As the oil lamp in her repurposed workshop guttered out and died, Apple Bloom tightened the last bolt on the new scooter she was building for Scootaloo. Unlike the previous models she’d helped her friend with, this one had only two wheels, offset slightly and made for speed and maneuverability.Through careful counterbalancing, it would stay upright when it went fast enough, especially since the wheels were big enough to act as gyroscopes when they got spinning.
Apple Bloom loved gyroscopes; it was fair to say she was borderline obsessed with them. They were amazing, though, in their own unique way. Gyroscopes were reliable. They always knew which way was up and fought to point that way, true as the North Star. Gyroscopes had their place in every complex machine, helping keep the other parts in line and moving efficiently. Gyroscopes were a lot like her, really.
After all, with a sister as amazing as Applejack, she’d grown up straight and true with a good moral grounding. She’d worked hard and long and steady, putting her name out there as a reliable repairspony, until anyone in need of a handymare would call her first. She night not be the loyalest or most dependable of ponies, but she ran a close second, so close that sometimes she thought she’d run even in that... right up until that got proven wrong.
She locked the old barn up behind her and ran through the freezing rainstorm to the homestead, where a lonely candle shone out. She burst through the door and towelled off, crept into the kitchen, and plated up some stone-cold leftovers from dinner. She scarfed them down and set about cleaning dishes, hers and every other dirty one she could find, humming to herself as the suds built up in the sink and some milk heated up on the stovetop.
She added a generous portion of moonshine to the milk before sipping at it. It wouldn’t do to get sick, not when there was so much to do. There was always so much to do these days, but the pay was good enough to justify it. And, even though she didn’t spend much time with them anymore, there was no doubting that she was helping her family quite a bit. Half of what she made went to help the farm, and minus expenses everything else went to Manehattan, to help cousin Babs run her youth center. Apple Bloom scribbled out a quick note apologizing for once again missing family supper, blinking away the dizzy haze of tiredness as she signed her name with love. Thankfully she’d left time to join them tomorrow evening. If she missed more than four dinners in a row, Applejack would have her hide.
She stumbled past the old grandfather clock in the hallway - 2:15 by its weathered hands - and worked her way upstairs, thankfully avoiding the creaky spots and delicate picture frames even with her unsteady stride. Toothbrushing was a luxury for weekends, when she could go to bed at a reasonable time and wake up after sunrise. She gargled a bit of water and stumbled into her room.
Apple Bloom wearily wound and checked her alarm clock. She was expected to reshingle the Town hall in five hours, and it wouldn’t do to be late for that. She collapsed onto her bed in a tangled mess of legs and exhaustion, half-heartedly tugging the sheets over her and sifting to find a comfortable position. There was nothing left to do but sleep, and that terrified her.
Because for all that gyroscopes could do, for all that Applebloom loved them, they weren’t as invincible or infallible as she liked to pretend. Once they stopped moving, they acted just like everything else in the world. And so she lay in the deadly silence, in the painful, destructive stillness, weak and vulnerable.
All it took was one thing, one reminder, and her brilliant mind was quick to provide her with hundreds. Images of Pinkie Pie kissing Applejack, of the two of them snuggling in front of a fire, laughing at each other’s jokes, baking together raced across her mind’s eye. The gentle way they’d smile at each other after a long day’s work, the silent conversations that took place betwen their expressive eyes, the noises that carried through the wall into her room when they thought she was asleep all battered her overtired imagination. There was nothing left but t give in to the tide, to stop the fight. The first sob broke free from her tight throat and clenched jaw before she bit the pillow for silence’s sake and cried in earnest.
She’d never really had a chance, in the grand scheme of things. After all, with an amazing sister like Applejack to look up to, with such a strong role model, she couldn’t help but imitate, to bask in the shadow of Applejack’s accomplishments. She’d taken after her sister in work ethic, in solving friendship issues, and, it seemed, in love. Pinkie Pie was just so wonderful that it hurt. At least twice in every conversation, the dull ache in Apple Bloom’s chest would flare up and remind her of what she could never have. She burrowed her head beneath the any pillows and childhood dolls on the head of her bed and choked back the worst of the volume. It wouldn’t do to wake anypony else up. They had to work in the mornings, too.
TIME LIMIT-------------------
A quiet knock sounded from her doorframe, and she looked up with a startled sniffle. Of course it was her. Of course it was Pinkie, her bright eyes, the color of a July afternoon, clouded through with miserable concern, her beautiful ears drooping. Pinkie trotted over and tilted her head to the side.
“Are you alright?” Pinkie whispered. Applebloom let out a derisive burst of shaky laughter. Of course she wasn’t alright. She’d never be alright again. Pinkie smacked herself with a hoof. “Sorry, I’m not really awake right now. You wanna talk about it?”
Apple Bloom looked into those guileless, open eyes. The temptation was there, to let it out, this awful heavy secret that burned her tongue and trickled fever-hot down her raw throat. But Pinkie had better things to worry about than Apple Bloom’s foalish infatuation. So she shook her head.
Pinkie climbed up onto the bed and wrapped her strong forelegs around her, humming a gentle lullaby. And Apple Bloom broke again, crying out anew. She burid her face into that wide pink chest, into the soft coat that smelt of flour and sugar and parties and everything good and right in the world, and let the terrible sobs shake through her. And wen she was all cried out, when her mournful whimpers had reduced themselves to sniffles and shudders, she pressed herself even tighter to Pinkie’s chest. She could probably stand a few more minutes of this, after all. It was almost the best thing in the world.