The night was painting Los Pegasus with the white of snow. Snow reflected in the many lit windows of the nasty skyscrapers looming over once peaceful valleys and hills, now torn down with stone and cement. Snow barked at the streets, coughing under the trump of a million hooves rushing home to their loved ones, or to a club to get drunk, or to a friend’s place to celebrate. Snow covered with white the green-and-red motif the city sported this Hearth’s Warming, every Hearth’s Warming. Snow fell on Jimi Clawrix’s beak as he looked up, his guitar sack pressing painfully into his shoulder. The pain was old, formidable, pure. He’d grown used to the sack, just as he’d grown used to jackets that put pressure on his wings, and horseshoes that were no protection against the cold as they were against the many pins that littered the street, hidden by the rarest winter snow.

After all, Los Pegasus was never prone to much winter, let alone snowfalls. Something was going on with the weather this year, and if this meant change, then Jimi Clawrix was ready to embrace the cold that it brought with it.

With a flicker of red, the cigarette popped alive.

All around him, ponies rushed in their never-stopping fever, always eager to be somewhere else - a notion he could not quite understand. His heritage, or maybe his very genetic structure allowed him to be contemplative. Griffins live for decades upon decades, and aging comes gracefully to them. Ponies rush through their meagre lives, failing to notice the world around them. It was no wonder that dragons, another nation known for their longevity, were so much more acquainted with griffins and zebras. And maybe, Jimi Clawrix thought as he stopped in front of the lights and splendour of the Golden Ground, if the war had gone any differently…

“Hey,” a voice ruptured the air from the side. “Your kind aren’t welcome here.”

Jimi turned to see a mold-coloured earth pony, a wary gaze and an uninviting frown, next to the entrance. “It seems,” he said, “my kind ain’t welcome anywhere.” He opted to keep on going, but loud music from aside made him stop in his tracks and take a look.

A marching band pushed through the street, brass wailing an old tune, with clarinet staccatoing over the jumping rhythm of the trumpets and the bari’s bassline. Jimi lifted his eyes and followed the band as the colourful ponies made their tipsy way towards the Golden Ground. With a sigh, he crossed the street and walked on to the feathered side of town.

As the wind cringed him with the cold, he noted the absence of the majority of griffin population, because of the holiday the “feathered” had got used to call their own holiday - Hearth’s Warming Eve. Jimi wasn’t sure if there was anything warm about it, but his heart definitely was not warming.

He slid between two houses into a narrow walkway and discarded the cigarette butt with a flick. Approaching the familiar steely door, he gave it a knock, then pause, then two knocks. The door slid open. “Our hearts tremble,” a raspy voice called from the darkness inside.

“But our claws remain true,” Jimi replied, and was let in, ushered past a corridor of discarded furniture, and into a spacious garage-like room where the tint of weed smoke filled the air, and where dozens of griffins talked, and chowled on the recent jokes, and “Who the hell is that?”

Jimi approached a peculiar group of three griffins and a pony - a four-hooved, coated, smiling (!) pony. “Who the hell let an equine here?” Jimi demanded, feeling displaced fury washing over, a sting at his race’s inability to stay unbothered even here, to be pressed even in their secret safe.

“Calm your feathers, Jimi.” One of the griffins, a taller, slimmer one, flicked a cigarette into the dustbin with alarming precision. “He’s not Equestrian. He’s from the Crystal Empire."

"Sounds like the same hell to me," Jimi rasped in a voice audible enough to draw attention.

"Silver, meet Jimi Clawrix," the taller griffin introduced his younger acquaintance. "Our friendly neighbourhood racist. Doesn't trust anything that doesn't fly or has hooves."

"Paying the equines with the same coin is all.” Jimi picked a feather from his wing with his break, spitting it aside. “What do you want here, intruder?”

“I prefer to be called by my name,” the pony countered politely. “Silver Chord.”

"Silver Cord?" Jimi asked with a smile tugging on his lips. "Your name is a cord made of Silver?"

"Silver Chord," the pony corrected softly, but with urging solidity. "Chord, as in, seventh chord."

"Silver Chord?" Jimi asked, bewildered. "You equines really have the weirdest names." He wanted to say something else, but the pony stepped away with a sense of urgency.

"I really have to go, though," Silver said reluctantly, rolling from hoof to hoof. "There's a certain... matter I have to tend to." He blushed quickly enough for the griffins to guffaw light-heartedly. Jimi remained calm, and didn't crack a smile.

"More like a certain filly you have to tend, Silver, ain't it?" One of the griffins barked a chuckle.

"Tend her well," an older griffin patted the teenage pony almost paternally. "Tend her all night long!" he called out loud enough for everyone to hear. A deep, low rumble shook the room with laughter. They laughed, Jimi noted with blue notes tugging at his soul, because of a unity that, to him, was still alien - but no less desirable.

The door slammed shut behind the pony, and the feathered community returned to its talks and drinks.

***

“-died of severe poisoning, and now we’re in the process of trying to assign a new mayor; McGregor has talked some sense into the casino owners, and now we have to deal with the mole that somehow has gotten into our family.” Tom paused, looking at the don cautiously. “I believe it might be a Melodico.”

“A Melodico, huh.” Alexandro nodded, closing his eyes wearily, a glass of whisky by his chair. “What gives you the idea?”

“Well,” Tom began, “It looks like their style, and we’ve had bad blood between us.” He nodded, as if to assure himself.

Alexandro took up the drink. “Why are you lying to me, Tom?” He took a gulp. “Your voice is trembling, and I can feel that you do not believe in what you say. Tell me the truth, Tom,” he added, “no matter how bad it hurts.”

“We…” Tom pondered. “I… I have reasons to believe that…” He sighed and closed his eyes. “I have reasons to believe that the mole is one of us. A Philarmonico.”

Alexandro drank silently, then looked up at his consigliere. “So a soldier of fortune, then. While it bothers me greatly, it shouldn’t be too hard to find him out?”

“I…” Tom trotted towards the don and sat next to him in another chair. “Father. I am afraid it’s not one of soldiers. It’s one of the capos.” He sighed again. “It’s one of our finest.”

Silence fell upon the room.“Do you remember the way it all was some forty years ago?” Alexandro asked, then laughed. “Of course you don’t. You were a little foal, playing with your toys.” The stallion sighed. “Everything was so simple back then,” he said, sipping on his whisky. “Way before the war, when griffins still had mobs. We knew who our enemies were. We knew our friends. We knew that the government was not a power to recognise.” The old stallion sighed. “But that’s life. And that’s what all the ponies say, as Sineightra tells us. Riding high in April, shot down in May. Let’s hope for that May never to come.”

“Let’s,” Tom replied softly, his eyes tearing up at the sight of his calm, aging father. “May it never come.” He smiled at his own pun.

“Give me the phone, Tom,” Alexandro asked. “It’s Hearth’s Warming, and I want to talk to my granddaughter. And my daughter. And her reckless wife.” He shook his head. “Still can’t get used to the whole same-sex marriage thing, Tom.” As the younger stallion brought the device closer, Alexandro coughed. “Change, change, change. But some things never change.”

“What things, Alexandro?” Tom asked, less from curiosity, more from just wanting to hear his stepfather share his tranquil, serene wisdom.

“War never changes, Tom,” Alexandro said, taking the phone and placing it on his knees. “But you know that already. Family never changes. But that’s not new. Friendship,” he said suddenly. “I’ve always thought that friendship never changes.” The don began entering the number. “But now it seems that even friendship has changed.”

***

The phone rang.

"Maybe if you weren't too busy arguing, you'd've noticed that the celery has gone bad!"

"Maybe if you weren't arguing about what you don't know-"

"I hate it when you use my words against me!"

Gliss sighed and trotted towards the telephone. "Hello?"

"Glissando, my filly," came the familiar old rasp, making Gliss crack a fraction of a smile at the form of addressing.

"Hello, grandpa," she replied in a softer, warmer tone  the shouts from the kitchen turned into violent hissing, a thousand snakes tearing her family apart.

"A merry Hearth's Warming to you," Alexandro's voice interrupted her thoughts. "How are your parents?

"Arguing," Gliss answered honestly, with a slight wince. "As they do most of the time."

“Let’s see if I can talk some sense into your mother.”

Alexandro didn’t need to specify; Gliss knew he was talking about his daughter so she, banishing thoughts of her stern grandfather making it even worse, called out, “Mother? Grandpa wants to talk to you.” It felt strange, she mused, walking a distance away, to never know the other side of her family, that is, Vinyl’s parents; but then again, she’d been told that those were some bad ponies, and having been magically conceived and not adopted was strange as it was already.

A look out of the window told her that the city was going mad with snow. Flakes meshed, collided, collapsed onto the ground, only for new ones to take up their place. The streets were blinded by the whiteness of snow. The wind somehow managed to blow even through the closed window. Gliss had a strange urge to open the window and just stand there, breathing in the watery air of the snowstorm.

The doorbell rang. “I got it!” Gliss shouted out and trotted towards the door. Who might it be? Probably Lyra or Bon-Bon or- Silver. Silver Chord was standing there in the doorway, holding a small case meant for a small instrument, wrapped in bright green-and-red wrapping paper. “Hiiiiii…” Gliss drawled, blaming her inability to act cool before this stupid sexy Silver. I did not just think that!

“Happy Hearth’s Warming!” Silver wished, extending the case. “You told me you ponies give each other presents, so I brought you a present!” He smiled that charming and disarming smile that made Gliss’s knees feel a little weak.

The filly wobbled a step towards the colt. “Th-thanks,” she managed weakly, placing the present on the little stool by the wardrobe. “I- I don’t have a present for you.” Such stupid. This is advanced stupid, Gliss. “I’m sorry.” The guitarist blushed a little. Okay, not a little. A lot.

“That’s okay,” Silver assured in his deep, rumbly voice. “It’s a violin.” He motioned towards the present. “I really thought your little ensemble would benefit from a violin. It was a nice rehearsal,” he added. “Thanks for letting me listen to you guys.”

“You’re always welcome,” Gliss blurted out, which contributed to the pink shade of her cheeks. The two ponies stood in silence for a few stretching moments. "Silver... I have a question." Gliss stepped from hoof to hoof uneasily, especially considering that she had absolutely no present for Silver - and hadn't even thought of one! So much for his being infatuated with me... "Why did you sing 'children' back then? 'Children waiting for their day to feel good'," she quoted. "Why not 'foals'?"

"Because," the vocalist replied simply, "I sang about children. I care about any child, be it pony, zebra, or griffin.” He smiled disarmingly.

Gliss’s breath quickened as a surge of deep, powerful feeling inside her, something that urged her to do exactly what she did, which was to stand on her toes to reach for the tall stallion and kiss him on the lips breezily, her cheeks roaring with pink.

Silver’s eyes widened, and so did Gliss’s, as she realised what she’d just done. Just as Silver opened his mouth to say something, she yelped and slammed the door in his face, shutting her eyes fiercely. If I just wait here forever, he’ll go away. Probably. She could feel the heart in her chest beating, racing against itself.

There was a knock at the door. Of course there would be a bloody knock at the door. "Go away!" Gliss called out, shutting her eyes even more.

"Gliss?" came the muffled response. "Can I come in?"

"No," Gliss replied, quieter. “Go away,” she reiterated.

“I just wanted to-”

“Go.” Tap. “Away!” Stomp.

“I just wanted to talk…” came Silver’s voice, calm, slightly disoriented.

“I don’t want to talk right now,” Gliss replied, adding mentally, Because I kissed you, and, as any filly, I need to be alone. Don’t be a dumb-flank and understand that!

“I understand,” Silver said through the door. “You might want to… sort things out?”

“Yes!” Gliss replied a little too enthusiastically. Yes, thank Celestia, that buys me time. ...For what? “Yes, please,” she repeated in a calmer tone. With some hesitation, she nodded resolutely and walked away from the door.

“Dinner’s ready!” came Octavia’s voice, as if on cue. Gliss put on her best smile and walked up to the table. A single glance was all it took for Octavia to notice something was amiss. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” she asked in concern, putting the celery on a plate.

“Nothing,” Gliss lied easily, taking her seat at the table. “Why?”

“You have a very fake smile on your face, Slidey,” Vinyl remarked from her spot, picking up the celery and taking a chew. “Told you it wasn’t gone bad at all.”

“I… Something happened,” Gliss said evasively, knowing very well that it would only fuel her mothers’ curiosity.

“Glissando, if something-” Octavia began, but, at this point, Gliss had decided that it wouldn’t hurt to share her worries with her parents, if only because she had absolutely no idea what to do.

“Remember I told you I liked colts?” Gliss winced at the poorly-hidden reaction. “Well, Silver… That is, I like Silver. And I kissed him. Kinda. On the lips.”

“Oh.” Vinyl pondered, looking at her celery thoughtfully. “So, did he use tongue or-”

“Vinyl,” Octavia warned her spouse in a growl. She then turned to her daughter. “So… Was it… What I mean, is…”

“I don’t know if he liked it,” Gliss admitted. “I kinda told him to buck off and shut the door in his face.” She paused. “What could I do? I freaked out! I never kissed a colt before- and you,” she pointed her hoof at more Octavia than Vinyl, “always told me about fillies and fillies and lesbian kisses, and so I don’t even know what to do when I like a colt!”

“Sweetie…” Octavia began apologetically, putting down her fork. “We are really sorry, but we don’t know anything about dating stallions… Neither do Lyra and Bon-Bon…” She looked at Vinyl hopelessly. “I… Cannot you turn to your friends’ help?”

“Of course,” Gliss mumbled, looking at her plate. Somehow, her appetite could not arrive at all. “It’s all better than turning to parents who can’t do a damn thing.”

“What did you say, Slidey?”

“Nothing.” Gliss picked up her fork. “Happy Hearth’s Warming.”

***

I kissed a colt! And I liked it!

I hope he doesn’t mind it… What I mean is, I hope he minds it, in a way that he likes me too! Sweet Celestia, I really did kiss a colt! I kissed a colt whom I like! It felt so good! Is it what sex feels like? Does sex feel better? I dunno, but kissing him felt pretty awesome! Silver… Silver Chord… Glissando Philarmonica Chord… No, I’d rather he took my surname… Silver Philarmonico Scratch. Yes, that sounds awesome! I wonder if he’ll want a colt or a filly…

What am I even thinking? I don’t even know if he likes me back… Oh Celestia. I’ll have to talk to him, won’t I. I’ll have to talk to him. Oh Celestia. I’ll have to talk to him about… what happened. I’ll have to talk to him about the kiss! Oh Celestia, how do I do that?

How indeed...