Paper. It was a bit of a driving force in her life, wasn't it?
Now that she squinted her eyes and looked back on it, the only surprise granted upon her was that she hadn't noticed it earlier. She'd spent long nights red-eyed and clasped in her pink robe, her rear in her seat and the object scattered in front of her like the aftermath of a daycare center. In the light of the kitchen ceiling fan, Octavia would rub at her cheeks with a sigh and stare at what was to be seen.
The fine slip carrying the endless number of zeroes she'd always felt very uncomfortable retrieving from her mailbox, and infinitely moreso taking down to the local bank. A lump quaking in her shivering throat and an empty promise marked in fine black ink fueling a trip to a public place filled with green glares and scrunched noses. If she couldn't call herself lucky for anything else, she could count herself in for not having vomited inside the establishment for the past five years.
The notices on her schedule—usually accompanying the prior document—that told her of future destinations for concerts and other events that she most certainly couldn't miss for the world. A pointing of hooves and a flurry of knife-bladed voices singing to her with her entering the concert hall, the owners of which being ones that she'd rather not have to deal with for this lifetime or the next. Beauty Brass and her absolutely ridiculous sousaphone, or Frederick with his... everything, or Symphony with... she'd much rather not talk about. She could handle anypony else before Symphony could get through to her.
The double-sided, triple-checked, quadruple-paged sheets she slaved over every waking moment she so much as breathed, black dots on thin black lines that informed her what she was doing, how she was going to do it, and when she would do it. A slur here from a low B to a high F. Vigorous sixteenth notes from a quiet, arco piano up to a boisterous, pizzicato fortissimo. Low, fast, fuerte bow strokes that made her appear to simply be running her hooves ineffectively up and down the graceful neck of her beautiful, beloved double bass.
Her mind went to the piece of paper she was sure was still hanging idly over her bedpost, tear marks, ink splotches, and tears marring its life-saving surface, shying and hiding away behind a lovely, expensive, glimmering picture frame. They may have spoken a thousand words, but the paper's contents shouted a million. Gods, she really needed it right now. This whole thing was just becoming a mess...
With a glare to nopony but herself and a swipe across her eyelids from her left cheek to her right, Octavia huffed, sighed, and lightly dropped down onto the docks. She really didn't want to start crying right now.
She was actually relatively glad that the only choice of alcohol on the proclaimed Scuttlebug happened to be rum. She wasn't sure just how much of an emotional wreck she'd become. If anything, she could make a well-educated guess that she'd simply crawl behind a group of barrels and have to be carried back to the hotel by Unicorn magic or black claws.
The last time she'd had rum, it had been some kind of costume party back during her days in the Academy. The night was rather blurry, hard to remember, and so downright volatile that she'd squashed what little she could remember down into the deepest, most solitary parts of her mind to the point that trying to recall it at the moment was like a good dream.
She'd gone as Daring Do, mind. Who the hell wouldn't dress up as Daring Do for Nightmare Night? Twilight Sparkle?
Suffice to say, though, she'd decided to opt on not joining in drunken sea shanties and embarrassing W and the others. Drowning in sorrows wasn't the only thing that could happen up on that ship, and she really didn't want to take part in any of it as long as she lived. So, with a very resolute, not-too-obvious fib, Octavia had excused herself so that she could head out and ask when the train—arriving tomorrow—would arrive. She, apparently, had forgotten, and so needed to make absolutely sure she knew exactly when her trip back home would arrive. W had raised a brow, marveled at the fact that it wasn't displayed anywhere on her ticket, and overall glanced at her suspiciously, but he hadn't pried, and she had escaped.
For now, at the very least.
And now, she had to figure out what she was going to do, and fast, because she was incredibly, genuinely, completely, definitely, surely, honestly losing it right now.
Oh Gods oh hell oh dammit!
What was she going to do? What?! She couldn't just go back and buy another ticket! What if somepony else needed it, and her buying another one only barred them from seeing somepony special on the other side? A sister, or– or– or a wife! A marefriend! Or a coltfriend! Someone important! What if they were sold out anyway? What if she couldn't buy another one? What if she got robbed on her way back to the station, or there had been some kind of crime previously and the whole thing was just taped off now? What if she couldn't?!
What if she couldn't get home?!
"So we going back to the station or what?"
The incredibly unexpected voice from next to her caused her to jump, look sharply in its direction, and immediately glare with the intensity of a thousand dry-heaving suns. Brushing away a few locks of her mane out of her eyes, Octavia straightened her posture and looked the stallion up and down accusingly.
"And just what in the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"
Sesame chuckled to himself, cigarette poking out of his closed, smiling lips. Lighting his horn and magicking it out, he waggled his eyebrows at her and replied, "Just making sure you don't end up purging in the bathroom."
Octavia clenched her jaw.
Sesame shook his head. "You don't want W to know, do you?" He asked at once.
"Not a chance, pal," Octavia instantly replied with a shake of her own.
"So, what, you just plan on pretending you never got a ticket or..."
Octavia quickened her pace a tad, hoping that the stallion would get the message that she was trying to convey. "I plan on..." She trailed off, then gave the top left of her vision a hard, wobbly stare. "...doing something that, maybe, is too confidential for your ears."
"Just tell him a bird ate it or something."
Octavia shook her head, jaw gaping as she murmured to the air, "For the love of the Gods, Sesame..."
The sounds of his now distant hooves increased in volume and quantity. She didn't need to look to her right to know that the Unicorn was smirking at her.
"Damn, you walk fast–"
"I have places to be and no one to see," Octavia instantly interrupted, eyes staring straight forward as she continued trotting back toward the town square. To be fair, she didn't... actually have any semblance of a plan in her head in the slightest. Not to say she couldn't come up with something; she wasn't exactly horrible under pressure.
"Didn't know you were half Zebra, Octavia."
The mare shut her eyes and sucked in a long breath, then opened them so that she didn't bump into anything in front of Sesame. He probably wouldn't let it go. Or he'd tell the others, who in turn wouldn't let it go.
"Just go back and tell him. He'll just go buy you another one, won't he?"
"What, and end up wasting his time for some dumb mare who put her last one in an open zipper?" Octavia asked, looking at the stallion with a sideways glance. This moment of situational awareness helped the mare notice that she and Sesame had officially exited the docks.
"Oh is that what happened?"
Octavia felt heat rise in her cheeks. Sure that Sesame could very easily see the coat of pink amidst the sea of gray, she looked away, stared at the ground, pursed her lips, and shot a dirty look back at him to simply sputter, "Shut up."
"Was that a yes?"
"On your bike, Sesame," Octavia said, flitting a hoof back toward the wooden docks and seagull scat, "I'm going to go back to the hotel and cry in the shower."
Sesame immediately laughed like he'd held a belly full of beer. "So that you can't tell if you're crying or not?"
Octavia snorted. "Blazes, how did you know?"
"Smoker's habit," he replied, rotating the cigarette round and round with his teeth, "we always know what's wrong with someone."
Octavia hummed. "Is that so? What of me, then?"
He barely even let her finish her sentence before he calmly told her, "You feel devastatingly lonely and drink too much."
The mare raised a hoof to tut at him and tell him that he was wrong. The hoof faltered for a very brief second as her eyes widened, but continued as she cleared her throat, pushed her rising feelings back down with the force of a steam train, and spoke, "Not even close, I'm afraid."
Sesame shrugged. "Weeeell, it's hit or miss."
The two ponies now trotted toward nowhere in complete silence, the hustling world around them—and the bustling ponies inhabiting it—going about their day undeterred, as if the attention and companionship of the pair were something it didn't require. Ponies manning four-wheeled stands called to massive crowds standing in front of them, their aproned bodies advertising and recommending their daily goods. The crowds themselves clamored forward, the clanging of bits accompanying their fervent nods and wild smiles. Pony-powered wagons rattled and creaked along the roads, their operators and customers speaking to one another like lifetime old pals. The smell of baked bread, steaming pasta, and fragrant flowers all but assaulted Octavia's nose, causing her to scrunch it up and wish that she was inside her home with the curtains closed and ice cream at hoof.
Her roommate was home if she remembered correctly. Hopefully, she wouldn't eat all the food Octavia had made before she had left. It'd be an incredible bother to try and make it all again. Her hay sandwiches and noodle cups were prized possessions of hers, and if she couldn't have one of either when she stepped through that bloody front door, it was going to actually be bloody.
...
She suddenly grew aware that Sesame was looking her way. She turned to look back at him almost cautiously, then screwed up her face when the stallion turned away from her purple gaze. Mouthing a particularly choice set of words to herself—and any paparazzi that may have been watching her—she squinted, craned her neck back, and faced forward yet again to test something. Sure enough, much to her chagrin, the stallion rotated about and glanced at her yet again, but this time for only half a dozen or so seconds before humming to himself.
Almost amused, she asked, "Did you find what you were looking for?"
Sesame groaned, "Gods I knew you'd say something–"
"Well excuse me if you just so happen to keep glancing my way, and then shy away when I do the same like some sort of grade school filly."
Sesame set his lips in a neutral line for a second, then nodded his head toward her. "Just find it weird you're still wearing that."
Octavia's eyes darted down to her neck, then back up. "I wear my bowtie every day, Sesame. It's Royal Canterlot Symphony attire–"
He looked back at her, raising a hoof and patting his mane, "I mean the– the hat."
She looked up. The bottom of the baseball cap's bill stared back at her. She, in a lower volume than she was used to, cursed to herself.
Sesame gave a breath-crusted laugh. "What? Did you forget you were wearing it?"
Octavia found herself still staring bemusedly up at the article. She'd go cross-eyed if she wasn't careful. "A little, I'll admit."
Again. "It'll happen; trust me."
"To be fair, you were required to wear that sad excuse for a hat every day." She grabbed at her hat's bill and took it off her head. Uncaring of the hat hair she most certainly was currently harboring—for now—she studied the accessory like a math test and showed it to Sesame. "I could very easily just place this on a shelf somewhere, or give it back to W after expressing disapproval."
"True, true," Sesame said, nodding, "but you wouldn't would you?"
"Surely not," Octavia replied, flipping it back over so that its open end faced her. "I rather like it, to be completely honest." She replaced it back over her mane as Sesame watched and then chortled. Curious, she glared at him with pursed lips. "What?"
"You're not even wearing it right."
"Please, there's not a single tantalizing promise that could make me wrestle it around my poor, poor scalp. I find it delightfully comfortable just where it is," Octavia scoffed, absent-mindedly prodding said location. It rested atop her mane right where her ears started, an infinitely better alternative to the death grip she was used to seeing on users of the sort. If Sesame really wanted the mare to look like she were pitching for the Manehattan Merriams, he'd have to see it in his dreams.
...
She really hoped not, actually. Maybe it'd be best if he didn't see it all. Or her at all.
Octavia looked at the stallion, who clearly saw her in his peripherals and shook his head to further emphasize his amusement.
The sounds of their hooves clipping and clopping along the sidewalk thumped in Octavia's ears.
"You're not going back to the hotel, are you?"
"Of course I am, you duffer," Octavia said, shooting the Unicorn a cocked brow, "what else would I be doing?"
Sesame simply pointed a hoof to the mare's left. Octavia looked there.
The Red Baron Hotel stared at her in all its sun-kissed glory from across the street.
Octavia didn't even realize she was still walking until Sesame pointed it out as well.
"You're still walking."
"And you should turn around and do the same," Octavia spat, growling at him. Sesame's chest croaked as he snorted. His following silence her answer, she added, "What did you even tell the others before you left?"
"I was taking a piss."
"You're on a boat, Sesame," Octavia, not really buying it, informed him.
"Seagulls bite hard, Octavia."
"I wouldn't know."
"Your ticket says otherwise–"
Sesame almost tripped onto the sidewalk, aided by the surprise gray hoof having halted his foreleg.
"Rude," he said with a grin.
"Give, receive, you plonker," she replied. Looking forward with a giggle, Octavia's eyes widened for a brief second before she added, "Train station's over there."
"I was right, then," Sesame concluded, doing a little dance as he walked alongside her. If it weren't for his being taller than her and his possible strength underneath all that flannel, she would've strangled him for doing so.
"What else would I do?" Octavia asked with sincerity in her voice. To be honest, any other idea the Unicorn might have brewing up in his nicotine-plagued brain was one she would take, consider, and probably go through with.
As they neared the three-way intersection and stopped at the stoplight, Sesame pitched it.
"Why don't you just hitchhike on the train?"
Octavia prodded the button on the side of the pole with noticeable annoyance. A frown was set on her lips, but it vanished when the previously red pony on the other end of the street turned snow white. She was a little happy that traffic wasn't too busy up here. Replacing her grimace and dipping her head, Octavia glared at Sesame from beneath her brow. "Being cornered by alcohol-drinking, razor-blade-carrying, slumming homeless ponies certainly isn't the way I'd want to go out."
The two walked between the two white lines on the road toward the station as Sesame innocently asked, "You'd fit right in though, wouldn't you?"
"Ha ha, ass," Octavia feigned with a hiss.
"Am I wrong, though?" Sesame inquired as they ascended the step toward the station's booth.
"I don't rightly know. You ever hear of lung rot, Sesame?"
Sesame's mouth formed an 'o' shape. "Oh ho ho, you're cutting deep now. That's screwed up, mare."
"Give, receive," Octavia sang, slowing her pace so she didn't accidentally bump into the kiosk while conversing with Sesame. The stallion in question, staring ahead, widened his eyes, halted in his tracks, and nudged her side with a sucking of his lower teeth. Octavia turned to look at what he'd seen, then craned her neck back, cocked an eyebrow, squinted, brought her neck back to its prior position, pushed it forward, opened her mouth, read what the loosely draping sign in the window said, shot her neck back again, narrowed her eyes even harder, reread what she saw for a second time, frowned, and glared at the gray Earth Pony now in focus in the glass of the kiosk.
Sesame seemed to be a bit slower than she was.
He scratched his chin and elicited a rather disgusting, meaty sound from his goatee. "'Getting lunch. Come back later.'"
Octavia looked up and to her right, finding the large lamppost housing the clock that was the norm at train stations.
"It's one o' clock."
"Yeah?" Sesame asked quizzically as if not noticing the ridiculousness of such a break.
"Who in the world is still eating lunch at one o' clock?"
"Me, some days," Sesame replied almost too quickly.
Octavia glanced back at the clock. The seconds continued to tick away as if life itself hadn't just royally eviscerated her.
Pressing a frown against her cheeks, Octavia stared at the candle burning in her vision a thousand yards away; a bout of screaming, heavy breathing, and bulldog-esque sweating was effectively stalled for the time being. The clock continued to tick silently in her peripherals.
"So, what now?" Sesame asked, throwing his cigarette on the floor and stamping it out.
"First, you pick up your Godsdamned cigarette off the ground." He did so wide-eyed, clearly not expecting such a thing out of her mouth. "Second," she continued in a definitely more cheery tone, "we head back."
She barely turned fully around when Sesame stuttered, "Wh– What, you don't wanna wait for him?"
"Stallion like that probably fancies a dozen boxes of cheeseburgers. He won't be back for awhile." Walking past the stationary Sesame, she splayed her ears back and expected to hear no clever retort, but was painfully reminded that she was with Sesame and not somepony else.
"Remind you of anypony?"
"I will actively attempt to punch you straight in your bloody jaw."
Silence.
"Back to the others?" Sesame asked at last.
"Back to the others," Octavia confirmed, shaking her head and starting the long walk to the docks.