Thump! Another four bushels of apples fall.
"Well. Applejack certainly can..." I mumble, barely conscious of stringing the words together. I don't look at Twilight next to me, but I see her nod in my peripheral vision.
"She sure can... buck those apples, yeah," Twilight agrees, similarly unable to take her eyes off the lathered hindlegs of the earth pony and the workings of her taut muscles underneath. I don't think for a moment that Applejack could be the object of my student's affections; ogling Applejack in apple-bucking season is as natural as the flight of the birds southward. That and, the mare, for all her charms, is certainly not presentation-focused. If she were, she'd be aware of the little presentation she's treating us to.
Twilight and I are seated under an apple tree, enjoying some of the bounty we've been helping Applejack harvest today. We're taking a break, a break Applejack said she'd join us on, 'just after I show these trees what's good for 'em, Rares'. I roll my eyes as the fourth tree shudders and releases its bounty. The farmer, oblivious to my scorn, wipes sweat off her forehead with a foreleg. She props her hat up and moves to the next tree, maneuvering her baskets into position with her head.
Ah, well. I certainly can't criticize a pony for workaholicism, and neither can Twilight Sparkle, so I resolve to enjoy our little break with or without our host. That enjoyment diminishes as, with what I assume is careful ley analysis, she decides her best angle is around the other side of the tree and vanishes from view.
At least that lets me steal Twilight's attention. I lower my voice a little, leaning close to her. "So, Twilight," I breathe, enjoying the little shiver that jolts through her at my unexpected closeness, "I've been thinking about your mystery mare."
The effect of my words is immediate, but I'm prepared. A simple tug from my hoof entangled in her tail reminds Twilight that bolting won't be an effective strategy here. She looks down with a deep blush. Oh, she does so hate being predicted, doesn't she? I wonder for a moment if I'm enjoying playing the villain slightly too much, but I dismiss it. Villainous cackles are practically a litmus test, and I haven't let one loose.
"A mare... Well. That much was hardly surprising," I say, inclining my head toward where Applejack disappeared. "But, presentation-focused! I think it was only your Canterlot upbringing that let you answer that with confidence — this is Ponyville, darling. It's not the most common trait." She's an excellent fit for her part as the cornered hero, eyes wide, pupils shrunk, half-eaten apple rolling down the hill, forgotten.
I catch it in my magic, reversing its course, and bite into it, not willing to let it go to waste. Even one such as I cannot object to the messiness of apple juice staining her muzzle, and I take a moment to savor the sweet nectar dripping into my mouth. Twilight continues staring, and she'll stare some more, as long as I keep enjoying leaving her on the hook. Goodness, being a teacher is certainly fun.
"Now," I continue, "I'm sure I could've deduced the answer with only that and a little time. Your last clue came unbidden, however. A light coat! My, my. Perhaps not the rarest feature, but, well... Intersecting with that other trait, how many ponies do we know that fit that description, hm?" I ask, drinking in the terror plain on Twilight's face.
Then, all of a sudden, it hits me that my dear friend is scared, not playing a role, and I untangle my hoof from her tail. "Twilight, I don't mean to tease you. Well, perhaps a little. But really, I couldn't be happier."
Her ears perk up at that, and a small smile makes an appearance on her face. I return it, happy to have chased her fear away, even if I was its cause. "Really?" she asks, voice delicate and trembling.
"Really. And..." I murmur, moving the hoof that was tangled in her tail to her mane, "I have every confidence your feelings are reciprocated. You are quite a catch, after all." It's novel, looking at her lips and knowing exactly how soft they are, and I feel an odd thrill at the way her teeth catch at her bottom lip, indenting it just slightly.
Her eyes practically have stars in them, the way she's staring at me. I find myself leaning forward, nearly falling in, before I shake the vertigo from my mind. She's leaning in, too, mouth open, but I cut off her thanks with a hoof. "Shh," I shush, eyes flicking toward Applejack, who's finally demonstrated to the trees what, exactly, is good for them. "Come to the boutique, tonight. I have a little practical in mind."
Twilight gets sent home early for dropping apples everywhere.
I hear the bell chime downstairs and hope dearly that it isn't a client come calling late. Just to make sure, I wait for them to call out.
"Rarity?" Twilight's voice floats up from downstairs, and I smile.
"Up here, Twilight!" I call, and there's a momentary casting around before the sound of hooves on the stairs.
A purple shape peeks past the threshold, but it's not the mare I expected. Instead, a bouquet of violets suspended in aura wanders in, trailed by Twilight herself. I glance in surprise at the flowers, before focusing on Twilight again. She looks, unsurprisingly, quite confused.
"Rarity..." She tilts her head, bangs shifting with it, the higher ear perked and the lower swiveled. "What are you doing up there?"
I daintily lift a forehoof, wobbling a little. The milk crates spread below my hooves make for an unsuitable perch, but it's the best I could find on short notice. "Why, this is the crux of tonight's little practical!"
Her eyes sparkle with glee. "Oh? Then what are we learning tonight, professor?"
"You are demonstrating," I admonish, "how to seduce a mare twice your height."
Twilight's expression flattens into confusion again. "Uh... And why would I need to know that?"
I resist the urge to strike another pose, not trusting my hoofing. "For the pony that has captured your heart, of course! That ivory-coated mare who knows the power of presentation better than any pony in Equestria!" I grin, a magician revealing her greatest trick. "So you may finally, with utmost confidence, confess your amorous intentions to fair Princess Celestia!"
The violets fall to the floor with a soft susurration of petals, the aura once surrounding them cutting out. Twilight's jaw, similarly, drops, and she wobbles as if her place on the carpet is as unstable as my perch. I give myself a moment to enjoy her awe, then a moment more, and then, bored of basking, shoot her an impatient glance. When she doesn't respond to even that, I roll my eyes, then raise my snout haughtily. "Sincerely, Twilight, you cannot think yourself the only pony capable of deduction."
Irritation fades to curiosity as the silence continues. Twilight does not laugh with glee, or rejoice in the comfort of somepony trusted knowing her secret. I look down at her, and experience a moment of vertigo — not for the height but for the distance, a glimpse into what Celestia must feel. Then, it's gone, and I am only one unicorn looking at another, one who can't meet my eyes.
"... Twilight?" I ask, and some part of me wants desperately to step down, to lift her chin with a hoof, to meet her eyes. But she looks so fragile, so small, that I cannot bridge the gap. Finally, my foalish excitement recedes, and I realize what it is she must be feeling: fear, shame, embarrassment, a melange of dark emotions swirling inside, while her friend all but mocks her. The catastrophizing mare before me has just had her crush on the Princess of Equestria revealed, and must be awash in invented horrors of treason and exile.
Just before my role crumbles entirely and I bridge the gap between us, she looks up at me. Though her expression isn't what I expected, it's one I'm just as used to seeing from her. Not fear, or anxiety, but bravery. Only the barest tremble of her upper lip hints at the turmoil she's fighting against. I smile. She already knows that she's worthy, but I should really cease my teasing.
"Twilight, I apologize for springing something like this on you without notice, it's just that... in every other aspect, I am more than confident of your success. Our... date the other night assured me of that," I say, unsure what else to call it, even though it wasn't a real date.
She takes another moment to gather herself. "No, I... It's fine, Rarity! Good, I mean. It's good. You really saw right through me!" She laughs, lingering remnants of anxiety lending it a manic edge.
I breathe a pleased little hum at her admission. "Well, darling, I did promise expertise in this subject, did I not? One cannot pedal the loom of gossip without strong deductive reasoning." She pales at my mention of gossip, and I practically leap to disavow that particular fear. "Oh, Twilight, of course I wouldn't gossip about this. It's very sensitive, and I vow to not let a murmur of it pass my lips in other company, lest I incur a frosting-related eye infection."
The joke and relief combine to wash away the last signs of tension in her expression, leaving only a ready smile. As if just remembering it, she glances down at her bouquet like it's a bratty foal. "I, uh... got you these to show my appreciation! For your lessons, of course." She smiles, wrapping them in her magic again and floating them to me. She closes the distance between us. "You're an excellent teacher."
I take them and inhale deeply, savoring the scent and the gesture alike. "Thank you, Twilight," I say, peeking at her with smiling eyes over the bouquet's edge. I float them to the dresser by the bathroom door, to be placed in a vase later. "This has been... I began just hoping to help a friend with my expertise. I never expected it to be so enriching," I say, and wonder if I should feel that way. I've heard Cheerilee gush about how rewarding it is, teaching foals. But the pleasure I derive from teasing Twilight doesn't feel quite so pure.
She smiles absently, evidently too caught up in plans to really respond, instead moving on. "Now... I guess I'm seducing you?"
I raise an eyebrow. "You guess?"
Her gaze shifts away, then returns with steely confidence. "I am going to seduce you."
I don't respond, but relax my brow and attempt to compose my face into the beatific mien of the Princess, slipping into my role. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder what she would think if she wandered into this tableau.
Twilight looks down, her bangs hiding her face. She's summoning all her wit, all her acuity, her entire mental arsenal arrayed against this daunting task. I tremble a little at the thought of being a problem Twilight's intent on solving, imagining that this is how an unbalanced equation must feel. Then, she looks up at me with forlorn eyes and kissy lips, and I remember this isn't a matter of magic or math but romance, and Twilight has plenty to learn.
I snort derisively and look away, pointedly ignoring her. She'll have to do much better than that for a Princess.
When staring has no effect, she resorts to action. Said action consists of stretching herself up as far as possible in an attempt to reach my lips. Her horn only makes it as high as my withers. I snort from amusement this time, and she takes a moment to huff at me in annoyance. Then, she resorts to hopping in place in the least romantic display I've ever seen.
"Twi— Twilight! Quit being ridiculous!" I giggle, wobbling a little. "Take this seriously!"
"I am," hop, "taking," hop, "this," hop, "seriously!" she insists, still not quite able to reach my lips, but valiantly landing kisses on my neck. My snort-hitched giggles tear into a full-blown laugh as she manages to plant one on my jawline and certainly, it's cute, but it's not seduction.
Finally, the abject comedy of it all is too much for the world to not participate in and the milk crates below tilt askew, toppling me onto the plush carpet, the room ringing with my laughter at Twilight's utter failure to seduce me. I stare up at the ceiling for a moment, glee fading to a contented smile. I am the teacher, after all. If she needs a few pointers, then—
She steps over me, blocking my vision of the ceiling, a smirk on her face that does not at all match her failure in my little test. Glancing to the side, I realize too late that her forehooves have hemmed me in. "Gotcha," she says, leaning close, breath tickling my neck. My eyes widen in realization as hers wander to my lips, and then she's kissing me. I may melt into the floor.
I must stop underestimating Twilight Sparkle.
Time drips like honey in a languorous eternity. A quarter-instant later, she grants me a breath I don't truly care for. "How was that?" she asks, clearly reading the answer on my face.
I school my expression to mild amusement and reach up, brushing a hoof through her mane, down her neck. Her eyes widen a little at the contact, and I smile. "Hmm... I'm tempted to call it cheating, darling, but all is fair in love, as they say." I twirl a hoof idly through a lock of indigo hair. "It was certainly a good start..." I say, "but I'm still not quite seduced." I apply a little pressure on her neck, pushing her back to me. Our lips meet again, and I let a little hum of satisfaction roll from my mouth into hers.
She's still not quite bold enough to get her tongue involved in the proceedings, likely because of my feedback from last time. I'm happy to let her remain chaste and just enjoy the feeling of her lips against mine. Easing the pressure on her neck, I allow her to pull away, taking a moment to relish the way that even this still seems to leave her mind in disarray, hairs out of place and eyes half-lidded despite being the aggressor.
Then, she remembers her position, and she kisses my jawline, then the underside of my muzzle, trailing down to my neck. It's much more exciting than her journey upwards. These kisses are different from the ones exchanged at my doorstep last night. They are no longer exploratory, what-does-this-feel-like things, these are... hungry. She seems to have a goal in mind, now: to learn not form, but preference. Twilight wants to know what makes me feel good. I freeze up as I realize the full brunt of Twilight's curiosity is turned directly on me, suddenly feeling very small, picked out like a silhouette against a spotlight.
Her inquiry continues unabated, ignorant of my trepidation. To the faithful student, each hitching breath from me is a gold star, and each space of silence a red underline. She responds to the feedback adroitly, seeking out my sensitivities, an ever-evolving taxonomy of Rarity. I find just a moment to relax into her kisses, gathering my thoughts, and then I feel teeth. Oh goodness no— she nips me, and my back arches as I let out a completely involuntary moan.
I feel her tartarean smile against my coat for a sliver of a moment before she continues, doubtlessly leaving little marks around the base of my neck that will require a scarf. Uncaring for the way my body quivers under her, she forges on, driven by curiosity, not desire. Something in my heart twinges at that thought, and I grasp the feeling like a lifeline. "Twilight," I gasp, then manage to take a few deep breaths and try again. "Twilight, this is only pra—"
"Yes," she whispers, her hot breath against my chest sending shivers to my core. "Yes," she repeats, and I'm not sure if she's affirming what I said, and I'm not sure of what I said, because her lips and teeth are stitching a line of all-consuming sensation up my neck. Finally, she returns to where I need her, my cheek, then my lips, and I don't give it a moment of thought before I push my tongue into her mouth, every iota the overeager filly I warned her against being.
Before I can catch her tongue, she jerks back with a gasp. I can't pull myself free from the sucking swamp of sensation, can't stop myself from leaning up toward her, chasing her lips as they retreat beyond my reach, my own mouth half-open, every ounce a mare in a stupor. The shock on her face is plain, but it barely registers to me beneath the roaring in my ears.
And there's an absence left by her touch, a void, and before I can shore them up, walls I didn't even realize I'd built are crumbling inward. And I can no longer ignore the sloshy-vinegar feeling in which my heart is pickling. And it only magnifies, only amplifies every torturous fraction of expression flickering on her face. And there's some conflict there I don't understand, curiosity tempered by something. And her eyes are half-lidded again, as her mind is half-submerged in dreams of another. And her breath washes hot over my face, smelling of jasmine tea. And her soft lips are just-so open.
And eventide is spread like plum jam from Canterlot to Appleloosa, and the first stars peek through the veil of evening, and I am in love with Twilight Sparkle.
And she is in love with somepony else.
And the moon is cut adrift, lost in the branches of the Everfree.
After an interminable moment, she speaks again, all chirpy student, the seductress fled from her voice: "How was that, Princess?"
Every aspect of her — her scent, her touch, her presence, everything I found so intoxicating now suffocates. I shove her away, harder than I should, harder than can be explained, gasping for a breath of air that doesn't taste like jasmine and heat and the vinegar-love in my chest. Her flank thumps against carpet but I don't turn to look, too focused on clamping down the urge to bolt, to scream, to kiss her again, and again, and steal her away for myself from the one she deserves.
How could I be such a fool?
Before I can manage any kind of recovery, I hear the quick clatter of hooves, and I can't even get her name out of my throat before she's gone. I turn and catch a glimpse of magenta-striped indigo vanishing down the hall. Downstairs, there's a slam, and then abyssal silence. She remembered the latch this time.
I cannot sleep.
I do not have the usual stack of commissions with which I can excuse myself from slumber. Today was my day off, and I've gotten quite good at restraining myself from work. No, all I have to excuse my lack of sleep are the two-hundred and thirty-six sections of trim on the crown molding, the thirty-seven helices on each poster of my bed, and what I've done to Twilight Sparkle.
I swear, I had only good intentions. Don't I always? Twilight is my friend, so of course I should want to assist her through whatever insecurities plague her. But it wasn't so simple, was it? The endeavor was tainted by my enthusiasm the moment it began. I practically forced her into this little arrangement of ours. It is my way, as a professional ever-entrenched in client work, to find wants and meet them before even being asked. Perhaps I should have considered that the matter of a mare's heart is slightly more delicate than the design of a dress.
I should have thought of what it could do to her, perverting romance into a syllabus. How could one so obsessed as I with the wonders of love insist on reducing it so? I had my suspicions, too late, of course. At the close of our little make-believe date, I worried of the ways this would twist her heart, sought some way to adjourn our lessons. Even then, these feelings had taken root, and I took her reasoning on first kisses far too easily. At the time, I told myself I was only looking out for her. I never suspected I would be the one suffering from heartbreak.
I slip out of bed and walk to the balcony, feeling like my Bessie-shaped creamer. Beneath thin porcelain, ungainly feelings slosh like curdled milk. The night outside is cool, and its breath washes lavender over me, and from here I can see her library, upper window alluring with warm light. A ghost of a fantasy flickers through me, of going there, confessing what I've done, being forgiven, being held. I blow it out like a candle, and guilt blooms in the night air like smoke, its plume inextricably tangled in my chest.
What I've done should not be forgiven. This perversion of one of life's great arts, turning romance into a cadaver for her to dissect with the scalpel of her mind instead of something she could explore and feel like a filly again. What a cruel trick I've played, to convince her that this is the shape of love, a lesson plan and a letter grade. And with her up against Princess Celestia, no less.
What will a mare with a thousand years of experience think of the wreckage I've left? How many lifelong neuroses have I collapsed inwards onto the dais of her love, leaving rubble which she'll have to sort through in the spring of what should be a joyful first love? And what damage will be irreparable come autumn? Even if what they have survives, what of myself, and my friendship with her?
My eyes wander among the Golden Oak's boughs, the stars on the horizon blinking in time with the wind-quiver of leaves. Hidden, then shining. I wonder how the tree still lives, with so much of it hollowed out. Is it magic or precision? Does a spell trick it into feeling it is alive, or did a craftspony carve it in such a way that it doesn't even know it isn't? I wonder if a pony can live without her heart.
The evening was spent peeling back layer on layer of memory, following the thread of our deepening friendship, tracing it to the moment I fell in love. I did not find it. Of course, that's not to say I fell in love with her because of her skill at kissing, though it doesn't hurt. The moment simply left me so stricken that old subconscious defenses collapsed, all at once, and the truth came rushing in.
Sorting through the flood-stricken basement of my heart as the moon rose, I couldn't find a single memory that wasn't, in retrospect, touched by that feeling. So many moments when her kindness or laughter struck me a little deeper than those of my other friends, that I dismissed as coincidence, or shared background, or, in my less generous moments, a result of internalized tribalism. Stepping back, it was impossible to see anything else but love writ large across the entire trajectory of our friendship. It wasn't love at first sight, because surely I would have felt it then, but the seeds were planted immediately, and have been growing ever since, out of sight.
What a fraud I've been, to insist I know anything of love. I am not any more suited to be a professor of romance than Twilight is to be a professor in say, smithing. Which is to say that, despite any number of books read on the subject, my practical experience is practically nonexistent. I have not lied, quite, only implied. Well. I did lie, once. I still remember the name of the filly who gifted my first kiss to me. I'm sure she doesn't remember mine.
In truth, despite all of the literature I've read, and all my time working gossip's loom, I am as much of a novice in the material matters of romance as Twilight herself. I was at least right that most of romance is in expectation, and I know all there is to know of that. I've spent a good deal of my life expecting, expecting to be swept off my hooves. Not to say that none have tried, simply that none have succeeded in inspiring much more than a wobble.
Now, Twilight has cleanly toppled me over, quite literally, and I do not know what to do.
Well, not quite. Another lie. I know exactly what to do, and that I must do it, and that I will hate every moment of it. This charade must be cut short, and Twilight must be set free to pursue the object of her affection. As much as I've postured as a mentor, I haven't given her pending pursuit much thought — I tell myself it is because it is her business, but here with only me and the moon, I can admit the thought of purple against a white that isn't mine makes my stomach clench with bitterness.
But this is a path on which I've set myself, and a lady must finish what she starts. I turn from the balcony, and my eyes rest for a moment on the forgotten violets laying forlorn on the dresser. After a short trip downstairs for water, I set the vaseful on the bedside table, and do not think of them. Then, after a periwinkle glow smooths my bedsheets, I slide back into bed, and I only know that I've slept at all because it is light when I open my eyes again.
A cold shower and a hot breakfast bookend my morning routine, and I head to market, wrapping my scarf a little tighter around my neck. It is not a detour in my route to the library, but an essential stop, because Cinnamon Swirl has her stall set up with her titular baked goods. The scent of one will rouse Twilight from her slumber, and the taste will distract her from bolting while I begin fixing the mess I've made.
The sky is a crisp, uninterrupted blue from horizon to horizon, the kind of perfect dome that holds no heat and no illusions, heralding the arrival of autumn clearer than the leaves. As I walk, my eyes wander to Roseluck's stall. What's Twilight's favorite flower? Maybe Rose knows. Perhaps she keeps that kind of knowledge confidential as a matter of professionalism. Or she sells it to the highest bidder, some scandalous black market of flower knowledge flocked to by suitors across Ponyville. I could outbid anyone for Twilight's favorite flower.
I realize I've arrived at Cinnamon's stall and drag myself down from the heights of fantasy. Five bits poorer and three confections richer, I turn and make my way to Twilight's home.
"Welcome to the Golden Oak Library!" Spike's voice floats in from the kitchen. "Feel free to browse— oh, Rarity!" He stiffens as he rounds the corner, adopting the rigid posture of a guard before remembering himself and relaxing, if only a little. "Morning!"
I smile, genuine despite the turmoil within. With my recent revelations on exactly how amazing a mare Twilight is, I find myself with a new appreciation for Spike as well. The loyal assistant who's stood by her all these years, soothing her nerves and indulging her tirades. For how much of who she is now do I have him to thank?
Fortunately, judging by the drool dripping from his mouth, I have suitable thanks in my saddlebags. "Good morning, Spike!" I chirp, levitating out one of the pastries along with a pink fluorite crystal. "Would you like a cinnamon swirl?"
"Would I!" He very nearly leaps to snatch it from midair, then, seeing the look in my eyes, plants himself and even folds his claws behind his back. "I would, yes. Please."
I crush the flourite in my magic and sprinkle it overtop the swirl, then hover it towards him with a smile. Midway, I pause. "Is Twilight awake?" I ask, Spike's prize coincidentally hovering just out of reach.
"Well, no, because it's before noon," he mutters, unable to draw his eyes away from his treat, "but the scent of these should definitely—"
"Spiiiiike?" Her voice floats like motes in sunshine down from the upper level. "Did you get breakfast for me?" The sleepy, hopeful sound is joined by its likewise owner in the doorway, and glory, since when could I find an unkempt mane beautiful for more than its potential? "You're the best assistant ev—" She freezes as she sights me, and I think it's only the scent of cinnamon that stops egress via balcony.
"Twilight!" I call, all cheer. "I brought breakfast!" I try to inject some Pinkie enthusiasm into my voice. This little visit is just an affirmation of friendship, nothing more; don't balk, don't hide. Don't hate me. "Your favorite, no?"
Remembering the other breakfast I promised, I glance over to Spike and float his the rest of the way with a sheepish smile. Its entrance into hoarding radius sweeps the suspicion off his face, replacing it with rapture. I give a fond smile as he rushes back into the kitchen, then return my attention to Twilight, who's still standing frozen on the stairs.
"... May I come up?" I ask, desperate to bridge the gap of silence.
As always, desperation does not serve me well, and the silence persists. After a few seconds, Twilight musters herself and nods, turning and leaving the doorway empty. My heart plummets, but I summon all my command of myself and march up the stairs to join her. Skip the third step, it creaks. Blue magic shuts the door behind me, closing our conversation away from the dragon downstairs.
She's seated on a cushion at a table, facing away, looking through the window at Ponyville. I spy a hairbrush on her bedside table and wrap it in my magic for a moment, before remembering exactly what I am here to apologize for and releasing it. Instead, I place our swirls on the table and move to sit across from her. In a bid to break the silence, I float her swirl up, not quite bold enough to push it against her lips as I playfully did with a tart so long ago, only a few days ago.
She looks away, and I feel my heart sink deeper, the pressure of fear's depths squeezing it. Just as my aura falters, hers takes its place, and my heart buoys up again at the reassurance. Twilight's sweet tooth, at least, is eternal. Even if her friendship with me may not be. She takes a bite, chews, swallows.
"I'm sorry, Rarity." she says, still not turning to me.
I blink, confused. "What could you possibly have to apologize for, Twilight?"
"I... I got so carried away last night. I violated your trust, and per— perverted a wonderful, generous thing you were doing for me, and I took advantage of you, and—"
"Hold on," I say, raising a hoof to cut her short. "I came here to apologize to you." I manage a weak smile. "Since I bought breakfast, I think it only right that I go first." Underhooved, certainly, but I still owe her for the restaurant. Besides, she's apologizing for something that's my own fault, and will realize it soon.
Her ears droop, far from the relief I hoped for, but I press on. What I should say, what I want to say, is that we never should have begun this endeavor. But I know she'll only be hurt by that, so I change tack. I can at least be honest about some parts, if not all.
"I am... far from the professor I sold myself as, Twilight." I sigh, the truth plain like a sluice pulled, and the rest rushes out. "The truth is, I have no more romantic experience than you do. Since I was young, I've plunged myself into my craft to the exclusion of all else — we have that in common, really. Of course, my work requires some navigation of the social waters, but I never had anypony I could really call a close friend before you and the fillies.
"To be perfectly plain, my romantic experience is almost entirely literary. If you read through my entire library, you would be on equal hoofing with me. So... as genuine as my will to help was, my offer of practical experience was a lie." I can't pull my gaze up from the table, a woodgrain entirely distinct from the carved floor. "I'm sorry."
"Rarity," she responds without hesitation, "I didn't take your offer because of your experience." I look up in surprise, and am even more so when I see her smiling at me. "I did it because I trust you, and I agreed that practical experience in a safe setting would be helpful. And it has been — more than helpful. It's given me the kind of confidence I don't think I could even have imagined before." She looks back out the window, a blush coloring her muzzle. "Probably too much confidence, based on last night..." she mutters.
My face tinges pink to match. I pull my scarf a little tighter around my neck. "But... It's wrong," I say, and her smile fades. "Romance should be something explored with giddy glee, not... examined as a science!"
She offers a lopsided smile. "You haven't actually been grading me, Rarity." Then, I lose her gaze as it wanders back behind my head, sweeping the spines of her personal collection. "Besides, what if... What if I did feel giddy, anyway?" she asks.
"That is exactly the problem!" I rebuke her, smacking the table with a hoof. She flinches, screwing her eyes shut, but I can't soften my tone. She needs to understand. "I've... twisted something beautiful into... into a mockery! And you're not even aware of it!" Tears squeeze past Twilight's eyelids, and I hide behind my hooves, unable to face the magnitude of my misdeed, or the moisture similarly tinging my own eyes. "Any joy in romance should come from love, not discovery! Not approval! This was all... a mistake," I say, voice dropping to a murmur as I finally admit my folly, unable to contain it.
A moment of silence, and then, of all things, I hear laughter. Or, at least, the pieces of Twilight's bright laughter, now in disarray and missing their luster. "I... I guess it was, huh?" she says, and the agreement squeezes my heart. I swallow the feeling, knowing I cannot change it. All I can do is ensure our friendship survives intact.
When I don't respond, too caught up in my recriminations, she reaches across the table and pries a hoof away from my face. Our gazes meet, interleaved with two layers of unbidden tears. "But... That doesn't mean..." She makes a frustrated noise, tries again. "That doesn't make it all bad! Just give me one last chance. I just want to prove that... that you've made me a better mare to be around. For anyone, not just a romantic partner. And not just in these 'lessons', but by knowing you!" She breathes in slowly, preparing her final rally to break my resolve. "One last... date. No tests, no lessons, not even anything," she swallows, "physical. To prove that this wasn't just a mistake."
Her hoof is still there, resting atop mine on the table. I pull away and stand. "I..." Say it, Rarity. Reject her. End this little charade of pity before she dredges up the treacherous feelings in your heart. I look away, desperate to see anything but her, but this is her home, and she's littered everywhere. "I.."
Spines of the books all around us stand out — there's the treatise on intertribal glyph standardization she ranted at me about while I was working on Fleur de Lis's commission. And there, the book on dressmaking she bought in Canterlot to read on the ride home on that day our appointments in the capital lined up. On her bedside table, a reproduction of an ancient anthology of poetry revolving around Princess Luna, resurrected and returned to the press by Princess Celestia herself.
I flinch at the thought of the object of her affections, and turn back to Twilight as if that will be easier. It isn't. She's looking at me in patience and fear, and I can't bring myself to deny her — even if she will hate me for it later. I bow my head. Generosity, indeed. "Very well. Does tomorrow work?" I fall back to reliable patterns, hiding behind the way I talk to testy clients as a last resort. It keeps the tremor from my voice, barely.
Twilight only nods in response, and I turn from her.
"I'll see you then." With that, I'm through the doorway, leaving my cinnamon swirl untouched. I keep my breathing even as the tears start rolling down my cheeks, and thank the stars Spike is out of sight in the kitchen as I leave the library. I don't even realize I'm galloping through Ponyville until I slam into the boutique's door. I fumble the latch as sobs start bubbling up out of my chest, and barely make it through the door before breaking into a wail, which dies away in the dark interior.