Home.

It doesn’t feel very homely anymore — more like I’m trespassing on somepony else’s property. So high in the sky, cumuli are naturally cool, but for the first time in my entire life, I’m actually feeling the cold, and no amount of blankets or cups of hot chocolate are helping me warm up. It isn’t a normal chill; it’s one that stems from the inside, and the air around me only accentuates the problem.

I lie curled up in the nest I’ve made on my bed, chin slumped on a pillow, staring off into nowhere with half-closed, listless eyes. It’s a small comfort; I used to do this more often, once upon a time, whenever something didn’t go my way in school, like the other kids making fun of my stammer. Three years of speech therapy later, and all that remains is a lisp, which has slowly grown better with every passing winter, but never completely faded, and likely never will.

Nesting is something every pegasus does, whether they want to admit it or not — ingrained in the bird part of our brain, as instinctive as opening our wings when we fall. Parents usually wean their children out of it, in case they’re already, or planning to make friends with a family who doesn’t approve, and the same was true for Mum and Dad. But no matter how you try, you can’t kill an instinct. You can bury it, pave it over, build a beautiful temple of culture and refinement and learned behaviour, but it’ll never die; it’ll just lie dormant.

That’s what I’ve been finding out these past few… however many days it’s been. Yesterday, two days, five — it’s all jumbled up and blurred, like I’m the one motionless dreg of batter in a batch of cake mix while an eggbeater spins away. I’m hungry, but I don’t feel like eating. I’m thirsty, but I don’t feel like drinking. I’m filthy, but the dirty feeling won’t wash out.

Only the bare essentials earn my attention anymore — I still need to survive, after all. Tried watching the television at some point, but nothing took my fancy, and the background noise annoyed me. Switched it off the second I thought I heard somepony say my name. The last thing I need is news on what the world outside thinks of me; he made it clear enough.

And I can’t blame him. I don’t try to either. I should’ve just pulled the plug on the whole thing before I let it reach this far. Long before. The moment I looked up from that coffee cup at the Lunar Bean, in fact, if not sooner. Heck, if I’d just stopped replying to letters, he may very well have forgotten me in time — shrug off my memory as another jerk in a sea of assholes. Might’ve taught him a valuable lesson on how similar ponies are to humans too.

…Actually, that’s just cruel, and wouldn’t help his situation in the slightest. If he didn’t have me to vent at, there’s no telling how he’d have reacted to the news of his indefinite asylum. I wouldn’t have been there to soften the blow.

But if I weren’t there… none of this would’ve happened.

I shut my eyes and turn my head on its side, curling in a little more, trying as hard as I can to hide away from those thoughts — the same thoughts I’ve been having over and over; if only this, if only that. Thoughts that feed into an endless cycle, never going anywhere, always pulling me deeper and deeper.

I don’t know what to do anymore. Where to go, what to say. Who, if anypony, I could turn to. Haven’t even been able to muster the energy or the strength for an idle glide to the Mocha Club. They’d never have to know anything, just take my bits and brew me a latte. But being out there… so many eyes, so many curious glances, so many unspoken questions…

I’m scared. I’ve never been this scared in my entire life. And what scares me even more is how little I’m showing of it, as if this really isn’t as awful as I’m making it out to be — as it factually is.

The ache between my legs has gone. The one in my chest and stomach… not so much. For all I know, for all I care, maybe it never will. And maybe that’s the price of hubris — of tempting fate. Like a moth flying too close to the flames, thinking it’s the moon… or however the analogy’s supposed to go.

I played with fire, I got burned. I only have myself to blame.

A knock on the door. Despite cumuli being notoriously… whatever the opposite of soundproof is… it seems to echo through the house. “Fleetfoot?” Soarin calls. “You home?”

Great, it’s the fuzz. Missed too many calls, I guess, and spent too long away from the Academy. Should’ve figured it was only a matter of time before the hammer of reality came crashing down on me again. No rest for the wicked.

“If I bust through this wall, I’m not going to find you blackout drunk, am I?”

My ear twitches, and my brows furrow in an agitated frown. I swear, if there are any gods up there, at least one of them is purposely treating my life as nothing but a great, big joke. A sitcom, or something. I think Philip mentioned a movie like that, where somepony’s entire life is put on display for the whole world to see and be entertained by.

Well, if that isn’t my existence in a nutshell…

“Are you sick?”

If I were, I’d have a legitimate excuse to shoo him off; don’t come in, or you’ll catch my cooties. Perhaps the most prominent symptom of this sudden and mysterious illness is a loss of voice, or selective mutism, or something along those lines. It’d be the disease’s fault I don’t reply, not mine, and I wouldn’t feel the subtle but undeniably present tug of guilt urge me to answer him.

“You’re not dead, are you?”

Maybe it’s better if I were — I wouldn’t be around to witness the aftermath, and I’d finally stop being too tired have a proper night’s sleep. Because I wouldn’t be tired: I’d be nothing. And right now, being nothing seems a lot more appealing than… this. Whatever I’m supposed to call it.

“Okay, I’ll cut the crap,” he announces with a sigh — the kind that says he’s readying himself with a certain sense of grim determination. “I know you’re in there, Fleet. You couldn’t be anywhere else. I’ve searched all around Cloudsdale within a five mile radius, twice, and you don’t stay anywhere that isn’t your house for more than two days, unless it’s business. Either you open this door, or I’ll break it down.”

The wall would be easier, but frankly, I’m not in the mood to be doing the repairs myself, or calling somepony for a replacement door and frame. Soarin doesn’t make threats idly; when he says something like that in this context, even if he doesn’t sound deathly serious, he means it.

I heave a slow, heavy, reluctant sigh through my nose and shift my weight, rolling so I lie somewhat upright and stare over the foot of my bed to the entry down below, ears angled back. Leaving me without a choice isn’t very diplomatic, but diplomacy has its limits, I suppose. Knowing when to put your hoof down is just as important as leniency. And, hey, as much as I hate to admit it… it’s working, isn’t it?

“You want me to count to three?”

I contemplate what his reaction would be if it turned out I weren’t here, and he’d just wasted his time making this grand little speech and vandalising an empty house. The shock on his face would be priceless — doubly so when he’d inevitably have to explain things to me. But right now, that simply isn’t the case. Better to spare us both our feelings, or what little of them remains.

With the soft hiss of a laboured, unenthusiastic groan, I rock back onto my rump to get my forehooves in place, then lean forward and to give my hindlegs room to stand. Muscles strain against themselves after hours upon hours of inactivity, but it’s only a minor inconvenience. I trundle onward, hop off, and limply glide to the lower floor, where I misjudge the landing and stumble for a moment. Nothing serious. No pride to hurt anymore.

After a quick pause to steady myself and get my nausea under control — the last thing I need is another vomiting session over the toilet, or anywhere here, as a matter of fact — I ramble for the door. The latch unlocks, the bolt slides free, and then I edge it open and peer through the gap.

It’s him alright, and considering his gaze was ready to meet mine, he’d heard my approach. Standard-issue casual attire, as well as a pair of shades — rare for the likes of him. He smiles chipperly. “Hey, Fleet. It’s been a while.”

I don’t reply. It hasn’t really, as far as I recall, but I haven’t kept track of the date, so in the end, what do I know?

“Spitfire sent me — came to see if you’re alright.” He cocks his head and his smile shrinks. “You’re alive, at least.”

Again, I give him nothing.

He glances to his left and up at the rest of the house. “Listen, I, uh… don’t mean to intrude or anything, but… it’s not like you to be this reclusive, even with time off. And that’s led me — us — to think something’s changed. Not making any assumptions, just… concerned. For you, I mean, as a teammate and a friend.”

I continue staring, stretching out the silence. Not for any particular reason, strangely enough, just processing the fact he’s standing right there and talking to me, I guess. “Thanks,” I hoarsely mumble, then quickly contemplate and immediately dismiss the idea of slamming the door in his face.

“No sweat,” he answers chipperly, as if I hadn’t just attempted to brush him off like dust from the shoulder. And then he gives a meaningful glance to the space behind me. “So, if it’s not too much to ask… may I come in?”

Another few seconds of staring, expressionless as ever, though I feel somewhat more indignant, especially that, despite saying he doesn’t mean to, he is intruding. “I don’t have much of a choice, do I?

He shrugs, his smile never wavering. “Spitty’s orders, Fleet. Sorry.”

Yes, I’m sure he’s very sorry, and if it weren’t Spitfire backing this endeavour, who knows? Maybe I’d be sorely tempted to make sure he knows how sorry he should be. If anything, at least it’d be a welcome reprieve from this… funk, I guess I’m supposed to call it — a break in the storm, if violent and frankly uncalled for.

But he’s my superior, not just my friend, and he’s here under the authority somepony else, and if I know anything about her, it’s how much she cares for her team — treats us like family, because we are, in a way. This door’s opening one way or another, so the less fuss I kick up about it, the less blood, sweat and tears need to be shed. Besides, I’ve been meaning to fetch myself some breakfast, and although these aren’t the most ideal circumstances, it’s finally gotten me out of bed.

With another of those heavy, yet quiet sighs, I sidestep out of the way and pull the door with me, and the entire space seems to grow a few shades brighter. A shame, really, since it doesn’t do me any good myself.

“Thanks,” he says, taking the shades off with a wingtip as he strolls in and tucks them into the collar of his polo. “I like what you’ve done with the place — looks very… lived-in.”

That’s one way to describe it. An utter mess would be more fitting. At least three dirty bowls on the coffee table between the couch and TV, and an assortment of empty, crinkled foil wrappers — my lion’s share of rainbow truffles put to good use. A few empty mugs and glasses on the kitchen counter as well, and pillows from the sofa lie scattered about the floor, which seems wispier than normal. Not the worst it could be, but I really should’ve mustered the energy to clean up this place in case somepony arrived. And somepony has.

“Is this a new style you’re going with, or…?”

I flash him an unimpressed, disapproving look.

He snorts and smirks. “Yeah-yeah, I know, I’m being an ass. Still, if you don’t mind me saying… I’m surprised you’ve let it affect you this much, whatever it is. You don’t look much better than the house.”

My brows, ears and eyelids lower. “Smooth, Clipper.”

“Well, am I wrong?”

I hold his gaze for a moment, then look down at myself. Indeed, my fur isn’t as smooth as it could be, and my mane and tail could do with a thorough wash, and my wings itch with improperly aligned feathers. I don’t want to say I’ve fallen into a habit of negligence — merciful Sisters, that would make me such a stereotype — but I can’t deny I’ve let myself go.

Every single everyday task I’ve ever faced since that cursed morning, the question of ‘why bother’ came to mind, and in an instant, it all seemed so utterly pointless. Dusk was only nine hours away; not enough time to do anything meaningful.

“Would you like some help around here?”

I blink, then look up to him again. “With what?”

“Housecleaning.” He shrugs. “Anything you want, really — I don’t mind. I mean… it may be pushing the boundaries a little, but if you’re having trouble keeping stuff in order… I guess I could ask Spitfire to give me some time off as well. You know, to be close.”

I blink a second time, squinting. “You’re offering to be my maid?”

“If that’s what you need.”

A third, much slower blink, now incredulous more than anything else. “I can take care of myself, Soarin. I’m not in the business of using my friends. Not anymore.”

“You’re not using me if I know what I’m getting into, Fleet. At least, in regards to the workload. You don’t have to talk about what’s bothering you if you don’t want to, but if you do, I’m here to listen.”

I stare at him for a little while longer, then listlessly shake my head and walk around the counter for the kitchen. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“That’s what they all say until it’s out in the open. Trust me, I can be very understanding.”

“I don’t doubt you are, it’s just…” I grab a sliced loaf of bread from the freezer, butter from the fridge, and a plate from the dish cabinet, searching for distractions as I give myself time to think — something I wish I had less of in recent days. “I really just don’t give a damn anymore.”

“If you don’t give a damn, why aren’t you telling me?”

I wince, my ear twitches, and I peer at him from the corner of my eye.

“Not saying you should,” he defends, angling his head and lifting a hoof up in mock surrender, “just saying—”

“You can start with the living room,” I declare, then bring my attention to the bread, where I break off two slices and put them on the plate, and return the rest of the loaf to the freezer.

He pauses, but I see his figure give a nod and trot off around the couch.

As I pop the bread in the toaster and push the slide down, I retrieve a butter knife from the cutlery drawer, and all that’s left to do is wait. In fact, that’s all I’ve been doing — waiting for something to happen. I’ve just… resumed course, I guess.

But not entirely. Something has happened, courtesy of others’ concerns for me, and that something is in my house, collecting all the wrappers and brushing off the crumbs from the sofa. What I’m supposed to make of it, I haven’t a clue; having him in under the same roof as me feels off, somehow. Not because he’s seeing me in the state I am, or how I’ve let everything go to shit, but because… he’s here. Where I am. As if he were a piece of gum under the desk in high school, but I can’t bring myself to peel it off and fling it as far away from me as possible, where it belongs.

…Great, now I sound like a douche. He’s here and he’s helping. I should be thankful for that, not scornful. Shouldn’t let this mood twist my mind so much that I’m seeing enemies everywhere and spies in every corner.

“Reading some fan mail, were you?”

My ears perk up and I look over to him.

He holds up a small batch of neatly folded letters in a wing for me to see — no more than ten slips of paper, I reckon. “Scattered on the floor here, addressed to you. Reading them for motivation’s sake, or—”

“Give them here.”

He blinks, somewhat taken aback. “Oh, are they personal?”

“Give them here,” I insist, striding toward him with a frown and an outstretched wing, the other holding the knife close — though I don’t mean to, I suppose I must look like I’m liable to stab him. “They’re mine.”

His brows rise in surprise and he hesitates for a moment, but eventually complies, waddling closer and passing the papers to me. But not before, however, his curiosity gets the better of him and he takes a brief glimpse at the name of the sender on the bottom of the topmost letter. “From Philip?”

My jaw clenches in response, but I don’t let him see, turning immediately and hopping into the air for my ledge. With my wings carrying certain things, it’s tricker than it should be, but I manage with a few ungraceful flaps, then quickly stow them in the bedside table along with my contact case and fluid. Haven’t worn them in ages.

“Are they all from him?”

“Get back to work, Clipper,” I order, mustering what little biting power I can, then glide back down to the kitchen where the toaster pops almost on cue. “You’re not here to ask questions, remember?”

He pauses, letting my response hang in the air, and its blunt effectiveness soon wilts away. “That’s not a no, Fleet,” he says calmly, quietly, knowingly.

I don’t reply. I tell myself I’m too busy buttering the toast, but that’s a lie.

“Is this a friendship problem, or something?”

I want to grind the knife as far into the toast as I can, but that’d get crumbs everywhere and I don’t want to make it look like he’s actively getting on my nerves, or picking at a sensitive topic. Of course, the longer I don’t give him a direct answer, the more suspicious my silence becomes. Even I can’t pretend it’s not shifty.

“Well?”

“Don’t use that kind of language.”

He pauses again, expecting more.

“I’m not going to Twilight about this,” I grumble, frowning at and starting on the second slice. “She wouldn’t be comfortable with it, and it doesn’t concern her. Doesn’t concern you either. Or Spits, or the Bolts, or Mum and Dad, or anypony else. I’ll work it out on my own.”

“And how’s that been treating you?”

I stop and peer at him from the corner of my eye once more, still frowning, though it’s the hollow sort — forced, and without much weight behind it.

He cocks his head and purses his lips in a look of dogged sympathy, cutting through as much as he can of the wall of bullshit I’m spouting. And despite my best efforts, I’m honestly not entirely sure whether I believe myself or not. “I can’t promise you an answer to all your problems, Fleet, but keeping everything bottled up isn’t the key to solving them.”

I return to buttering the second piece of toast, and take a small amount of comfort in seeing the first had already grown golden. “I’m not bottling anything up.”

“You are.” He strolls toward me from the living room, essentially blocking my exit unless I wanted to leap over the counter or shoot through the roof. “If you weren’t, you’d either be at the Academy with the rest of us or training solo. You don’t sit by yourself and mope around your house all day — you take action. That means this isn’t any old ordinary problem. And if it’s too big for you, Fleet, especially you, then you really shouldn’t keep this to yourself.”

I toss the knife aside and take the plate in a wing, sitting on my haunches, facing away from him with folded ears, the other wing holding a slice ready for me to bite. But I let it hang there. I don’t feel like eating. I expect myself to, since I’ve already gone through the motions, but I don’t. This conversation’s taken a turn down a path I vainly hoped it wouldn’t, and whatever appetite I had when I started making breakfast has vanished. Once again, in that limbo of emotion and impulse.

“I care for you, Fleet. We all do. And we trust you enough to know what’s best for you. But doing this to yourself isn’t the answer — the world keeps moving, and so should you. If you need a little extra wind in your wings, I’d be more than happy to help, but I can’t do that unless you open up. Tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll do what I can.”

“It wouldn’t be enough,” I mutter, feeling the tension mounting in my chest, like a rope being tightened the harder it tugs away from him. My voice threatens to quaver. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then help me understand.”

“No.” I risk a proper glimpse of him, and when our eyes meet for a fleeting moment, I realise that was a mistake; now there’s a new string tugging at my core, and he’s pulling it, whether or not he means to. My ears fold even further back as I shift my weight onto my rump to hide my tensing flanks and clamped tail. “It’s… embarrassing.”

It’s the most succinct, most comfortably vague way of describing it I can think of, and I don’t try to correct myself, but putting it so simply makes it seem far less complicated than I know it is. I also hate how childish I sound, as if I were still at the age where calling private parts by their actual names was scandalous. But that’s the price of sparing him the details, and good riddance for that.

“Oh my stars…” he murmurs, pulling the string tighter a steel cable, finer than a fishing line.

I shut my eyes and cringe, bowing my head and letting my wings sag, bracing myself for the words I dread, and perhaps secretly crave — for the elephant in the room to finally be called. If anything, it would at least cleanse this rotten, festering, agitated feeling from my stomach.

“You have a crush on him!”

A pause.

A beat.

A silence.

The words sink in, my face relaxes somewhat, and my eyes flutter open into a confused squint. And then I look over my shoulder to him. “What?”

“It all makes sense now!” he exclaims, eyes wide in delighted realisation, running a wing through his mane as his gaze lowers to some indefinite space ahead of him, looking lost in thought. “The letters on tour, the weekly meetups, the extra time off… Sweet Celestia, why didn’t I see it before?”

I blink, and my ears start parking up as my frown grows less confused and more bewildered. “You seriously never knew?”

“How was I supposed to?” He begins pacing in a small, slow circle, always staring at that point in front of him, occasionally giving a glance my way. “I just thought he… I don’t know, intrigued you, I guess. Like he does me. You know, like… weird alien from another world; you want to get to know him, hear what he has to say, what life’s like on the other side. Nothing necessarily private, just… neat little titbits of info here and there. An exotic friend, more than anything. But a crush? You? I never would’ve guessed that. Not to say you shouldn’t, it’s just… surprising.”

I blink again.

“Does he know?” He spins about to face me, eager as a puppy for a juicy morsel. But then his grin fades as soon as another thought strikes him. “Oh stars, he knows, doesn’t he? You told him you like him, and he said he doesn’t feel the same way about you, and that’s got you in a funk, and you’ve been too embarrassed to face him or anybody else ever since.”

“No, Soarin, I—”

“You’re right; this isn’t a friendship problem — this is a… a heart problem! But not the medical kind. A love problem! That’s something you see Princess Cadance for!”

“It’s nothing like that—”

“Well, I mean, you can love your friends, but that’s not the same as loving someone you care about — someone you’re interested in. Yeah, this is a problem for Cadance. But a letter wouldn’t be fast enough, even through the express service…”

“Look, if you’d just listen—”

“Pack your bags, Fleet, and dress for cold weather,” he instructs, heading for the living room again, as casual as if he’d just asked a bartender to make his drink shaken, not stirred. “When we’re finished here, we’re going north and we’re sorting this thing out once and for—”

“WE BANGED, OKAY?!”

He freezes midstride, stiff as a statue, staring straight ahead, stunned. Almost as if I’d hit pause on the remote and it worked in real life. His forehoof and hindleg hang suspended in the air, which grows more and more frigid the longer he remains still.

The full weight of what I’d just admitted to now comes back to me like a rising tide, and I can find nothing to hide behind. Even my wings feel bare — a veil so fine there may as well be nothing there at all, like the fable of the Emperor’s New Clothes. My brows knit together and my ears droop along with my gaze, watching the floor as my teeth begin to chatter.

“Oh,” he says, letting his hooves fall, still focussed on the horizon beyond the walls of the house. And then he solely turns to face me side-on. Not disturbed, not disgusted, but still overwhelmingly stunned. “That, uh… That complicates things.”

“I didn’t mean to,” I affirm, though I hate that I have to elaborate, and I hate how meek and shaken I sound, even though I know I can’t be anything else. “We didn’t mean to. But… it happened. We’d been drinking, it was his place, and he was holding me close, and he… called me beautiful… and I kissed him… and… he kissed me…”

He waits for me to finish. Not expectantly, just patiently.

A kindness I don’t feel I deserve.

“And… and when I woke up, I tried telling him it was a mistake — that I didn’t mean for any of it to happen — but… he just… wouldn’t listen. I wasn’t his friend anymore. I was a pony — a… a horse. Something I can’t help being. And he knew I had a thing for him, but so long as I kept it in check, we could… we could still see each other.”

Again, more silence. He doesn’t mean to make it hostile, but it’s becoming that. With nothing to fill the void, I’m finally realising how truly pathetic my side of the story is, and my next breath is a ragged, shivering one. I barely notice I’ve dropped the toast.

“I… I took advantage of him, Soarin.” I look at him from the corner of my eye with upturned brows, a quivering jaw, and ears down as far as they’re can go. The hints of tears are starting to form. “I made him do something he didn’t want to do. Maybe it wasn’t rape, but it may as well have been.”

His eyes widen, his ears perk up and he canters over to sit behind me. “Don’t say that,” he whispers urgently, reaching forward with both forehooves and pulling me into a hug. “Don’t you dare say that.”

“But I did!” I shout, or try to — it’s a choked wail. I don’t deserve a hug after what I did. Don’t deserve anything. This house, my job, my fame… all built around a sham of a pony. “I asked him to kiss me, and he did, but I wanted more, so I kissed back, and… and…! I betrayed him! I’ve ruined his life, Soarin! Ruined it.”

“Hey, hey, shush.” He gently rocks me back and forth and softly strokes my mane. “It’s okay, Fleet. It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.”

“But it’s not,” I breathe, barely louder than a broken whimper. “I told him I wanted us to stay friends… and now look what’s happened. All because I… I let myself…”

He drapes his chin over my head and wraps his wings around my body, hugging me closer.

And that’s enough to tip me over the edge — break me down into a bawling, snivelling, blubbering mess. Everything that’s happened… everything I’ve been afraid was going to happen… like a massive weight slamming into the ground, and I’m in the centre of it all. I lean into him as much as I can, but I can’t bring myself to return the embrace — there’s too much effort, too much thought behind it. And he wouldn’t want to get his fur wet.

But he never lets go, always rocking and swaying, holding and stroking, making sure I know he’s near. And I appreciate it. I just don’t think I deserve it.

“I don’t know what to do, Soarin,” I confess when what little of my wits remain have been gathered. “I don’t know what to do…”

He nods in acknowledgement as well as he can while keeping his body close to mine, but doesn’t say anything. Not for a good, long while, at least. “I think I know where we can start.”

---

I swear, I’ve become no better than a child. I sat in the corner and pouted, feeling sorry for myself, then needed hugs and kisses to make the boo-boo hurt a little less, and now I’m here, sitting in my own bath as somepony else washes me from head to hoof.

Soarin rubs the shampoo through my mane with a hoof, and whenever a sudd get too low, I wipe it away with a wing before it reaches my eye. I appreciate the help. I really, really do. But a part of me — quite easily the majority, or at the very least a not insignificant part of me — can only take this as a sign of weakness; if I can’t even trust myself to do a task as simple as bathing, what am I good for anymore?

“Stop it.”

I give him a sideways glance. “Stop what?”

“Thinking like that. It won’t do anyone any favours, least of all you.”

Should’ve figured he’d pick up on that. Can’t trust myself to assess my reality without him assessing me. I return to staring at the bubbly water and the feathers floating across its surface like flower petals — he’d taken the liberty of preening my wings as well, which felt good at the time, but now it only threatens to confirm my fears.

I’m submerged from my midsection down, but despite the weightless warmth, I don’t really feel too comfortable; this isn’t a state he should see me in. Heavens above, this isn’t a state I’d want to see myself in. And no matter how well he scrubs my fur, or washes my mane, or preens my wings and… and basically does his best… I still know why he’s doing it. Why he’s here. Why I’m here.

There’ll always be that cursed reminder between my legs and under my tail…

“What did he say, exactly?”

I shut my eyes and sigh. “What does it matter?”

“It matters because I want to help. I can’t fix everything for you, but at the very least, I can offer you another perspective — a fresh set of eyes. But I can’t do that if you don’t give me details.”

“Well, I told you. I have… I had a crush on him, and I told him about it. He trusted me to keep it contained, because… I’m not like him — not… not a human. So, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever feel the same way.”

“Because it’s taboo on his world, right?”

“Yeah.” Him saying it aloud and my acknowledgement weighs on my stomach even more — to be reminded of how I’d crossed a moral boundary. “He still wants to go home. And now, he’s worried I’ve stolen any chance he has, because if somepony over there finds out what he’s done… what I’ve made him do…”

“But we’re not on his world, are we?”

My ears twitch, but I open my eyes, angle my head toward him and give a warning frown. “That’s beside the point, Soarin; it’s about what he wants. And he made it… abundantly clear he doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

He quicks an eyebrow as he pours a cup of water down my neck and wrings the soap from my mane. “Then why didn’t he shoot you down and cut you off when you told him you liked him?”

“Because we hadn’t done anything physical at that point.”

He takes a break from washing my hair to bob his head from side to side. “Sure, but what I’m trying to say is… he wanted to be around you, despite knowing how you felt about him. He knew you were a pony, but he valued your company more.”

I blink at him, then look away and shake my head. “This is different, Soarin.”

“Of course it is. I’m not denying that. But the thing about alcohol is that it doesn’t fundamentally change someone — it just… lowers your inhibitions.”

An ear twitches again, and after a beat to process his words, I return to him, afraid he might be assuming too much, but curious to know where exactly he’s going with this.

“Now, I’m not saying he’s harbouring some deep-rooted affection for you that he’s in denial over, or that anyone’s to blame, because as far as I’m concerned, neither of you are. But what I am saying is that… you liked him a certain way, and he liked you a certain way. And without certain factors telling you how you should or shouldn’t like each other… maybe you found some common ground.”

He’s… not wrong, I suppose. But I feel like there’s still more he has to say — more wisdom he can dispense — so I wet my mouth and continue to listen, ears now rising to almost full-mast.

Soarin gently pulls his hooves away and folds his forelegs on the bath’s edge, looking off to his left as he chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking to himself. “I don’t want to make it sound like I don’t sympathise with the guy, but… Philip’s problem is that he’s too stuck in the past. He’s holding out hope for a future that, frankly, is never going to happen. It sucks ass, totally, and he may not agree with Celestia’s reasoning… but that’s the way his cookie crumbled. He needs to make do with what he’s been given.

“And if he ever comes round… I’d say he’s found himself quite a catch.” He returns to me and smiles humbly. “But that won’t happen unless you talk with him. Not at him or to him, but with him. Find a quiet spot, sit him down, and have a healthy conversation.”

More than a little bold of him, presuming to know I still want Philip in my life. But as much as I hate to admit it… he’d be right. Or at the very least, extremely close to being smack on target. I wouldn’t be skulking around my house unless I lost something special, but thought it possible to find a way to get it back. Otherwise, like he said in the kitchen, I’d be moving on.

But then I realise he’d come to that conclusion before I did, and my eyes close, my head droops, and I sigh once more. Again, somepony else had proven they know me better than I know myself. “I tried talking with him, Soarin,” I mumble gloomily. “He wouldn’t listen.”

“Then give him space.” He reaches over and pulls me in for another hug, dampening his fur in the process. “Give him time. Organise a meeting and tell him when and where, and don't hold back when you get there. But whatever you do… don’t let him say you’re not worth loving because of what you can’t help being.”

The embrace catches me off-guard, and the words of encouragement even more so, but it’s what I need to feel and what I need to hear, and I lean into him as my lips pucker and my eyes squeeze shut. I wish I had words to speak — something to prove I’m stronger than this — but my imagination’s failing me, so I remain quiet. No more tears to cry, no more asking why; he’s here for me, and I can only be grateful.

“You’re braver than me, Fleetfoot. Braver than I’ll ever be. And if I need to say it more times than there are stars in the sky, then that’s what I’ll do. Now and always.”

I can’t help grinning. It’s cheesy, but compared to the living nightmare I’ve gotten myself into, I’ll take cheesy any day of the week. “What makes you say that?”

He huffs a gentle snort, and I can tell by the tone of it that he’s grinning as well. “Let’s just say… you’re not the only one with a crush.”

There’s a pause as the words sink in, and when they do, my ears perk up, my eyes shoot open and I pull away from him, sloshing water over the edge on accident as I look at him bemusedly. “You’re not talking about me, are you?”

“What?” He blinks with widening eyes, stunned, and perhaps a little mortified. “No, of course not. Well, I mean, you are attractive — really, an absolute stunner, sometimes — and I’d have no problem dating you whatsoever, if that’s what you wanted. Like, maybe it could be a kind of three-way deal, if your heart’s set on somebody else, and they’re cool with us seeing each other on the side, or—”

“Soarin, shut up,” I interrupt, lifting a hoof to silence him, trying to put an end to the image of me sharing a candlelit dinner with him and Philip. Stars, even after everything I’ve been through, he’s still in my fantasies. “Just… who, then?”

“Oh.” Soarin slowly settles back down, unfurled wings folding at his sides and shifting in place. “Well, uh… isn’t it obvious?”

I squint. “Philip?”

“Oh my stars, no!” He breaks out in awkward laughter, which quickly dies down to an uneasy smile and anxious eyes. “It’s… Spits.”

I blink. And then my jaw drops. “Spitfire?!”

“Yep.” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away in earnest. “She’s, uh… really something, don’t you think?”

I continue staring at him for a few long moments, then try to compose myself as best as I’m able, clearing my throat. “Well, I mean… ‘something’ is definitely the word for it.”

“Says the mare who did the do with this world’s first and only human.”

My ears fold back and I snap my gaze to the water beneath me, tucking my wings in as close as they’ll go and clamping my tail as well as I’m able.

There’s a pause — a silence as he realises just what he said and how tender that nerve was. “Sorry, I…” he begins, but soon drifts off and lowers his gaze, shaking his head. “Look, in any case, you plan on doing something about it. Maybe I’ve helped a little. But me and Spits? I’ve kept that under wraps for the past… five years, I think. Haven’t told anybody, haven’t made a move. Scared I’ll somehow screw it up, because… you know, she’s a friend, and we work together. I don’t want to say you have it better, but… at least you and Philip have distance on your side.”

I look up at him from behind wary brows, though I suspect my gaze has become more outwardly sympathetic. We’re not exactly in the same boat, but we’re in the same ocean, and we’re braving similar storms — storms we both seem to have accidentally found ourselves in.

“Anyway, we should finish up here, shouldn’t we?” He beckons me closer with a wing, returning to me with a smile, and I genuinely can’t tell whether it’s feigned or honest. “Still haven’t done the fur conditioner.”

I hesitate for a moment, but quickly realise I’m being edgy over nothing; it was a passing, poorly phrased, poorly timed attempt at a friendly jab, not an actual attack. So, I breathe out through my nose, evicting what tension I can with it, and quietly wade toward him on my haunches. And when I feel his hooves press into my shoulders, spreading the lotion and massaging me at the same time, I close my eyes and rock with the motions, allowing myself this one interlude of peace — of bliss — before I brave the storm again.

---

“So, is everything set?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Good.” Soarin nods to himself, inspecting the living room and kitchen a final time, pulling out his shades with a wing and holding that at the ready. “Well, I can safely say the work of a maid is sorely underappreciated.”

I give a light snort. “While true, I think you’re a far cry from truly understanding the horrors they sometimes have to deal with.”

“Oh really?” He slides on the shades with practiced precision and turns to me with an eyebrow raised, a good-natured smirk playing across his lips. “And what makes you an expert, dearest Fleetfoot? You’re not hiding a secret past from me, are you?”

I snort again. “I wish, but no. Just some stories Philip shared, back when he was working at his dad’s motel. Smashed mirrors, writing on the walls, clogged toilets… or maybe they just didn’t aim correctly.”

He baulks, but chuckles all the same. “Yeah, well then, let me rephrase: I’m glad I caught you before you reached that point. Last thing I need burned into my memory is the image of me reminding you how to go potty.”

I chuckle as well, but him saying that makes me wonder how long I’d have let that mood go on for, unchecked. How many more days I’d have stayed cooped up on my bed, or lounging on the couch, or sulking in the bathroom, feeling sorry for myself, slowly letting the ever-shrinking world go to waste. What would I have done when the food ran out? And it wouldn’t have happened for another full year at least, but if a hole had formed in the floor, would I have really cared?

It’s not exactly a scary thought, but it is a troubling one. And one I shouldn’t spend any time on; while I’m not completely out of my funk, I’ve come far enough that I don’t want to regress.

“Hey.”

I look to the voice again.

Soarin gives me a small but undeniably hearty smile, an eyebrow quirked in calmly confident curiosity as he drapes the same wing over my withers. “You know what you’re going to do, right? Regarding him, I mean.”

Being reminded there’s still another mountain to climb stings a little, even though I know he means well. But in the relatively short time I’ve had between the bath and all this extra cleaning, I believe I’ve cobbled together a plan of sorts. “Yeah,” I answer, nodding absently, surprising myself by how sure I sound. “I think so.”

“That’s my girl.” He pats my back, then pulls away, turning to face me properly instead of side-on. “Oh, and, um… don’t feel too bad about the, uh… you know… the ‘embarrassing’ part of your story — happens to everyone eventually, I swear. One time, I—”

A wing to the back of the head shuts him up good.

“Right, sorry. Deserved that.” He readjusts his glasses and clears his throat. “Anyway, uh… yeah. It was a mistake. You know it, he knows it, and if he doesn’t, then make sure he does. And if he still doesn’t get the message, just give me a call — I’ll spell it out for him loud and clear.”

I pucker my lips and lower my gaze, sighing. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Yeah, let’s hope,” he resignedly agrees, nodding again, then sweeps his mane back and cracks his neck. “Well, this was certainly an experience. Unexpected, but hopefully a little cathartic — nice to get things off your chest every once in a while, and I’ve been sitting on that doozy for five years. Less weight, fly straight, as they always say.”

I cock an eyebrow of my own. “Who says that?”

He pauses, and if it weren’t for the light bouncing off his shades at just the right angle, I’m sure I’d be seeing him shiftily glance left and right. “People.”

I nod thoughtfully. “I see…”

He lets out another, more singular and quiet chuckle, smiling again, but with an awkward tinge, knowing he’s been caught out. But then there’s a convenient cough and he clears his throat once more. “So, if there are no more dishes to do, DVD cases to put away, rubbish to toss out, or xenophilic pegasi to emotionally repair, I think my job here is indeed done. In which case, I’d best be heading off.”

Whether the humour’s in good taste or not, I can’t tell. Can’t bring myself to care anymore either, frankly. So, I nod yet again, though this one’s more wistful. “Well then, I’ll see you around.”

“You too, Fleet.” He gives me a quick peck on the forehead — just a friendly thing I let him do, as recompense for all the times I slap him, I tell myself, and not because I like them — then he turns and trots for the door. “Oh, and don’t worry, Spitfire won’t hear a word about this. Well, I mean, so long as you don’t tell her anything about… you know… that.”

I follow him from where I stand and give him a salute. “Gotcha. Consider me blackmailed.”

“Sweet.” He opens the door and turns to give a salute of his own. “You have a good one.”

“You too, Soarin. Fly straight.”

He smirks at me, and then he’s gone. A few seconds later, he hops off the porch and zooms away. And then there’s silence in the house once more.

I look around. Everything’s so pristine. You’d hardly guess how much of a mess I’d let become. I can scarcely believe it myself. It’s been so long since I could able to see the details in the reliefs I’d carved into the living room wall — decorative things without much personal value, but pleasant works of art all the same, if I do say so myself. Oftentimes, I couldn’t be bothered. Now, however… I promise I’ll pay them special attention when next I do house maintenance.

But basking in my past achievements will have to wait; I have a scheme to set in motion, and I don’t want to do it while wallowing in complete silence. So, I trot over to the couch, pick up the remote, and switch on the TV, then select the music library from the function menu, and scroll through for something appropriate. A, B, C, D, E, F…

George Michael.

Perfect.

I select the track and crank up the volume. Perhaps it’s a little on the nose, especially considering my situation, but the instantaneous strumming of a guitar soon reminds me why Waiting For That Day quickly became my favourite of all his songs. Since when did breakup music learn to get this groovy?

When the keyboard and drums kick in, I hop into the air, then flap my way up to the bedroom. I need a pen and some paper, and I need to jot down my thoughts; calling in some favours needs to be planned out.

Next Chapter: 24 | The Show Must Go On Estimated time remaining: 9 Hours, 5 Minutes