Birthdays.

I didn’t think it was possible to be this excited for one.

Well, maybe that’s not the right way of saying it — too extreme.

I didn’t think it was possible to be this keen for one.

That’s a step below excited, right?

Yeah, I think it is.

Merciful Sisters, my thirty-fourth. My second since he arrived, my first with him attending. Breaking it down into such simple figures really puts things into perspective, doesn’t it? Weird how time flies, and large stretches of it can be summed up so easily. It’s almost as if the past two years of twists and turns hadn’t happened, and we’d always been special someponies from the very start.

But I’m sure nopony can vouch that this is as far from where we imagined ourselves better than us, and all in the space of only two years. It gets even more ridiculous the more I think about it — how our stances on the matter of this relationship has changed so drastically, and all it took was a few hours in each other’s company mixed with some choice kind words. Stars above, that sounds pathetic; if that’s all romance requires, Soarin, Spitfire, or any other Wonderbolt should’ve won my affection long before now.

Maybe familiarity does breed contempt, in that you slowly grow oblivious to the opportunities around you, and all they entail. Not that I’ve been particularly eager to explore that avenue with my best friends, colleagues or superiors. And not that they, also largely focussed on their careers, have ever been particularly eager for it either.

That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate them, or have ever grown tired of their company.

In fact, this evening speaks volumes in favour of the opposite.

I lounge in a folding deckchair, the seat made from a striped, durable canvas, watching the sky as it slowly fades from blue to purple with the setting of the sun. No clouds out, and none on the horizon, so it’s just a flat gradient, and it is spectacular. If I let my mind wander, I can almost imagine I’m on the ceiling of the world looking down, and gravity is pulling me into the void that is the waking cosmos, which reveals itself with every new twinkling star.

I’ve stargazed before. Plenty of times. Sat myself on a cloud, lay on my back, hindlegs crossed and forehooves behind my head, and silently marvelled as the universe passed me by, wondering where my place is in the vast, rather aimless expanse we call life. Figured that if we thanked them for everything, then surely the stars would have the answers. The musings of a child who didn’t know any better, frankly, but I miss the sense of wonder. It was so easy to wow me back then, until I became a recruit. Kept up my cheery disposition, naturally, but I think being held back for what I felt was too long eventually turned me into something of a cynic; ponies are fickle creatures, like all other species, no more virtuous than the next.

But the past is the past, and I’m here in the present. No use brooding when things have worked out just fine in the end, and I’m among friends who care. And one of them… more than a friend.

The sound of conversation, laughter and singing muffles the portable stereo blasting Do It Again by The Beach Boys, which in turn drowns out the ebb and flow of lazy waves on the sand. The whole team — upwards of twenty, not counting the regular stand-ins who are also in attendance — sit in a semicircle of folding chairs of their own, all facing a blazing fire pit. I’m honestly quite surprised to have found one on the Fillydelphian shoreline, but when I heard it was available for hire from the city council, I instantly knew that this is where I wanted everything to go down. All I needed to do was book it and pay for guaranteed privacy.

It’s hard to tell where the smoothed sandstone ends and the beach itself begins if you aren’t putting your whole weight on it, but a few couples are trying their luck with a bipedal jive before the rest of the group; Rainbow and Surprise, Sun Chaser and Thunderlane. Wave Chill and Fire Streak, they’re doing their best to maintain footing, but it’s mainly for their enjoyment, not ours, so their dancing is noticeably less refined than I know it can be. Still, some clap and cheer, including Philip, who sits to my immediate left, joining in more out of politeness than an abundance of enthusiasm.

He’s looking pleasant tonight, dressed in a dark red shirt, his grey tartan hoodie, and flaxen cargo pants, freshly shaved and sporting a lighter version of the smile that gets me every time. For tonight, he’s forgone his sneakers, coming barefoot instead because he didn’t want to get sand in his socks and never commissioned a pair of sandals. And apparently the route from his apartment to here is short and clean enough that he doesn’t have to worry too much about something stabbing him in his fleshy soles.

I’ve seen his feet plenty of times before, but once I got it in my head that he’d been wearing his shoes for protection, not just aesthetics, I can’t help thinking about how fragile his toes seem, the curious little appendages. When I brought that up with him, he simply smirked and asked if I was developing some kind of hand and foot fetish, to which I naturally baulked and gave him a solid whack on the shoulder. He just laughed, and I smiled, and we kissed, and we hugged, and we ended our time together with a mutual massage session, which only seemed to bolster his conviction that I’m developing an obsession.

Cheeky bastard.

But that was yesterday. Now, he’s holding a plastic cup of apple juice, same as me, and we and everypony else are enjoying the warmth of the fire against the cool of the vanishing sun. I myself have elected to wear a silvery singlet and white shorts, as well as my golden bracelet, and that necklace Spitfire bought me from yet another day I’d rather forget.

Still haven’t talked with my parents since then. I’m not sure who owes who an apology, and whether whoever it is should be the one to call first.

I sip my juice to wash the thoughts away. This isn't the time for that; I’m here to enjoy myself. It’s my birthday! The one day of the year everypony who cares about you is obligated to stop what they’re doing, silence any criticisms, and coddle you until the morning comes, all because you had the luck of being shoved out your mother’s snatch, or cut out from her belly. A blunt way of putting things, but for as much crap as I give Soarin, I’m not all that tactful either. I don’t think so, anyhow.

Another sip, and I look to the dancers again. The song is wrapping up, and Wave and Fire have already broken apart in a laughing fit, returning to their hooves and watching the remaining two couples, whose efforts fade out in time with the music. This is met with another cheer and a round of applause as they all then stroll and trot back to their places or to mingle with the other guests.

A moment of levity. I bump hooves with Rainbow as she passes and give her an approving nod. The scamp would never boast about it, but aerial acrobatics isn’t all too unlike dancing, and some of her natural talent is obviously bleeding over — she wasn’t even trying, and she was clearly best of the lot.

Spitfire follows them as she claps, and their path brings her attention to myself and Philip, and her expression goes from encouraging to knowing. “So,” she says, leaning forward to continue a conversation she’d previously put on pause, “what is it?”

I turn to Philip.

He holds her gaze for a short while, then purses his lips and looks to the stars in thought.

Soarin, by Spitfire’s side, perks his ears in Philip’s direction, soon followed by his eyes, and the interest of several others. This is only the second time many of them have had the opportunity to get to know the alien who did the impossible: lull this girl down from the comfortable nest she’d built for herself and win her heart through the power of pretty words.

“Toilets,” he answers vaguely, then nods to himself and returns to Spitfire with a genial smile. “Yeah, toilets are the weirdest similarity, I reckon.”

I groan and roll my eyes.

Spitfire laughs, and so does Soarin and a few others. “Oh my stars, really?”

“Yep.” He nods, sitting back and stealing a sip of his own. “I mean, think about it: you guys spend most of your time on four legs, but somehow have the same kind of waste disposal layout as a society that walks around on two. What’s up with that?”

Brave giggles and snorts on Philip’s left, two spots down from me. She’s dressed in civilian clothing again, and so are Ironside and Phalanx, who also sit on the inner ring. At this point, they all look like totally different ponies without the gaudy gold armour and coloured plumes — somehow less of themselves, despite clearly being just as comfortable. “Because the bits are in the same place!” she exclaims as if it were the punchline to the best joke in the world, shooting a hoof for the sky. “Duh!”

“Is that so?” Philip questions, leaning away slightly and looking to her, raising an eyebrow in an entertained manner. “And for just how long have you been contemplating the anatomical similarities between humans and equines, Brave, pray tell?”

She scoffs and smirks at him. “Cut me some slack, Phil. I don’t have to be a genius or interested in you to put two and two together. Besides, even if I was the latter — which I’m not, let’s be clear, even though there’s nothing wrong with you and you are a handsome lad — I wouldn’t have waited all this time to make my desires known. You deserve better than that.”

“Oh, I deserve better?”

“Of course.” She salutes him with her plastic wine glass, half-empty. “You’re a good person, Philip. It’s not only an honour, but a privilege to guard you, and any girl who winds up with you as their significant other is a lucky girl indeed.”

“A toast!” Soarin declares, holding up his cup of hard cider. “To Fleetybee, and her taste in boys!”

A discordant cheer rings out throughout the group, echoing my name, my now embarrassingly commonplace nickname, or simply whooping in agreement.

Despite myself, as I turn away and hug my free foreleg against my barrel, I smile. And their collective gaze feels like a weirdly fuzzy and protective blanket being draped over my shoulder. No change in temperature, but it definitely feels like there’s something there, so tangible that my wing reaches up and tries to brush it off, only to find nothing but fur and cool air.

Birthdays are when all your loved ones are supposed to coddle you, sure, but that doesn’t mean they can’t take the mickey out of you while they do it. I figured this would happen, knowing them and how ponies work in general, but it still amuses me how easily they can switch between targets to torment, even when I’m on the receiving end. They don’t mean anything by it, though — I have to remind myself of that; I’ve known and worked with most of them for seventeen years, approaching eighteen, and we’ve had each other’s backs no matter what, through thick and thin.

I’m a big enough girl that they can give me a friendly jab, right?

“Well then, here’s mine, Philip,” Spitfire says once the commotion settles to a more manageable level, and somepony has the bright idea to turn down the stereo for a moment so we can speak without shouting. “Language.”

Philip raises his brows at her, then sticks out his bottom lip and nods in approval. “That too.”

“And not just language, but lingo and proverbs and all that stuff. I mean, seriously, how whack is it that two separate universes have the same turns of phrase? And most of the time, the only differences are a hoof in place of a hand, or vice versa.”

“These are fair points.”

“Right?”

“But let’s not get carried away here. It’s clear my world and this one are linked somehow, and in that context, the obvious can be excluded — language and locations and all that stuff. I’m talking obscure things, like, for example, tipping. But that’s not really a similarity…”

“What about it?” Soarin queries.

Philip shrugs. “Well, over here, it’s mostly just a courtesy — an actual reflection on your waiter’s or your shopkeeper's services. In the States, however, the way I hear it from people who worked in retail, it’s a necessity, because they normally can’t rely on their wages alone to get them through the month.”

“Oh.” Soarin blinks, then lowers his gaze and rubs the back of his neck. “That sucks.”

“Your leaders should probably work on that,” Spitfire comments, nodding thoughtfully.

“Believe me, people have tried, but the argument is always the same: where’s the money going to come from?” Philip reclines with a flick of his hand, sipping his drink. “Change is slow, but it happens. But only sometimes.”

“And considering how much he complains about his homeland, one would think he’d be glad to be here,” I grumble loudly, peering over my shoulder at him with a lighthearted smirk. “But this ungrateful sod just can’t stop his bellyaching. Day in day out, all he ever does is focus on the negatives.”

“Excuse me,” he retorts in mock indignation, “how long ago was my last depressive monologue, exactly?”

“Literally a few seconds.”

He pauses, blinking with an open mouth, then points to me. “Okay, I’ll give you that.”

“Damn right you will.”

He chuckles, looking back to Spitfire and Soarin and anypony else listening from the other side of the firepit. “She’s a harsh mistress.”

“Only because he’s an impossible little troll,” I grouch as I lean over, reaching out to give the side of his head a few pats and ruffle his hair. “Isn’t that right?”

“So you say, Fleetybee, so you say.” He laughs and playfully bats my hoof away, but grabs it and holds it close before I can wind it up for another attempt. “But I wouldn’t be here if that’s all I was to you.”

“Or maybe I’m just taking pity on you.”

“Want to bet?”

I narrow my eyes at him and do my best to keep myself from beaming, but all I manage to do is scrunch my muzzle, which is a sight I know he finds adorable, much to my dismay. So, I grunt and turn away again, scowling at the ground.

“Stars above, just kiss already!” Surprise implores from the back of the pack.

“Hey!” I snap and leer in her general direction. “We’re not here to put ourselves on display like some carnival sideshow, okay? I’m not letting you turn us into—”

And then he pecks me on the temple.

And I stare vacantly ahead, an awkward, empty feeling in my stomach as my chest bubbles and warms and fur there tingles with the urge to stand on end beneath my shirt. And there’s the heat rising in my cheeks and drooping ears. And everypony is just… watching us, their grins ranging from as thin as paper to as wide and toothy as Rainbow’s when we tell her we want a rainboom for an upcoming show. And I begin thinking I’ve made a terrible mistake by inviting him, even though there was basically no other option unless I wanted to be unreasonably sadistic.

But right now, I feel like a masochist; I did this to myself — something like this was doomed to happen from the get-go, and I knew it. And I guess a part of me was secretly hoping for it, if my immediate reaction is anything to go by. Again, much to my dismay.

“Aw,” Soarin gushes, sticking a hoof over his mouth soon after, though he and many others continue watching on with adoring looks. “They’re so cute together.”

The heat becomes a simmer, and I shift in my seat and shuffle my wings as I lower my eyes to Philip’s stomach, lips puckered and brows furrowed. “Shut up, you idiot.”

“And she even has a tsundere setting!” Philip bows and hugs my neck with his chin while the arm holding his drink drapes over my barrel and pulls me closer as best it can without spilling anything. “Good gods above, I am truly blessed.”

“I said shut up.”

“I know, my sweet, I know. But if I do that, how could I complete the impossible task of expressing just how perfect you are to me?”

“I’m not perfect,” I grouse, but allow my head to rest against his chest despite myself and feel his warmth through the thin fabric of his shirt. “And if it’s so impossible, why bother?”

“Because nothing is impossible to those who will try.” He plants a kiss in my mane just behind the ear, and a cool, pleasant ripple rolls into my head and down my neck. “We should know, shouldn’t we, my little pony?”

Against the position of strength I’m trying to establish —though honestly, at this point, there’s very little I can do that would change his opinion of me — I allow myself to snort and smirk as my ear twitches. “Since when did you start talking like Princess Celestia?”

And then he grows still.

There isn’t much he can do to grow still when he’s hugging me close as best he can, but something in him… changes, and so does the air surrounding me and between us. And I know what the problem is, and I instantly regret thinking it was okay to joke about that. Wounds heal, but the scars remain, and this one hasn’t finished its healing yet. “Philip, I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, no, I get you,” he says, low and soothing, but try as he might, he can’t keep the agitated tone from his voice. He gives my hoof a gentle squeeze for added reassurance. “It’s not your fault.”

It certainly feels like it is. In a relationship, you know what makes the other tick and how to avoid or deal with it, and doesn’t matter if they’re a special somepony or not; there’s something exceptional about the bond you share, and doing wrong by it is like slapping the other hard in the face — the kind that leaves a bruise.

Or maybe I’m overthinking this, coming from a silly little girl who’s spent a fair chunk of her life regarding the hot mess of romance with, if not disdain then languid apathy. So, who’s to say my word on the matter is worth anything, period?

I just… don’t want to lose what I’ve gained. And I know he’s mature enough to understand what I’d said was just a slip of the tongue, but still. It happened. It’s out there. He’ll forgive, but he won’t forget. Not for a good, long while, at least.

I nuzzle into him a little further, burying the tip of my snout into the open flap of his hoodie. He has deodorant and cologne on — the variety that smells distinctly of chemicals, and so make my nose wrinkle a bit, but he doesn’t normally do that unless it’s a special occasion. And tonight is just that. He’s here for me, and I’m here for him. We’re here for each other, and we’ll be okay.

I am in control.

“What about differences?”

My ears perk up and I leave his warmth for the cool, salty air as I turn and peer over the flames. Woodsmoke and heat fills my nose.

Spitfire watches me with a concerned, steadfast look, hunched over with her hooves in her lap, one of them holding a bottle of lemonade — the genuine product, made from actual lemons. She’s wearing her bomber jacket again, this time over an off-white undershirt, purple shades resting in her mane. Her attention flicks up to Philip, and the look in her eyes doesn’t falter — as intent on him as she is on me. “Continuing on from what you said before, what are the subtle differences you don’t think about when crossing over?”

I quirk an eyebrow slightly, then resist the urge to raise them both too high in case I seem openly surprised at what she’s doing: changing the subject. Shouldn’t have expected anything less from her, being what ultimately amounts to the big sister of the Bolts, but I guess I’m just… a little stunned that she’d extend that care to somepony outside the clique. Should’ve known she’d be better than that.

“Oh,” Philip says, sitting up somewhat straighter, his disposition already quite a dash brighter, then he pauses to think. “Well, besides all the obvious stuff, like… well, no apes of any kind, for starters, and a lack of modern cars… I’m not really sure what to say. There are more similarities than there are differences, I think.”

I force a scoff and roll my eyes, hoping to rock myself back into the swing of things. “See what I mean?” I question Spitfire as I gesture to him with my head. “He can complain all day, but when he’s asked to say anything good? Nada.”

“It’s not asking him whether it’s better or worse, Fleety,” she replies, her eyes meeting mine, perhaps with the hint of a warning edge behind them. “I’m just curious. It’s a learning opportunity. No different than studying up on all the countries we’d be going to on a world tour, don’t you think?”

I linger on her, then right myself in my own seat and sit back and shrug, though my hoof remains in Philip’s hand, even as I glance away. “I guess.”

“For example…” She reclines in her chair and looks up to the sky to think as she takes a long swig from her bottle, then snaps her feathers and points a wing at Philip with a smile. “Clothes.”

He looks down at himself, then at her. “What about them?”

She scoffs and sweeps her wing to the rest of the team and the city beyond, where the sounds of modern life have slowed, but not completely stopped. “Come on, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. It’s not exactly hard to miss, even in a place like this.”

“Oh, oh, right, you mean like the, uh… the fact that clothing is optional, right?”

“That’s the ticket, my bipedal friend.”

He chuckles, then points to her with his cup. “But that’s still a pretty obvious difference.”

“Took you long enough to realise it.”

He blinks, then sticks his bottom lip out and nods again. “Another fair point.”

“Eh.” She shrugs. “I’m no genius, but I have my moments. Can’t let it go to my head, though, or I’ll wind up just like Rainbow over there.”

“Hey!”

A laugh rolls through the group like a breeze through a meadow, mixed with a whistle or two.

“But anyway, yeah, that’s a strange difference, I think,” Spitfire continues, nodding to herself. “I mean, it’s not unusual for some ponies to wear something all the time, and the rest of us think nothing of it, but when somepony who usually goes without puts something on…”

An ear of mine twitches.

“They start looking formal, huh?” Philip snorts. “Odd from my world’s perspective, but believable. Then again, I’ve been here for just shy of two years, so it’s close to normal by now. I just try not to think about it.”

But Spitfire seems to be thinking about something, and thinking about it deeply, eyes locked with mine as she gently frowns and cocks her head. It’s like she’s noticed a tile out of place in an old and very famous mosaic, and is wondering how the heck nopony had seen it before when it was staring them — and her — right in the face.

It scares me, in a way. I look left and right on instinct, though I know there couldn’t possibly be anything there when her attention is so fixated on me and nowhere else. And I start to feel my insides hollow out, even when I try assuring myself that she’d have no reason to suspect me of anything. A quick glance at Soarin reveals that he’s watching her too, and seems just as puzzled, which of course he would be; he may not know when to shut his piehole, but he doesn’t kiss and tell.

“Fleety…”

My wings press in against my sides.

“…When did you start wearing clothes all the time?”

“When I, uh…” Great. Quick on the draw, slow on the trigger. Again. I’m getting rusty. “You see, I just… you know... ”

“After that spat we had,” Philip answers.

I look over to him.

He looks over to me. “Isn’t that right, Fleetybee?”

I blink, then peer across to the rest of the group, and I see just how many have their eyes on me — on us; practically all of them. “Yeah,” I agree, making sure to loosen up my neck and shoulders in case I seem too rigid and forced, and to avert my gaze in a coy, shy manner. “I guess, realising my feelings for him… it left me a little self-conscious. Like, if he covered up, then so should I. And… maybe I kinda-sorta wanted to impress him.”

“Ooh, dressing up for the boyfriend.” Soarin gives me an appraising, suggestive look, his brows high and lips held in a tight-lipped smirk. “Your deviancy knows no bounds, truly.”

“Shut up,” I retort, glaring at him. “It’s what I felt I had to do at the time, alright? Because…”

He waits patiently, still with that shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

But I don’t pay him much heed. Instead, I turn my head to the left and stare into the eyes I’ve gradually come to appreciate in their own way, small as they are, though somehow just as expressive as everypony else’s. “Because I didn’t want to feel uncomfortable around him,” I murmur earnestly, slowly lowering my gaze to the hand holding my hoof even now, thumb tenderly rubbing the fur on top of it. “And I didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable around me.”

There’s a pause. A lengthy one with weight to it, seeming to dull even the music to something almost distant, or otherwise muffled by a blanket or pillow, or anything else soft and durable and capable of smothering ponies. It only seems to hollow me out even further.

But then he smiles a small, tender smile as his brows faintly crease, giving me a caring look as he squeezes my hoof once more. “You shouldn’t have felt like you needed to do that.”

“But I did,” I mumble, pulling my hindlegs a little closer together in case anypony else sees my tail cinch. “I… still do, I guess. It just doesn’t seem right, you looking nice for everypony, and I’m just… me. Naked.” I shake my head lightly. “I don’t like being that anymore. Not around you. Not in public.”

Silver Zoom sticks two feathers in his mouth and whistles loudly, which is immediately followed by a lot of chuckling and some whooping.

I shut my mouth and bolt upright, ramrod straight, eyes wide and ears tall, a chilling bolt of lightning striking through my core as my cheeks instantly begin to burn like they’re coated in kerosene.

Philip’s eyes widen in shock as well, but he deals with it better, quickly letting my hoof go and holding his hand out to the others with a frown. “Hey, hey! Let’s not go taking this out of context, alright? You know what she means.”

“Yeah, pipe it down, guys,” Spitfire commands, looking to her right and frowning at them too. “Whether they have or haven’t is none of our business, and you wouldn’t like it if I went around asking the same of you. This is Fleet’s night, and it’s okay to take the piss out of her, but I won’t stand for making fun of something she’s clearly sensitive about. Grow up, the lot of you.”

I stare at her, stunned, and the burning sensation fades almost instantaneously.

She lingers on the other guests for a few seconds longer, then returns to Philip and I with a softer, more supportive expression. “Anyway, you were saying?”

I hesitate, blinking, then look away with a shrug as my free foreleg wraps around my stomach again. “That’s about it, really. I just… haven’t felt comfortable in public without clothes because…”

She waits patiently.

I turn to Philip.

He watches me with concern, and more than a hint of understanding.

“…Because of him.” Blunt, but factual, and he doesn’t seem to take offence. I switch to Spitfire again and nod. “That’s why. Because of him.”

“Which, let’s be clear, isn’t my fault,” Philip interjects, perhaps a little panicky. “Well, I mean, it is, in a sense, but… I never asked her to cover up for my sake, or her sake, or anybody’s sake, or anything like that. And I definitely never, or at least never meant to shame her for going out without clothes.”

A little insistent on shifting the blame, but he isn’t pinning it on me either. That’s fine. I can work with that. “Yeah, it just… happened.” I shrug once more and hug myself tighter before any rotten feeling takes root in my core again. “I don’t like it, but… that’s how it goes, I guess.”

“You don’t like it?” Brave questions, leaning around Philip to look at me properly. “I thought you said you wanted to impress him.”

“And I do,” I answer swiftly, tamely, though I hate dissecting the hows and whys of my own quirks in front of a live studio audience, and I meet Philip’s empathetic gaze for reassurance. “I just miss feeling like I don’t need to wear anything. And I know what a cliché it is, but in this case… it really isn’t him. It’s me.”

He snorts and softly smiles. “You’re not breaking up with me over clothing, are you?”

“No, of course not.” I gently shake my head, then look down at myself and sigh. “It’s just disappointing, you know?”

“Can’t say I do.” He shrugs, his smile waning to something more thoughtful. “But if you don’t like it, Fleet… you really don’t have to.”

I return to him, an ear perking up.

“You heard me.” He gestures to his left. “I mean, at this point, after two years of exposure — pun not intended — I’ve kind of gotten used to it, so… I don’t think I’d see you that much differently than I do now. Like, even if you weren’t wearing anything right now, you’d still be Fleetybee to me.”

Despite myself, I chuckle. “You’d better watch that mouth of yours, Philip. You’re treading some extremely thin ice, there — don’t know what ideas you’re going to stick in somepony’s—”

“Is that so, big guy?”

I snap towards Spitfire.

She cocks an eyebrow and watches Philip with a curious, but altogether sly look. “So, you’re telling me that if, say, Fleetfoot took everything off right here and now, you wouldn’t have a problem with it?”

My ears pin back, my tail does its best to clamp down, and the burning sensation in my cheeks resumes. “What?”

“You heard me. If Philip said yes, do you think you’d be willing to try going au naturale again?”

I blink with widening eyes and draw my head back, practically baulking in slow motion. I’ve known Spitfire to be direct, but damn. This is something else. “You don’t mean… right now right now, do you?”

The corners of her mouth stretch wide and she shrugs. “Why not? We’ve all seen each other strip down for the showers after a performance, right?”

“…But this isn’t the locker room.”

“And look how many new faces there are.” She nods to each of them. “Your boyfriend of a few months and three of his guards, all of whom care as much about you as any of us. Nobody’s going to judge you here.”

“Damn straight,” Brave declares with a toast of her wine, and so do many others with their respective drinks, including Phalanx and a slightly less enthusiastic Ironside. “What, you think us guards don’t go through the same motions during basic training? We’re still military, same as you.”

I stare at them all, stunned, mouth drooping open as my head cranes from left to right, eventually returning to Spitfire. “You mean to say… you want me to strip in front of everypony here just to prove a point?”

“No, Fleet,” she says, shaking her head, her smile fading to something a little more serious, but still quite supportive. “I — that is to say, we — want you to conquer your fear. And sometimes the best way to do that it to tackle it head-on. And to me, this looks like the perfect opportunity: you’re surrounded by friends and no one else. And really, what you’re worried about… it isn’t that big a deal.”

“Yeah!” Soarin exclaims, beaming, then leans forward and begins fiddling with his jacket sleeve. “Just you watch.”

And before I or anypony else can say another word, he slips his foreleg out and unwraps the jacket from his torso, finishing off with the second sleeve and receiving an excited, rising cheer from the group. He flings it over to Rainbow, who catches it and bundles it up with a laughing grin, and does the same when he tosses her his black polo, leaving his barrel completely bare and his dark shades the only accessory on him.

I gawk, but can’t help letting a breathy, marginally entertained chuckle escape.

“See?” He reclines and folds his forelegs, smirking at me as if he’d just solved the square root of zero. “No big deal. No shocked looks aside from yours, no mobs with pitchforks showing up on my doorstep. Just another pony being another pony. Isn’t that right, Philip?”

“Oh.” He blinks, snapped out of some kind of stupor, then shakes his head and seems to have a hard time deciding whether his attention is best left on Soarin or me. He takes another swig of apple juice to buy himself some extra time. “Well, I mean… sure, I guess.”

Spitfire quirks an eyebrow. “Feeling awkward?”

He looks at her, then the sky, then skews his jaw as he lets out a long, quiet sigh. “You know what?” he says, his tone surprisingly nonchalant, and as he returns to her with an easy smile, it’s all the more surprising. “I’ve seen weirder things happen.”

I turn to face him properly. “You have?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Trust me, the convention I went to before I wound up here had some crazy stuff going on. Like, on a whim, I decided to go to accept someone’s drunk invitation to a hotel room afterparty, when I’d only met them the day before. I showed up, and they were dressed in nothing but a bikini, and I barely knew anyone, and half of them were drunk out of their minds… and it was an absolute blast — best way to end my stay in Seattle, I think. This one guy even did a tarot card reading from a deck of Might and Magic, if you’d believe it.”

“Don’t know what that is, but it sounds like fun,” Spitfire answers, sipping her water.

“Oh, it was.” He chuckles, patting his knee with his free hand and taking another swig, finishing his cup off. “But anyway, yeah… I’ve had my fair share of the bizarre, this world not included. May as well add a private pony burlesque show to my list of the outlandish stuff I’ve seen.” He turns to me. “If Fleet’s up for it.”

I stare at him. I don’t feel betrayed, but I definitely feel called out, like he’s thrown down a challenge and is daring me to take him up on it. It’s way out of my comfort zone — once again, the difference between an audience of thousands and an audience of a couple dozen is how close they are to you, personally — and part of me wants to shrink away from it. Shake my head, finish my juice, throw my cup in the fire, and if not leave them all, then at least cross my forelegs and look away and pout for the rest of the night like the sulky little girl I am. The girl I’ve always been and always will be.

But I don’t. And as my cheeks warm up once more, I know my subconscious has made up its mind — that I’d somehow regret not listening to it and not only disappoint everypony here, but also myself. They like me and, no matter what, even if they’ve stumbled here and there, have always looked out for me as best they can. Tonight isn’t so different — it’s just… slightly more risque. And they can handle it. And so can I.

I mean… he has already seen my…

And I’ve already seen his…

…And I’m sure my cheeks are almost glowing by this point.

I don’t have to go the full monty, I just have to… show a little fur. That’s not so hard, is it? Heck, Soarin stripped less than a minute ago and, like he said, nothing happened. The same would be true for me.

And besides… Philip might…

Well…

He might… like… it.

Is that really such a bad thing?

“I…” I begin, but it’s no louder than a drop of water falling into the ocean. I clear my throat and look down at my forehoof as it taps the edge of the other. “M-m-maybe…”

“Then let me meet you halfway,” Spitfire announces, setting her bottle on the ground before rocking forward and standing on her rear hooves, then stretches her forelegs high above her head. “I think I’ll join in too.”

Once again, I snap to her. “What?”

“Mm-hmm.” She relaxes, then gets down on all fours to stretch her back and wings, muzzle scrunching as she cracks her neck. “Not fair if you’re the one stealing all the attention. Got to keep my reputation of being the hottest of the Bolts, after all.”

I snort, and it’s the kind that squeaks from the very back of your nose. “Oh, so you’re doing this out of ego, not benevolence, is that right?”

She shrugs, smirking as her wings fold by her sides. “Call it what you will, but I’m not letting you hog the spotlight. Where’s the fun in that?”

I’m not really in a position to disagree. If I’m diving headfirst, I may as well take somepony with me and share the burden, for better or worse. So, with a roll of the eyes and an inward groan, set my cup down, heave myself out of the chair, and prepare to act like I have no concept of shame whatsoever.

Good heavens, when did I learn to be so depraved?

“Okay, so… what do you want me to do?”

“What I want us to do is have a good time.” She strolls across the sand-covered stone to about halfway and turns toward the group. “But we can’t do that unless we have some good music. Raindrops!”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Enough with the Beach Boys. Crank it up to eleven and pick something you can’t help but dance to.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Good lass!” Spitfire laughs and waves me closer. “Come on, Fleet, don’t leave me hanging.”

“Okay, okay, fine,” I whinge, plodding over and facing the crowd alongside her. “Gosh, you’re insistent. Almost makes me think you’re only doing this so you can say we got naked together.”

“Hah! You wish.” She nudges my shoulder with a wing. “No, I’m not, Fleet. I’m doing this because it’s not fair on you, you fretting about how the world sees you, or how you see yourself. And if you don’t like it, and Philip isn’t bothered by it… then really, it’s only dragging you down. You get me?”

I linger on her, and the way the fire seems to make her face glow, and the tiny, flickering reflections of it in her eyes, and the hopeful, encouraging look in them too. And then I lower my gaze and shrug. “I guess.”

“Then there we go.” She nods. “Now, don’t worry about a thing, because if anybody makes fun of you — which they won’t — then they’ll also be making fun of me. And I can promise you, if anyone dares to make fun of this temple of health, justice will be swift and merciless.”

I snicker. “Oh, I can imagine.”

She smiles and opens her mouth to speak, but something interrupts her.

Music.

Electric Light Orchestra, Don’t Bring Me Down.

Spitfire’s smile bursts into an insanely giddy grin. “Raindrops!”

“Yes, ma’am?”

She snaps to her as her head begins to bob. “Remind me to kiss you after this!”

“Yes, ma’am!”

And the second their exchange finishes, the electric guitar kicks in, as well as the keyboard, and Spitfire flicks her shades down over her eyes and lets herself get lost in the rhythm. Simple movements for now, alternating hooves and swaying in time with the beat. And although I can’t see her so well with the sunglasses on, I can tell the smirk she flashes me is the enticing sort, beckoning me to grab a piece of the action.

I smirk in kind. She is my commanding officer, so whether I like it or not, it’s my job to follow her lead. And the beat is catchy, so…

I mirror her actions. Not nearly as enthusiastic as she is, but certainly more lively than the time I found myself dancing by my lonesome at prom. At least until the lyrics start, and Spitfire transforms into a whole other beast, mouthing the lyrics in perfect synchronisation and with gloriously animated expressions. Then, I simply laugh and continue dancing.

The singer talks about fancy friends, and she begins strutting like a diva around the pit, making faces at everypony as she goes, eventually doubling back and stopping by Soarin, just in time for the chorus. She rears up and stands on her hindlegs, only to bow low and come back up with a flourish of her hooves on each of the trills. And during the little passage, she’s somehow slipped out of her bomber, and whirls it above her head a few times before flinging it over to Rainbow, much to the cheer and applause of the audience.

Soarin watches on with a wide-eyed, open-mouthed grin.

Spitfire returns it with a haughty one, then spins around and points to me as the lyrics start up again.

That’s my sign to jump in; with all the commotion going on, I almost forgot what I’m supposed to be doing. I blink and look down at myself, unsure of my own hooves for whatever reason, but try to make something up on the spot regardless — give yourself to the music and you’re bound to be rewarded, right?

…Or I might just be a complete idiot when it comes to this sort of thing.

Searching for inspiration, I turn my attention to the only place I know I might find it: the left, and a pair of small, brown eyes that meet mine with a smile. And I guess it works; it warms me, at least, and I feel slightly more confident in myself. I’m doing this for his sake as well as mine, after all, and if he’s enjoying it…

Better make sure there’s something for him to enjoy, shouldn’t you?

And so I should.

I’ve wasted enough time swaying idly, so I follow Spitfire’s lead again and strut around in a similar fashion, but I don’t make it very far before the second chorus sneaks up. I, too, stand on my hindlegs, but I don’t do the bow and flourish like she had, and instead employ a more fluid, hip-shaking, tail-wagging approach, more akin to how Philip dances when he’s freestyling. And all the while, I slip a hoof underneath the hem of my shirt and slowly lift it up.

Somepony whistles. The rest build up their cheer like the climbing wail of a siren.

My heart beats heavily. I peer at Philip from the corner of my eye.

He stares. Not at me specifically, but my hoof, and the exposed fur of my stomach. He’s still smiling, but it’s fascinated.
Captivated. Rapt and spellbound — so many things at once, and strangely, none of them negative.

Strangely?

…Okay, maybe it’s obvious now, but that’s how hindsight works. And I don’t have time to ruminate.

I yank it up and over to the clear and distinct elation of the audience, and I pitch it to an increasingly concerned-looking Rainbow. And it feels… odd, having a bare barrel for the first time in a public setting since however long it’s been — how much easier it is for my upper body to breathe, and how much more intense the fire’s warmth is. But it isn’t bad. And like they said — Spitfire, Soarin, whoever else — nopony here is casting me any dirty looks.

Not even Philip, who I was afraid for the most.

The only one holding me back was me.

Not anymore.

Before I have the mind to tell myself otherwise, and not caring if I’m not doing it in time with the music, I put my hooves on the waistband of my shorts and drop them, then hop out and ditch them at Rainbow once more. Except for the necklace and bracelet, I’m now entirely exposed. This, of course, is met with the loudest, most spirited cheer yet, and a fretful look from the recipient of my pants, and it puts a welcome heaviness in my chest, like I’ve been given a suit of armour. Armour that weighs nothing, but is thick and strong enough to resist any blow, survive any crash.

Stars, is this actually working?

I turn to Spitfire.

She’s already discarded her undershirt, and is in the process of grabbing Soarin by the forehooves and heaving him up to dance alongside her, which he does so fervently. And they smile and get their groove on, Spitfire taking lead whenever they decide to do something that involves partners. Fire Streak, Sun Chaser, Thunderlane and Raindrops are all getting lost in the music as well.

Then I look to Philip, only to find his seat empty, and Brave dragging a chuckling Phalanx and a begrudging Ironside up to dance. But after turning my head just a little further to the left, I spy him approaching in stylish, rhythmic motions, a barely restrained grin on his face as my eyes meet his. And he seems… proud. And that makes me feel proud.

And as I turn about to face him, still on my hindlegs, I get the idea to step up my efforts and not let myself be outdone, swaying my hips more, swishing my tail, a daring, teasing smirk on my lips. I’ve learned a thing or two from him, and it’s truly the ultimate ‘up yours’, to use the enemy’s weapons against them.

But as he takes my hooves into his hands, his enthusiasm seems to wane. Not in the sense that he doesn’t want to keep dancing, but in the sense that… he once again appears captivated, peering into my eyes, inspecting me up and down. As much focussed on me as he is on showing off, and one is steadily winning over the other.

My breath stutters for a moment with an inward giggle. He’s going gaga over me. I’m making him do that. And I like it. I like that he likes me. Not just me as a… well, a person, but… physically as well. I think I’d better ask what about me he finds attractive, but not right now. Too loud, not the right setting.

No. Now, I want to drag this feeling out as much as I can, and perhaps maybe even heighten it.

So, I pull a hoof away and roll into him, placing his other hand to my chest and holding it there as it just so happens that the very end of my croup settles quite comfortably into the natural cradle of his abdomen. I continue swaying my hips, rubbing into him a little, and peer over my shoulder to gauge his reaction.

In a word, absorbed. In two, utterly enthralled.

Another inward giggle, and I decide to see how long I can keep this up.

Not long at all, it seems, because his free hand sneaks up and lays its palm on my barrel, pulling me closer so that my back lies flat against his torso. He buries his face into my mane, and I somehow get the feeling he’s about to say something, so I slow down, until I finally stop. And I close my eyes as I feel the warmth of his breath against my scalp, and the reassuring pressure of his fingers through my fur and his body against mine.

He is saying something, just without any words: he’s telling me to be still, not because he doesn’t like what I’m doing, but because… he wants to hold me. Smell me. To savour the moment.

And it feels…

…Perfect.

Just him and me, together in bliss.

A world of our own, and nopony else’s.

Sisters, if only this could last forever…

But then the music stops, and the cheering begins.

I’d forgotten ponies were watching.

I slip out of his grasp and return to all fours, clearing my throat and flicking my tail to hopefully straighten out some of the hairs that might have gotten tangled. The absence of his warmth is noticeable, however, and I guess a small part of me wishes I’d just not given a damn and stayed there with him.

Soarin and Spitfire are standing with their eyes closed and big smiles on their faces as they hold hooves and rest their foreheads against one another, the tips of their noses touching. They take turns whispering to each other, which makes them both giggle a little, then they return to the real world and look around, sharing their smiles with us and receiving plenty of whistles and applause for it.

But then Spitfire looks my way, and her smile becomes a grin. “And let’s give it up for the star of the evening!” she declares happily, sweeping a wing toward me. “Fleetfoot the Fearless! What a show, truly!”

With so much attention suddenly on me, I find myself taking a step back, ears pointing away as I look down and rub a foreleg against the other. “Aw, come on,” I chuckle bashfully, “you weren’t so bad yourself.”

“Oh no you don’t. You take that compliment and you swallow it whole, or I’m going to come over there and make sure you know how appreciated you are.”

“She doesn’t know the half of it…”

My ears twitch, and I quirk an eyebrow as I turn to my right.

Philip meets my gaze with a look of awe, still under whatever spell he’d been put in while I’d slid into his embrace. His eyes wander all over, and even when he realises he’s being watched, not just by me but everypony else, the spell never breaks. Until, at last, he blinks and clears his throat and breathes a deep, calming sigh as he claps his hands together. “So, uh… yeah. I’m sure you all know by now that Fleet and I are… well, romantically involved.”

Thunderlane sticks his feathers in his mouth and whistles loudly.

My cheeks begin to warm and I look away, feeling the urge to hide behind a wing.

Philip chuckles. “Okay, okay, and yeah, our involvement hasn’t been exactly subtle… but since we’re official, that also means I get to publicly embarrass her in any way I see fit.”

I peer up at him with a shy, appreciative expression, certain that I know what’s coming next, but lacking the confidence to openly announce how hot and heavy my barrel is, the weight of the necklace ever more present — how anxious and eager I am.

He turns and moseys on over for his chair, where he reclaims his seat and, predictably, leans to his right and picks up his ukulele — the very same I’d bought him for his own birthday — and settles it in his lap. He runs a hand along the smooth, polished surface and the floral patterns on the edge, breathing slow, soothing breaths as he readies himself for what will inevitably follow.

The crowd murmurs in low, excited tones.

My heart hammers in my chest, and I find myself gradually sinking to my haunches, readying myself in case I feel weak in the knees. And I know I will.

Seconds pass, and then a minute. And then he looks up at me and smiles kindly. “So, without any further ado, I think I’d like to share with you a little song I wrote. Nothing fancy, just… something I’ve been working on for a long time now. And even though all of this comes from a place of sincerity… it can never, ever do her justice — the way she makes me feel, the… the things she’s done for me, and taught me about myself. But this is the best I could do, so… I hope it’s enough.”

I swallow the lump already forming in my throat.

The audience falls silent.

Philip lingers on me, puckering his lips and looking like he’s fighting back the urge to say even more, or drop everything and dash over to me and hug me close. But then he softly nods, lowers his eyes to his fingers on the strings, and begins to play. It’s a measured, steady, relaxing rhythm, perfect for a cloudless sunset on the beach, where even the ocean appears calm tonight and the air is still and the city in the distance has grown quiet. And then, after a few long beats, he starts to sing.

The strings fade.

The waves ebb and flow.

The world comes into focus, and I’m glad I sat down, because I’m sure I’d have collapsed if I weren’t, and that’s no exaggeration; I feel heavy and light all at once, and my breathing is ragged as I snivel and smile shakily and rub out the tears in my eyes with the tips of my wings.

And I have no words for him. No thanks I can offer, no praise I can make. Any time I try to speak, it only comes out as a stuttered chuckle, or a sharp hiccup, or a wet sniff. And a part of me… likes it, I guess — that he can build me up and break me down so thoroughly, to the point where I can’t even think straight after something as basic, as cliché, as downright uninspired as a serenade.

But it’s not just any serenade, is it?

He wrote it.

He wrote it for me.

Because of me.

Because he loves me.

Because I love him.

Because we love each other.

And he’s getting just as teary as I am.

I want to hug him. To stumble over there and sit in his lap and pull him close — stick his face in the fur on my chest, because I know that’s what he likes to do from time to time. I don’t completely understand it, but if he likes it, then who am I to complain. Doesn’t hurt that, when we both asked why we do or tolerate it, we both answered that it made us feel just a little bit safer.

And right now, I think I feel pretty safe. All around me, there are ponies that care, that love me — not just for who, but increasingly what I am. So, yes, we definitely have come a long, long way from where we first started, and there’s nothing I can do but be thankful for it, even with all the bumps and accidents along the journey. It’s all been taken in stride, and here we are: a world-famous pegasus athlete and the world’s first and only human, crying in front of each other because they can’t put into words just how much they care for one another.

I never knew how much I’d want this, or how much I’d desperately need it.

Weird how things work out, sometimes.

And then the stereo starts back up again.

My ears perk up at the sound of the strumming of a lone acoustic guitar, and then I roll my eyes as well as my head as I laugh and grin, recognising the tune instantly. What’s Up? by 4 Non Blondes.

Philip laughs too, and so does a fair majority of the group — they’ve all spent enough time around me to learn how my taste in music has developed, especially the one song that has no reason being my favourite, but is anyway.

Raindrops gives me a salute from her spot by the boom box, and I return it, and as the laughter fades and the lyrics start, everypony sings with them. Not all stay on key, but the Bolts aren’t famed for their vocal prowess: that’s the job of the bands we sometimes cross-promote. And although it takes me a while to catch my breath and gather my wits, I too join in with them. And I think to myself that tonight couldn’t possibly get any better than this.

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