Moondancer found a manilla envelope waiting for him on the floor before his dorm's front door one morning. It was addressed to him by Anonymous. He stepped on it and went to class.

“Moondancer?” Dr. Nebulebray’s severe expression wasn’t unusual, but being called on by her after class was. He walked up to her desk, thick eyebrows knitted. He had a suspicion on what the conversation would be about. “How has your friend-making been going?”

He rolled his eyes. Of course this was what it was about. “I’ve given up.” When he saw her frown, he amended with a stutter, “For the time being.”

“I never took you for a pony that gives up, Moondancer.”

“I know my limits.”

“Are you really fine with having your grade harmed?”

Moondancer magicked his glasses up his snout, “No, but I have to live with the consequences of my actions.”

“And you’re fine with the consequences of giving up on another pony’s attempt at friendship?”

Moondancer looked away. The classroom was empty, his peers outside respecting the private instructor-pupil discussion they could see through the door’s glass pane. He scuffed a hoof against the rug, “I’m not going to be friends with him. He’s a jerk.”

“He does have quite the mouth, does he not? It’s refreshing to hear in these stuffy halls, though; like a breath of air.”

Moondancer’s eyes hardened. He looked back at Dr. Nebulebray, “His ‘refreshing’ behavior got me kicked out of the library. This semester’s ruined, and so is my perfect GPA.”

She smiled, “So I was right to check up on you, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t check the folder he left for you, did you?” She held up a hoof to halt his questions, “He worked very hard with me on it. I think you owe him another chance.”

“But he’s a jerk!” Moondancer stared in disbelief. Had she even met Anonymous before?

“He’s a little abrasive, yes, but from the behavior I’ve seen from you, you’re the pot calling the kettle black.”

He gave her a scowl, “We’re nothing alike. He goes out of his way to—to piss ponies off!”

“I assure you, he’s kind in his own way when you get to know him.”

“Yeah, right. He wouldn’t know kindness if it plucked his primaries. Much less be able to show it…”

Dr. Nebulebray shrugged, “Well, you have ample evidence waiting for you at your dorm. Why don’t you go and test your hypothesis?”

Moondancer grumbled a non-reply and left for his next class.

The envelope sat on his desk, unopened. The hoofprint was clear; he twisted his step into it. He felt a hint of guilt, or perhaps it was shame, for the foalish act. He’d been staring at it for a minute, unwilling to dump its contents out. Did he not want to give him a chance, or was he scared? No, he wasn’t scared. There was no way for Anonymous to salvage—no, it wasn’t even salvage. You can’t salvage something that never existed in the first place. Ugh.

Moondancer didn’t have anything to lose but time, and he wasted enough of that staring at the envelope. He’d scan the contents, confirm what he already knew, and dump them into the recycling bin. Then he’d study, friend-free, how he needed to be. His magic undid the brass clasp and shook the envelope, papers sliding across his desk.

On top of the thick stack of stapled papers were a few loose-leaf ones. The first, folded into quarters and most prominently stamped, was a poster-sized, full-color “technical” drawing—more of a cartoonish facsimile, really—of Orion Star’s Centennial Condor, roughly how he had imagined it. The hull was cut-away, allowing the artist to draw the bridge, engine room, and living quarters in loving, inaccurate detail. One corner was devoted to the Centennial Condor’s specifications, correct—no doubt thanks to Dr. Nebulebray—down to the third significant figure; another to a drawing of the main battery of varied gun pods in the wrong positions and out of scale with the ship. In the last free corner, the ship’s designation as it might appear on official Empire of Echoes dossiers stood boldly. The artist’s signature below read ‘Anonymous, for Moondancer,’ with a heart. Crimped by his hoofprint.

He felt like shit. He shook that feeling away. Why should he feel bad? Anonymous thinks some… stupid poster is going to get him forgiveness? He couldn’t even tell port from stern. It was worthless. Moondancer folded the poster up with care and set it aside, going through the rest of the pile.

Moondancer’s thirty-page packet ripping Sleeping Beneath the Stars was next. Anonymous wrote rebuttals in red ink, but as he turned the pages, the defenses came down and he saw Anonymous agreeing with him on certain plotholes made apparent by his scathing review. His eyes skimmed the page, reading the last sentence aloud, “... In the end, it doesn’t diminish the work in my eyes, but you do raise good points, and the story would have been stronger with more attention paid to those details.”

The words brought little joy to Moondancer. Just like Anonymous to rob him of the satisfaction of winning an argument by turning it into an apology. An apology he was still not going to accept. Beneath the packet was another letter, a written apology. The last in the stack. Anonymous’ script was pleasant to look at.

Moondancer, I deeply regret what I said to you that day. I really was trying to be nice, but I don’t know how to do that. Obviously. I’m really, really, really sorry. I didn’t want to upset you. I just wanted to hang out with you, even if you can be challenging at times, and I can be… worse.

I have another apology gift but I want to give it to you face-to-face. Meet me outside the library after classes tonight. Or tomorrow night, hopefully, because the gift won’t be any good after. I’ll take it as a no if you don’t show up by then.

Oh, yeah, I talked with Quiet Time and you’re not banned from the library, but I am. That’s why we have to meet outside.

Sorry, again. I fucked up.

Moondancer snorted. Holding a gift ransom? Unsurprising behavior from Anonymous. He looked the apology over and over again. Not being banned from the library is good news, at least. But Moondancer didn’t want to buy the apology. Anonymous had called him challenging, he didn’t mention why he wanted to even be friends in the first place, and the ransom were good excuses not to.

He looked out the window. It was night. He wanted to be stubborn, to not go and make Anonymous suffer for what he had done, to not be baited into having a conversation he didn’t want with a pony he didn’t like about a topic he didn’t need to discuss. But a small part of Moondancer, his conscience, nagged at him. This was a lot of effort to go through, and although he didn’t understand the motives, it was… the most anypony had ever done for him. Bad as the poster was, drawing it must have taken Anonymous days to complete. He even had Dr. Nebulebray’s help, at least for part of it. If only it wasn’t Anonymous.

Moondancer needed a break from studying, anyway. He left for the library.

It may have been a trick of the moth-swarmed sidewalk lamps, but Moondancer swore Anonymous lit up when he saw him walking across the quad to the library. He became less so as Moondancer approached, and settled into morose pebble-kicking when Moondancer stopped before him.

Anonymous looked up from his miniature soccer at Moondancer, looking… shy? “‘Sup?”

Moondancer glowered, making Anonymous shrink back, “You have something for me?”

“Uh, yeah. So, uhm, I got these tickets, and… well, here’s yours.” Anonymous pulled a slip of glossy paper from beneath his wing and hoofed it over. Moondancer looked at the writing on it. A Woolly Words lecture on science fiction!? And it was scheduled for two nights from now at the Canterlot Royal Theater. He looked up and saw Anonymous holding a ticket, as well, “I thought that we could, uh, maybe go together.”

Moondancer narrowed his eyes. Anonymous looked down at the ticket, “But, if you really don’t want to hang out with me, uhm… here.” He held it out, “I don’t want to ruin it for you.”

Moondancer magicked the ticket out of his hoof. He opened his mouth to insult Anonymous—he had thought of many on the trip over—but clammed up when he saw the sadness in those eyes. Well, what did Anonymous expect? Everything to be fixed like—no, it wasn’t even fixed. There was nothing there to fix. Right?

“Uh—guess I should’ve expected that. Heh.” Anonymous shook his head and smiled, “You’d probably want to go with Luminous Dust, anyway. She’s more your speed.”

“I-I, uh...” Moondancer looked away. Anonymous was making this difficult. Giving Moondancer second thoughts, making him actually feel sorry for the pegasus. Who was Moondancer going to go with, anyway? Luminous Dust was as mysterious as any mare he’d ever met before, and inviting Dr. Nebulebray would be weird. She’d probably be too busy with coursework this late in the semester, anyhow. Going it alone was an option, but it seemed wrong. His thoughts and eyes kept going back to Anonymous, who gawked at the stars with feigned interest. He really did seem sorry, and really did seem to want to be friends, for whatever reason… “Why?”

“Huh?” Anonymous snapped back to attention, “Why what?”

“Why are you doing all this?” Moondancer waved a hoof, “This… apology stuff. Why do you want to be friends so bad?”

“I like you.”

Moondancer wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he blinked.

Anonymous continued, “I can tell you’re different from other ponies—not like that, I mean, like… you’re interesting. You’re a lot more fun to argue with, too.” He laughed with a little, genuine smile, “So, yeah. I wanna be friends.”

“Fun… to argue with?”

“Don’t you love a good argument?”

“Discussions, debates, battles of intellect have their appeal. Yours lack substance.”

Anonymous snorted, “Guarantee you I can run circles around you the minute we’re not talking nerd shit.”

“Meaningless, meandering chatter about haydog assemblage, perhaps? Not interested.”

That smirk found its way back onto Anonymous’ face. It suited him more than looking sad, “Oh? Scared?”

“Hardly,” Moondancer said with a scoff, “I have far better things to do with my time than explain why the sauce goes on the bun first.”

Anonymous’ eyes lit up, “You philistine. You like soggy buns?”

Moondancer bit his lip. Was he going to let himself be goaded into this conversation? He should’ve kept his muzzle shut to begin with if he wasn’t. Besides, maybe this… could be fun. He liked winning debates. “Have you ever heard of a toaster, Anonymous? Or does your foalish tongue prevent you from enjoying depth of texture?”

“Depth of texture? It’s a fuckin’ haydog, my dude. You’re not just a nerd, but a pseud.”

“It is not pseudo-intellectualism to enjoy well-crafted street cart cuisine! But, considering the crap you consume for books, I shouldn’t expect you to understand the dimensional extravagance a well-toasted, seasoned bun begets the haydog.”

“Cuisine? Toasted and seasoned buns? Why are you even eating a haydog at that point? Go to some fancy sit-down and let us hard-working ponies enjoy honest, old-fashioned fair fare, bonehead.”

“Tribalism from a birdbrain. Typical.” Moondancer magicked the ticket back to Anonymous with a little smirk of his own, “At the very least, I’d like to hear how wrong your thoughts are on the lect—”

Anonymous hugged Moondancer, “It’s a date!” He took the ticket and flew off, laughing, before Moondancer could say a reply.

So he shouted one, instead, “It is NOT a DATE!” He watched Anonymous until the pegasus had disappeared behind the tree-tops in front of the first year’s dormitory. The fruity scent of the hug clung to him, the warmth refusing to leave, making his chest tighten with an uncomfortable fuzziness. He turned around and took a stomping step toward his own dorm, shaking everything from memory. “Jerk.”