It’s finally here. The Fall Festival. FestiFall. Fucking whatever.
The Running of the Leaves is wrapping up, and you’re waiting at the finish line for Pinkie with all the rest of the non-athletes. She was adamant about showing you around the festival herself, so you’re not going anywhere until she gets here. When you finally spot her skipping at a leisurely pace down the trail, you stand up and brush away the leaves clinging to you.
Pinkie has been extra busy these past couple days with the festival preparations, leaving you without much time to “woo” her like Rarity wanted. And speaking of the drama llama, her advice so far has been… less than helpful. She can’t seem to grasp the idea that romance novels aren’t real life. Thankfully, she was put in charge of some kind of arts and crafts thingy for the younger kids today, meaning you and Pinkie get the whole day to yourselves. Hopefully.
Pinkie hops across the finish line and trots over to you. Her breathing is normal, and she isn’t flushed from exertion like all the other participants you’ve seen. She looks like she just stepped out of Sugarcube Corner.
“Hey, Nonny,” she greets warmly, hugging your midsection. “Did you see me win?”
You return the hug, allowing yourself to get lost for a moment in her soft fur and the smell of freshly baked goods that seems to follow her everywhere. Her words finally register in your mind as you let go.
“You got first?” you ask skeptically. Did you hallucinate Dash’s victory? If that’s the case, you also hallucinated her five-minute victory dance and the two dozen other ponies that crossed after that.
Pinkie motions you to follow and starts walking in the direction of the festival.
“First pony to come in twenty-third today,” she says with a cheerful smugness only she can manage. “The prize for that is way better than a medal.”
You snort quietly and fall into step beside her, your normal pace being similar to hers despite the size difference. “What kind of prize do you get for twenty-third?”
“I get you,” she bumps her flank against your leg, her tail wrapping around it playfully.
You can’t keep the smile off your face. You don’t deserve this wonderful pink horse. “And what would you get if you came in twenty-fourth?” you ask her.
“Also you!”
“Of course. What about first?”
“Still you, but I also get a medal!”
“You know, I’m starting to think this race was rigged.”
“What makes you say that?” Pinkie flutters her eyelashes up at you.
You stifle a chuckle. “Just a hunch, I guess. So, how’s it feel to be a winner, Miss Pie?”
“It feels good, Nonners,” she says, puffing out her chest. “It feels real good.”
As you enter the festival grounds, you find yourself surrounded by a wide assortment of tents, booths, stages, and more. Orange and yellow streamers crisscross above your head, fluttering gently in the breeze. Lively music is carried through the air by a combination of speakers and magic. It’s like someone put a carnival, a ren faire, and a bunch of magical horses into a blender and kicked it over mid-blend.
Some might say it’s messy and disorganized, but you know better. When Pinkie plans things, there’s always a method to the madness. You have yet to figure out what that method is, but you know it exists.
You continue to follow Pinkie past a number of pumpkin-related competitions and standard carnival games. She suddenly stops in front of a bright red booth run by a mare wearing a fake mustache and top hat. There is a wall of balloons behind her and a small pile of darts on the counter. Seeing balloons and darts in the same location, your advanced human intellect kicks into overdrive. With the information presented, you quickly come to the conclusion that this is a game of balloon darts.
As you congratulate yourself for being so smart, Pinkie steps forward and turns to lock eyes with you, her gaze burning with a sudden intensity. You’ve seen this look before. You know exactly what she’s thinking.
She thinks she can beat you.
You both nod to the mustachioed mare, who presents five darts to each of you and steps away with a flourishing bow. You roll the first dart between your fingers, feeling the weight and balance. You smirk at Pinkie. She smirks right back. You both take aim. Throw.
It’s not even close. Using your longer arms and dexterous fingers to your advantage, you sling dart after dart with laser-like precision, each one whistling through the air as it closes in on its target. You manage to pop two balloons. Pinkie gets six. With five darts.
Many of the other games go pretty much the same way. You keep thinking your opposable thumbs will help you win, but then one of two things happens. One: Pinkie wins because she can ignore probability at will. Or two: Pinkie wins because you frankly suck ass at these games. Either way, she always gives her prizes to the next colt or filly she sees. It’s heartwarming for sure, but you’re more appreciative of the fact that she isn’t carrying around the evidence of your losing streak.
When lunchtime rolls around, you follow Pinkie to a relatively open space where picnic tables have been set up in front of a semicircle of food vendors. As the both of you approach, one of the vendors smiles and waves at Pinkie, one hoof pulling a metal basket out of a deep fryer.
“Nonny,” Pinkie says, gesturing to the stallion, “this is Fryer Tuck.”
Sometimes you really hate pony land. You can’t decide if this guy makes it better or worse.
“Tuck, this is Nonny. He’s the one I was talking about yesterday.”
Tuck gives you an appraising look. You smile awkwardly at him. Seeming to find nothing objectionable, he returns his attention to Pinkie.
“So, Pinkie,” he chuckles, “I guess you want the, uhh...” He glances at you. “The special thing we talked about?”
“Yes, please!” Pinkie nods vigorously and turns to you. “Save me a seat, Nonny,” she says, nudging you off towards a table.
You sigh to yourself and find a table, resigned to the fact that you won’t know what the “special thing” is until Pinkie tells you. You didn’t get a chance to order any food, so you can only assume it’s something to eat. You hope it’s not fried ice cream.
Pinkie returns a couple minutes later carrying a tray with a single plate on it. The plate is covered by multiple paper towels, giving you no visual indication of what it might be, though it does smell somewhat familiar. She sets the covered plate on the table just out of reach and sits across from you, giggling to herself.
“Is that our food?” you ask hopefully.
“Nope!” Pinkie grins, then corrects herself. “Well, kind of. It’s food for you, but I wanna save it for last.”
Last? What are you eating first? You scan the table for any food items you somehow missed. Nothing. While you’re waving your arm across the table to check for invisible food, Pinkie reaches into her mane and pulls out a lunch box.
That somehow makes more sense.
“I made peanut butter sammiches!” she exclaims, holding one out to you. You take it and see some peanut butter and jelly leaking out. “It’s grape, but I also have different jelly if you want.”
She starts pulling out more sandwiches than the box could possibly hold, naming each one as she does. Grape, apple, strawberry, orange, peach, and a dozen other kinds of jelly you didn’t know existed.
You hold out a hand to stop her. “I’m good with this, thanks.”
“Okie dokie lokie!”
To your mild confusion, Pinkie doesn’t pack the sandwiches away, instead putting the lunchbox back into her mane and leaving the extra sandwiches in front of her. You realize with a growing sense of dread that those aren’t extra sandwiches at all. With no warning, Pinkie swiftly and efficiently devours every single one in less than a minute, leaving no trace of her crimes against nature.
“Where do you even put all that?” you say under your breath.
“My hollow leg,” Pinkie replies without hesitation.
You pretend you didn’t hear that and bite into your own sandwich. It’s pretty good, not that you’d expect any different. Pinkie could put a bowl of dirt in the oven and still have it come out tasting like cake.
You scarf it down quicker than you normally would, eager to see what the mystery food is. As you reach for the plate, your hand is slapped away by a pink hoof.
“Not yet,” Pinkie lightly chastises. “Let me explain first.” You make a show of nursing your hand with a hurt expression as she continues. “Okay, so I remember you don’t- Oh, stop it, I barely tapped it, ya goob. Anyway, you don’t like hay fries, right?”
“Nope, can’t even eat ‘em.”
“And I remember you telling me about a similar food that you really, really liked in your world, except it was made with potatoes.”
“Yes,” you say slowly. Did she…?
“Weeell,” she draws the word out, “I asked Tuck if he could try something new for me, aaand-” She yanks the covering off the plate. “Ta-da! France fries!”
She did. She really did. And she called them France fries, too. That’s so goddamn adorable.
You take a closer look. They are technically fries, you suppose, just really fat ones. There are six of them, each about the size of a stick of sidewalk chalk. The smell of clogged arteries and a diet coke fills your nose.
“Pinkie, I…”
“Shhh.” She picks up a fry and slowly pushes the entire thing into your mouth. It barely fits. “How is it?”
After you manage to chew a few times, it’s even better than you expected. It could use a little salt, but otherwise it tastes just as deliciously unhealthy as you remember.
You give Pinkie a thumbs-up, not remembering if the gesture translates to pony. She seems to get the message, though, her smile stretching even further. Your own smile grows against your will, making it harder to chew. Some of the mush in your mouth almost slips out as your lips curve upward, causing Pinkie to nearly fall out of her seat laughing.
You finish the entire plate in short order. Pinkie declines your offer to share, saying she got them just for you, so all six megafries make their way into your stomach, leaving you feeling full and satisfied.
“Thank you, Pinkie,” you say with all the sincerity you can muster. “Really. That was just like...”
All the good memories of home come rushing back.
…
…
Good memories. Rushing back. Any second now.
…
…
…
Actually, when you stop and think about it, home kinda sucked. It’s way better in magical pony land.
“It was just like what, Nonny?” Pinkie asks, her eyes shimmering with curiosity.
“Just like… my world,” you finish with a bittersweet sigh. Not home. Home is here now.
You spend a queasy moment trying not to barf. Either that thought was so gay it made you sick, or the grease in your gut isn’t settling well. Probably a little bit of both. Either way, the moment passes without issue.
As you stand up, Pinkie follows suit and once again wraps her tail around your leg. Somehow. You don’t want to think too hard about it.
“Where to next?” you ask.
Pinkie gives you a sideways glance. “Sorry, Nonny, can't tell you yet. No spoiling the surprises, not even for you.”
“Wait, there are more surprises?” She gave you France fries, what else could she possibly do?
You suddenly realize that’s a very dangerous question to ask.
“Of course there’s more!” Pinkie exclaims. “I have to make your first FestiFall super duper special!”
You cringe a little as she says it aloud. “I’ve been having a great time so far, but that name is…”
“Yeah, the name is kinda silly,” Pinkie laughs. “I like it, though.”
As you allow yourself to be led to an unknown destination, your thoughts wander in circles around your virtually nonexistent plan to achieve pink ponk gf. If Pinkie has more surprises planned for you, maybe you can use that. She’ll do a bunch of surprises for you, and at the end of it all, you can say you have your own surprise for her, and then… What? Say you love her? Give her a kiss?
“Go with your gut,” your inner voice says.
My gut is full of greasy potato right now.
“Then give her the ol’ greasy potato.”
What does that even mean?
“You know exactly what it means.”
Aren’t you supposed to be the helpful part of me?
“Bro, I’m not even real.”
“Nonny!” Pinkie halts your intellectual duel with yourself by tugging on your leg. You realize you’ve been standing in place staring at nothing. “Come on, slowpoke! We got stuffs to do!”
“Right, sorry.”
Despite your earlier nerves, you’re slowly becoming more and more comfortable with the idea of telling Pinkie you love her. It feels like the most natural step to take.
It feels… right.