as good an answer as I’ve ever heard, Octavia. I’m truly happy for you.” You let her go and look towards home. “But, that wasn’t THE question.”

“Uh, alright, then. What is it, then?”

“Are you a lesbian?”

Silence for three solid seconds. “I, y-yes, I be-”

“Or, did love find you so quick, that you were forced to become a lesbian?”

“I don’t see how both can’t be true.”

“No, no, I should clarify. Were you into women before you met Vinyl?”

Octavia stands, semi-stunned. “I, well, I never had very sexual thoughts before I met her.”

“Horse shit,” you say softly. “No, bull shit, whichever. I find it impossible to believe that you never thought saw other humans as attractive until after high school.”

“Well,” Octavia says, cornered a bit. “I, I think, I think you owe me a few stories before I answer.”

“Dammit, dammit.” You smile through the palm over your eyes. “You know, that’s fair enough.” You turn and contemplate just heading home. “Uh, where are you headed, Octavia?”

Octavia gestures to a small house, a quarter acre plot with a small yard. “We’re at my place, now.”

“Really?” you ask neighborly. “I live just a stone’s throw that way. I never knew we were so near.”

“Oh, that’s really cool. I’m beat, though. You can come in, if you wish. I was just going to watch a movie and fall asleep.”

“Alone?” you ask, moving closer to her.

“Um, I... it’s sort of warm out tonight, isn’t it? Y-yes, I am home alone, tonight. You can stay for a while, but you’d have to sleep on the sofa, if you wanted to stay for... the night.” Octavia nearly whispers as you stand close to her. You mentally take her hands, then pull her by her hips to you. The urge to grab her close and plant your lips on hers, show you how much you miss beautiful women, it’s unbearable. You swallow your cheap lust and focus, the intense gaze of Octavia’s magenta eyes making it difficult.

“I live just a few blocks away, I’ll be fine to walk. I’d love to watch a movie, though.” You try to sound innocent, yet interested. It’s tough, especially in a tongue not native to you.

“Of course.” Octavia says resolutely, looking away. You can taste her breath just the slightest bit, it’s delectable. “Come on in, make yourself at home.”

Octavia leads you inside, teasing you inadvertently with her nice round bottom. Her house is nice and tidy, homely, but well lived in. The conflicting choices of decor really showcase the inhabitant’s differing tastes. A poster of a famous cellist, you have no clue who, hangs above a cracked and reassembled vinyl. The main room is a combination of a kitchen and a living area with a staircase leading up to the bedroom. Above the kitchen is a small walkway, accessible by the stairs. The television in the living room is definitely the most modern piece of machinery in the room. Many other pieces hang and stand around, the humble plot is well decorated. You comment about it, and receive a genuine thank you.

“I made some chorizo this morning, there should be just enough for two. We could make some burritos, I suppose, I have some corn tortillas.” Octavia takes off her light jacket and tosses it on the rack. Her home smells wonderful.

You kick off your sneakers and push them by Octavia’s, then lazily make your way to the kitchen. “I forgot I was hungry, Octavia. That sounds great.”

You wait for Octavia to retrieve the leftovers and flash her a smile when she turns around, the light from the fridge falling into the hungry maw of the refrigerator behind her. “My pleasure. It’s the least I could do. For a neighbor, and all.”

“Thanks,” you say, gladly helping to spoon some of the egg and sausage mixture, as well as some cheese and salsa, into both tortillas. Octavia’s well enough as a chef, at least in comparison to yourself. As a bachelor, you’re hardly capable, anyway.

Once the leftovers are steamy, the two of you venture to the living room. Octavia sits at a tall table, pulling up a bar stool. “So,” you ask, a mouthful of deliciously spicy dinner-breakfast nearly burning your mouth. “What’s showing tonight, O?”

Octavia swallows her food before speaking. “I was recommended ‘Almost Heroes’ by .Vinyl, but I was hoping to continue our discussion from earlier.”

You wolf down two more amazing bites before you catch yourself acting like a slob. You smile and wipe your lips with a napkin and sit up a little. “Sounds good, Octavia. Are you in the mood for some music, too?”

“Of course,” she says, slyly smiling and noticing your improvement. “If I may,” Octavia says as she hops off the stool. You sneak a gigantic bite while she turns her back to grab a remote. The flat screen clicks on and comes to life with a little melody. The sudden barrage of photons is painful, a white startup screen cuts through the dim.

“Heh, sorry,” Octavia says, returning to her seat. You watch her select a music library with the remote, the TV is hooked up to a computer or something.

“What are you in the mood for, Slavik?”

“I can think of a few things,” you say suavely, taking a small bite of brinner. “Oh, you meant music? Damn. Um, surprise me. Try your best to make me listen to something new.”

“No problem there,” Octavia says with a small chuckle. It’s painfully adorable, you feel an intense urge to get up and hug her close. You scoop up the last of your meal and watch Octavia scroll through her search inquiry: “Dashing Young Colts”. She picks a track called “Up Far in the Pleasure”, and clicks on the speakers. Immediately, the room erupts with a crushing wall of jazzy, metallic sound. The volume falls a bit with frantic adjustment on Octavia’s behalf, then it stops as she starts the song from the beginning.

“Sorry,” she apologizes. “It’s a really cool song, though. Uh, where were we with our previous track?”

“Um,” you begin, recalling. “You were just about to tell me about how you love me and want to bed me this second. I think, is that right?” The vocals of the song kick in, making you wish you could sing worth a damn. The synth fits too perfectly, the beats are complex yet really groovy. You find yourself drumming on your knees before you even hear your hands hit your legs.

Octavia smiles and nods along with you, enjoying the weirdly happy tune. “Um, not quite as I remember it, Slavik.I’m flattered, though.” Octavia’s... flirting? Her cute little chuckle at the end confirms it: she’s flirting! You grin and mop up some salsa with a bit of tortilla.

You manage to just listen to the killer track, getting immersed in the great vocals and guitar work. While the stars are the voice and weedling guitar, the thumping drums are just spot on, making the entire song really explode. The bassline isn’t bad either.

You watch Octavia swallow a bit more food, yours long gong. She takes your empty plate and puts it under hers, just a bite left. You stop her from going, still hungry, by holding the plate. Your fingers overlap. You stand still, frozen, the accidental touch too distracting. You look up, and your eyes are caught in the magenta circles. Octavia breathes in slowly, her mouth going slack. You can’t feel your jaw.

Then the song ends. The silence breaks the frozen stupor you find yourself in. You take the black plates and close your slack jaw. Your face feels hot as you dive deep down to find the thought you had before you touched Octavia’s fingers.

“I was going to, um,” you gulp hard. “I was still hungry,” you manage to say softly, a half-step away from Octavia.

She blushes as the silence continues. “Y-yeah, sorry. I should have asked. Would you, um, put those in the sink for me while I pick the next song?”

“Sure, sure!” You say, eager to get on with the night. You scoop up her food with her fork as you walk to the kitchen sink. You savor the taste of her cooking, and give in to the depraved enjoyment of the faint flavor of her saliva, before you rinse off everything and head back to the couch.

Octavia is laying on her side, her long black hair hanging a bit in her face as she scrolls through her library.

“Delicious,” you say as you bend over the couch. Octavia smiles up to you, her face happy and so close to yours.

“I’m glad you liked my cooking, Slavik,” she whispers in the silence. You laugh down at her happy face and stand up.

“Incoming!” you cry out. You vault the couch easily and land in front of it, then fall back on your ass, landing on Octavia’s calves.

“Ah-!” Octavia giggles and sits up, wriggling her legs out from under you. She shoves your shoulder and lays back again, smiling wide.

“What? I said incoming,” you say, claiming the other side of the sofa. “Come on, it’s too quiet, play something else.”

“Okay then. I’m not really in a metal mood, though. Do you like symphonic stuff?”

“Um,” you shrug and look at her current list. Besides a few, the names are all unfamiliar. She clicks on a track titled in Germane, you’re not sure at all what it says. The song starts off with silence, but some violins come in. It’s all very pretty, but boring.

“Don’t worry,” Octavia says softly. “It picks up, and it’s all amazing.”

“Right, sometime in forty minutes?”

“Oh yes, sometime in forty minutes. That way, we have plenty of time to talk. And, stuff.” She’s so awkward, with her red cheeks, it’s painfully adorable. “Alright, then, Slavik. What’s on your mind?”

You, undressing you, squeezing you close, kissing you, fucking you, fucking you hard, fucking you soft, eating you out, feeling your tongue on my dick, humping all ni- “Um, a lot, actually. I wanted to ask you a bit of a personal question, if I may.”

“We’ll see. Shoot.”

“Um,” you search for the right words. “I was curious about your relationship with Vinyl. Is that a touchy subject?”

“Depends on the time of day,” Octavia says with a smirk. “I mean, oh, uh, heh, I mean, no. We can talk about it. What did you want to know?”

“Good one, by the way,” you reply, smiling and snickering at the sophomoric humor. “It’s good that you have one to be intimate with, I’m truly happy for you. I was just wondering, how much of her do you see?”

“Hmm? I don’t understand.”

“She’s out of town, yes?”

“Yes.”

“How long has it been since you kissed her?”

“Um, two weeks. She’ll be home from her tour in about, uh, a week before the summer solstice.”

“The Summer Sun thingy?”

“Celebration, yeah. Oh, that’s the night of our release show, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.” You slouch some more into the armrest opposite Octavia, finding it hard to have room and also not touch her.

“Oh, sorry,” she says and moves her feet. You sit up and curl up on the couch, wanting to tangle your feet with hers, maybe drag your toes along her thighs...

Octavia smiles cutely and tickles your calf with her toes. You give her a toothy smile and let her, then attack back, getting the arch of her foot good with your toes. She yelps and tosses her hair around. She yields quickly, smiling extremely wide. “Stop! Stop!” she begs, tears in her eyes already.

“Ticklish, Octavia?” You hop up onto your knees and pluck up her leg and tickle her, ignoring her cries and laughter and kicking.

“S-stop!” Octavia shouts. “I-I can’t take it! P-please, Sl-ahahavik, stop!”

You cease for a moment and look at her. “Oh, fine, but just because you’re cute.”

You let her go, but keep her feet in your lap, just as planned. “You pumped for it?”

“For what?” Octavia says, rolling onto her side to get comfy, facing into you a bit. There’s that red in her cheeks again.

“Our album-dropping, on the solstice!” You slap her calves a little bit to the infamous 9/8 the two of you worked out earlier, it’s almost second nature, now.

“Oh yeah,” Octavia says, grooving with you. “S-stop, I like this part.” You sit in silence and listen to Octavia’s music. It’s moving, really, like a stream moving a leaf. It’s a far cry from moving a body with a crushing wall of sound, but powerful nonetheless. You can imagine Octavia’s bobbing head in any context, but all images lead to her leaning into you, clothing optional.

You shake your head and force the motherland into your mind’s eye. The image of a clean stream fits in with the music much better than love, the minors and patterned majors in make the whole movement uplifting and inspirational. Before you know it, the music stops. It picks up soon with a new melody, but a similar theme. It’s softer and slower, and you find yourself stroking Octavia’s legs slowly, tracing the lines of her tight jeans with your fingertips. When you open your eyes, you find Octavia smiling, blushing a bit, just like you think you are. She flexes her knees a little, enticing you to scoot in a little bit.

Octavia’s eyes open for just a moment and meet yours. You stare at her, she stares at you for the duration of the movement. When it ends, Octavia sits up, her entire face tinged red, and lays her head in your lap. She giggles a bit as the third movement picks up, but doesn’t say anything. You find nothing to say. Octavia offers her hand, however, and it’s hardly a choice to take it. You sink into the amazing couch and listen to the symphony, Octavia’s fingers wrapping around yours. Without thinking about it, you play with her hair a little.

“I love this song,” Octavia says dreamily, her chest rising and falling ever slower. You watch as her breasts rise and fall in her shirt, imprisoned as they are.

“I think I’d love latin death jazz, if I get to listen to it like this.”

“I have that, don’t be surprised if you love it,” Octavia says with a smirk, leaving her eyes closed. Her long eyelashes are pretty.

“I was just making up the most random genre, you really have something like that?”

“It’s... avant garde metal, but yes. Essentially: latin death jazz. Metal drums and guitars, but also a swing orchestra.”

“After this, we should listen to that,” you say softly, tempted to lay down with her on the couch.

“It’s nearly over, that sounds great. I think you’d love it, actually, Slavik.”

Again, she says your name. Octavia’s voice speaking your name, it sounds amazing.

The song’s fourth movement seems like it’s straight out of a classic monster movie, then a battle scene from a triple A blockbuster. Every single intricate phrase inspires colors and images in your mind. During the hectic, depressing and laboring opening, you can almost see slaves dragging chains through a hellish canyon. Then, it lightens, zooming in on a young man, scarred and starving, finding a stray key. He sneaks it into his mouth and slaves on. That nightfall, he slips out of his shackles and frees everyone, every single slave.

The impromptu movie in your mind changes settings and characters several times, but it ends with Octavia, sitting in a concert hall, dressed in her finest dress. You picture her perfectly. She has a black gown of unspeakable beauty, small pearl earrings and only a touch of makeup. She has long, dark grey elbow gloves. She stands from her stool as you walk to her. The glorious brass fanfare fades away, leaving you and her in a spotlight. An oboe and a cello remain, flittering on silence. The long, dark tones of the cello mingle with the smooth, gap-filling sound of the oboe. You feel a lump in your throat as Octavia reaches behind her head and smiles softly. That smile, her lips, her face, her entire body, her gorgeous hair belong in an aged oil painting of household recognition and artistic worship. She, Octavia’s beautiful mind and face and body, belongs in the most loved art. On stage, as the cello holds one last, perfectly tuned and reverberating tone, Octavia unclasps her dress and lets it fall to the lacquered black stage. The spotlight goes out just as you sip her image.

Then, darkness, pitch blackness. Not a wave of sound can be heard, save your quick heart and shallow breath. At last, twenty full seconds after the symphony has ended, you open your eyes.

“Slavik?” Octavia whispers, not breaking your solemn state.

“You’re beautiful Octavia,” you whisper without a thought. “That was absolutely... perfect.”

Octavia sits up and slides close to you, hugging you from the side. You finally unthaw and let her embrace you, her breast pushing into your arm. You gladly lean your head on hers, taking in her sweet essence. Octavia lets up and sits back, looking into your eyes. You see her magenta beauties holding water, and you feel a bit teary as well. On instinct, you hug Octavia tight, holding on for life. She hugs back just as hard. You hold her tighter and tighter, until it feels too much. You simply hold her for a few more seconds, failing to keep a manly tear from rolling down your face. You hear Octavia sniff once, so you hold her a bit longer so she can collect herself.

Twenty seconds more of feeling her blouse and sharing her warmth, Octavia lets you go. You hold her sides and look into her face, she’s smiling wide, her cheeks high with happiness. You feel a coolness on your cheek as her warm breath graces the path your unintended tear took.

Octavia makes the first move. She comes in for a slow kiss, you moan softly and kiss her back. The first one is a bit sloppy and quick. You pull back and look her in the eyes again, they’re too pretty. You kiss her again, pulling her down on top of you. Octavia moans lightly and locks her lips with yours, tasting your breath, sucking it into her chest slowly. You touch her back, feeling her slender and warm torso. You feel her surprisingly tiny bra strap and continue down to the small of her back, then move back up. Octavia adjusts herself and kisses again, passionately. You take a quick breath and kiss again, and again.

Octavia sits up when you offer your tongue. “W-wait,” she barely whispers, straddling you with her shapely legs.

“I’m sorry, Octavia,” you whisper back. “I, it, the whole-”

“No,” she replies quickly and quietly. “No, I’m sorry, I instigated the entire thing. I shouldn’t have, I’m in a relationship and I should have not been so cozy with a friend.”

“A friend?” you ask, sitting up, wanting nothing more but to hold her tight and try another opus, whatever those are.

“Y-yes,” Octavia says, slumping down on her knees. “I don’t have many friends besides Vinyl and you. I’m not much of a social butterfly, I think I would love the communal system of socializing you explained earlier.”

“Octavia,” you begin, hungering to put a hand on her leg or hip. “I really do like you, you know. You’re, so intelligent and gifted, and beautiful. I mean that with all of my heart. I haven’t had many friends since I arrived in Equestria when I was fifteen. I’ve been...” you shut up, saying too much. You slouch and accept your silence, doom impending.

Octavia sits back against the armrest and wraps her arms around her knees. “You’re lonely as well, then?”

You nod, your heart trying to force it’s way out of your throat. “And single. I’ve had one summer romance, and that’s barely a memory.”

“Slavik, I,” Octavia falls forward and forces a hug onto you. You can’t mope it away, she’s too warm. Your face cracks a smile, you happily embrace her again.

“What happened just now, Octavia?” you whisper.

“I have no clue, but I love it.” Octavia kisses your cheek again. You offer for another kiss, but Octavia simply wants to be held. You gladly oblige.

You select the next song. You find something cool by a favorite band and Octavia gladly drums on your forearm as you lay with her. The two of you settle on a good movie and fall asleep halfway through.

You open your eyes and see black hairs everywhere. Not everywhere, just in front of your face. You smell a familiar and wonderful scent: Octavia’s gorgeously long hair. The bassist stirs in your arms, but falls still again. You slowly sit up a bit and look at her. Octavia’s normally prim and perfect hair is messy and off-kilter. Her grey blouse is wrinkled a bit, especially around her waist where your hands were.

You smile to yourself and check your watch. Three hours until work at the hydro plant, two until Liam would be by to carpool. One more hour of snuggling, that would have to do.

When you open your eyes again, Octavia’s not there. You hear a rustling and a clinking of pans in the kitchen as well as a running tap. You rub the sleep from your eyes and check your watch again. Still two and a half hours until work, all is well.

You drag your feet underneath you and shuffle to the kitchen. Octavia’s doing some dishes, wearing nothing but slippers and a purple bathrobe.

“Dobroye utro, krasivaya,” you say, wanting nothing more than to take her from behind and wrap your arms around her. You settle for a small hug, frontal, and stand aside.

Octavia drops a glass into the dishwasher and smiles at you, deeply confused. “Gesundheit?”

“U menya yestʹchas do raboty, no, wrong language, sorry.” You laugh lightheartedly and lean back against the counter. “I said good morning... Beautiful.” It’s hard to force the Equestrian out of you mouth, but it comes.

Octavia sighs and looks at you, blushing again, just a bit. “You really think I’m that pretty?”

“Pretty?” you ask, folding your arms. “Octavia, at the risk of sounding too direct... I think you’re beyond gorgeous. You have the face and physique that nations have gone, are going, and will go to war for. You’ve got such an amazing, creative mind as well, and somehow, that may just be more alluring.”

Octavia stands, holding herself still. “You, do you really mean that, Slavik?”

You stand and move next to her, offering a gentle embrace. “Every word and more.” You yearn to pull her close again and spend another night as a lumpy pillow.

Octavia puts her hand on your hip and stares into your eyes, hers just below yours with no shoes on. She hugs you close and slowly rocks back and forth. “That’s the nicest, most kind thing anyone has ever said to me,” she whispers, tears nearly spilling out of her eyes.

“Not even Vinyl?”

The black haired beauty shakes her head. “She has tried, but, her vernacular is a bit... common.” Octavia smiles dejectedly at belittling her lover. “I shouldn’t speak ill of her, I suppose. I do love her, and, she...”

“You really miss her, don’t you?”

Octavia sighs and rests her head on your shoulder. “Back in college,” she begins softly. “We had four years to spend together. Those were four years of sharing a bed, kissing and cuddling, touching, being intimate, even if one of us was...” Octavia chuckles softly and pushes deeper into your arms. “You know.”

“Riding the red tide?”

“That’s the expression she uses, yes.” Octavia looks up at you again, her magenta eyes less watery but no less absorbing. “It’s amazing,” she whispers. “You have such a grasp of this language. And most times, you express yourself so, eloquently, so dignified, yet indignant. Slavik, it’s fascinating. You speak like a music professor one minute, then throw in an idiotic idiom that fits perfectly the next.” Octavia rests a hand on your shoulder, her body warm against yours. You lean back against the counter and hold her, not too tight. “I guess what I’m trying to say, Slavik, is... You’re special.”

Octavia brushes her bangs back, her hair is yet to be rectified this morning. It’s cute, and sort of sexy. “Thank you, Octavia. That truly means a lot to me. I, I find it hard to be so correct all the time.” You look into her eyes, fighting to let out the real words. They don’t translate well, but it’s all you can hope to do to express your feelings.

“Octavia,” you say, holding her head lightly in one strong hand. “I, this is difficult, but I need to say it. Moving in between you and your girlfriend is not what I want to do. I do want, however, to be near to you. Does that make any sense?”

Octavia smiles and makes a small nod. She leans forward some, obviously new to the embrace of a man. Her feet find their spots, then she moves in. You kiss, slowly, once, a long and intimate peck.

You let her lock her lips with yours again for as long as she wants, which is far beyond ten seconds. You stroke her back, noticing her lack of a bra, and let Octavia breaks way. She holds her face close, looking into your eyes.

“You really like me, then.”

“I do, I have since I met you.”

Octavia’s blush deepens some, and her fingers curl around your loose shirt a little.

“You like me then, Octavia.”

She nods. “I, this is, just...” She sighs with frustration. “I’ve never had feelings for a man before you,” she says softly. “I’ve never really had feelings before I met Vinyl Scratch, but I know those feelings now. I, if we spend some time together, I fear for my relationship with her.”

“She had a guy over here after our concert last month, right?” You hold your hands on the small of her back, simply holding Octavia’s warmth close.

She nods again. “He was a ‘one night stand’, her words. Just a dick and a body.” Octavia’s casualness is obviously forced.

“You felt betrayed?”

“I, well, yes. How could I not? The woman I’ve loved and lived with for nearly five years is neck-deep on man-meat, how am I supposed to feel?” Octavia sinks her head into your shoulder and sighs deeply. “Yet, even after how I felt, she convinced me to play with them.”

“What happened?” you ask, aroused and curious, even this early in the day. You still need to drain your morning lizard.

“Sex,” she said softly, like it was as common as a crossword. “Vinyl and, I can’t recall his name, they did it. Vinyl took care of me at the same time, sort of. It was, well, less than bad. Not the most fun I’ve had with her, though.”

You stroke her back, feeling her long hair in the way of her shoulders. “Doesn’t sound all that bad, but I can see your point. So, it wasn’t the fact that it was a man, just a new man, someone you’ve never seen before, about to violate your lover. No?”

Octavia leans back and looks at you. “N-yes. I think. It’s, it’s all a bit tough to explain.”

“Then don’t”, you say, standing and pushing Octavia’s shoulders away. You feel cold without your favorite blanket, a sexy and near-genius blanket. “It’s perfectly fine to leave complexities alone. I know it’s not in our nature, being in a progressive metal band and all.”

Octavia squeezes the bridge of her nose and holds in a hearty laugh.

You step around her and weigh your options. “Hey, I have to go home here to get ready for work,” you start, opening her fridge. “I was wondering if you wanted to have breakfast, first, maybe talk some more.” She has some groceries, but it’s clear that tomorrow is shopping day.

“Sounds perfect, Slavik,” Octavia says, glad to be out of the deepest part of the conversation.

“What have you got...” there doesn’t see much more than milk and condiments and tortillas.

“Not a whole lot,” Octavia says apologetically. “Do you have time for a stop at the coffee place five streets down? They’ve got paninis, pastries, other stuff.”

“Pay who now?”

“Come on,” Octavia says with a gentle smile. “I’ll lead the way.”