The Sweetest Music

Chapter Nine

When My Heart Beats Like a Hammer

***

Bon-Bon threw herself onto the bed, burying her muzzle in the pillow.

The feelings rushed inside, pounding in her head, raising her heart rate, tickling at every nerve, making her blood run cold and hot at the same time. Those sudden, uninvited feelings. What did I do?! She wasn't afraid of the law - she was a model citizen, an entrepreneur, a tax-payer. Her lust for mares remained in her mind - and they couldn't sue your mind.

She had long lost desire, with its being suppressed and shoved away. Her orientation was not an issue any more - had not been an issue for a long time, ever since she started devoting herself to work, wholly and completely.

What she was afraid of, however, was Lyra. Or, more exactly, Lyra's possible reaction. Of course, straight mares hugged all the time. Of course, Lyra had just accepted the hug as a friendly gesture - hadn't she? Straight mares hugged all the time... But Lyra wasn't a straight mare, was she? Gay ponies acted differently because they were different. Bon-Bon knew; she felt; she was. She could distinguish. But she was afraid - of making a mistake.

Even if - just assuming that - Lyra was indeed a filly-fooler, what were the chances that they would have some resemblance of a relationship, with the law having its mighty eye policing the whole country, with the ponies torn by disgust and anger, and hatred? What were the chances that Lyra felt the same? Dammit, what were the chances that she, Bon-Bon, felt the same? What if I'm just drawn to her out of desperation? Partly, she knew this wasn't true: she'd met a few - quite a few mares - but with Lyra, it was... different.

And, dammit, dammit, dammit, what were the chances that Lyra didn't have a mare in Canterlot?

Why did she escape? Bon-Bon asked herself, not for the first time since she'd met the wonderful mint mare, her minty mane accentuating the soft green of her coat, her flank slender and smooth to the eye... Bon-Bon's imagination didn't stop at this image. It led her away from the thoughts about Lyra's past - she had to ask her later, if the minty mare was willing to answer - to the impossible - Possible, please, make it possible! Bon-Bon prayed to whatever deity there was; or wasn't - future.

Lyra's tender, soft lips caressing her neck, and meeting her own; her minty tongue - the confectioner was pretty sure that her new assistant's breath was minty - sliding inside her mouth; her hooves massaging her back and flank, going lower and lower...

Bon-Bon's hooves, in the real world, followed her daydreams and slid under the blanket, with which she had conveniently covered herself against the cold of winter.

She imagined them buying a house somewhere in the mountains: a small abode where they could live happily, without being endangered, without fear or adversity. She imagined them spending nights in that house, in every possible way, not bothering to muffle the sounds of ecstasy. Wow, it's getting hot...

"Bon-Bon?"

The cream-coloured mare let out a little shriek that may have just as well possibly not been registered by the unicorn's ears and sat straight up in bed, turning her head towards the source of the voice.

Lyra stood in the doorway, the papers in her telekinetic grip, an unreadable look on her face - though, for a moment, Bon-Bon could swear she saw a glimpse of confusion on the mint mare. Lyra! Didn't they teach you to knock before entering?! Bon-Bon snapped mentally, for a moment, before she ralised that, in her confusion, she had probably forgotten to lock - or even close - the door. And, in the wake of her... activities, she may have just as well not heard Lyra's knocking. One way or another, this was not a matter to discuss, lest the situation become completely awkward.

"I brought you the papers. I'm done with filling out the bills," Lyra said meekly. "Sorry if I woke you up." Yes, because you were obviously just sleeping. With hooves under blanket. And moaning. In your sleep. Probably dreaming of... Aaand stopping right there, Lyra!

"That's all right, don't mention it," Bon-Bon replied, waving her hoof dismissingly as she stood up and straightened herself.  Her eyes seemed to convey the phrase, Seriously. I mean it. Don't. Mention. It.

Lyra seemed to understand that.

The mint mare nodded. "I'll be downstairs. You get your sleep." With that, she left.

Bon-Bon groaned and buried her face in the pillow, again.

Now, though, the urge to fall asleep overwhelmed her, and the mare gave in to the temptation.

***

Lyra released a breath and leaned against the wall behind the counter.

Her eyes closed, she could still see Bon-Bon, her hooves under the blanket. Only now was the image finally sending signals to her body, sleep- and sex-deprived, and to her mind, restricted, self-bounded, gagged on what to think. Or, what not to think.

Why was this mare breaking her composure? Why was she invading the privacy of her mind, with that sexy smile of hers, with that perfect body, not slender, not artificially attractive, but naturally beautiful, with that sweet, inviting demeanour? What was going on with her?

Limit your exposure, Lyra. The chant wasn't working. What was the feeling? Higher love? Unlikely. Desperate attraction? Probably? Love, just love, no strings attached? Maybe.

Lyra lit up a cigarette and let nicotine do its soothing work. Thoughts dispersed just like the thin veil of smoke. This was new, wasn't it? It was what she had wanted so desperately, wasn't it? It was the reason - or, at least, one of the reasons - why she had come to Ponyville, escaping from Canterlot, wasn't it? That was it. That was the question. That was it.

The snow was assaulting Ponyville from all directions: Lyra could feel it. Snowflakes spiralled downwards angrily, striking at the windows, the ground, the passers-by - if there were any - in a sucicidal attempt to keep winter alive. They didn't need to: winter could sustain pretty well by itself, its minions only shaping it up.

Winter would reign for a long time, Lyra thought. It didn't need help. As stately, stative as it was, it wasn't stable: it was wild in its primness, carnal in its elegance, primeval in its high excellence. And she still liked winter. She couldn't hate it for being cruel - or did she just imagine that? She probably did - just like (just as?) she couldn't hate those musicians from the Canterlot bar for being homophobic. It was the nature of life; no, it was just nature. Nature always took its course, with the spring taking charge, and the hopeful summer shedding its sunlit rays on Equestria, and then the autumn reminding them of the real queen of the world - winter. Winter always returned, in due time, and reigned. This was going to be a long winter, Lyra thought, taking a deep drap of her cigarette.

A very long winter.