//------------------------------// // Friendly Advice // Story: Fire & Rain // by Ruirik //------------------------------// Soarin’ hummed a merry tune as he unlocked the door to his Manehattan flat, saddlebags filled to the brim with fresh groceries. It wasn’t enough to last him more than a few days, but it was enough for starters. Every unmarried Wonderbolt had to deal with the particular annoyance of restocking their fridges when they were on vacations, still, Soarin’ didn’t mind. A wide smile grew on his lips as he pushed open the door and trotted into his apartment. “Home sweet home,” he said to the empty apartment. Soarin’ preferred to avoid pulling his so-called celebrity card whenever possible, it tended to draw more attention that he liked when not in a uniform. His one notable exception had been to get the suite he called home. It was a two-bedroom corner suite on the top floor of his Oceanside apartment complex. From the comfort of his living room, Soarin’ could watch the sun rise over the ocean every morning. He even had a small patio that had just enough room for a pair of yard chairs and a small charcoal grill. The interior walls were painted a warm cream color with burgundy red accent walls in the kitchen. The floors were actual wood as opposed to the cheap carpet or veneer found in most apartments. Along the walls, Soarin’ had hung many pictures. The living room had oil paintings varying in size from small to quite large, almost all of them had been works his grandmother had done when she was younger. The hallway leading to the bedrooms and bathroom was lined with dozens of photographs. Most were of Soarin’ with his family, though a few were photographs of the team in their more private moments. His personal favorite was a photograph from Hearths Warming Eve, with the entire active roster wearing matching sweaters. The sweaters had been Spitfire’s idea of a funny gift: probably because they were crimes against fashion, and possibly violated several international treaties against torture. Soarin’ still wasn’t sure how she had convinced Arcus to wear one and be photographed in it. With a quick shake of his head, Soarin’ refocused his attention in the task at hoof. The groceries wouldn’t unpack themselves, no matter how nicely he asked them. He hopped onto his hind legs and struck a martial art pose at the half-dozen eggs sitting at the top of the pile. “Bring it, poultry!” he challenged bravely, making a chopping motion with his right hoof. The eggs seemed unimpressed. Soarin’ gave the eggs his most intimidating stare for a moment before he plucked them from the bag and placed them in the fridge. He hummed as he put the rest of his groceries away; vacations always left him in a good mood. Finishing that task quickly enough he trotted over to his record collection and perused for an album to listen to. Before he could make his selection a sharp knock on the door stole his attention away. Soarin’s right eyebrow arched up; he hadn’t been expecting anypony tonight. The Wonderbolts had all gone their separate ways for vacation. His family always wrote before visiting so he could ensure he was actually home when they showed up, and he was currently single without any real prospects. Soarin’ waited a moment, wondering if whoever it was had simply knocked on the wrong door. Sure enough, after several moments of silence, the deliberate knocking returned. With a sigh, Soarin’ abandoned his record collection to deal with his unexpected, and undesired, visitor. Pulling the door open, he was very surprised to see Spitfire standing in the hallway. The former captain had a look of stress on her face and a brown paper bag gripped in her teeth. Soarin’ stared at her dumbly for a moment before he spoke. “Uh, heya boss, what’s up?” he said. “I ‘ought your ooze” Spitfire said through the bag. “You ought my ooze?” Soarin’ repeated her, an amused smirk on his face. “What the hay is that supposed to mean?” Spitfire rolled her eyes and set the bag down. “I said; I brought your booze.” Soarin’ quirked an eyebrow at her, his lips pursed. Spitfire pressed her hoof against her forehead and groaned. “Last night, dancing with Rapid, remember?” Spitfire said. The lightbulb in Soarin’s head clicked on as the specific information was dislodged from the metaphorical gears. Soarin’s cheeks flushed a slight shade of pink as he chuckled in spite of himself. “Oh yeah!” he said with an embarrassed laugh, “kinda forgot about that.” “Noticed,” Spitfire said, a friendly smile on her lips. “Can I come in?” “Huh, uh—oh yeah! Sure.” Soarin’ acquiesced, motioning her inside with a hoof. Spitfire took the bag in her teeth again before trotting inside. Soarin’ closed the door and followed her to the kitchen counter. Spitfire set the bag down carefully before turning to Soarin’ with a grin. “It’s all yours, buddy,” she said, “you’ve earned it.” Soarin’ tilted his head, unsure exactly what she meant. He watched as her golden hooves separated the bag from its contents, his breath hitching in his throat as he got a look at the bottle. “J-Johnnie Trotter Blue Label,” he said reverently. “Took me all afternoon to find a place that sold it,” Spitfire commented. “Y-you really shouldn’t have got this, Spitfire,” Soarin’ managed to sputter, his eyes fixated on the bottle, “the Black Label was just fine.” “It’s also your promotion gift,” Spitfire said. Soarin’s ears folded back as he bit his lower lip. Johnnie Trotter was by far his favorite scotch, and the Blue Label was one of the finest scotches in the world. A quality reflected in its heavy price tag. Soarin’s frugal nature usually restricted him to the more affordable Black Label. “Thank you so much, Boss!” Soarin’ exclaimed as he pulled Spitfire into a tight hug. Spitfire laughed, her hooves patting the stallions back. “Easy on the wing there, buddy.” “Sorry,” Soarin’ apologized as he released her, “it’s still weird not having you running the show.” “Yeah,” Spitfire agreed, her posture sagging. Soarin’ didn’t miss the subtle shift in her demeanor. “What’s up, Boss? You look like something’s eating you.” Spitfire let loose a puff of air through her lips. “Yeah… yeah I guess you could say that.” Soarin’s lips formed a concerned frown. “Wanna talk about it?” “Actually, I’d like that,” Spitfire answered with a tired sigh. “Go make yourself comfortable on the patio. I’ll get a couple glasses for the scotch,” Soarin’ instructed her. Spitfire chuckled and nodded, easily making her way to the glass patio door. Pulling it open, she felt a rush of sea wind wash over her face; the smell of the ocean salt filling her sinuses as she stepped onto the patio. Spitfire felt a small pang of regret for not visiting Soarin’s place more often, if for no other reason than the fantastic view. She made herself comfortable in one of the chairs, her eyes focused on the distant tides. Spitfire didn’t have a Manehattan flat, she much preferred to live in Cloudsdale whenever possible. Still, the view Soarin’ had was almost enough to make her reconsider. Almost. Soarin’ walked out onto the patio soon after Spitfire, a pair of glasses tucked under his left foreleg and the bottle of scotch under his wing. With great care and practiced ease, he set the both down on a small metal table between the two chairs. Pouring an equal portion into both glasses, Soarin’ offered her the first one. “Sorry I don’t have anything to mix it with,” he said. “Don’t worry about it,” Spitfire replied, carefully accepting the glass in her hooves. Soarin’ sat in his chair and relaxed with a loud sigh. Silence settled between the two, only the wind and the distant sounds of the ocean filled the air. Spitfire giggled softly, earning a confused look from Soarin’. “You know what’s funny?” Spitfire asked. “A comedian,” Soarin’ answered. “Oh, haha,” Spitfire said with a roll of her eyes, “no, what’s funny is that you, a pegasus who won’t even fly over an ocean, springs for the apartment with the nicest Oceanside view possible.” Soarin’ shrugged, taking a sip of his scotch before he answered. “I can appreciate the view much better from over here.” “Why are you afraid of deep water anyway?” Spitfire asked. Soarin’ was quiet for a moment as he considered the question. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the cubes of ice gently clinking against their confines. “A long time ago, back when I was first learning to fly, my family went to visit my mom’s parents in Germaneigh.” Soarin’ paused for a drink of his scotch, savoring the smooth burn and rich flavors as they ran down his throat. “Well, we went to the beach one day, lovely place with white sands and a steady breeze. Grandpa wanted to go for a flight, I wanted to go with him, so I hopped up on his back and we took off. We got a little ways over the ocean, and I decided I was gonna try to fly again. So I spread my wings and got a feel for the air, then I let go of Grandpa, and for a couple minutes I was flying.” Spitfire nodded, her expression serious. “What happened?” “We ran into a crosswind,” Soarin’ said with a small shrug, “not a problem for anypony really, but it surprised me and I lost control. Went right into the drink, sploosh!” He emphasized the motion with a slap of his hoof against his thigh. “Grandpa and Dad got me out really quick, but I managed to get a good drink of saltwater first. Was sick to my stomach for a while.” “Well all things considered you turned out reasonably okay,” Spitfire said. Soarin’ chuckled and took another sip. “So boss, what brings you here?” “I’m not allowed to hang out with my favorite stallion?” she countered. “Well you did bring me booze,” Soarin’ said, feigning a contemplative look and rubbing his chin with a fetlock. “The good stuff too!” Spitfire said, raising her glass. “In all seriousness though, Boss, what’s up?” Soarin’ asked, his concern all but written on his face. “You really do look strung out about something.” Spitfire was silent for a few moments, absently swirling the drink in her glass. “I… I, uh, I find myself in a situation where I don’t know what to do.” Soarin’s right eyebrow arched upward. “What happened?” “Arcus cornered me this morning,” Spitfire said. “Ah,” Soarin’ replied, “force you to admit you were seeing Rainbow in a ‘more-than-friends’ way?” “Pretty much,” Spitfire answered with a tired nod. “How’d he take it?” Soarin’ asked, taking another sip of his drink. “He told me to break up with her immediately,” she answered. Soarin’ flinched as though the words had struck him. “Dang, Spits, that’s…well I don’t even know what to tell you.” “It’s alright,” Spitfire said, downing the last of her drink. The alcohol filled her gut with a sense of warmth she had been missing all day. Yet it could do nothing to loosen the knot in her stomach. “I just… I don’t know what to do, Soarin’.” “Well, what’d Arcus say?” Soarin’ asked, even though he was sure he didn’t want to know. Spitfire’s frown turned to an angry scowl. “He said as long as I’m a Wonderbolt, and she wants to be a Wonderbolt, then we can’t have a relationship. That she’d be seen as the mare that got in on her back.” Soarin’ nodded as he listened. “Cause she’d be dating the boss?” “Yeah,” Spitfire sighed, “Arcus is worried about media perception, and the team politics.” “I can understand that,” Soarin’ said, the comment earning a disheartened glare from Spitfire. “C’mon Boss, you remember how it was with Rapid when we brought him on.” “I remember riding his ass,” Spitfire said. Soarin’ snorted and did his best to keep a serious look on his face. It was several moments before Spitfire realized what she said. “Wait, that came out wrong…” she noted glibly. “That’s not the only thing,” Soarin’ giggled. “Anyway!” Spitfire continued, her cheeks flushed pink, “I didn’t show Rapid any favoritism.” “I don’t know, Spits, you did let him get away with a lot of stuff nopony else could.” Soarin’ commented. “Like what?” Spitfire challenged. “The rampant pranks on almost everypony, the lack of total military discipline, the—” “Okay, okay,” Spitfire held up her hooves in surrender, “when it was just us, then yes I let Rapid be Rapid, but you can’t deny that when it came to practice, press, and performance, I made him work as hard as anyone else.” “I agree, but to be fair, the rest of the team won’t care about that. They’ll care about what they see in the rec room.” “It’s not like I’d make out with her on the pool table,” Spitfire said as she crossed her forelegs over her chest. “Though that does sound kinda fun.” “Spits, I trust you with my life, you know that. And the team all trusts you too, if they didn’t they wouldn’t follow your orders,” Soarin’ said, setting his empty glass on the table. “But we’re all just normal ponies, and frankly, on Friday when we were at the Café Amaréicain, and again on Sunday when we saw the Bad Seeds, you two were pretty close. It would be hard for the rest of us to see past that.” Spitfire’s posture sank and her ears folded back. As much as she wanted to argue with Soarin’, she couldn’t refute his point. “I don’t know what to do, Soarin’,” she began, her voice quiet. “On one hoof, I like Rainbow, and I wanna see how this goes. On the other hoof, it’s only a matter of time until she’s a Wonderbolt as well, and then she would be my subordinate. The media really would have a field day with that headline.” “Have you talked to Rainbow yet?” Soarin’ asked. Spitfire shook her head. “No, we didn’t have plans to see each other again until Wednesday.” “She seemed like a smart girl to me,” Soarin’ said, “why not talk to her about it. Lay out the whole thing and figure out a plan with her.” Spitfire stared at Soarin’ for a moment before a small smile formed on her lips. “Soarin’, if you were a mare I’d kiss you.” “I’m sure you could use your imagination,” he suggested with a laugh. “Oh, just make out with Rapid, he’s close enough,” Spitfire said, giving Soarin’ a flippant wave of her hoof. “Keep dreaming, Boss.” Soarin’ said, his cheeks flushing slightly pink as he feigned interest in the ice cubes in his cup. “Hey, uh, you mind if I crash here tonight? It’s a long walk back to my place and I don’t really wanna be in that hotel anymore,” Spitfire asked. “You’re always welcome here, Boss.” Soarin’ said with a smile.