Friends.

They’re there for you no matter what. In times of trouble, when everything you thought you know is going to shit, and it feels like the walls are closing in and you can’t escape no matter how much you try, true friends stick to you like superglue and never let go. Their help means the world to you, in those instances, and you can only be thankful they think your miserable existence is something worth risking their livelihoods over. I don’t have just one, or two, or three I can count on, but an entire team — the Wonderbolts. And if I ever feel like it, I’m sure I could turn to my fanbase for some emotional support.

But I don’t think I’d ever be able to do that in good conscience anymore, not that I ever have; I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve my friends. I don’t deserve… anything. It’s been just under a week since the dinner at Twilight’s, which is usually more than enough time for me to get over whatever foul taste a bad night with my family leaves me with, but things are different now.

I abandoned him.

I abandoned them.

They were out there defending me — defending us — and I left them all behind.

And here I am in Whinnyapolis, about to fly in front of a crowd of fifteen thousand, acting like nothing, absolutely nothing is out of the ordinary, when it couldn’t be further from the truth.

Except I’m not doing that anymore. I’m stuck in the ladies’ bathroom, sitting on a toilet with the lid closed and my tail tucked between my legs, hugged to my barrel, feeling sick to my stomach.

Crowds are the lifeblood of a celebrity’s world, whether your fame is self-made or guaranteed by birth, as is the case with royalty. I love them, I hate them. But never in all my life have I ever been afraid of them. Or at least nowhere near as afraid of them as I am now.

“Fleetfoot.” Spitfire taps the floor of granite tiles. “Fleetfoot, open the door.”

I stiffly shake my head. Part of me wants to listen, to obey, but I can’t bring myself to do so. This is beyond something she can help with, and I don’t deserve her help anyhow. I’m a wretched little worm, always trying to wriggle out of every inconvenience, no matter the cost to anypony else. She knew it in Griffonstone, and so did Soarin, and now they all know I haven’t changed a bit. I’m still the same stinking pony I’ve been this whole freaking time: a coward.

“He’ll be here soon, okay? Just calm down.”

How the heck am I supposed to calm down? He’s coming. Him. The one pony I’ve done the most wrong to, time and time again, starting from the very moment I stole his life away and brought him here. The one pony who trusted me, and continues to trust me. I’ve betrayed him more times than I can count, and running away in his time of need only cements the fact that I can’t be trusted. What good am I to him? What good am I to the team? To Equestria? How can I call myself a Wonderbolt when I can’t live up to the kingdom’s expectations, let alone my own?

“Come on, Fleet, you’re stronger than this.”

She should really stop pretending that I am. I’m not. I never have been. Why can’t she get that through her thick head?

Has she always been this stubborn? Have I always been this cynical?

What’s the point of all this anyway? The show. I can’t remember if it’s a special occasion or just an ordinary performance. Are the Sisters here? Twilight? Cadance? Is it Flurry Heart’s birthday again? What does it matter?! I’m not going out there; it’s televised. The whole country and beyond will be watching — over a million onlookers, not counting the international audience too. Griffonia, Yakyakistan, Mount Aris… stars above, the whole freaking world, just waiting for me to make a mistake. To criticise me. Condemn me. They do that half the time already, but this would be the final nail in the coffin.

But the weight of their gaze is nothing compared to the shadow looming over me. I haven’t called them since the incident, they haven’t called me, but I feel their judgement all the same — his ire. There’s no way I can face a mob this size if I can’t stand up to my own parents.

It’s over. All of it. I’m a fraud. When there’s a fight, I take flight.

I don’t deserve the suit. I’ve been wearing it for the past seventeen years and I haven’t earned a second of it. The only reason I got into the team is because Spitfire and I knew each other since before the reserves. I pride myself on my own merits, but my entire career would never have happened if it weren’t for nepotism — the very thing that kept me out of the Bolts. So now I’m a hypocrite as well as a snivelling, gutless, pathetic whelp!

Lightning Dust can keep her Dizzitron record. At least she knew what she was good for.

The door to the bathroom opens. The muffled hoofsteps of a pony in a flight suit and the familiar padding of rubber soles give off a slight echo as they march at a leisurely pace toward my stall. They’re dragging this out intentionally, I swear. The whole damned world’s against me and they’re in on the plot to stack the odds even further in the conspiracy’s favour.

A short distance away, the pony breaks into a trot and comes to a halt by Spitfire’s side. “How’s she doing?”

“Hasn’t said a word since you left,” she murmurs, as if I’m not supposed to hear the conversation happening right outside the door. The space is enough of an amplifier that you could be sitting in total darkness in one corner and hear a butterfly flap its wings in the airspace at the opposite end. “I’ve tried getting her to open up, but…”

“Well, that’s what he’s here for, isn’t it?”

“I guess.” She sighs. “I just… This isn’t like her, Soarin.”

“Oh, it is, believe me. You weren’t there to help give her a bath.”

I pull my hindlegs in a little closer and hug my tail tighter, chin to my chest and eyes firmly shut. He doesn’t have the right to be telling that story, but I can’t find the willpower to tell him off, even if it strikes deep into my core like a flesh-eating insect, squirming and gnawing and devouring me piece by piece. All I can do is feel rotten and despicable and pray to the stars that they take the hint and just leave me alone. They’re better off calling Hurricane and replacing me again.

“I’m not saying anything more than that,” Soarin vows, no doubt under the curious scrutiny of Spitfire’s gaze. “It just… wasn’t a good time for her. All you need to know is that this hasn’t not happened before.”

At least he’s granting me that mercy. Over the line, but only by a hair.

Spitfire doesn’t reply for a good, long while, even when the sound of rubber soles stop just shy of the door. I can feel them all through it — a heavy, oppressive air, so thick I may as well be able to see them, and the flight suit hardly feels like enough protection from their corrosive presence.

Why does everything always have to eat away at me? Grind me up and spit me out. It’s never easy anymore, to put up a barrier and go through the motions and pretend like nothing ever gets to me. This mask of mine has been slowly slipping ever since he entered my life, and I’m not quite sure how I feel about it.

“Think you can talk some sense into her, big guy?”

And there’s the order I didn’t know I’d been dreading. It had to happen eventually, and now that it’s out in the open, it can’t be put away. Life doesn’t work like that. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way, and I keep having to learn it despite all my efforts to make it stick.

Silence. I think he nods.

“We’ll give you two some privacy, then.” Spitfire trots off for the exit. “Let’s go, Soarin.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, and turns to follow her, but not before making one last parting shot over his shoulder. “We don’t blame her, Philip. Make sure she knows that. Please.”

Trust Soarin to make me feel guilty over something I already know, and already feel guilty over. Spitfire may be captain of the ship, but he’s admiral of all things obvious, and everypony loves and hates him for it. I can’t decide where I fit on the spectrum.

The door opens, the hooves leave, and the door closes again. And when its echo patters out in the deep, dark recesses of my mind, trying ever so desperately to cling to a sound, any sound to fill the void I know will follow… silence dawns. And it isn’t just any old silence — this is the kind from a horror film. When the monster is behind the main character, and you’re just waiting for them to turn around and see what you’re seeing. The little filly should’ve run away while she had the chance, because now curiosity won’t just kill the cat, but utterly eviscerate it.

Really, I should’ve just stayed as far from him as possible. Screw what everypony else would’ve said — I was perfectly happy before all this started. They’re the ones who pressured me into it. It’s their fault this whole thing kicked the bucket, not mine. Never mine. It was doomed from the very start.

Stars above, why couldn’t they just leave me be? Why can’t they do so now? Why in the world do they always think they know what’s best for me when I know myself better than all of them combined.

But he doesn’t leave. And as the seconds drag on in an agonisingly slow fashion, I hear him take a few steps closer, and I see the faded outline of his shadow poke through the gap under the lavatory door. There’s a soft sigh and the rustle of fabric on skin — he’s put his hands on his hips. The fact that I can see it all playing out before me is a little odd, like it shouldn’t really be possible, but I guess we’ve known each other long enough that it’s not really an issue anymore. Like it or not, he’s a part of me, and part of me wishes he wasn’t.

He gets down on his knees — I can see he’s wearing his flaxen cargo shorts — and bows low with his head to the floor, looking up at me through the gap with a straight mouth and knitted brows.

I don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

Is this some kind of test? It feels like it is. He’s judging me like the rest of them — like they all will if I step out into the arena and let them see me. I don’t know how, but they’ll know about us, and they’ll whisper and conspire and say horrible, nasty things. Ridiculous, to be sure, but I think I’m starting to lose track of what’s happened and what might happen. Nightmare and reality are blending into one. I thought I could keep it in check, but look at me now. He is. And I can tell he’s not impressed.

“I can’t do this, Philip,” I whisper on a choked breath, as if the suit I’m wearing is too tight around my throat. “I can’t.”

Still, he says nothing, peering into me with a look of sympathy, but also quirks an eyebrow expectantly; he wants more. Why he’s being so coy with his words now, I can only guess — I thought he was here to persuade me, not make me even more anxious.

But I can’t help obliging him. He may be my enemy in this particular situation, but I like him too much. Curse these stupid feelings and how inconsistent they are. “I don’t know what I mean.” I give a small, exasperated shrug and stiffly shake my head again, looking off to the right. “The show? Us? I’m just… It feels like I’m strung up at both ends, and something’s going to break if I don’t pick a side, and it’s going to be shit either way.”

“Who said you need to make a choice?”

“Nopony, Philip, but that’s what it feels like!” I snap, harsher than I’d meant and so loud and sudden that it leaves a burning sensation in my throat. Or maybe it was always there and it’s a sign that I really need a drink.

Philip winces, but it’s a momentary thing — there one second, gone the next — and he resumes watching me without a hint of frustration. Since when did he learn to be so forgiving? “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

“What gave it away, dingus?! Of course I’m scared!” I jab an incredulous foreleg out toward the general direction of wherever I think the auditorium is. “Why shouldn’t I be?! You’ve seen what they’re like, haven’t you?! They’ll tear me to shreds!”

“Who?”

“Them! Everypony!”

“All of them?”

“Every single one!”

“Twilight and Spike included?”

I pause, my mouth hanging open, ready to shout, and my brows and foreleg taut like a steel cable stretched to breaking point. But he’s taken the wind out of my sails, and for whatever reason, it seems I’d expected him to just sit there and let me rant and rave, because that’s what I thought I needed — somepony to yell at. “She’s the Princess of Friendship, and he’s her little brother; it’s their job to be understanding,” I mutter tersely, letting my hoof fall to the toilet seat. “But everypony else? They’re whatever they want to be. They’re allowed to judge, and they’re allowed to hate.”

“Brave doesn’t.”

“She’s your guard, and the same goes for Phalanx and Ironside and whatever that stand-in’s name was. The one who ruined our date in Redcliff.”

“Able Hooves.”

“Yeah, him. They are and were around you twenty-four-seven, so of course they’d be more accepting.”

He gently shakes his head, or as well as he’s able while so close to the floor. “They didn’t have to be. Accepting, that is. They protect me, sure, but that’s their job; they’ve always been allowed to have their own opinions.”

“Familiarity breeds contempt, Philip,” I grumble, narrowing my eyes, “and they’ve gotten cosy.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “You’re saying they hate me?”

“I’m…” I begin, then quickly find myself short of words, squeezing my eyes shut as I shake my head vigorously before snapping back to him with an infuriated shriek. “NO! They like you because you’re their friend! You always have been! But those ponies out there?! They don’t know you! They don’t know us! They have nothing to lose if they see something they don’t like and decide to just…!”

Again, he appears unmoved, watching me with a reserved kind of sympathy. Even as he sighs and rolls over, shimmying toward my stall on his back, facing the ceiling with his fingers locked over his belly, he doesn’t give off the slightest hint that he’s mad at being yelled at.

Do I want him to be? Do I want to spark a conflict with one of the only ponies that I can say, without hesitation, that cares for me? Why?

My head’s all over the place. Or is that my heart? Stomach? Innards? This is a new level of sickness, and I feel like I ought to get off my seat, toss up the lid and hurl my guts out. I’m already a coward, so there shouldn’t be much of them left.

“What’re you afraid of happening?”

I bring the hoof up to join the other in hugging my tail and rock back and forth, chin to my chest and gaze on the ugly little stains on the floor you only see at certain angles in the light. “I don’t know,” I mumble. “But what do I know? Nothing, that’s what. I thought I knew everything, but I don’t. I never have. I thought I didn’t need another friend, but then you came along. I thought I didn’t need a special somepony… but then I started… having those feelings. And I thought I knew that Mum would be the one I’d have to watch out for, but surprise-surprise, I’m proven wrong yet again!”

“You didn’t answer the question, Fleet.” He looks to me. “What do you think will happen?”

“I don’t know!” I glare at him. “I’m just a dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right, up from down, or what the fuck she’s feeling half the time! But if I step out there, I know something bad will happen, because all this time, there’s always been something. The wrong parent got mad. I don’t like tongue. Our first date was a shitshow. We shut ourselves in for a month because…”

I’d already resolved to cut myself off once I realised what I was about to say, but he angles his head and furrows his brows warningly. If I hadn’t watched my language, I’d have been breaking a very hallowed agreement — one we can’t talk about, even though it’s the foundation upon which everything has been built since then.

My expression softens and I lower my gaze to the floor once more, but I’m not sure how much of it he can see with the flight suit covering my whole body, including most of my face. “What you said a week or two ago,” I slowly, tentatively mumble, “about how I want the perfect romance… You were right. You still are. But it’s more than that.”

His expression softens as well, perhaps in curiosity, or perhaps he’s convinced the threat is over.

I return to him, and my teeth are chattering behind my lips, ears pinned back and wings tucked tightly against my sides, cradling me from cold, harsh, bitter reality that is the world I’ve grown to love and hate. “I want the perfect everything.”

Again, he says nothing, an expectant look in his eyes.

“I keep telling myself I’m in control; if I want things to change so that they’re better than what they are, I can do that. Because if I could get into the Wonderbolts… if I could get into the reserves… if I could learn to fly… then what’s there to stop me? Who’s going to tell me what can’t be done?”

I can’t tell if I’m going off on a completely unrelated tangent, but I don’t care. This is a whole lot of steam I need to release, and it’s good to vent about something, and he’s not stopping me.

“But every damn time I’m proven wrong, it just… it doesn’t sink in; I can’t change the world — I can’t… do anything. And if I can’t do anything, what am I doing here? Why’s my name known far and wide? Why am I a Wonderbolt?”

His impassive mask remains, and he still says nothing. I think it’s starting to get on my nerves.

I blink a few times as if fighting back some tears and shake my head, breathing heavily as I look up and to the right, to the hinges of the lavatory door, where somepony has scribbled something about butts. I certainly feel like an ass right now. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore, Philip.”

“I’ve been working on a song.”

I pause.

I stare.

My ears lift a little, and my wings don’t strain so much. And slowly, very slowly, I look to him with a curious frown and parted lips. This was a question coming completely out of the blue and had no relation to anything I’ve been saying and I’m beginning to wonder if he’s been listening to me at all. I’m the one allowed to go off on a tangent, not him.

“I’ve been meaning to write one ever since you sang me yours, actually.” He turns to watch the ceiling again, scratching his nose with a thumb and rubbing at the corners of his eyes with a finger. He sniffs. “I wanted to get you back the way you got me. Call it revenge, or whatever. I don’t think it’s anywhere near done, but I guess now’s a good a time as any to test it out, right? Get an early second opinion.”

I want to tell him no, this is nowhere near a good time. I wish I were closer so I could slap him and tell him to get out and slam the door so hard that it smacks his backside and leaves him sore in the morning. I want to cover my ears and deny him the satisfaction of letting this tangent take him to where he wants to go. I want him to shut up.

But none of that happens. I stay still, I stay quiet, and I watch and listen. My brows remain furrowed, but it’s softer than a censorious scowl. It’s weak of me, I know — borderline pathetic, if not outright — but I don’t say anything. Don’t do anything. I let him do as he wills, because… why? Am I tired of fighting? Can’t I bring myself to stand up for myself? Or could this really be what I want?

He coughs, clears his throat, then adjusts himself on the floor, as if there were a way to make himself more comfortable on smooth granite without a mattress. His lips twist and his eyes glance down to watch his fingers settle on his stomach once more, thumbs tapping against each other, then casts his attention to the white expanse of the roof. He chews his cheek for a few moments, then breathes out.

My eyes are wide. My mouth is hanging open. My ears are attentive and aimed directly at him, but nowhere near as tense as they could be, and slacken to the sides somewhat. My wings are drooping, and the grip I have on my tail has loosened. My body feels hollow. Not in a bad way, but… different. Light. Weightless, as if I’d climbed a thousand feet and was at the peak of my ascent, and all that’s left is to fall down, down, and further still.

I know what’s happened. I know what he’s done. I know I’ve done it to him, and that was something to behold, but to actually… experience it myself…

…Are those tears?

I breathe, and it’s ragged. It surprises me. I cover my mouth and rub my eyes hard. I feel moisture, and I stifle a sniffle. Nothing big, nothing I can’t handle — I’m a big girl, after all. And I know my music well enough to know there’s a way I can take the focus off… well, how this is making me feel.

“You, uh…” I pause to let out a small, breathless laugh, and I smile at him, switching my attention from the floor to his eyes. Those tiny, stupid… wonderful eyes. “You stole the tune from Pink Floyd, didn’t you?”

Towards the end of the song, he’d shifted his gaze to me, and now he’s smiling back at me with an affectionate look, as well as a quiet snort. “And you stole yours from Coldplay.”

An uncontrolled and anxious giggle escapes me before I can catch it, and I look away with an uneasy smile as I wring my hooves, shift my weight and shuffle my wings. My ears angle themselves down as a guilty chill flows through me like an icy brook in winter.

“Congratulations, Fleetybee,” he says with a soft shrug and a flick of the fingers, “we’re partners in crime now. The point of no return was… Well, we’ve missed it by a long shot. And honestly… I’m pretty glad you, and Spike, and the guards, and everybody else was there to make sure I didn’t get off.”

And I can only be thankful for that.

“Of course, when I say it like that, it makes it sound like I was being forced, but…” He sighs, stretching his lips and returning his focus to the ceiling. “It’s been a trip, Fleet. We’ve had our ups and downs. I come from a land where we — a pony and a human — would never be accepted, and it scared me that all this interspecies stuff was a very real possibility here. I mean, I like humans, and I was worried that if I let myself fall for someone who isn’t human, then I’d be… well, less human. Or something.”

My smile shrinks. My ears and wings pull in closer.

“But you fell for me. Said you loved me. And being a mortal individual of a weak constitution, I…” he sighs once more, “I wanted to feel loved again. We both know the rest, and… here we are.”

“Here we are,” I echo, if for no other reason than to feel like I’m contributing.

He slowly nods, as if I were looking down at him from directly above. He doesn’t say anything for what feels like far too long, until, at least, he breaks the silence with another, deeper, more weary sigh. “Let’s face it, Fleet; you and me? Your average human and a world-famous pegasus acrobat? There’s no way in hell we’d ever have the perfect romance.

“And you know what? That’s… okay.”

I shake my head. “It’s not.”

“It is.” He returns to me pointedly. “I’m not some magical know-it-all guru about the meaning of life and love and all that philosophical crap, but I’m not ignorant either. We’ve both made mistakes. Pretty big ones too. But we made them and we survived.” He gestures briefly with a forceful wave between myself and him. “We, Fleet. We survived. Us. This… bond we share. And I wouldn’t give that up for anything.”

I take a moment to consider my murmured response. “Not even if you could go back and do it right?”

He pauses, his expression softening from an insistent look to one of empathy, brows upturning. And then he gives me a tender smirk. “What’s the use of dwelling on the past? Walk forwards long enough with your eyes behind you and you’re bound to trip over something.”

I pause.

It stretches into an extended silence.

And then, slowly, very slowly, I ease myself from the toilet seat and let my rear hooves slide to the floor, where they emit the soft, unavoidable tap as they come into contact with smooth granite tiles. And I just as slowly and anxiously make my way over to the door, where I reach up and carefully slide the latch and edge the door open a crack.

He meets my gaze without a beat of hesitation, and the smirk grows into a smile. “There you are, Fleetybee.”

I don’t feel quite like sharing his enthusiasm just yet, even if my treacherous heart is begging me to find myself wrapped up in his arms and held close. “How do you know that it all won’t go to shit?”

“I don’t.” He gently shakes his head, still smiling. “But it won’t go right unless you try either. And you know as well as I do that I’m speaking from experience.”

That he is, and what a way to reinforce his point. It’s cliché as all heck, I’m sure, but when you’re at your wit’s end and everything has seemed like a total disaster for the past fifteen minutes, slowly creeping up on you like a snake over the past week, literally anything is better than nothing. And what the frig is he supposed to say that wouldn’t sound trite anyway? Have fun at my expense? He knows me better than that.

Stars above, he knows me. A long time ago, I could only say that for a hoofful of ponies, but now he’s here and he knows me as well as any of them. Possibly even better, in fact. I was scared at first, but no more — happened Celestia knows when and I haven’t looked back since. And despite everything I’ve put him through, he’s always there for me in the end. Always knows what to do, what to say. Knows how to make me feel better about myself. About us.

Merciful Sisters, I don’t deserve him.

But he’s chosen me. And I can only love him all the more for it.

I pull the door further open, and then shuffle out for him. I intend for it to be a slow, tender moment, but my body works against me and I shut my eyes and practically lunge at him.

He’s quick enough to sit up and catch me, wrapping an arm around my withers while the other pulls my head to his chest. “Hey, hey, hey, Fleet, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

“I’m sorry!” I cry as my forehooves scramble for purchase around his torso, but it comes out as a choked whimper. I let my hindlegs give way and my rump heavily slumps to the floor, resting on its side as my wings shiver and fidget at theirs. I heave a breath, and it comes out stuttered. “I’m sorry!”

“What for?”

“For… everything!” My ears pin back as far as they’ll go as a chill sets in, and the only warmth I feel is his body against mine — his fingers through my mane, his breath in my hair. “I shouldn’t have left you. I shouldn’t have. I should’ve stayed and… and done something, but…”

“Calm down, Fleetybee. It’s not so bad.”

“It is!” I try punching him, but it’s a pathetic attempt, about as strong as a foal’s. “Don’t say it isn’t, because it is…”

“No. It’s really not.” He kisses my forehead and strokes a hand down my nape from between my ears to the base of my neck. “I’ll admit, seeing you leave was… disappointing… but I don’t blame you. Nobody blames you. You’re a performer, Fleet — you show off to thousands of people at every event and they heap their praise on you — but your parents aren’t a crowd: they’re two people you really care about. And if one or both of them attack the choices you’ve made, then… yeah, shit gets rough. Believe me, I’ve been there.”

“But I abandoned you. All of you.”

“And that’s no worse than I’ve done in the past, is it?”

I shut my eyes harder and pull myself closer despite the comment; the last thing I need is to think I made him feel as bad as I did when he berated me on that dreadful morning. I’m pretty sure I whimper as well — another sign of how useless I’m being, not just to him but the whole team. The world, even.

“Hey,” he calmly beckons.

I stiffly shake my head, tail and wings tucking in and clamping down.

The hand not on my withers sneaks its way under my chin and rests a curled finger beneath it, and gently guides me to look up at him — so gentle that I can’t help but comply. And through eyes barely opened, I see his own, his tender smile, and his brows upturned in an empathetic expression.

My chest tightens, like a manticore had gripped my insides and wouldn’t let go.

“What are you so afraid of?”

Now there’s a lump in my throat, and I almost can’t bring myself to speak. Almost. The look in his eyes compels me to. “I got it wrong,” I mumble, sniffling, finding that saying the words aloud is harder than I ever thought possible. “All this time, I… I thought it was Mum who’d…”

His lips press together and he nods a small, soft nod. “You’re still in shock, huh?”

Just as weakly, I shake my head.

He quirks an eyebrow and his smile shrinks a touch. “Then what?”

“Well, there’s that, but…” I shut my eyes again and bury my face into his chest. “I got it wrong, Philip. And if I misjudged my own parents… if I can’t trust them to play by the rules… then what’s stopping everypony else? What if they’re just as bad, or worse? What’ll they think of me?”

“Are you planning on going out there and shouting it for the whole world to hear?”

I press into him more out of some meagre sense of frustration, to the point where I’m pushing my snout into his stomach. “That’s not the point, Philip. They’re going to figure it out on their own eventually, and when they do—”

“And when they do, we’ll deal with it.” The arm around my neck gives me a light squeeze and he scratches behind my ears. “But they haven’t just yet. And until they do, we don’t have to worry about it. Isn’t that right, Fleetybee?”

“You don’t understand, Philip.”

“No, Fleet,” he says, then lets go of me and does his best to push me off and pull my hooves apart from behind his back, “you don’t understand.”

I struggle for a moment, the instinctive part of me desperate to hold on for dear life as if I’ll be swept away the second I’m cast off. But then I realise I’d be causing more problems than solving or forestalling, so, with a lead weight in my stomach, chest and head, I reluctantly free him from my grasp and shuffle back on my rump a little way.

I feel naked without him. The suit helps, and seeing him there helps, and knowing that it’s just us in this bathroom helps, but I need something to rest against. To stop me from falling. To keep me sane. Even as I meet his eyes — so small compared to mine, and yet so expressive — it doesn’t feel like enough.

I’m sorely tempted to hug him right now, even though I know I’d probably just get a kick in the belly to keep me away. He’d apologise, but he’d also be in the right, and I’d look and feel like even more of a fool.

He shimmies back a little way as well, crossing his legs and laying his arms in his lap. He continues to smile, but it’s smaller, and his brows are less upturned and more frowning with concern. Still empathetic, to be sure, but now there’s a certain sense of fortitude with it; this is a lecture as much as anything.

“If it hadn’t been for you, yes, I wouldn’t be here,” he begins, his head bowing just a bit lower as if to make sure I know he’s not reproaching me. “But if it hadn’t been for you… I never would’ve met you. And if I never met you, we’d never have been friends. And if we were never friends, then… that night would never have happened.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and turn away, legs pulling in as my tail clamps and that rotten feeling in my core starts wrapping its pasty tendrils around my insides and holding fast. “Philip, please don’t—”

“Let me finish, Fleet.”

My ears are the lowest they can possibly be, and my wings are straining to be tucked in any further — the knowledge that we’d done something so irreversible is as repugnant to my body as it is in my head. And we can never, ever seem to move past it; the world always throws a set of circumstances that uncover those bad memories, or we start down a line of inquiry that inevitably leads us to the ugly truth: we made a mistake and the stain won’t wash out.

“I promise, this’ll be the only time I intentionally bring it up. Swear on my life.”

But in the face of it all, I don’t find myself putting up much resistance. I refuse to refuse to look, refuse to agree, but I don’t tell him that, no, I won’t hear him utter a single word about that which we both decided we’d never talk about — that which never happened.

“I don’t like it any more than you do, Fleet.” He sighs, and the shifting of fabric and kneading of skin tells me that he’s rubbing the back of his neck. “Believe me, it’s… nowhere near the proudest moments of my life. For a number of reasons. Including but not limited to the fact it was the first time I’d had a drink since coming here — the alcoholic kind. And the reason I’d abstained for so long is because… well, I was afraid that precisely what happened… would happen.”

Despite my current mood, my ear twitches.

“Not just with you, but… anyone, really.” He shrugs. “I’d be a lonely guy, not completely in control of himself… and I’d meet a lonely girl, also not completely in control of herself. And we’d do things neither of us would ever consider doing if we were in our right minds, and would only regret afterwards. And it was working. Abstinence, I mean. From alcohol.”

An eyebrow quirks just a fraction, and my eyes open with it, peering up at him with a squint as the pressure to keep my ears pinned lessens. And again, despite myself, I find myself compelled to do something I get the feeling I really shouldn’t: speak. “Then why’d you do it? Drink.”

He stares at the ground with a gloomy, pensive, dispassionate look, and then shrugs once more. “It was my birthday. My second in Equestria. You Know Who said she’d never let me see my family again, and then she tried reconciling by signing her name on her sister’s birthday card. My best and, at that point, closest and last real friend had just confessed that she was the reason I’d been flung across space and time. And I promised myself I wouldn’t get mad at her, because it was an accident. And I needed her too much.”

Now the strain on my eyes has eased up, and I’m watching him almost normally — if you can call such a conflicted expression normal. Me, personally, I don’t know where this is going or what good it’s doing us, but I can’t stop listening, either out a misbegotten sense of politeness or because I’m genuinely interested. I hope it’s not the latter.

“Yeah, it’s a mystery why I wanted some help taking my mind off a few things.” He shrugs yet again, chuckling, but soon his smile fades and he returns to me. “Of course, in hindsight, I should’ve figured what might happen, considering you had a crush on me, and your gift to me was a freaking serenade. But I was sad, and you do stupid things when you’re sad. And… I don’t know. Maybe I was starting to develop a little crush of my own.”

Without him, I feel naked. But without the suit, it’d be even worse; he’d get to see me blush, provided he hits the right notes at the right times. And judging by the soft warmth rising in my cheeks and lightening the heaviness in my chest, he’s somehow, miraculously, turning this conversation around and heading in the right direction.

“I know what I said about not dwelling on the past, but… honestly, if I could, I’d give just about anything to go back and not do what we did.” He shakes his head in small, smooth motions, his smile resurfacing — so tiny now, and yet still so delightful. “But that’s not how this works, and Twilight assured me that she burned Starswirl’s time travel scroll the second she could safely do so, so we’re out of magical thingamajigs anyway. And you know what? That’s okay.”

I don’t quite see how, but I suppose he has an answer for that too. Stars above, he seems to have an answer to everything; he may not claim to be a guru, but he’s trying his damned hardest.

He scoots forward until I’m within reach, his legs and mine almost touching. “I’m not happy that it happened,” he slowly says, glancing up for a moment as he gently sweeps a few wayward locks of my mane into place. “But I might never have realised just how much you mean to me if it never did. That’s my takeaway. And these past few weeks have been some of the best in my entire life, and they’ve helped me see you for what you really are: someone I love.”

It’s getting harder to frown, and I swear the fabric of the suit is absorbing and bouncing back the warmth in my cheeks, spreading it around my whole head, even into my ears.

“Sure, we’re two different species, and if I were back on my world, you wouldn’t have to travel far to find someone who’d string me up by the neck for it, but when I’m around you… I don’t care.” He watches as he picks up a forehoof with both hands, holding it in a tender grasp as if it were a fledgling fallen from the nest, then returns to me with an equally caring gaze. “I like you, and talking with you, and spending time with you, and hugging and kissing and all that soppy, romantic crap. You make me feel nice. And I wouldn’t give that up for anything.”

Now the warmth is seeping into my chest, driving the rotten feeling away, letting my entire body relax. I can’t frown anymore, and my mouth is threatening to break out into a smile of my own.

“So, don’t go telling me with those big, beautiful eyes that someone as courageous as you can’t handle a simple crowd of fifteen thousand.” He squeezes my hoof reassuringly as he finds himself fighting back a tear or two. “I know you, Fleetfoot. I know you, and you’re stronger than that. Because if you can take me at my worst, smack some sense into me, and still look as gorgeous as you do both in and out of uniform, then literally nothing can hold you back.”

And then I just can’t take it anymore; I laugh and sob at once, and it sounds like a stifled cough. It hunches me over, neck slumped as I struggle to keep myself from collapsing as I sniffle and blubber and do my best to stay as upright as possible.

I could collapse.

It would be so, so much easier.

But he knows me better than that, and so do I. I’d never let myself sink so low while he’s watching, and even if I did, he’d sweep right in and pick me up. Just like he already has. Sun and moon and all the stars, how did I get stuck with him, and why does he tolerate me?

“Hey, hey, don’t be like that, sister.” He lifts a hand from my hoof to my cheek and wipes at one of my eyes with a thumb. “You’re too pretty for tears.”

“Stop it,” I whimper with a chuckle, taking my hoof away from his hand and gently brushing the outstretched one aside. “I really don’t deserve you.”

“Who, then?”

I blink, and the wet patches around my eyes grows a little damper, and then I peer up at him from behind dismal, anxious, overjoyed brows with a shaky smile. And I don’t have an answer. I can only watch, and stare, and wonder where I’d be if we never met. If I didn’t have him in my life. How much lonelier I’d be.

And I was. Lonely, that is. I didn’t realise it way back then, but I was lonely. And I was okay with it, and even now, I’m sure I’d have done just fine if it stayed that way. But nothing would’ve changed. I’d be the best at flying, doing show after show and basking in the praise of millions of adoring fans, and I’d be happy.

But I’d never know what this happiness feels like. This wonderful, heart-warming, bittersweet, heartbreaking, beautiful thing I’m supposed to call a relationship, where I’m there for him and he’s there for me, and no matter what, we’re always there for each other.

Seventeen years ago, I denied myself that, and up to that point, all I’d been after was bragging rights, so I could definitively say that I was the same as everypony else. But then the reserves made me choose, so I chose. And I never looked back. Now I can’t help wondering if I’d been a fool, or if blood, sweat and tears had been part of some grand scheme in the wheel of fate to get me here.

A stupid notion, of course; we’re our own ponies, we make our own decisions. We’re in control of ourselves. But everything we’ve been through has brought us to now, and something about that feels… unreal. Fantastical. Even if I consider the journey to be far from ideal.

I have him. He has me. We’d never change that.

I’ve found a good one.

“You okay now?”

I don’t respond for a short while, wishing to savour the moment and this revelation for as long as possible. But then there comes a point where I’m more in the real world than in the fantasy, and I quietly sigh through my nose and gently nod.

“Think you’re good to fly?”

Again, I nod.

“Then what do you say we stop hogging the toilets in here and—”

I silence him with a kiss. I don’t rightly know why, but I guess I’m just that desperate to delay the inevitable, and it doesn’t hurt that I’m showing him just how much I appreciate all he’s done for me. It’s a sloppy, uncoordinated effort, but it’s the thought that counts right now, and I think I’d be more than willing to turn this into a full-on make out session if he wished.

He’s surprised by it, naturally, but quickly accepts and leans for a bit. Our lips toy with each other as my hooves reach his lap and chest, and his hands lays on my shoulder and the point between my jaw and nape. But then, eventually, he pulls back and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. “Eager, aren’t we?”

“I love you,” I say. And it’s all I can say.

He snorts, then brings me in a little closer and rests his forehead against mine, gazing into my eyes with a deep, almost overwhelming sense of care, but also a hint of mirth. “Well, I’m sorry to say it, sister, but my services don’t come that cheap.”

“And what do you have in mind?” I hum, my eyelids suddenly growing quite heavy.

His grin grows, but takes his time to think, and looks up in thought without moving his head. “If I recall correctly…” he begins, returning to me, “you offered me some ukulele lessons, once upon a time.”

On that fateful night. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Well then, maybe it’s time I took you up on said offer.” He gives a small, soft shrug. “Your birthday’s coming up anyway, so it’s only fair that I get you back.”

My eyes widen. My smile drops. My brows rise and a lightness overcomes me.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s bad luck telling you what your presents are before the party, but… I thought I’d check with you first. To see if it’s alright, and everything. And if I’m learning it from someone… I’d really like that someone to be you.”

“Yes.”

His brows rise as well. “For real?”

“Yes.” I kiss him again — a quick peck. “Yes, yes, a million times, yes!”

“Oh.” His eyes grow unfocussed for a moment, but then he blinks and he’s grinning once more. “Well then, that’s… great! Because, honestly, I didn’t know what I would’ve done if you said no.”

I catch a snort of my own before it escapes and it turns into a muffled nicker, and I give his chest a soft punch as I stand on all fours and back away. “You’re horrible.”

“I know.” He chuckles, wiping his mouth again and straightening out his clothes. “But here we are, Fleet. You and me, beauty and the beast. And you’re…”

I wait for him to finish — a cheesy one-liner intended to make me swoon, no doubt, and I don’t doubt that I’m emotionally compromised enough that it would work. My heart would skip a beat, I’d feel a warmth in my chest, burning in my cheeks and ears, and I’d wrap him up in yet another hug, all because he said something he’s probably learned from some stupid romance flick.

But the seconds drag on, and he doesn’t finish. So, I egg him on. “I’m…?”

He blinks, apparently snapped out of some kind of trance. And then he glances for the door. “You’re going to be late, don’t you think?”

I follow his gaze, and a sudden chill spurs me into action and I let out an uncharacteristically shrill shriek and gallop at full speed for the exit. I ram it with my shoulder, then wrench open the one beyond it for the locker room proper — a stylish room befitting a stadium and city built for the modern era.

Spitfire and Soarin are by a bench in the centre, addressing a few other members of the team who’d probably come to check on me. Or at least they were before I ever so rudely interrupted them. “Fleetfoot?” Thunderlane calls. “Is everything alright?”

No time for sentimentality.

“GET YOUR BUTTS IN GEAR, ASSHATS! WE’VE GOT A SHOW TO RUN!”