//------------------------------//
// Bottoms Up 
// Story: All Bottled Up, Like a Fine Vintage 
// by TheCrystalRing 
//------------------------------//

No matter how many times he rolls into this podunk town, Flim can’t get used to the way the sugar-sweet air seems to stick in every open space of his face. He can practically feel cavities forming in his teeth (at least, in what teeth are still his). But that’s to be expected with Ponyville—the entire town is cloyingly saccharine, down to its core. And it only got worse after that school was put in. All of it’s enough to make a stallion sick!
He wouldn’t be here at all if his wares didn’t sell so well, and ah, bits didn’t care about petty things like bad memories or negative emotions, did they?
Yet the sun is setting over the horizon of thatched roofs, and ponies aren’t so willing to give up their cash when night falls, he’s found. But there’s just enough time to ruse one more fool out of their money. And so, readjusting the briefcase on his back once again, Flim approaches this last building.
Admittedly, the building he chose is rather strange looking. Consisting of several levels, the top tier is stylized to look like a giant… cupcake. A sign with a matching dessert upon it swings in the evening breeze to the right of the building. Great, a bakery of some sort. Flim makes a mental note to call his dentist as soon as he leaves town.
Regardless, he raises a hoof to rap on the magenta door once, twice, thrice. He pastes on his award-winning, patent-pending smile, and waits.
A minute passes, then two. As the third minute approaches, Flim considers knocking again before leaving entirely; a con-stallion’s patience knows some limits, after all. But finally, there are some clanking sounds from within, followed by a particularly loud thunk. A curse, and then—
“Now, you all should know that Sugarcube Corner is closed on Sundays, been that way for almost a year!” An approaching voice calls out. Male, usually a harder sell. “I shouldn’t even bother answering the door, but you get soft at my age.”
The top half of the door swings in, then, and a yellow Earth pony fills the space. Silver hair sprouts from his head and hangs in his green eyes in shaggy bangs. Equally gray hair grows across his squared jaw in stubble well past the five o’clock shadow stage. And freckles are scattered across his face in a way someone who wasn’t trying to wheel-and-deal him could call cute. But great, an old fart. Maybe only older than Flim by a decade or two, but that’s enough in his mind.
"Oh, sorry, you're not who I expected!" Said old fart then squints at Flim in a way that borders on pensive—never good for a sale. "But who are you, anyway? Don't remember seeing you around these parts."
There's Flim's in.
"Why, salutations and good evening, dear sir! I thank you for sparing some of your time to talk with me this evening—you may call me Flim Skim!"
The last word still sticks heavy to his tongue, even now. 
Still, Flim widens his grin a smidge and reaches his foreleg over the threshold of the door. "May I ask whose acquaintance I'm making?"
The old fart only hesitates a moment before shaking Flim's outstretched hoof—a good sign. "Mr. Carrot Cake, I own this establishment. You can just call me Carrot, though. You don't look much younger than me, so no need for such formalities."
Flim fights to keep a smile on his face. How old did this geezer think he is? Sure, silver has joined the red and white of his mane in a sizable amount, and he knows for a fact his miracle tonics can't clear the wrinkles and bags under his eyes, but still! However, a business-stallion never loses his cool, even under pressure.
But sometimes, Flim can’t help but wish he could be as good at keeping his head as he was, back in the day.
Nevertheless, the grin stays in place as Flim launches into his spiel. “Well, Carrot, my good stallion, today is your lucky day! I’m here to offer you the chance of a lifetime…”
Flim makes a spectacle out of levitating the briefcase forward. Once he is sure Carrot is looking at the case, the lid opens to reveal—
“Yessir, you can be the lucky owner of a vintage, and might I mention versatile, set of playing cards from the world-famous Flim Skim Casino and Resort! In fact, you can have even more than that! Carrot, I’m offering you a chance to own not one, but two decks, as a limited-time deal!”
Green magic takes hold of one of the card boxes and slides the deck inside out. All fifty-two cards begin to float around Flim, gently spinning or waving around. Usually, this is where his audience starts oohing or ahhing; having enough magical dexterity to control fifty-two individual objects is no small feat for the average pony.
But Carrot is peering up at the cards with a certain look in his eyes that makes Flim nervous. “Good sales chatter, but the corners of the cards are all cut. Care to explain that to this good stallion, Flim Skim?”
Teeth gnaw at the inside of Flim’s cheek. His targets normally don’t notice that particular detail. Who did this old stallion think of himself as? But no, this is easy enough to salvage.
“I’m glad you asked!” Flim takes one of the cards in between his hooves, and points at the emblem upon the back. “Y’see, these decks were once live on the gambling floor of Flim Skim Casino and Resort, and when live decks are retired, we clip the corners of the cards to make sure they don’t get mixed back into circulation at the casino. Functional, plus it gives them a rugged appearance, much like yourself! Only 100 bits for the whole group, what do you say?”
Carrot hums an assenting tone, and Flim is already doing mental victory laps when the older stallion says: 
“Listen, Flim Skim, you can’t be in any sort of business for very long without being able to tell when someone is, pardon my language, bullshitting you. Aside from the flattery, your explanation checks out fine. But there’s no reason two decks of playing cards should cost 100 bits, no matter what casino they’re from.”
Flim feels himself sag ever-so-slightly. Was he losing his touch? That was the perfect pitch, he thought. But a familiar voice in the back of his brain nags at him, so he gathers himself up, and opens his mouth to start again when—
“But I’m not above making a deal,” Carrot starts again, and unlocks the bottom half of the door. “Besides, it’s almost dark, and I think both of us could use a stiff drink.”
The rest of the door swings in as well, and Carrot ambles deeper into the building. “So c’mon in, Flim Skim. Just make sure to close the door behind you.”
This is… unexpected. Normally, Flim’s sales only go one of two ways: rousing success or utter failure. There’s no such thing as making a deal or being invited inside in his business. Not anymore, at least. Not since—
Shaking his head, Flim peeks inside the building. None of the central lamps in the entry room are on, but light floods around the saloon doors behind the counter. The kitchen, perhaps? But more importantly, is he willing to chase a sale this far?
After replacing the contents of his briefcase and latching it shut, Flim steps over the threshold of the doorway, magic closing the door itself shut. He’s been called many things over the years, but he ain’t a quitter and could use a challenge. Right as the door clicks shut, the chandeliers on the ceiling suddenly switch on. The difference is not enough to make his eyes screw shut, but he does startle back slightly, back hooves clunking on the door still behind him.
“Ah, sorry, probably should have told you the lights were coming on!” Carrot calls as he enters through the saloon doors. A tray sits on his back, with two ice-filled old-fashioned glasses and an unopened bottle of some sort of liquor balanced on top.
Only once Carrot puts the tray on a nearby table and moves to take a seat does Flim budge from where he was rooted to the spot. He can’t fathom why his limbs suddenly feel so stiff, like his years are catching up to him all at once. Being this on edge over a potential customer is unlike him. Then again, he’s not used to ponies seeing through his initial chatter as easily as Carrot did. Even those who turn down a purchase do so out of an inability to pay up more than any genuine concern towards the product. To be able to cut through his song-and-dance like it was nothing is… 
Intriguing is a dangerous word for a business-stallion, but here he is.
Settling into the other empty chair, Flim eyes the liquor bottle that Carrot now uncorks—apple whiskey. “My my, never imagined an upstanding, family-friendly establishment like the one I’m sure you run to carry such hard spirits. Count me impressed!”
Sliding the first filled glass over to Flim, Carrot cracks an easy smile. “You must not know bakeries as well as you do casinos, then. Alcohol evaporates out of most desserts once you heat them up to a certain point, leaving behind the flavor and nothing more. Science, I suppose, but I was never as good in that department as my wife.”
Wife, hm? Flim had pegged the older stallion as a bachelor, by way of his shaggy appearance. Filing that information away for later, Flim picks the glass up to drink after he’s sure it hasn’t been tampered with. Carrot didn’t seem the type, but that’s what Flim thought about him being married, so better safe than sorry.
“Yeah, I get our apple spirits from Sweet Apple Acres, right here in Ponyville,” Carrot comments mildly as he finishes filling his glass and places down the bottle. “My foster daughter is good friends with the mare who runs it.”
Nearly choking on the whiskey, Flim instead downs the rest of it in one go. The fruity burning sensation nearly covers up the disgust rushing into his brain at the mention of the farm. It’s been over two decades since he’s first rolled into town, so surely Granny Smith is no longer with them. So that means the mare must be—
“Applejack'' slips out from Flim’s lips, and he wishes he could somehow suck those three syllables back in at the way Carrot just stares at him and the empty glass. Flim should be the one running the show here, not this admittedly-highly-perceptive old fart! He needs to get this situation under control before any more incriminating information peeps out.
But Carrot is faster. “Yes, the proprietor's name is Applejack. But I have a feeling you’re not being completely forthright about your name, Flim Skim.”
Danger bells start ringing over the alcoholic haze that settles in Flim’s mind. Being recognized became less of a boon after… it happened, and now he’s content with not relying on word-of-mouth sales. But it’s hard to forget the bombastic spectacles he put on in the early days, even years and years later. And if this conversation is going in the direction he thinks it is… Flim would very much appreciate another drink.
Carrot throws him a bone by reaching over and refilling his glass before speaking. “You’re Flim, of the Flim Flam Brothers. I thought I recognized you when I opened the door. You came into town with that cider-making machine around the time my twins were born. Oh, what was it called, the Spicy Squashy—”
“The Super Speedy Cider Squeezy 6000,” Flim automatically rattles off after taking a couple (slower) sips from his glass.
“That’s it, that’s it!” Carrot chuckles as he finally takes a long gulp of his whiskey. “My wife was busy with the foals at home that day, but she sent me out to try and get some cider before they ran out. I wasn’t quick enough, of course, but then the two of you showed up with your wonderful machine. Nearly put the Apples out of a job, you did.”
A mirthless laugh tears out of Flim’s throat. “Nearly was right! The Apples didn’t know what they were missing when they ran me… us out of town.”
Us catches on the way out, but somehow Flim manages to finish the sentence with minimal coughing. A pointed look is shot in his direction, but Carrot doesn't comment on the fumble further. A palpable silence passes between the two, both of them suddenly more interested in their glasses than conversation.
"Your brother…" Carrot starts, his voice trailing off instead of going further. 
Here, Flim is presented with a choice. Shut the old fart out entirely and leave after finishing this drink. Or… or use this situation to finally sell these last two decks. Pity sells, and 100 bits is 100 bits. Plus, getting rid of these… relics of the past would be a blessing, no matter how he made it happen.
So Flim tells the truth:
"My brother and I had many talents, but we started out as inventors. He was the one who drafted the plans and such, while I was handier with the crafting and execution. Of course, we hawked our wares together, 'cause nothing sells quite like the charming and charismatic twins bit."
Carrot nods. “My twins, Pumpkin and Pound, are fond of pulling that routine whenever they’re home, been doing it since they were foals. Can’t argue with the results, even if they can get… overzealous.”
Sounds like an empty nester to Flim. That’s a potentially important angle he can use for this sale, though, so he’ll keep that in mind. And Carrot seems invested enough in Flim’s story that he feels like he’s regaining the upper hoof in this dynamic once more. Even if he’s just a touch past buzzed currently.
Flim fiddles with his glass before continuing. “Eventually we became co-owners of a casino and resort in Las Pegasus. Flim Flam Casino and Resort, it was called. Oh, those years were swell; we were one of the biggest names on the strip! ‘Course, things that good never last.
“Five years ago, the lights on our main facade blinked out, and we couldn’t get somepony to repair it for weeks. Surely you know how much a business can suffer in that amount of time. I was ready to give up on the blasted thing, but no, Flam said he could fix it himself. And it made sense—he knew I was scared of heights, and even if I had more technical prowess, it wasn’t like he was completely helpless in the tinkering field.”
More whiskey sounds splendid right about now, so Flim drinks the rest of his second glass. He still has time to back out of this story, for Carrot seems polite enough to not pry where he’s not wanted. And though 100 bits is 100 bits, reliving this tale surely isn’t worth it, especially with his troves of money in various banks around Equestria. That said… 
Talking about feelings has never been a strong suit of Flim’s. Isn’t productive to the bottom line, so he simply doesn’t speak of anything that’s bothering him. You need… friends to be able to do that, and his entire life up until five years ago only held one. But he’ll never see Carrot again, surely, so there’s no harm indulging in a more emotional discussion, just this once. 
It’s all to get rid of these decks, in the end. That’s all.
“He climbed up there early in the morning, well before sunrise. I was asleep like any normal pony would be at that time, but I think he was trying to… surprise me, or something. Flam liked to dazzle, after all. And being able to fix the damn lights by himself would certainly impress most of our patrons. Maybe enough for them to book more stays or gamble more of their bits away. But…”
Tilting the glass in a way that makes the icecubes within clink against the side, Flim sighs. This is why he never pity sells, too exhausting. Plus, how Carrot just looks at him like the older stallion’s already put together the pieces of the story makes Flim feel… something in his stomach. Something besides booze.
“Well, long story short: there was an incident. Woke up to Las Pegasus officers at my door and everything. Apparently, Flam got shocked while working the lights, and it was enough to make him fall off the building. But the thing is, Las Pegasus is built upon clouds—”
Flim tries to ignore the way Carrot sharply inhales through his teeth. “He didn’t hit a platform or anything. No, he went straight through the clouds, and in the morning some sad sap found his body on the ground below. Just like that, my friend, was the end of the Flim Flam Brothers. But hey!”
Swinging the foreleg not holding his glass out in emphasis, Flim barks out a laugh. “At least the bloody lights were working again!”
“That’s horrible,” Carrot whispers finally, his glass now empty as well.
“That’s show business, babe!” Flim near-yells, past the point of caring about how the pet name slips out. “You think my brother was anything special? Stories like these happen all the time in Las Pegasus. Sure, he’d got the front page of the rag mags, but after that? After a week, a month, a year passed, you think anyone on the strip cared that Flim was dead? And once I changed the casino and resort’s name to Flim Skim, who would know he existed at all?”
Chest heaving, Flim only now realizes that he’s standing halfway out of his seat. Yet Carrot seems unfazed by the sudden shouting, and instead goes about refilling their glasses. By the time he sets the liquor bottle back down, it only holds enough whiskey for one more drink. With how Flim’s doing, he’d quite like all he can get.
Carrot only speaks once Flim settles back into his chair. “Sugarcube Corner is closed on Sundays. Want to know why?”
What does this have to do with Flim’s sob story? Was the old fart even listening—
“My wife would make macarons every Sunday to sell, in all kinds of flavors and colors. Our twins and foster daughter got a good handle on how they worked, but I was utterly hopeless at it.”
The wife again, huh? This could be useful… 
“Eventually, my foster daughter—Pinkie—got hitched and moved out. And just a couple of years ago, Pumpkin and Pound started going to the top pastry school in Prance. They all come back for the holidays and the like, but otherwise, it was just me and my Chiffon.”
After swallowing some more whiskey, Carrot clears his throat. “She hadn’t been well for quite a while. Cancer, of some kind. Apparently, by the time they diagnosed it, there wasn’t much the doctors could do about it. And she kept it a secret, ‘cause that’s the kind of pony she was. By the time we all knew, it was a matter of months.”
Another gulp of whiskey, bigger this time. “And she passed a little over a year ago. After all was said and done—after I insisted to the youngins I’d be fine on my own, and that they can go back to their own lives—I continued running Sugarcube Corner like normal. Except I closed on Sundays, cause it just didn’t feel right for the shop to be open without Chiffon’s macarons.”
Oh. Flim should probably say something, give his condolences or—
“Are you sure you’re a strong enough business-stallion to do it by yourself?”
Or say some biting comment like normal, that works.
Yet that gets a boisterous guffaw to come out of Carrot, and maybe he’s a touch past buzzed, too. “I could ask the same of you, babe. Running a casino and resort sounds like an awful lot of work for one pair of hooves.”
“Aha, that’s only if I was still running it!” Choosing to ignore the way the returned babe makes something in him flutter, Flim takes a hearty swig from his glass. “After the incident, I retired to a more hooves-off position. Still get the final say in projects, but now I mostly lay back and let the bits roll on in.”
“Yet you’re here hawking old playing cards,” snarks Carrot, placing his empty glass on the table.
Snorting in a way not befitting of a show-stallion, Flim takes a more delicate sip of whiskey to make up for it. Oh, this old fart was fun. Fun and perceptive, a nice change of pace. And maybe he’s not as old as originally thought, if he has kids barely in college. Perhaps Flim can get something more out of this night if he plays his cards (ha!) right.
“Life sitting around on your haunches gets boring, and I’m a sales-stallion at heart. Might as well get rid of these cards I can’t use, right?”
Leaning back in his chair, Flim’s mouth turns up in what most would call a smirk. “‘Cause I like ya, I’ll let you in on a little secret: these cards are from before the casino and resort was called Flim Skim. Yessir, these are genuine Flim Flam Casino and Resort cards, and you can own the last two decks in my possession for only 100 bits. Won’t you do it for dear old Flam?”
“Using your brother for a sale, hm?” Carrot matches Flim’s smirk with a one of his own. Uh oh. “Seems a little insensitive, don’t you think? By no means am I judging you, but I would’ve thought a sales-stallion such as yourself would have a little more tact.”
It kinda feels like he's judging, so Flim doesn't mince his next words. "Flam got what comes to us all, sad to say. He was a damn fool, but do you think a pony can survive on tears and misery alone? I've tried, my dear, I've done my time. And what about you? Losing out on Sunday sales because of sentiment? Surely you have to keep this roof over your head somehow."
If Carrot felt insulted, it didn’t show in his expression—an impressive poker face, this one has. “Turns out most of my customers are loyal to the business, and are willing to wait for their baked goods. Maybe it’s not as much as Sugarcube Corner made back in the day, but I’m getting by fine. But Flim—”
Extending a long foreleg out over the tabletop, Carrot bumps his hoof on Flim’s glass, careful not to touch where the younger stallion’s own hoof is wrapped around it. “Flim, seems to me that you’ve been searching for something these past five years that you simply haven’t found. Although I appreciate it either way, were you sharing your story only to sell card decks, or were you seeking something more? I’ve been struggling with it since Chiffon died, but it’s okay to feel things, to talk about things. You don’t have to hide behind a show-stallion’s flair all the time.”
The tip of Carrot’s hoof brushes Flim’s for just a moment. “I won’t fault you, at least.”
Maybe drinking all that alcohol was a poor choice. Every time Flim thinks he has this situation in his control, Carrot throws another wretch that makes him acknowledge feelings he’s been ignoring for years. What kinda stallion did Carrot take Flim to be?  Certainly not some namby-pamby sap. Even still, emotion grips at every fiber of his being, and Flim suddenly feels tired, oh so very tired. He’s said this much, surely it couldn’t hurt to lay it all out for a change, decks be damned.
After blaming the whiskey, he pauses for a second, and then:
“All our lives, Flam and I were inseparable. Sure, we fought sometimes, for days or weeks even, but it never lasted. How could we, when we didn’t have anyone else after ma and pops passed? We’d always done everything together; we even got our cutie marks together, after we crafted the Super Speedy Cider Squeezy 1000. But then he went up and… and died on me like a fool.”
Flim needs another drink, but he can’t seem to bring his hoof away from where Carrot’s now lingers. “Did he not realize what would happen if he had an accident? Did he not realize what would happen to our business, our image, our very livelihoods if he screwed up and died? That bastard, did he not realize what would happen to everything we’d been working towards our whole lives?”
Suddenly deflating, Flim lets his eyes fall shut. “Did he not realize what our cutie marks are? What it means when a mere slice is left behind while the rest of its whole no longer exists? I’ve always been able to razzle and dazzle, but I’m nothing without a plan backing me up. I’m nothing without him. How could I not be, when there was no one else who understood our every scheme, our every joke, our every whim, no matter how nonsensical?”
He ignores the way his vision blurs once he cracks his eyes open again. “Because I understand why he climbed up that building, I do. He did it because he knew that it would have to be him or I to do it, if we wanted the lights back anytime soon. And he knew I was scared of heights, just as much I know he was scared of open water. We didn’t show our affection for one another in logical ways—became boring, y’see. So I knew then, just as much as I know now, what it meant when he decided to do that stunt of his. Flam… cared about me, just as much as I did… do him.”
Managing to make eye contact with Carrot through his muddy vision, Flim concludes. “And that’s why you never go into business with someone you hold so dear. Just bites you in the flank, in the end.”
It was a mistake, knocking on this bakery’s door. Flim singled-hoofedly upended his entire perfectly-kept state of being, and now he has to try to scramble and pick up the pieces. How mortifying.  
“Flim—” Carrot starts, before Flim staggers onto his feet and sways dangerously. “Wait, where are you going? Surely you don’t mean to leave in this state.”
Flim grunts, wavering on his hooves like a strong wind is against him.  “Taken up enough of your time, Carrot. It’s clear to me I’m not making a sale tonight, and I’m far past the stage of cutting a deal. So goodnight, I suppose.”
Magic winking out a couple of times, Flim eventually manages to place his briefcase upon his back. Nodding in a way that rather resembles a bobblehead, he takes a big step forward… and immediately trips and falls face-first onto the wooden floorboards below.
Instead of picking himself up like any logical pony would do, Flim begins laughing. He keeps laughing even as hoofsteps approach, and even as Carrot turns him over onto his side. The sight of the older stallion's face, with its knitted brow and agape mouth, just makes Flim laugh even harder. 
"Well, well, well!" he gets out between laughs. "Must be losing my touch—can't even make a clean getaway like I used to! Listen, toots, I appreciate the ol' wine-and-dine method, but seems to me I can barely walk, haha!"
Carrot moves to help Flim off the floor. "You had almost three full glasses of whiskey, so are you really surprised? My fault for enabling it, I suppose. But let's getcha up—"
Before he can protest, Flim is practically deadlifted from the ground and deposited back into his chair. Now, he's not the heaviest pony around, but Flim still feels heat that isn't alcoholic in nature rush through his veins. Carrot picked him up like he weighed little more than a pile of pegasus feathers, which was… more than attractive, really. 
He hopes his expression doesn’t give that particular thought away.
"Y'know," he starts, once Carrot is back across from him in his own chair. "I don’t make a buffoon out of myself for just anypony. But I’m sure a business-stallion like yourself is used to seeing all kinds of scoundrels and tricksters trying to make a quick bit off ya. So why invite me in, pal? My kinda work is… beneath somepony like you. Somepony legitimate.”
“Simple, really.” Carrot pours the rest of the whiskey into his own glass. “A baker’s always got to pay attention to the details of their work. So it’s not hard to be able to read, well, anypony after a while. And you, my friend, are all bottled up.”
“All bottled up?” More laughter bubbles out of Flim. “Like what, this Apple Family-branded whiskey?”
“I was thinking more like a fine vintage, actually.” Carrot’s eyes wander to the side as he sips, and could he be blushing? “Always kept bottled up in a way that prevents the true flavor profile from getting out. Sure, anypony can see that you’re something unique or special just by looking at you, but no one knows the real you, your true personality. At least… not anymore, it sounds like. That’s part of why I let you in.”
At this point, Flim’s head is buzzing quite a bit, but he finds it in himself to finish the rest of his drink. That’s only polite, right? Not that he normally cares about what is or isn’t polite, but only seems fair. Not that he normally cares about what is or isn’t fair, but he’s starting to go in circles, here. 
The point is, he thinks he needs some liquid courage for this next part:
“And the other part is?”
Carrot’s eyes make their way back to Flim’s. “The other part is you crave someone to share your burdens. I don’t know what all you want or need, but I’ll be the first to offer it to you. Cause I get it, all of it. The way you still wheel and deal years down the line. The way you talk louder to fill the space. The way you, in those quiet moments, miss your partner-in-crime. I get it, I do.”
“Yet I don’t get you.” Not bothering to prevent the words from falling out, Flim allows himself to slouch for once. “I’m a virtual stranger to you. How can you be so… so altruistic to me, especially since you knew all the things I’ve done before we even met?”
At some point, Flim had closed his eyes. Not even the creaking of the floorboards budges his eyelids. Soon, he senses Carrot standing over him. He just barely cracks his eyes open when the older stallion places a kiss on his forehead, right to the side of his horn. Feeling his cheeks heat up rather rapidly, Flim ignores the way his heart practically lurches when Carrot pulls away.
Oh, Flim's got it bad.
“Everypony deserves a chance or two, I reckon.” Carrot continues as if he didn’t just throw Flim’s emotions for a loop. "Even scoundrels, even tricksters. Even you. Because, in the end, everypony can change for the better—I believe that wholeheartedly. And I believe I can help you do so.”
“You’re as much of a fool as Flam.” Flim’s still-cracked eyes find Carrot’s again. “Ponies like you and I are the same as oil and water; we can never mix. All my years in this business have proved that fact, time and again. So yes, you’re as much of a fool as Flam. But…”
Flim finally straightens up again; he has to, for this.
“But you’re nowhere near as much of a fool as I. Because I believe you, despite how much every molecule of my being screams to reconsider. I believe you.” 
And Flim’s words don’t stop, even as Carrot nears him again in the corner of his eye. “Maybe it’s just because I’m tired of scheming, tired of pretending. Although that’s what I’ve always done—what I’m best at—I can’t keep running forever. I’m not a young pony anymore; I know I’m losing my touch. After all, I couldn’t sell a couple of card decks to another old fart like me. So maybe it’s time for a change.”
Throughout it all, Carrot had edged closer and closer to Flim’s face, but he pauses as Flim finished speaking. His freckles stand out brilliantly again the red flush that colors his cheeks. The night has proven that the older stallion can handle his liquor better, but surely he’s feeling its effects just as much as Flim by now. They’re both practically drunk at this point, so it’s not wise to do anything rash. But oh, hell, when has Flim ever cared about something as pretentious as wisdom?
So Flim closes the gap and presses his lips against Carrot’s. 
The last time Flim kissed somepony (a mare, as part of a get-rich-quick plot) was well over a decade ago, so immediately he’s struck by how warming the sensation feels, both physically and mentally. More potent than any apple whiskey could ever hope to be. Of course, he’s so caught up in the kiss itself that he forgets to breathe, and he has to pull away to gasp before the kiss goes anywhere past chaste.
Carrot doesn’t seem to be in much better shape, panting slightly and looking at Flim in a way that burns red hot in his veins. Oh, how Flim would love to ruin this stallion, in an opposite and more pleasant way than he normally does to ponies. He begins to lean forward to recapture Carrot’s lips… before missing the mark and ending up smushed in the older stallion’s shoulder.
A moment of silence passes before both stallions begin laughing.
“Well, Flim, as much as I’m intrigued to see where this new… friendship goes, I think it’s about time both of us go to bed. And not like that, either; I rather not be intoxicated for something like that. And you deserve better, anyways.”
Face flaming at the last part, Flim’s voice is slightly muffled against Carrot’s body. “Kicking me out already? You don’t seem to be one to kiss and tell, but I would’ve thought—”
“No!” Carrot rushes out. “No. You can stay upstairs in my room. We’ve already seen what happens when you try to walk around drunk. I’ll make sure you get water and get to sleep, and then I’ll just sleep in Pinkie’s old room.”
Hauling Flim halfway onto him, Carrot walks the two of them towards the staircase, leaving the disheveled table behind. The briefcase only holds the two card decks within it, so Flim doesn’t bother trying to take it with him. Only when they start climbing the stairs is when he speaks up again.
“You can stick around, still.” Flim hopes the stairwell is dark enough to conceal his tattling cheeks. “It’s your bed, y’know? Promise I won’t do anything, no strings attached!”
Humming as they reach the top of the stairs, Carrot cracks a smile. “Alright, Flim, that sounds mighty fine to me. And we can talk more in the morning—opening up late isn’t going to hurt anyone, right?”
Opening up late. Just like a bottle of fine vintage. Just like Flim. But it’s better late than never, right? And so, he smiles back as they amble down the second-floor hallway.
Their morning conversation will be something special, indeed.