Author's Note: So this chapter has music in it. The idea is that you get to the link, open it in a new tab, skip the youtube add, then let the song play as you read through the story and it's all supposed to match up.

...yeah, if the music's not working for you, just listen to it before or after, or whatever. It's supposed to add to the story, not distract from it. The story should hold its own without it well enough, anyway.

Vinyl Scratch entered through the ragged door down to what awaited her on the other side. Upon entering, she found the roughness of the exterior of the shady little establishment was closely mirrored by its interior. This was not what struck her first, however.

The band was playing at the far end of the room, with little tables set up near the sort of stage they were playing on, the trumpet’s licks floating around the room. Against one wall were booths where a few ponies sat, but most were near the stage. The bar was on the other side of the room.

Octavia was playing in a pub!

Vinyl’s immediate reaction to this piece of information was, “sweet, no need to take off my shades.” Her second reaction was directly correlated to her sudden change in heading, as she adopted what she deemed to be the most direct route to the bar.

As she sat down and ordered a whiskey, the two saxophonists in the band began soloing, with one playing for a while, then switching off, and the other playing for a while. As Vinyl started properly listening to the band, she interrupted the bartender as he was about to pour her beverage. “No ice in that,” she said, and after a few more licks from the saxophones jumped out at her, she added, “and I’m gonna need a double.”

Vinyl was beginning to find that this barrage of notes sounded less and less like music and increasingly more like noise.

Now, Vinyl was no stranger to the use of noise in music. The type of music she typically sampled in her mixes was a testament to that. Hay, she made a solid use of dubtrot, and Celestia knows there are ponies out there who think that’s only a clop away from noise. But what she was listening to now was different—this rapid-fire tuneless barrage of notes held very little appeal for her at the moment. She slammed a fair portion of the drink in front of her.

She examined the band, hoping to somehow glean a hint as to why she was listening to this. Octavia stood playing her bass, and there was also two saxophonists, the pony playing the trumpet, a pony on piano and another on drums. With just a glance, Vinyl could tell that they were proficient musicians. They were playing about a thousand notes per second, and, judging by the lack of music in front of them, they had memorized the written music and were improvising the rest as they went.

The DJ pony glanced around, looking the other ponies in the pub, seeing if they had any clue what was going on. This only served to make Vinyl even more like a crazy-pony, though. A few ponies had their eyes absolutely riveted to the sax players, a few of them bobbing their heads or shaking them left and right. One unicorn’s drink was tipped almost to the point of spilling, seemingly forgotten about in the magic aura that held it. Vinyl could see one pony with a bit of drool coming from their mouth as it hung open for some reason, and another pony . . . was he actually crying? Vinyl was reminded sharply of the hoofsters that she had seen in various coffee houses as they listened to some obscure band or another.

She turned to the bartender, who had yet to pick up Vinyl’s empty glass. It had not had any whiskey in it for a while, and the second glass she had ordered (also a double) had yet to appear in front of her. The bartender was also fixated on the band, his eyes unblinking.

“Um . . . tell me what I’m listening to here? I think I’m missing something.”

The bartender looked at her incredulously for a moment before replying. “Naw! Naw! You’re doin it wrong, mare! Ya’ gotta’ listen to the notes they’re not playin’!” Vinyl was struck with the feeling that she could probably do just that—and do it very well (if not better)—from the comfort of her own home.

The bartender’s response did make her reevaluate her previous judgement of the ponies here, though. Not hoofsters: stoners.

After Vinyl received her beverage, she turned her eyes to Octavia. Vinyl had not properly looked at her yet, distracted as she was by booze and stoners. What she had noticed upon coming in, but made special note of now, was that Octavia held no bow for her bass, and was instead plucking the strings with her hoof. Vinyl now watched Octavia swaying back and forth as she played, cigarette dangling from her mouth (wasn’t there some kind of law about “smoking” and “public places,” or something?), and her hooves flying: the left one up and down the neck of the bestial instrument she balanced against while standing only on her hind legs; her right hoof back and forth as she plucked the strings at an amazing pace.

Vinyl listened for just the bass as the band played, as Octavia ran the notes up and down, popping out lower or higher ones sometimes. No music sat in front of her, either. There was no way that Octavia had memorized the approximately ten-thousand notes that a song of that length must require her to play, reasoned Vinyl, not with the way she was jumping all around the instrument is such a loose, free way. She must be making it up—or at least playing a lot more notes around the notes she did have memorized. Vinyl conceded: this was way different that the classical music Vinyl had seen Tavy play.

Octavia had picked up her bow, now looking more like how Vinyl had been accustomed to seeing her. But the similarity ended there. She rocked the bow back and forth almost spastically over the strings, her left hoof mimicking the other as it move jerkily around. Tavy’s expression was anything but the serene focus that it always would have been—she had her eyebrows furrowed, squinting upwards, distractedly puffing out smoke, looking for all of Equestria like she thought she could find the notes she was striving to play by staring and smoking hard enough. Her cigarette swiveled precariously in her mouth as Octavia twitched her head slightly this way and that, in time with the spasming of her bow as she tossed out notes, sometimes pausing for the briefest of moments in between licks.

Tavy pulled out snippets of little melodies, moving them around, changing them, then abandoned them for something else as whimsy compelled her. For the briefest of moments, Vinyl saw herself pushing and pulling around snippets of tracks as she stood in front of her turntable.

Then this image was gone and Vinyl slammed back the rest of her second glass. “And a third, if you’d be so kind.”

Vinyl smiled, despite herself. Seeing Tavy so completely taken over by the music she was playing was something that Vinyl hadn’t seen in such a long time, she had nearly forgotten about it. Though now Vinyl did recall always being surprised by just how intense Octavia could be when she was playing music. Never did she look quite so much like she belonged somewhere as when she was playing on stage—even a dirty, smokey little stage like this one. Or maybe especially a stage like this one, now that Vinyl was seeing it. Tavy glanced over as she played, and their gaze met for a moment. Vinyl was struck by just how ‘Tavy’ Tavy looked as she was up there.

Vinyl then felt a pang through her chest, thinking of how Octavia had said she had lost that for a while, when she was in Canterlot. Vinyl couldn’t even imagine what that must have been like for a pony that lived for this as much as Octavia did, if how she looked now was any indication that she did. At least Tavy had gotten through it.

Vinyl now felt another pang shoot through her—but this one was different, and confused Vinyl for a moment. After brief consideration, she realized what it was. Tavy must of had to deal with a lot, going through that—probably more than Vinyl would likely understand—and she had gone through it alone. And all the while Octavia had thought that her best friend wasn’t somepony she could have turned to. What Vinyl was feeling was regret.

Vinyl wished she could have been there for Tavy, even if it had just been the knowledge that Vinyl hadn’t hated her. Though it was mostly Octavia’s fault that things had been like that, Vinyl knew she hadn’t exactly been a paragon. There must have been something she could have done for Octavia—but it was too late for this kind of thinking. She couldn’t change the way things had happened.

And they had all turned out alright in the end. Tavy was back now.

Vinyl smiled as she drank away the rest of the performance, finally having shaken off the gloom she had woken up with.

As the band finished up their set, Vinyl sent herself, as best she could, in the direction of the stage. Carving a moderately straight path, she approached the band, and Tavy came up to see her.

“So what’d you think?” asked Octavia, her eyes glowing in excitement.

“Yeah, that was . . . you guys sure played a lot of notes.”

“It’s fine,” laughed Tavy. “Bop can be a bit much for those who aren’t used to it!”

“I . . . don’t think being used to it was exactly the issue here . . .” mumbled Vinyl.

One of the saxophone players, a very large, stout earth pony, walked up toward the two of them. “Ah!” he said in a rich, deep voice. “So this must be ‘Vinyl Scratch’ who you told us so much about, then, hey Tavia?”

“Hey, yeah, this is my friend, Vinyl Scratch,” Octavia said, blushing at the hardly-concealed look she got from Vinyl at “told us so much about.” “Vinyl, this is Cannonball! He’s more or less the reason I started playing jazz in the first place.”

“Good to meetcha’!” came Vinyl’s enthusiastic reply. “It seems my reputation here precedes me!” Vinyl shot Tavy a grin. “I’m not sure exactly all of what you’ve heard, but I feel like I need to thank you, Cannonball! If it hadn’t been for all of this jazz business, I don’t know if this stupid filly would’ve ever come back to see me!” Tavy looked at Vinyl, a bit horrified by her friend’s (drunken) brashness, then turned to look to the large pony beside her.

But the stallion let out a hearty chuckle. “Glad I could do my part! Just don’t let her get away again, hey?” He gave Vinyl a nudge. “Wouldn’t do at all if the band lost a killer bass player like ‘Tavy’ here!” He laughed again.

Vinyl slung her foreleg around Tavy, who was blushing deeply, and at a bit of a loss. “You got it, bud!” said Vinyl. “Doubt either of us could do much better than her!”

“And that’s probably the truth, at that!” said Cannonball. “I like you Scratch! I’ll be seein’ you around, I imagine? And I’ll see you at the next practice Tavia!” he said as he went to go pack up his things and the two mares bid farewell.

“Ha, he’s great!” said Vinyl, turning to Tavy. “I approve! Not that I have any idea what the buck you guys played, though.”

“Vinyl, you—you’re one smarmy clop, you know that?” Octavia smiled, resignedly, her face still a bit flushed.

Why thank you,” replied Vinyl, sixty percent sure she knew what that meant. Octavia just continued smiling and shook her head.

“Anyway,” Vinyl said, nudging Octavia, “I didn’t realize you talked about me so much to your friends. What exactly did you say to them?” Vinyl was grinning. “This could be quite revealing, you know? Like, wow, I didn’t know you thought about me so much!” Unsure if Vinyl had been at the butt end of that previous statement (what did “smarmy” mean, exactly?), she was determined not to lose any ground.

Octavia blushed again. “Well what was that about you saying you ‘couldn’t do better’ than me, then, hmm?” Tavy said, smiling slightly, avoiding Vinyl’s eyes as she sat on her haunches to put away her instrument.

“But it’s true!” Vinyl said, staggering over and resting her forelegs on Octavia’s shoulders, putting her full weight down and almost knocked the sitting pony over.

“Gah, get off me you drunk!” Tavy said, giving Vinyl a playful shove (which nearly did topple the admittedly rather inebriated unicorn right over). “You shouldn’t tease me, you know, I’m a professional musician now!” said Tavy, sticking her nose up with mock-pride.

“Alright, alright,” said Vinyl, giggling more than a little bit. “But you’re gonna hafta’ properly explain why you go around calling that music!”

Octavia laughed out loud. “Now, that, Scratch, is what a pony calls ironic. I’m not entirely certain: would that have been twelve times that I have said that exact same thing to you? Or was it closer to twenty?”

“Har, har. Yeah, the irony isn’t lost on Vinyl Scratch, (not even on Drunk Vinyl Scratch),” she said as she moved around beside Tavy, plopping down on the floor next to her. She craned her neck around to get her head in between Tavy and her instrument. “But the question still stands!”

Octavia, failing at keeping a straight face, put a hoof on the side of Vinyl’s head and slowly but firmly moved it back out of the way. Once her instrument was securely in its case, she stood up and hefted it over her shoulder, the strap across her chest. Vinyl got up, too (and on the first try, no less).

“Actually,” said Octavia hesitantly, but with that sort of glow in her eyes that Vinyl was beginning to pleasantly grow accustomed to, “I was thinking I could show you some music that I think might help you start to appreciate this kind of jazz.” She looked to the side. “So . . . if you wanted to hang out for a bit, and do that?”

“Yeah, I dunno, I’m actually pretty tired . . .” Vinyl said, turning to the side. She felt her heart-beat actually flutter a bit as Tavy’s face instantly fell in disappointment. So easy! She used to have to try so hard to get this kind of response from the old Octavia; that pony used to remain so guarded all the time, Vinyl recalled.

“Please?” asked Tavy. “As a DJ you should jump at the opportunity to learn about different kinds of music, right?”

“Ha, yeah, alright. Let’s go listen to your weird music 'till I’m a better pony because of it. That’s what I’m supposed to say, right?”

“Yep!” said Tavy, quickly brightening right back up. She adjusted the instrument lying across her back so it was sitting in a more comfortable position. “Okay, it’s settled. We’ll swing by my place to grab a few records, then we’ll head over to your place!”

Vinyl looked at her. “Wait, my place?”

“Yes, well, I don’t have my record player here yet—I’m still waiting for the rest of my stuff from Canterlot . . . but besides that, you’re a DJ! Of course we’d go to your place to listen to music! Now come on, let’s go!” Tavy walked past the slightly stunned DJ pony, heading towards the door. She called back a farewell to her band as she was leaving.

Vinyl shook her head and followed Tavy out. Vinyl was having an increasingly harder time figuring out who had gotten the better of who in these little exchanges.

They walked only a short distance once exiting the pub, before they came upon one of Ponyville’s main hotels. Tavy stopped in front of it, turned to go in, and said, “Kay, just wait a minute or two, I’ll be right back.”

“Tavy, you’re living in a hotel?” Vinyl asked, turning to look at her.

“Um, yes. I haven’t had a chance to find a new place yet. And my parents . . . well, they still think I’m at the RCM. It’d just be such a bother trying to explain all that . . .” Tavy said, frowning. “Anyway, just wait here!” She went inside the building.

Vinyl felt that she had been waiting quite a while by the time the grey earth pony finally came back out. She had set of saddlebags on her back, and no bass anymore.

“Alright, let’s go!” said Tavy, setting off in a direction. Vinyl watched her walk a slight ways, until she predictably came to a stop and looked around. “Uh, why don’t you go first!” Tavy said. Vinyl laughed at her, and lead them off in the opposite direction.

Upon arriving at Vinyl’s apartment, the first thing that made itself apparent on entering was that Vinyl’s place happened all in one room. The kitchen, living area, and sleeping area were distinguishable only by what kind of furniture was positioned in the various spots around the single room. The term “loft” would be very generous if it were to be applied to to this place: the small size, low roof, and general feeling of claustrophobia caused Vinyl to lovingly refer to it as a “studio apartment.” And studios were awesome, right? The DJ liked nothing better than the idea of living in a “studio.”

Adding to the feeling of claustrophobia, though, was the fact that there was very little actual floor space visible. Part of this was due to the large turntable unit set up along with speakers whose size further dwarfed that of the room. The rest of the floor was covered by . . . lots of things. Papers, miscellaneous packaging, various devices, and even records were all placed haphazardly in the middle of the floor (and in the front, back, and sides of the floor, as well).

“I . . . wasn’t really expecting company,” said Vinyl. “Well, for now, step only where I step!”

“Vinyl, this is . . . small.” Tavy was trying not to scrunch up her face as she looked over the room. “That dorm you used to live in was bigger than this. Hay, I think my hotel room is bigger than this.”

“Whatever,” said Vinyl, making her way through the fire marshal’s nightmare that was her floor, picking up various things with her magic and tossing them to a less obstructive location. “Some pony’s have big apartments: I have a turntable and sound system. Also, saved a ton on sound-proofing, this way.” She gestured to the walls, which Tavy now noticed were a series of large, padded panels. “Asylum” was a word that immediately sprung into Tavy’s head—feeling that it may not be that far off, knowing the kinds of music Scratch mixed in this place.

Vinyl’s futon mattress glowed a light blue as she lifted and folded it, adjusting the wooden frame to form it into a sort of couch. She maneuvered a little table (which she had had to clear off first) around and in front of it. “There! Go and put on your weird music!” She gestured to the turntable and speakers. “I’m gonna get a drink, you want one?”

“No, I’m alright for now, thanks,” Tavy said as she walked across the floor towards the sound system.

“Alright suit yourself.” Vinyl put away the second tumbler. She poured her alcoholic beverage of choice into just the one glass as she performed what had become known as a “Vinyl-pour”—which was similar to another pony’s pour in most ways, except for it being significantly larger. Once completed, she maneuvered over to the couch, and set her glass down as Octavia stared blankly at the turntable she had just placed the record on.

“Um, help?” came her plea. Vinyl got back up, went over and hit a single button, and the song began. They returned to the couch.

“Yeah,” Vinyl said, taking a drink from her tumbler, “Tavy, this is weird.”

“Here, just wait,” Tavy said. The piano and bass set into a steady rhythm—the sort of rhythm that had you tapping a hoof, but not quite one that passed easily through you. The saxophone and trumpet came in after a few repetitions of this, and set into long and steady notes, ascending and descending, building up and down as they did. Vinyl felt that she could not really fall into this groove too well—in fact it was a bit offsetting to her. She couldn’t quite place a hoof on it though; perhaps it was the bass progression that wasn’t quite gelling with her. She glanced at Tavy briefly, but refrained from saying anything else, and just sat through it.

Then the two horns fell into several shot-notes, with a cymbal shining out slaps as they did, throwing off the evenness that was set in with the long tones. The effect was a bit . . . eerie almost. They flung out the various notes, tossing them into the air without belaboring them. After a bit of this, he rhythm section fell into their groove once again, with the piano following the progression the horns had played previously.

“So when am I supposed to start ‘getting it’?” asked Vinyl.

“Just wait!” she urged Vinyl. “Just listen for a bit! Anyway, that trumpet player’s name is Miles Ahead: he’s who you saw playing tonight with my band. And the saxophonist is Cannonball!” This mollified Vinyl slightly; she sat back and took another sip of her drink. She did like Cannonball well enough, from her brief encounter of him. At least on a personal level. This song did seem to be going in a much different direction then the song she had heard at the pub.

Then the band switched it up, with a sharp click on the snare drum, the bass setting into spaced, evenly placed notes, foregoing the rhythm that had been previously established. The trumpet came through into a distinct melody, and the drums set into a shuffling groove, along with spaced tinkling of the piano.

This was kind of a neat groove, Vinyl admitted, and sat back to listen. The melody from the trumpet was undeniably . . . piercing. Haunting and passionate, it pulled Vinyl up and down with its deliberately paced tones. Vinyl knew buck-all about any acoustic instruments, for the most part, but she could tell that this was a good sounding trumpet.

Vinyl wasn’t exactly sure if it was the amount of alcohol she had in her system, the fact that she was fairly tired at this point, or the sudden torrent of emotions she had been struck with over the past 24 hours or so, but this eerie, penetrating melody was striking her more than a little bit. She felt the notes like they were going right through her, and resonating in and around her body as they did.

She couldn’t help but let herself be drawn into it, absorbing the melody being laid upon her. With a timeless sort of feel, it pulled her this way and that as the bass plunked out notes around the melody of the trumpet, as the drummer swirled brushes on the snare drum, keeping the groove shuffling along.

As the trumpet shot into a long high note, she almost felt her vision swim for a moment. She looked over at Octavia to see her listening intently to it, her brow furrowed slightly, absorbing it all with a concentrated effort. Vinyl had a passing wonder of how Tavy listened to the music, and if she herself wasn’t now beginning to get an inkling of what Tavy felt listening to this.

She took another swig of whiskey. She had to say, this music was pretty alright—though it seemed to have little to do with the barrage of notes that she had sat through earlier that evening. This deliberate, obviously melodic trumpet notes had none of the rapidfire, random pace of the solos she had heard earlier. The simple, controlled melody was very listen-to-able—much more so than the wall of saxophone notes from the other performance.

She turned to Tavy, about to say something, but then the trumpet stopped playing and the saxophone came in—being played by Cannonball, according to Tavy.

The saxophone wasn’t playing any kind of melody, but flew around playing notes in quick succession. He danced and flew around, going up and down, punching out certain notes not quite when Vinyl was expecting them to go. She felt herself being pulled around by Cannonball as he played. Rather than being “wall-of-noise”ed by it like she was at the performance earlier, she felt as though it was freely leading her around, as he shot out different notes that didn’t quite feel as if they should have gone there—but had—and took it off in a captivatingly different direction because of it.

Vinyl tossed back the rest of the whiskey and set down her tumbler. Maybe she could understand a bit of why Tavy was so entranced by this kind of music. She glanced over at Tavy, taking a long, calm look at her.

If Vinyl had felt she had been pulled in by the music, then Tavy had been sucked in through to the very center of it, at which point she had surrendered herself completely. Her eyes were glowing at a magnitude a fair bit more intense than Vinyl had ever seen them before. Vinyl wondered if Tavy even remembered where she was.

Vinyl felt an odd sort of twinge shoot through her, at this. Tavy had never looked at Vinyl like that. Had she really come back to see Vinyl again, or what that more incidental to the fact that coming here allowed her to be involved with the ponies that made music like this? Vinyl may have balked at the fact that she was more or less getting jealous of music—if Tavy had not abandoned her for it once before. And at that time, Vinyl had let her go.

Vinyl reached over and put her forelegs around Tavy, leaning into Tavy from where she sat.

“Wha—Vinyl?!” said Tavy, pulled slightly out of her trance. “Are you drunk?”

“What? No!” Vinyl replied. “Well, yes, but that’s not what this is about.” She held Tavy fast, ignoring her slight shifting, pulling her friend in closer.

“Are you drunk?” asked Tavy, looking over her shoulder at Vinyl as the unicorn wrapped her forelegs around her.

“What? No, I only had, like, one or four drinks,” Vinyl said defensively. “Anyway, that’s not why I’m doing this . . .” she trailed off. “Just be quiet and let me hold you.”

Vinyl had finished DJing for Octavia’s commandeered farewell party, finally managing to escape from behind the turntable without being dragged back by any more ridiculous drunken encores—as if it were a paid gig instead of something she’d been conned into doing. She had come over to sit with Tavy, who had been lying down on the couch, taking up the whole thing. Tavy had moved slightly to allow Scratch to sit down, but was mostly leaning against her when Vinyl put her forelegs around her.

“You’re leaving in a few weeks, anyway, what does it matter?” Vinyl added. Tavy maneuvered in place to get a look at the mare behind her.

“Vinyl, I—” Tavy began. “Never mind.” She began to turn away. Vinyl moved her hoof from where it was around Tavy, and placed it on the side of her face, preventing her from turning any further.

Vinyl pulled Tavy towards her, pressing her lips against those of the pony in front of her.

“Scratch! What—” Tavy pushed away slightly. She glanced from side to side, her face flushing. “Th-there’s ponies watching . . .”

Vinyl considered this. Not “what the buck are you doing, I thought we were friends;” not “get away from me you clopping filthy fillyfooler;” but instead, “there’s other ponies watching.” Vinyl took a moment to survey the room. There was not a more than a hoof-full of ponies that had any attention focused on the two of them —the party had progressed well past the point where something as mundane as two mares kissing would have warranted any particular interest.

Plus, Tavy was leaving her in a few weeks.

She drew Octavia back in, slowly but purposefully kissing her. Octavia didn’t pull back, letting her lips be taken by the unicorn. Vinyl reached her hooves around the back of Tavy’s head and brushed them through the crest of her mane, along the back of her neck. She felt Tavy wrap her own forelegs slowly, hesitantly, around Vinyl.

Vinyl gently but firmly gripped the back of Tavy’s neck, pressing her lips harder upon the other mare’s, and Tavy began to reciprocate the kiss. Vinyl drew back slightly, almost breaking the kiss, then leaned back in. She did it again. She pressed her tongue against Tavy’s mouth as she did, not forcefully, but stubbornly and repeatedly.

Tavy opened her mouth, letting Vinyl in. Tavy still seemed hesitant, though. The unicorn was going to have none of that from her soon-departing friend. Vinyl shot through Tavy’s mouth, leaning her body in closer as she did. She sucked and pulled at the mare’s tongue, finally drawing her into action.

Octavia kissed her back, now pressing back against Vinyl. Vinyl leaned back on the couch, Tavy shifting on top of her. From her vantage point, Tavy took the opportunity to draw back for a moment, breaking away from the unicorn.

“Vinyl, why are you doing this?” she asked, looking at the image of herself half-reflected in Vinyl’s shades.

“It . . . you . . . you’re going away.” answered Vinyl, lamely. Tavy fell back into the kiss. Several more ponies around them were now beginning to take notice.

“Then why are you doing this, Vinyl?” Tavy asked, not looking back. They sat on Vinyl’s futon, Vinyl with her forelegs around Tavy, and looking at the back of Tavy’s head as the music floated around them.

“It’s . . . just be quiet, we’re listening to music.” Vinyl could feel Tavy give a short laugh.

Vinyl let herself get pulled into the music again, but still remaining sharply aware of the mare in front of her. After so long being away from her—and now having placed herself in such very close proximity—the last Tavy-related partition in her mind fell away.

Combined with the alcohol and the piercing, haunting music around her, she let herself go. Vinyl gave in completely, and buried her nose and face into the back of Tavy’s neck, nuzzling into the dark, sleek mane of the pony she was holding. Vinyl breathed deeply. Tavy smelt of smoke and pub and varnished old wood. She let the smell envelop her, permeating her completely. She saturated herself in the mare in front of her, tightening her hold on the earth pony.

“V-Vinyl!” Octavia shifted herself, sitting up on her haunches beside Vinyl, turning to face her and pushing her away, gently, with a hoof on Vinyl’s shoulder. Vinyl’s hooves fell off of Octavia and to her sides as Vinyl lay on the couch.

Vinyl looked away, blushing fiercely, realizing she had compromised herself more than a little bit. “Sorry, I didn’t mean . . . it- it’s this music! It’s messing with my emotions! Or whatever!” She picked up her purple shades from the table beside the futon in a blue glow, floating them towards her.

Octavia reached out and caught the levitating glasses in her hoof, pulling them away and depositing them back on the table. She put a hoof on Vinyl’s other shoulder and looked down at the unicorn lying beside her on the couch.

Vinyl couldn’t read the expression on Octavia’s face. Or rather, she knew what she thought the expression was—what she hoped, almost desperately, that it was—but doubted because of this, thinking she might be seeing only what she wanted to see. She closed her eyes, not chancing to trust in them.

And she felt Tavy’s forelegs wrap themselves around her neck. Vinyl tilted her head upwards, parting her lips slightly, relinquishing the notion that she would ever be in any kind of control when it came to this pony. She felt Tavy’s grip gently tighten on her, and felt lips press against hers, pulling her into a slow, soft kiss.

Vinyl let herself get swept away, wrapping her forelegs around Tavy as Tavy ran her hooves through Vinyl’s mane. Octavia slid into Vinyl’s mouth, and Vinyl did so in return, their tongues entwining. Tavy’s mouth tasted of smoke and what ashes probably taste like—not unlike the smokey aftertaste of a Scotch whiskey Vinyl once had had, which she hadn’t much cared for at the time, but suddenly felt inclined to give another try. She pulled Octavia in tighter, trying to get closer. She moved her hooves along the grey pony's back and down her sides.

Tavy returned Vinyl’s passion for a time, breathing harder as they sucked in gasps of air in around each other’s mouths. She ran her tongue faster and more wildly around the other mare’s, and held Vinyl tighter in her forelegs. Then Tavy slowed, gently releasing Vinyl and pulling away, though still breathing fast.

Vinyl opened her eyes, looking up at Tavy. Octavia was deeply flushed, and her mane had fallen out of its shape and hung around her loosely, her bowtie well off-kilter.

“I . . . it’s—” Tavy giggled slightly, brushing her mane out of her eyes. “It’s late. I should go.” She smiled, and kissed Vinyl again, lightly and quickly.

“But . . . you could also . . . not go?” Vinyl suggested, her words coming a bit lethargically in her breathlessness.

Octavia rolled off of the futon, standing up. “No,” she said looking down at Vinyl. “No, if something more is going to happen between us, I want you to remember every. Single. Moment,” Octavia whispered, leaning in and brushing her lips against Vinyl’s ear. Vinyl leaned over to get closer to Tavy’s mouth as she did this—and toppled ungraciously off the couch, sprawling onto the floor. “And with you being clopped drunk, I have my doubts,” Tavy finished.

Vinyl slowly flailed her legs in the air, attempting to roll over. “What—hey! I’m not all that drunk . . .”

“Vinyl, I had my tongue in your mouth. You taste like a lot of booze. I think I feel a bit tipsy just from kissing you.”

“Thas’ just ‘cus I’m so sexy,” Vinyl said, now beginning to give in as she felt herself falling down from her emotional high. “What about your mouth, then? Think I got a smoker’s cough comin’ on . . . *cough*”

Tavy snorted uncharmingly, then hefted Vinyl back onto the couch. She went to the door, preparing to leave, turning off the lights.

“Hey . . . lunch,” came the broken speech from the direction of the futon, barely audible over top of the final repetition of the song's head trailing off though the darkness. “We should have . . . lunch. Tomorrow! And I have to buy stuff, too . . we should totally buy stuff. Together.”

Octavia laughed, and found herself smiling warmly. “Yes, alright. That’d be nice.” She left.

Vinyl rolled onto her side, bringing her forelegs in close to her. She let the lingering scent and warmth of the other mare wash over her. She chalked this evening down as a successful evening—all things considered—and allowed herself to succumb to the alcohol and the sleepiness that beckoned her into unconsciousness, the last haunting trumpet phrases fading out around her.