It had started raining. When, exactly, Twilight isn't sure; but now as she stands on the step, arms wrapped tight around herself, she shivers. It isn't the warm, sleepy rain of a summer night. It's cold, hard, and unrelenting. Fat drops roll like ice down her shirt, down her boots, seeping through to her bones. She can hardly see through the water running over her glasses, but she can hear the clouds rumbling with thunder, and the rain drumming into the ground until all Twilight can hear is the roar of an ocean in her ears.
She supposes this is what it feels like to disappear. Her fingers have gone numb, clasped against her sweater. Her legs are locked, her lips slick with water. She almost wants to fade, to get lost in the melting world of greys. But Twilight reaches her hand forward, pressing her finger hard against the doorbell. She counts one, two, three, before releasing. The wind holds its breath.
There's a thud from the other side of the door. Then a trill and clear "Coming!" that has Twilight blinking fast, swallowing hard. The door swings open and—Pinkie.
She's standing there an oversized onesie—pale pink with tiny poodles—her hair a messy halo around her head. She cocks her head, curls bouncing, her eyes telling of a day of meandering laziness. They shine bright, like the sky blocked by the clouds, and then they crinkle up at the ends, smiling. She opens her arms wide, and Twilight lets herself finally fall, enveloped in a familiar warmth, tucking her head into the crook of her neck, breathing in deeply the scent of candy. The water leaves her lungs.
Pinkie closes the door tight, pushing Twilight's sopping wet form closer to her. It's at an uncomfortable angle; Twilight's back twinges and she almost inhales a strand of pink hair, but—its nice. Actually, better than nice. She doesn't want to let go.
But eventually Twilight has to, and she glances down at their interlocked hands. Pinkie's shirt is painted with a large, fresh water stain across her chest and stomach. Twilight hisses out a sharp breath through her teeth, itching to dry it off, to apologize, to do something. It used to be warm, and dry, and safe and now Twilight's gone and ruined it.
The chest shakes silently, and Twilight looks up to Pinkie laughing, hand clamped over her mouth. A snort slips out, which only makes her laugh harder. Twilight stares at her for a moment, her fingers drawing back from the wet fabric before she feels her own lips twitching up. Leave it to Pinkie to find humor in the strangest things.
"You!" Pinkie gasps, arms flailing. Her cheeks darken further, and she sucks in a deep breath. "You," she tries again, "crack me up." Her grin is infectiously wide as she turns on her heel.
"I do?" Twilight squeaks out, trailing after Pinkie as she ducks into her bedroom. Imagine that. She hadn't been trying to crack anyone up.
"All the time, Sparky!" Pinkie calls back, emerging from around the corner with a pile of clothes balanced in her arms. "Ice cream or puppies?"
Twilight blinks slowly, and for a single terrifying moment, she fears this girl is offering her dogs to eat. Thankfully—she lets out a sigh of relief; she knows Pinkie isn't that weird—she spots the little designs printed on the pajamas she's handed. She gets the dogs. "Too late. Ice cream, I choose you!" Pinkie sings, and she looks so proud of herself that Twilight has to give a nod in response, quietly mulling over the number of onesies a person should ever be allowed to own.
Twilight looks down at the onesie in her own hands, resisting the urge to bury her face in it because that would be weird, right? Even if her legs are shaking, and she can't breathe all that well, and it smells a lot like Pinkie. She instead digs her nails into the fabric, and her eyes find Pinkie across the room, stripping out of her wet clothes. She's humming an off-key tune and facing the other way as she changes, but she doesn't seem shy in the least bit.
Twilight swallows hard and folds her arms across her small breasts. She's always despised changing clothes in the gym locker rooms back in high school. Oh, she knew that no one was really looking at the scrawny, pale girl in the corner, but she could never shake the jittery, crawl-into-your-bed-and-hide kind of vulnerability. So, she just skipped the locker rooms and wore her gym tank top and sweatpants to school.
But no one else is here except Pinkie. And somehow, the thought doesn't scare her as much. Sighing, Twilight quickly pulls her shirt up over her head, tugging herself into the sleeves as she wiggles out of her skirt. When she manages to zip up the pajamas, she almost cries. Well, perhaps that isn't right. She feels overwhelmed and different and relieved, but most of all she feels warm. The clothes are, as expected, a couple sizes too big. The pool around at her feet and hands, but Twilight deems them perfect anyway.
"So..." Pinkie begins as Twilight joins her on the couch. The couch is, quite frankly, ugly and lumpy, something Twilight had accidentally remarked upon a while ago. Pinkie stared at her as if she had a second head, before patting the couch and whispering, "Yeah, but I love it." Twilight couldn't disagree.
"What're you in the mood for tonight, Sparky? A trashy, heart-stopping romance? A classic thriller? A comedy—"
"Something with a happy ending?" Twilight interrupts, quiet. Pinkie stops, her mouth still hanging open. Twilight reaches out a tentative finger and closes it gently.
Pinkie softens, her eyes sparkling. "Yeah, I think I know just the one."
Twilight lets her eyes fall closed as she listens to Pinkie click through different movies, muttering under her breath. "Ah, there it is!" The music starts up, and Twilight can feel as the couch shifts and Pinkie moves to turn off the lights. The blue glow of the TV screen shines through her eyelids. "Trust me, you're gonna love this one," Pinkie whispers, still loud as if they're in a movie theater. "It's a classic; I know all the lines." She clears her throat. "Like 'Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed—"'
Twilight tunes the rest out, too busy finding a comfortable position against Pinkie's shoulder, which isn't all that difficult. Her hair makes for a nice cushion. Pinkie keeps talking, but Twilight doesn't interrupt her. It's calming, in a way, to hear her ramble on. Although almost anyone else would beg to differ, Twilight can't find it in her heart to be annoyed.
It's always been like this. Which is why she first came to Pinkie, on that one night where she felt especially lost. She was balancing on the edge of something dangerous. She is always balancing. Twilight's life is a careful act of putting one foot in front of the other, arms out by her sides. It isn't easy. Some days, she almost falls over. Almost wants to. That one night led her to Pinkie's apartment.
In all honesty, Twilight didn't have a clue what she was doing. She had sprinted from her house in the middle of the night, heart in her throat, running almost blinding to a place she had only been at once before. Was Pinkie even home? And if she was, what was she expected to do? Give her a cupcake and send her on her way? The longer Twilight thought about it, the sicker she felt. She hunched over on the step, rubbing vigorously at her eyes. Her head swam. But if she didn't do this, she was terrified at what she might do if left to her own devices. She jerked her body to the side and retched into a bush. Her veins felt like they ran with fire.
Straightening up, Twilight wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, adjusting her glasses. This feeling was, admittedly, less frightening than the sickening and absolute emptiness she had become acquainted with. She took a deep breath of the cool, dark air. Since meeting Sunset and the other girls during senior year, she had grown closer to each of them. But it was never close enough. She was the seventh wheel. But Pinkie... Pinkie never left her alone long enough to even think such thoughts. Whenever they get together, Pinkie would usher her from the corner, convince her to sing karaoke, try a couple beers, and dance with the others until she fell down from delirious exhaustion. That was the only time she had ever been to Pinkie's apartment, who had been celebrating her freedom from her parents and Canterlot High. She hardly hung out with Pinkie, just one on one. But now...
Twilight raised her hand, knocking it against hard the door until her knuckles burned and stung. Please. Please. The seconds ticked by painfully slow.
The door creaked open, a pink face poking around like an animal from hibernation, eyes squinted around lines of sleep wrinkles. "Twi?" she mumbled. Her gut curled with guilt as Pinkie blinked the sleep away, her oversized shirt sliding down a shoulder. "What's wrong?"
Twilight clenched her teeth, averting her gaze to her feet. "I..." Her voice came out barely above a whisper. She cleared her throat, tried again. "I just... I'm sorry. I couldn't s-sleep, I mean—" She cut herself off, swallowing around a lump. It wasn't a lie, exactly, but God, did it sound pathetic. She dared a look up. Pinkie was staring at her, her gaze careful and calculating. Twilight dug her nails into her palms. She was transparent.
The door finally swung open all the way, and Pinkie stepped back to let her in. She pulled her giant poof of bed-mussed hair up into a sloppy ponytail, her mouth set into a thin line. She didn't say anything, just took Twilight's trembling in her own warm one, tugging her past the couch (ugly) and into a smaller room branching off of a hallway.
The room was a blinding shade of pink, almost identical to Pinkie's skin, and such an absolute mess that it sent Twilight's OCD into a fit. An entire left wall seemed to be dedicated to an army of fluffy, stuffed ponies, another to silly photos of the girls. A king-sized bed sat in the center of the room, overflowing with frill and lace and feather pillows. Twilight never wanted to leave.
Pinkie pulled her onto the bed and flopped down, sending the pillows flying in all directions. Twilight scarcely avoided one to the head.
When all had settled, and Pinkie and Twilight were properly drowning in over-saturated silk blankets, Pinkie spoke. "Hey," she said. Uncharacteristically soft. Twilight was silent. "Hey," Pinkie repeated louder. A face hovered close above Twilight's, eyebrows drawn tight. Twilight breathed in through her nose.
"Yes?"
"Are you okay?"
Twilight wanted to say Yes. That's what she always said. She was fine. That was what people expected to hear, what people wanted to hear. It was always a lie, of course. Twilight opened her mouth, then closed it. Pinkie didn't deserve a lie.
"No," she said calmly. But her body shook anyway. She started to cry. Broken, wracking sobs that had been building up finally forced their way out, hot tears slipping down her cheeks, the taste bitter on her lips. Pinkie was on top of her in a second, smothering her in a hug, which only made Twilight cry harder. She couldn't stop, even though she desperately wanted to. She got in a shallow breath, pulling her glasses off and burying herself in Pinkie's hair, choking back a scream. "No!" she gasped, loudly. Too loud. "No, no, no, no." Pinkie tightened around her. She was an infant, inconsolable and fussy. The tears came faster.
It felt like she laid there for hours, crying until her voice was raw and hoarse, and her limbs hung like weights. Every time she thought she might be done, another wail would burst out. Pinkie hadn't said a word, but she hadn't lifted her head up from the pillow, either.
Twilight felt drained. Like all the water had left her body. She was sure if she were to take a knife and draw the blade up her wrist (no, don't think of that) no blood would fall. Empty. Cleansed.
"I want to show you something." Pinkie's hair fell across half of her face, drawn and pale, her eyes closed. Opened, they were red and shining with unnatural light. She heaved herself up and walked across the room, reaching up and slowly unpinning a piece of paper from a bulletin board. Twilight watched on, breathing out ever so carefully. She was afraid to speak, in case it would shatter this moment and snap it back to reality, where Pinkie would turn her away in disgust; ask what's wrong with you? What was wrong with her?
She fumbled around in the sheets for her glasses and slipped them over her ears with shaking hands. Pinkie was clearer. She held out the piece of paper, lined and wrinkled, as she sunk back down in the mattress.
"This is a list of stuff that helps me when I'm feeling kinda mopey," she said, shaking it around until Twilight grabbed it. "It's all the things that I love in the world and that make me happy." She paused. "I mean, there are a lot of things that make me happy, but that would be the longest list in existence, so I just..."
Twilight nodded. Or maybe she only thought she did. She scanned the scribbled words on the page.
My friends. Parties. Smiles. Laughter. Cupcakes. Gummy. Blue skies. Cotton candy. Hugs. Kisses. Stars. Magic. Ponies. Pumpkins. Kittens. Puppies. My friends.
She read it again. "I—" Her voice broke. "I like these." What else was she supposed to say?
Pinkie made a noise, like a sigh and a laugh. "Me too." She reached over, a purple marker poised between her fingers. "I just wanted to add one more thing..." Pinkie spelled out in huge, swooping letters: TWILIGHT. Then she circled it. Underlined it. Doodled hearts around it. Twilight was quiet. Surely her name shouldn't be that... loud, if there at all. She fit quietly and perfectly into "my friends". She was content with being a collective noun.
She startled when the list was pulled away from her grasp, and replaced with a fresh sheet of paper. Pinkie handed over the marker. "Could you make your own?"
Make her own list? Of things that made her happy? Twilight blinked. Her fingers itched to write down 'nothing'. But that was terrible. She just had to think. "Come on," Pinkie encouraged. "What do you really enjoy?" Twilight bit her lip, then wrote the first thing that came to mind. Coffee.
Pinkie beamed. "Yeah, yeah, okay, that's good," she said, even though Twilight knew it wasn't. She kept going.
Books. Words. Math. School. (No, scratch that.) Sunsets. Hot cocoa. Warm blankets. Vanilla.
She stopped, marker hovering. It was pathetically short in comparison to Pinkie's. Pinkie seemed happy with it, though. "Ooh yum, I love vanilla, too!" Twilight realized, perhaps belatedly, that Pinkie kinda smelled like vanilla. She hesitated for a moment, before scrawling PINKIE across the whole bottom of the page. She circled it. Underlined it. Drew hearts around it. It didn't look so bad anymore.
"Great." Pinkie squeezed Twilight's arm tight. "That's great."
Twilight is laying in popcorn. Pinkie had found it necessary to combine three packets of kernels into one massive bowl, cover it in chocolate and syrup, and then hold it beside her lap on the couch. Every time anything remotely interesting, scary, or funny happened, Pinkie would jump in excitement, spilling popcorn in every direction, incoherently screaming something around a mouthful. At first, Twilight had screamed as well. Now, she lays on her new spot on Pinkie's lap, resigned to her fate of sugary popcorn hair.
She watches Pinkie more than she does the movie, though. Now, Pinkie holds her hands close to her chest, eyes closed as she soulfully mouths the words. ''You mock my pain,'" she whispers, voice high and airy. Deeper, nose tilted up. "'Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.'"
Twilight smiles.
"Okay, what's next?"
Twilight squinted down at the heavy book in her lap, tucking her feet underneath her from her perch on the counter. "1 and a 1/2 sticks butter," she read out. She adjusted her glasses. "Wow," she muttered. "That's... a lot of butter."
"Yup!" Pinkie cried, twirling around in her socks. "But it's gonna be great!" She did a little dance as she creamed the butter. "The art of snicker-doodling is never what one expects." This was said as though reciting a bible passage or quoting a gifted mind.
Twilight pursed her lips and cleared her throat over the whir of the beaters. Who was she to question? "Okay! Next step!"
Pinkie had been right. They were great. Twilight had never eaten such cookies. They sat on the floor, Pinkie laying out flat on her stomach as she munched on what must have been her 7th cookie. Twilight was cross-legged, taking measured bites of her second. When a curl of anxiety started to creep up in her belly, the cinnamon warmth of the snickerdoodle would chase it away.
Twilight swallowed, fingering a stray tuff of carpet. "Thank you," she started. This was the third time she had shown up at Pinkie's place unannounced. Pinkie lifted her head up a fraction from the floor, mid-chew.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you," Twilight repeated, heat crawling up on her ears. "For letting me come over. For the cookies. For everyt—"
"Of course! No problem!" Pinkie interrupted, nodding vigorously. "What kind of friend would I be if I didn't?" She laid her hand out on Twilight's thigh. "But you don't ever have to thank me again. For this. This..." she trailed off, wrinkling her nose. Twilight studied her, both of them silent for a minute.
"Really," Pinkie added suddenly, moving her hand up to grab Twilight's. She gave her fingers a little, comforting squeeze. Twilight stiffened. The action was similar to something her mom used to do during one of Twilight's many panic attacks.
"Twilight," she would say, bending down on a knee, "Take my hand and hold it tight. Now breathe, squeeze, release. Breathe—see, you got it!" Twilight willed away the tears welling up, and she squeezed back.
"Sparky, you awake?" Twilight stirs at the sound, rubbing at her eyes. She props herself up on her elbows, threads of sleep still clinging like cobwebs. Pinkie is looking down at her expectantly, so she clears her throat. "Yes?" Granted, she hadn't been, but now she is, so does it really matter?
Pinkie grins. "Okay, good," she says, setting back down on the couch. "Just making sure." Her gaze falls back to the light of the TV. Twilight yawns from her position on Pinkie's lap, before squinting up at her.
"Why?"
Pinkie laughs around a mouth full of popcorn. "'Cause there isn't much point of us watching a movie if it's only me. I like spending time with Twilight when she's alive and awake, y'know?" She winds her finger around the strands of hair loose from Twilight's bun. Twilight shifts so she can see the screen better.
Yeah, she knows.
It was one of Twilight's better days. Which she knew was an odd thing to think about. Most people only kept track of the bad days, the ones few and far between. But Twilight counted the good. She stuck her tongue against the inside of her cheek, clicking her pen a couple times for good measure. If she didn't think about it too much, the pressure in her chest was minimal. She took a deep breath, tilting her head up. "Is it; 'Hippos are way better than sharks at swimming?' she guessed.
Pinkie laughed, her flushed cheeks puffing out. She hung upside down off the side of her bed, her socked feet ever so occasionally kicking Twilight's glasses off her face. "No!" she said, in the tone of voice that implied there was an unsaid 'silly Sparky' at the end. She pulled herself up on the bed, leaning forward to follow the writing with her finger, "It says 'Hippos are way better than sharks at sword fighting', duh."
Twilight bit her lip over a smile. "Right, duh." It was an absolutely ridiculous sentence, but Pinkie was the best at coming up with those.
"Now, your turn." Pinkie said, flopping back upside down. "Something nice and fluffy!" Twilight nodded, though Pinkie couldn't see her. She hunched over and began to slowly print strings of 1's and 0's. There wasn't any sentence that would fool Pinkie, though. Twilight had been growing familiar with binary code over the past couple months, and had decided to show Pinkie whenever she came over, because why not? It was something that she liked. It made sense. She hadn't expected Pinkie to immediately pick it up in less than a day, eager to read and write in the code. She may have misjudged Pinkie's intelligence upon first meeting her. Needless to say, Twilight had been impressed.
Twilight sat back on her knees, looking over her work. At first glance, the writing was unassuming. The meaning doesn't immediately click in your mind, like how it works with words. They were just numbers. As dorky as it was (according to Rainbow Dash) Twilight felt a connection to numbers, be it math or a computer code. Numbers had a right or wrong answer, plain and simple. No grey area. But with a quick flash of her glasses, the numbers transformed into something she understood.
A cat will blink slowly at someone to show love and trust.
An interesting fact she had picked up while reading at the library ten years ago. In binary, it nearly filled up the entire page. She handed it over to Pinkie, watching as Pinkie scanned the numbers before her face lit up. She jerked back up on the bed, gasping out a laugh. "'Cute and fluffy!'" she repeated, smacking the paper as she rocked forward. "Oh, you're a hoot!" Huh.
Pinkie pulled Twilight into a quick embrace, shaking her head around wildly. Then she pulled back a couple inches, staring directly into Twilight's eyes. Twilight quirked an eyebrow, squirming a bit under her gaze. Pinkie slowly closed her eyes, and then reopened them. When Twilight didn't respond, reasonably perplexed, Pinkie only repeating the action. "Come on, Sparky," she said, giggling, before trying to school her face into a serious expression. She wanted her to... oh! Twilight leveled her head back at Pinkie and blinked, as directly as possible, feeling just a little foolish.
Pinkie hands flew up to her cheeks and she laughed, delighted. She raised her eyebrows at Twilight, lips curling up. "Meow," she said. Then louder. "Meow!" Twilight pulled back an inch, something bubbling up inside of her. "Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow!" And she burst out laughing. Maybe it was the way Pinkie was tucking her chin down, jutting it every time she meowed. Maybe it was the absolute manic grin or her wild hair. But Twilight found herself clutching at her stomach, doubled over and cackling. It was a completely disgusting sound, but it egged Pinkie on, whose squealing increased in frequency and pitch.
"Stop, stop, stop!" Twilight wheezed, not really meaning it. Laughter like this left her out of control and out of breath, but she didn't really mind it. The tears leaking from her eyes were different.
The credits roll up on the screen just as Twilight is finishing her popcorn. It's horrible, but she can't stop. Pinkie claps loudly, letting out a couple whistles, which really isn't necessary since the actors aren't here. "What did you think?" Pinkie asks when she has finished applauding. "Good, right?" Truth is, Twilight hadn't actually seen the entirety of it, nor had she been as attentive as Pinkie. But she had been drawn in at the end. It was a happy ending, wrapping up all the loose ends and pain. It was satisfying, no matter how unrealistic.
"Yes," Twilight replies, licking her lips of sugar. Movies always leave her feeling weird. Detached. She has to pull herself away from the character's lives and remind herself of her own. She never wants to. She yawns.
"You ready for bed?"
Twilight grapples for her phone. The screen reads 1:45. God, is she tired. She wants nothing more than to bury herself beneath Pinkie's covers and snuggle against her body heat until she loses consciousness. She can't seem to get up from the couch, though. Trying to fall asleep means being alone. With her thoughts. She must be gripping her phone too tightly, because Pinkie eases it out of her fingers.
"Hey," Pinkie says, her hands are cool against Twilight's cheek. Twilight doesn't move. Pinkie hands move down to the inside of her wrist (don't look, don't look, don't look) and she traces the tip of her finger in a light circle. No, a zero. Then she makes a one. Then another. Another. She keeps going, trailing all the way up her shoulder. Twilight holds her breath until she gets to the last number. She forces herself to remember the pattern.
We... Are... Okay.
Twilight stiffens. Pinkie brings herself impossibly close, her hug of marshmallows and of vanilla. Twilight hugs back, as tight as she can, silent tears spilling over her cheeks. She screws her eyes shut, chest heaving. She thinks of the folded, old paper in her pocket, reminding her every day of things to love. Things that make her happy. 10X longer than when she had started. She thinks of her friends. She thinks of onesies and cookies. She thinks of the ghost of a touch lingering over her healing scars. But most importantly, she thinks of Pinkie.
Yes. I am.