As morning comes on gilded hooves
And sweeps away the night-time hues
And even as the sun-gate moves
My moods are feathers in the mues
Few feelings make it past their youths
Except for how I feel for you
I slam the book of pithy, stupid love poems closed. Really, I shouldn't have graced her with lessons at all! Half the love poems in Equestria already mention the one she courts. It couldn't be easier. And what of the one who pines for she who loves the Princess? Things could not be harder for her.
Unfortunately, I cannot eat self-pity for breakfast, as strong as my appetite for it seems to be. Returning the book to its shelf, I turn to look through my cabinets, but can't muster the interest for anything more complex than a bowl of oats with alfalfa. Twilight's the one headed to Canterlot, yet somehow I'm the one full of nervous butterflies.
I wonder if this is how Princess Celestia felt when she sent her off to Ponyville. The Princess who gives everything for her kingdom finally giving away this last wonderful, bright spark she'd kept for herself. The ghost of a sardonic smirk flits across my face as I realize that I've reversed her grand gesture, myself sending Twilight back to Canterlot to give the Princess what she has no doubt wanted since then.
Surely she is wanted. If Celestia hadn't loved Twilight before she'd sent her to Ponyville, she must by now. How could anypony not? Her wit, her verve, her absolute passion... Typical that I would be so focused on my own fire and will that I would gloss over the only flame to match mine. And there's no doubt that in her former student, the Princess sees her own wisdom, perhaps still green and new, but sure to blossom.
I shouldn't have gone on that last date. There was nothing new about the Twilight I saw last night, but every aspect seemed sharper: her knowledge a private garden into which she invited me, her impish edge stirring me up just enough to make the chase satisfying, and that quiet hope that thrums through everything she does, singing like Harmony. The love whose intensity inspired fear in me has now settled from hurricane to ocean, but its enormity is unchanged. If anything, it is only more terrifying for its constancy.
If only I realized how I felt sooner. Is this impulse selfish, too? Even if I had asked Twilight before she realized her feelings for the Princess, I would still be stealing her away from her destiny. How could I, a lady so enamored with royal romance, rob another of it? No, this is what's best. That's what I think, it's for the best, a phrase worn like a groove in the floor through its overuse.
The bowl of oats is as finished as it's going to get, so I rise and follow the similarly-worn path to my workroom upstairs. There are commissions to be done, thankfully, and still an hour until Twilight arrives for our promised preparation. There's not much I can do for her, anymore, besides offer empty encouragements, but I will offer them for her if it will help.
I can feel my cutie mark on either flank, that assuring glow that used to mean gems and dresses and a link to an-Nizm, the mark my mother privately frowned at for its threefold form. Now, it means I am part of a whole that I still do not understand, a sixth which has been molded into the shape of a diamond and overwhelmed the meaning of my own mark with its weight. The mark that once meant gems now means Generosity. So, I will be generous.
I've only barely set up the pattern and begun sewing when my thoughts wander back to her.
The thing about Twilight that chafes is that you expect her to be a nerd. And she is, of course, a bookworm through and through, and there is nothing whatsoever wrong about that, but what you also expect from a nerd is a certain amount of social inexpertise. And, true, she isn't experienced in some of the more intimate aspects of socializing, the ones important to friendship: kindness, honesty, laughter and the like.
But the mechanics of social interaction, etiquette and all its attendants, she handles with ease. Once, when I was hosting a dinner party for some of my friends around Ponyville, she asked why I'd not supplied a relish fork for the second course, out of pure innocent curiosity. She was right, I had missed it. However, she asked not to point it out, but purely for her own elucidation.
That isn't so bad, in itself. It's an asset, really, especially for one like me, entrenched in high society, professionally and aspirationally. What really irritates is that Twilight doesn't actually use any of it. At that very same dinner party where she pointed out the missing utensil, she did so after using her salad fork for every single course! Even the dessert! She has all these tools at her disposal, terrifically honed, not rusted a piece for all their years stowed, and she has no interest whatsoever in putting them to use. I know she can run conversational circles around any socialite I've met, including myself.
She knows every step of the dance — she learned from the very best, after all. She's simply not interested in dancing! Or in performance at all, really. She is blunt, and direct, and hates going in circles, which is all dancing is, really. Being beaten hurts, but at least you can learn from it. What truly frustrates is missing the opportunity to compete at all. Better to lose than for your opponent to think you not worth dueling.
It is this particular grievance which I've been rolling around my mind all morning, in hopes that it will pick up other little annoyances and grow from a snowball into an avalanche which I can bury my love for Twilight under.
Unfortunately, my little panoply of jagged annoyances have rounded into fondnesses instead.
The way the slightest unfamiliar concept will completely derail a conversation into her attempts to draw an impromptu lecture out of me, and her accompanying ability to put the conversation back on its tracks just where we'd left off when she's satisfied.
The way her bangs inevitably grow just slightly too long and she'll spend a moon or so blowing them out of her eyes (pfooh, pfooh, pfooh) before finally taking herself to get a manecut, after which she'll chirp about how good it feels and wonder aloud how she let it go for so long, and then she'll let it go for just the same amount of time next round.
The way she eats like a starved griffon (when company allows), attacking a hayburger without regard for the sauce she splatters across her muzzle, the same reckless abandon and wild passion with which she tackles utterly everything, her entire life a banquet and herself completely insatiable.
I am worse than a filly with a crush, worshiping an idealized version of a pony who doesn't exist. No, I am most certainly a grown mare in love with a flawed, real pony. It's much worse than I feared.
Ashamedly, I almost find myself looking forward to it. True, crushing heartsickness, the type chaise longues were designed for in the first place. How long have I craved for a good reason to stare forlornly out a rain-slicked window? To fill my bedroom with music from mother's phonograph, and understand for the first time the pain that drove those musicians?
Yes, it is not all for naught. I cling to that in place of finding ways to be annoyed with Twilight.
I'll see her everywhere, even when she's in Canterlot — especially when. And it will hurt, but it will fade as all pains do, and then perhaps... Perhaps I'll find another pony who's aflame as I am, as Twilight is. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. The word swirls in my head. I am sick of perhaps and tired of maybe and have had just about enough of someday.
A growl of frustration rips through my throat as I stamp my hoof down. The machine whines piteously as I push the pedal past its limits, and then coughs as it jams, the stitch dissolving into a snarl just like the one inside my head. Darting forward, I bite the fabric and tear to pieces my work from the last hour. I spit it out, and it flutters unsatisfyingly to the ground.
I huff. Lovesick protagonists don't have little temper tantrums, do they, Rarity? Then again, they don't do much of anything. They have their whole life presented to them on the silver platter of narrative. They don't have to work, or struggle, or toil through the night because they can't afford to miss another order! I just want... I just...
Stepping out of the pedals, I step downstairs and stride to the door, leaving the mess as it is. I need air, a walk, something to see, anything to keep my mind off— Twilight Sparkle. There she is, of course, right behind the front door I've opened, just as scheduled. Of course. La-dee-frolicking-dah, Twilight Sparkle. "Twilight, hello!" I say with a bright smile, stepping aside. "Come in, come in!"
I take a moment for mindfulness, as mother taught me. Take each worry, and stack them up, and shove them deep, deep down, because we wouldn't want to inconvenience anyone, would we Rarity? Just hold out for a little while longer, and then you can fall to pieces in peace.
Centered again, I turn to the interior of the Boutique and find Twilight blinking at me. For a moment, her stare is so intense that I worry all my evil little thoughts have bubbled to the surface of my coat, staining it dark. "What is it, Twilight?" I ask.
"I just asked how you were doing. Are you alright? You seem a little distracted," she says, innocent and concerned as always.
"Oh, I'm quite alright," I say, fluttering my eyelashes. "Simply thinking of what sort of wedding dresses I should design for a Princess and her consort."
Twilight rolls her eyes, which makes me realize...
"Are you... wearing makeup, Twilight?" I ask. It's subtle, but her lashes are definitely more voluminous, and there's a small accent of liner. It's very flattering, needless to say, and I wonder when she found time to practice.
"Oh, yes, I... It's not too much, is it?" she asks bashfully. "I know I'm nowhere near as good as you, but I started practicing a little on my own time... Should I take it off? I should take it off," she says, the telltale signs of panic rearing their head. "Can I borrow your remover? Actually, that's too much of an imposition, I'll go get my own—"
I place a hoof on her chest before she can gallop off again. "Twilight, it looks wonderful. The subtlety draws out your natural beauty very well. I'm impressed." All true, though I won't volunteer how much I was looking forward to prettying herself up myself. Ever since we met and I had her under my hooves for the first time... My passion has always been in bringing out a pony's natural beauty, but there's always been something intoxicating about hers in particular.
I really should've realized earlier. Professor Rarity indeed. Swallowing the bitter irony like medicine, I refocus on Twilight. "However, with that taken care of, I'm not sure there's much to do before you begin your journey."
"Nothing to do but to do it, huh?.." Twilight asks, shuffling on my plush carpet.
"Not getting cold hooves now, are we?" I ask, not hoping that's the case. Not hoping that she perhaps needs an introductory relationship, start off small with an unassuming country mare before working her way up to the literal Princess of the nation. Glory, why does she make me so pathetic?
"No," she says, full of determination. "No, I've avoided it enough." She stares at me as if I'm the train to Canterlot, then looks away. "Well. What about flowers? What do you think of flowers? Would flowers help?"
Come to think of it, I don't even know Princess Celestia's favorite flower. I feel that sort of thing should be common knowledge, so she must hide it — one of those 'no playing favorites' things, not wanting to tip the scales of the flower economy with her hoof, surely. For a moment, I instead think about Twilight bringing me my own favorite, lilacs. "Yes, of course, flowers! An essential gesture in courtship. I'm sure she'll appreciate them." The duplicity is beginning to make me nauseous.
Thankfully, that may not be an issue much longer. Twilight perks up and trots to the door. "Great, thanks Rarity!" she chirps. "I'll pick some up from the market, then I'll be all ready!"
"Oh, er..." I lift a hoof uselessly, as if to call her back. But what was I expecting, really? More than 'thanks Rarity', certainly, but... Is this not my place? To give, and to be happy for others? To be generous? Twilight's looking curiously at me, and I lower my hoof. "I suppose this is your graduation, then. I apologize, I didn't think to put a diploma together. Not that I imagine you'd want to display such a thing on your wall, of course!"
"Yeah," she laughs, "that'd be pretty hard to explain. 'Yup, I learned how to kiss from my best friend.' Honestly, I'm surprised none of our friends have caught on yet." Yet? She looks behind her, out the door to where her destiny awaits. "Sorry. I shouldn't be so flippant about something so valuable... You've taught me a lot, Rarity, about what I want. You've made me a lot surer of it, too."
I wince, expression unseen, as my mind traitorously wonders if I could've used this whole lesson plan as a way to make her stray from her path and onto mine. The little impulses and wonderings I have to crush underhoof are making me properly queasy, now. "You know I'm always happy to help. Now, you have flowers to fetch! Off you go!"
She turns back to me with her face set into an expression of determination and nods. Then, she turns and trots out of the Boutique without a word, closing the door behind her.
The utter bathos is relieving, really. No grand climax, no embarrassing, sobbing confession on my part. It reminds me of the tiny, elegant print on the letter I received at nine years old that contained the worse news of my young life, how it was so understated when the emotions were big enough to be engraved in Canterlot's cliffside. It's a morbid thing to be thinking about, but now is the time for morbid thoughts, as I said. Now is the time to wallow.
I tread up to my bedroom to get started, but find myself just casting about like I'm looking for something. To crawl into bed would be to admit to the finality of it all, and there will be plenty of time for that. Instead, I wander back downstairs. After a trip in and out of a kitchen full of uninteresting food, I find myself standing before my workstation, the damning evidence of my little temper tantrum staring me in the face.
With a sigh, I call on my magic to begin unjamming the sewing machine. "The stars want you to be free, darling," I say to the little thread, the edge of my words dripping sardonically. The joke just makes me sad. Unlike how being in love is more dizzying than any of the books could ever depict, being heartsick isn't anywhere near as fun.
The work is dull and lets my mind wander, which makes it a poor choice. I dip back into the stores of foalhood fantasy — Princess Rarity, high atop Canterlot, pulled from her work by the entrance of a gallant suitor. Except where previously stood a stallionish blob of vague gallantness instead stands Twilight Sparkle, vivid and sharply outlined, her violet coat standing out against the marble hallway.
Princess Rarity steps down from her throne with grace as catlike as the Royal Pet and stands before the brave unicorn. Her amethyst mane floats above and behind her, as untethered from reality's demands as she herself. The little unicorn is stammering through a confession, pure and unsullied by lechery or brash attempts at royal favor.
She is awkward and unconfident, but there is something bright burning in her eyes. Princess Rarity can see it like none other, and readily pries back her exterior with another step forward, fishing around in her very soul for that spark she's looking for. Twilight is like a star fallen to earth, and she wants to know its name — not what the Saddle Arabians called it, but what it calls itself. Rarity leans down, through a whole length of height, and interrupts her admirer's stuttered confession with her own lips, silent but for the sound of love as a gift, as they press close—
A knock on the door interrupts me. Can't a young businessmare brood in peace? I stand, dropping the spool I was fiddling with, and trot to the door. With each step I regret not having flipped my 'Open for Fabulousness!' sign to 'Closed for a Burst of Inspiration!'. Inspiration indeed.
Opening the door, I sing out that catchphrase which feels utterly wretched at the moment: "Welcome to Carousel Boutique, where every garment is—"
Twilight Sparkle is, for some reason, standing on my doorstep once again.
"Chiq, unique, and magnifique," she finishes for me, apparently unable to leave the slogan unslogged. "... Hi, Rarity."
"... Hello," I respond, staring at her. My eyes wander to the bouquet peeking out of her saddlebags and note the Princess's good taste — we must share lilac as our favorite flower. A small, ugly part of me says the color doesn't match her ethereal mane as well as it does my earthly one. How selfish, to think myself as more deserving of an entire species of plant. "Have you... forgotten something, Twilight?"
"Yeah," she says, and then just stares at me.
I look over my shoulder, back into the dark of the Boutique. Has something gone wrong? Did she miss her train? "Twilight, really, you mustn't keep the Princess waiting..." I say. You mustn't keep yourself waiting here with me any longer.
"But... It's just... Rarity, I..." She swallows, and sparkles of her magic play with the flowers at her side before fading. "There's... one thing I never got the chance to practice with you."
I plant my hooves, summon my strength, and smile. I promised to see this through. "And what's that, darling?"
"Saying it."
No. No, no, no, promise or not, I cannot bear to hear those words from her. They would break me, they would hook my heart from its depths and drag it out of my throat to die on the floor like a gasping fish. "Oh, you shouldn't need any practice for that..." I say, nearly wincing in anticipation of the flat platitude I'm about to spout. "Just listen to your heart!" And please, ignore mine.
She scuffs my welcome mat with her hoof, and I wonder for a moment if they sell reversible ones with the opposite sentiment printed on the obverse side. Go! Leave! Your Princess is waiting for you, and a pint of ice cream is waiting for me. Let the curtain fall on our little play so I may retreat backstage while you perform your curtain call. Or rather, let the show begin, and leave the costumier behind.
"I've tried before, but... I failed," she says, her voice weak. "I'm just so scared." And she looks it. Her legs are unsteady, and her eyes are hidden behind her downturned bangs.
Oh, I cannot help it. It is as I said: no matter what, she's still my best friend. I step forward and nuzzle her cheek; it's comfort and nothing more. "Twilight, I know it sounds pithy, but there comes a time when all contingencies and schemes will fail you, and this is one of them. Your heart must be bared to hers. There can be no pretense or plan. You simply have to say it. I'm afraid I can't ease that an iota."
She looks up at me as I draw back, then laughs. "Of course. Cadence was right all along, wasn't she? It's always been that simple." I don't think I've ever seen this smile on her, except maybe when she first worked up the courage to ask me to help her with romance. It must be relief. "I think I'm ready this time, though. I should just... say it." She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and I realize with terror that she plans to practice, after all. Then, her eyes open again and, before I can look away, I'm caught, caged by her fluttered-open eyelashes. "I love you."
My legs wobble beneath me. I am a strong mare. I have faced down an alicorn and uncountable creatures of the sort with which parents warn their foals. This is nothing to me, nothing, nothing. "That's perfect! Now, of course, it will be a bit more difficult to say to the mare you're actually in love with," I say, wringing my own heart before she has the chance to, "but I know you can do it!" Turn away! Leave! Before I— Before I...!
She curses me with another shaky, shy smile, surely adrift in thoughts of the Princess. She's imagining the other side of this confession: the small shock that will grace her face, then the smile that will bloom in its place and the way her eyes will crinkle at the corners. Perhaps I could just step back inside, curl up on the couch, and she won't even notice...
Instead, with gentle hooves, she takes my heart from my own grip, eyes focused. She steps forward, into the Boutique, and I step back instinctually. "I love you," she repeats, each word squeezing tighter. She must expect me to respond, to continue this farce to its endpoint. Wouldn't it be wonderful, to hear such a thing addressed to me? To be able to respond in kind, as I so dearly want to?
I know my composure is cracking. I can feel the hairline fractures all along and through, and if it shatters, everything will come rushing out, and Twilight will be soaked in my inconvenient, insignificant, incurable feelings. The last thing she needs right now is for me to muddy her true love with them.
A firm touch reaches me. I realize she's placed a hoof against my chest and is giving me that patient smile she wears when I've fallen into one of my admittedly-not-infrequent temper tantrums. I wonder why.
"Rarity," she says, magic grasping the bouquet and presenting it, "I love you."
I'm dimly aware of my jaw going slack.
"This whole time, it's been you. Never Celestia. I'm so sorry, Rarity. I'm not... a great pony, or a confident one. I should've said sooner, I wanted to, and I definitely shouldn't have lied, but I was so scared of the inevitable... And even more terrified of losing you as a friend. Then, you... You offered me a glimpse of what I knew I couldn't have. I thought it wouldn't do any harm, but..." She sighs. "I guess I deserve the harm it did. I'm just sorry you were caught in it," she says, unbelievably calm, unacceptably sad.
I kiss her. Somewhere leagues away, a bouquet of lilacs drops to the floor. Cadence was right, of course. It really is just that simple. My hoof is pressed against her chest, my weight bearing down on her, and as her lips open to meet mine, she yields beneath me. We fall to the carpet, not heavy but delicate, like a flower unfolding. I find it very easy to lose myself in her, to let the Boutique and all surrounds fall away until it feels like it's just us, our souls contacting in a void, diamonds and starlight.
It's perfect. We've had plenty of practice, haven't we?
But we aren't quite alone in a void. With my magic, I close the door behind her and latch it, remembering to flip the sign this time. There isn't a drop of falsehood in that 'Closed for a Burst of Inspiration!' signage. My muse is here, and I have plenty of ideas on what to do...
Starting with wringing an apology out of her.
I break the kiss first, and, as consolation, I get to see Twilight come back to herself, mouth spreading into a goofy grin with her eyes still closed. Then, she opens them and sees me, and guilt takes its place. So, she knows what I'm looking for. "Did you have fun, then, stringing a poor maiden along?" I ask, half playful and half hurt.
She winces. "I'm really sorry, Rarity... You remember how well my first attempt to confess went."
"Perhaps my own enthusiasm for the subject can be blamed for that particular instance. But... Well, when did you decide to try again?"
"Last night had a few hints that you might feel the same, but I... didn't really know for sure I was going to do it until I was standing at the flower stall." She glances away, then back to me, eyes pleading, ears laid flat. "Are you mad at me?"
"Alas, I cannot find it in myself to be," I confess, and nuzzle a smile out of her. "You are a difficult mare to be mad at. And I do not blame you, truthfully... Though I had better reasons to stifle my own confession, I understand how intimidating it is."
"I figured you wouldn't mind a bit of lovesickness... Practically every 'textbook' you gave me featured a bit of that."
"You're not wrong, but I quickly found it to not be my style. I find I much prefer loving, and being loved."
"... Do you?" she asks, quietly.
"Do I?.."
"Love me."
I roll my eyes. "Twilight, what else could that kiss have possibly meant?"
"... Remedial lessons?" she asks, in her sheepish 'maybe I can get partial credit' way.
"I love you, Twilight Sparkle. Very much, despite all your silliness. Or perhaps because of it, given how well it matches my own. I think I have since we met. It just took a little work to realize it."
"I love you too, Rarity," Twilight says with a ready smile. "What made you realize?"
"When you kissed me — not when I kissed you, but when you kissed me," I say with careful emphasis, hoof idly rubbing at my neck, "it all sort of just... came together. Which was unfortunate, because by then I had guessed..." I pause. "... Do you... actually love the Princess?" Are you settling for less, is the question I don't ask.
"No," she says, and the utter sureness in her voice drains the tension away. "I mean, platonically, yeah, and I had a crush on her as a filly, but that's more like the phase AJ's sister went through with Cheerilee. Puppy love, I think is the term." She rolls away from my embrace and stands, walking deeper into the Boutique. "You... didn't actually think I had a chance with her, did you?"
"I... Perhaps I was projecting, just a little. I truly don't know Celestia well enough to say for sure what she wants." I swallow. "I just knew you were incredible and any mare would be lucky to have you."
She turns and smiles back at me, then looks thoughtful. "I'm not sure I know what Princess Celestia wants either. I'm not sure she does. Maybe now that Luna is back, she'll have the time to figure that sort of thing out. I hope she will."
"I do as well, but... I think perhaps there's a more immediate concern. That of what we want."
Twilight turns around fully, sitting on her haunches, then tilts her head. "What do you mean?"
I sigh at having to trot out this particular cliche — at least she'll have context for it from her readings. "What... are we?" Because love is, though powerful, only a word, a feeling. It's not a plan or any sort of guarantee.
"Oh! That's easy," Twilight says, like she's been presented with a trivial bit of addition. She raises a hoof and points at me. "You're my marefriend." A pleased shiver runs up my spine at the cool confidence with which she says it. Once Twilight's sure of something, it gets slotted into her brain as a simple fact, and it takes a lot to shake it loose. She points at herself. "And I'm yours." Her tail flicks, and my eyes follow it. "And I'm going to tell all our friends. And the Princesses."
"Maybe we should tell Pinkie Pie first, so she has the chance to get a party ready?.." I ask, feeling a bit trepidatious.
"Maybe, but then she'd have to keep it secret... Besides, since when has Pinkie needed time to prepare? But, if you want to hold it off for a while..." she says, walking — no, I realize with fear, she is sauntering towards me. She stops with her own muzzle inches from mine. "I can think of a few ways to pass the time."
I smile, enjoying the confidence that seems to fill her now her feelings can be properly expressed. "Bold, aren't we? Just who taught you all this?" I ask, smirking.
"You, professor," she says sweetly, and then nuzzles her way along my cheek, to whisper straight into my ear. "But now I think it's my turn to teach you a few things," she says, and I yelp as she nips my ear, the sensation coursing hot and electric through my body.
She darts back, a worried look on her face. "Was that too much?"
Unwilling to cede the gap in space between us, I pounce, knocking her to the carpet, a floor below where she had me in a reversed position three nights ago. "Quite the opposite. Twilight Sparkle, you've been very cruel to this poor mare, and I think it's past time you start making it up to me." She squirms a bit under me, but a researcher's physique doesn't amount to much, and she can't overwhelm my pin.
"Now," I say, leaning down and relishing the way she shivers as our muzzles touch. "I daresay it was a mite rude, the way you galloped out on me the other night. I'd like to pick up where we left off."
She nods vigorously, and I'm reminded of the eager young student she's told stories of. I've half a mind to write my own letter to the Princess about my new marefriend. Gloating doesn't befit a lady, but a pony like Twilight deserves to be shown off. As I chew on her ear in a way that produces adorable squeaks, I decide the letter doesn't necessarily have to be too detailed.
Whatever we tell everypony else, all that matters for now is all the lessons yet to be learned — not as teacher and student, but together as one.