You open the hotel room again, Octavia giggling under the wing you have draped over her.
“What’s so funny?” you ask.
“That fact that you insisted on keeping me wrapped in your wing all the way here,” she replies. You blush a little.
“Well, this is the first complaint I’ve heard about it,” you reply.
“Who says I’m complaining?” she asks as she gives your neck a light nuzzle. The feeling only causes the red on your face to become much redder. “I’m just happy that you’re so... comfortable with such a romantic display around so many ponies.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” you admit. Although, it makes you smile a bit more.
Unfortunately, Octavia pulls away and steps out from underneath your wing. Her warmth still lingers on the tip of your feathers that you can feel as you fold it up to your side.
“Pardon me a moment,” she says, stepping towards the bathroom. You just give her a nod as she closes the door.
Walking over to the window as she does her business, you look over the city again. In the short time you’ve been here, it’s certainly grown on you. You feel very comfortable here, like a home away from home. It’s not that far from Canterlot, either. It’d be possible to make trips here with Octavia every now and again, schedules permitting.
But then there are expenses. Your current employment got you a free ride here, but you owe all of your accommodations to Octavia and her career. You still feel guilty and don’t think you could ask her to pay for another trip like this. How much did the hotel room cost again? A lot, that you remember. More than twice what you’d pay for yourself, but definitely worth Octavia. You try to think of how much you’d have to put aside for a day trip.
Wait, didn’t she say she came here pretty often? What if she wants to go somewhere else? Or heck, she travels a lot anyway, so maybe she’ll want to stay home?
The phone rings, snapping you out of your thoughts. Looking to the desk, then to the bathroom door briefly, wondering if you should answer it. Well, the room is in your name. You might as well. The ringing stops abruptly as you lift the phone and bring it up to your ear.
“Hello?”
“Hello, sir!” comes a cheery mare’s voice from the other end. “We have a caller by the name of Frederic Horseshoepin asking for you.”
Frederic? Probably calling to ask about Octavia. You sigh away from the receiver and hope that you can make the conversation quick before anything comes of it. The more you’ve heard about her bandmates, the less you were looking forward to interacting with them. You hope it won’t escalate.
“Okay. I’ll talk to him,” you say.
“One moment, sir!” she replies.
There is a click followed by a low buzz as you try to think of what to say. Something to hopefully keep him from wanting to talk to Octavia. That’s probably the last thing she wants right now. After a small pop, the line goes quiet.
“...Hello?”
“Ah, hello there,” respond a smooth voice on the other end of the phone. “Would Ms. Philharmonica be available at the moment?”
“Oh, uh... she’s busy, I’m afraid,” you say looking towards the door. “Can I take a message?”
“That won’t be necessary. I’m just making sure she’s fine,” he says. You feel a bit of relief at his answer. “She is fine, isn’t she?”
“Of course,” you say.
“And how are you? You sound quite chipper, if I may say so,” he inquires. You’re surprised at his friendly casualness. Maybe not all of Octavia’s friends are as terrible as you thought.
“I’m fine, me and Octavia just had an afternoon coffee.”
“The cheap hotel kind, I’m assuming?”
“No, actually a little coffee house a few blocks from here.”
“Oh my, a coffee house. I’ve never been, is it any good?”
“Better than the hotel kind, that’s for sure.”
Frederic begins to laugh on the other side of the phone. “Well, I suppose even out of work, you’ll be getting drinks for Octavia.”
You don’t really appreciate the remark, but give a couple chuckles out of courtesy. “Actually, she was there with me, so...” you just trail off.
“She was with you in the coffeehouse?” he asks. “What was she doing out of the hotel room?”
What an odd question. “We were exploring the city a bit. Walking around, seeing sights, that sort of thing.”
“Has she been practicing?” he suddenly asks.
“She will be, she will be. Don’t worry,” you say, casually.
The line is silent for a moment. “...Will be?” he asks in a rather cold voice.
“Yes...” you say carefully, not knowing what brought such a change of tone. “Later tonight, when she’s ready-”
“Has she been practicing at all today?” he asks, urgency present in his speech.
“Not... yet?”
The line is silent on the other end for a while.
“Why not?” he says, voice heavy and cold as lead.
“Well, because, uh... we’ve been having fun doing other things, and-”
“Doing other things?” he interrupts. “Instead of what she should be doing?”
“Hold on,” you say, getting a little upset that he would talk in such a way. “From what I can tell, she’s already had plenty of practice, so you listen here-”
“No, you listen here,” he interrupts again. “That mare was put on this planet for one reason, shown clear as day on her flank. It’s her job. Her career. Her calling.”
“Yeah, but-”
“And do you think it would be in her best interest to make her walk away from it?” he says as you hear a faint flush of a toilet in the other room.
“Hey, I’m not saying that-”
“I don’t know who you think you are, but let me tell you what you are not. You are not some sort of hero come to save Octavia from her unhappy life. Plain and simple.”
The bathroom door opens and Octavia walks out. She looks at you confused as the verbal onslaught continues from the phone.
“Just... just a moment,” you say in a rare gap in his insults before turning to Octavia who is walking up to you. “It’s Frederic,” you tell her.
Her brow instantly furrows. “Give me the phone,” she says.
“A-Are you sure?” you ask, still hearing bits and pieces of Frederic’s rant on the other end.
“Yes, I know how to deal with Frederich. Give it here.” She gives a little wiggle of her hoof, requesting the receiver again. Considering that she’s known him for years, she probably does have just the way to diffuse the situation or at least make it blow over with as little damage as possible. With a small nod, you give the phone to Octavia.
As soon as the phone is in her hoof, she slams it down on the hook. You jump back a little bit as the muffled chatter on the end of the line is silenced. She looks up at you again, her small pout and half lidded eyes saying ‘Was that so hard?’
Looking back and forth between her and the phone you ask, “What if he calls back?”
Her eyes look away as her jaw shifts in thought. She picks the phone back up, dials a few numbers, then puts the receiver to her ear.
After a few moments, she says, “Hello, this is the residence of room 213. We’d like to request that you withhold and ignore any and all outside calls made to this room. Mm-hmm. Thank you.” Setting the phone down a bit more gently this time, she turns back to you. “That settles that. And don’t worry, he’ll cool off before he gets here.”
You are still a bit surprised at Octavia’s bold move. However, even with all of her confidence, Frederic’s words still ring in your ears and make you shiver.
“Something wrong?” Octavia asks.
“No. Nothing,” you say, gaze drifting to the desk for no particular reason. A moment passes between the two of you before you feel her warm hoof on your shoulder.
“I’ve known Frederic for years,” she says. “I know he has a way of pushing a pony’s buttons. He can be a very bitter stallion and that bitterness rubs off.” Her hoof rubs across your back to your other shoulder as she pulls you into a friendly half-hug. “You shouldn’t take what he says too seriously. Now tell me, what did he say to you?”
Your eyes go back to Octavia who is looking at you with genuine concern. Cracking a smile, you can’t help but feel that maybe she’s feeling the same worry you felt on the sidewalk with your coffee. Letting out a long breath, you say, “You’re right. What he said isn’t anything,” licking your lips and shaking your head, you continue, “All he said was you have a life and I’m not some hero to whisk you away.”
Octavia’s eyes light up a small bit in astonishment.
“I mean... I know that,” you say, wrapping a hoof around her back as well. “You have your music and I can’t take you away from that. But I’m happy with... with...”
You trail off as you see Octavia begin to shake, eyes closed, grinning from ear to ear.
“Are you okay?” you ask.
“Y-Yes...” she says shakily through chuckles, her cheeks flush with red. “I-I’m fine...”
“What’s so funny?”
“Alright, it’s just that...” She opens her eyes again to look at you. “Frederic did do a number on you. Now you see why I avoid talking to him.”
“What?”
“He said you’re not my hero. And you agreed with him,” she explains. She brings up her other hoof to place them both on your shoulders. “But you’re both wrong. You did save me. And if not now, then you will.”
“What... do you mean?” you ask, head tilting slightly as you bring your hoof back to rest on hers.
“You’re going to break me out of my monotonous life, remember?” she asks. “You promised me how much we’d do in Canterlot. My mind is already racing with ideas for you and me.”
“Like what?” you ask.
“Like...” She begins shaking her head as her smile grows. “Everything! Do you know how many establishments in Canterlot I’ve never visited? How many restaurants I’ve yet to try? Name something you do out of the home in Canterlot, right now.”
“Well, uh... there’s a bowling alley in the south part of the city me and a couple coworkers go to sometimes,” you say.
“I’ve never been. Take me. Take me there.” She leans closer and closer with every word until her snout is pressed against yours.
You chuckle as you take your hooves and wrap them around her waist, your eyes never leaving hers. “You got it. As soon as we get back, we’ll go bowling.” A sparkle of excitement shimmers in her eyes as her smile becomes a bit more joyful and her grip tightens just a bit.
The moment is ruined as you hear the phone begin to ring again. You both look to it before back at each other confused. Slipping out of Octavia’s grasp, you walk over to the phone to answer it.
“Hello?” you ask.
“Hello again, sir,” says the cheery receptionist. “We have a call from a Mr. Horseshoepin again.”
“I thought we just said to ignore all calls.” You look back to Octavia who has a very annoyed expression on her face.
Fred? she mouths out. You nod to confirm and she rolls her eyes.
“He claims that it is an emergency and very urgent that he speaks to you.”
“One moment,” you say, putting a hoof over the speaker. “He says it’s an emergency,” you tell Octavia.
“He’s mad we hung up on him and just wants the last word. Don’t bother,” she tells you.
You nod again and return to the phone. “Please ignore the call, and any others for this room, even if they say they’re urgent.”
“No outside calls under any circumstances?” the receptionist asks to confirm.
“That’s right.”
“Okay then. We’ll ignore all calls.”
“Thank you.”
“Have a nice day!”
“You too,” you say, hanging the phone back up as Octavia lets out an irritated sigh.
“Frederic, you over-dramatic snake...” she grumbles.
“Is he always like that?” you ask. “He seemed decent when we were first talking. Acted pretty nice at first.”
“Oh dear, really?” she asks, an ounce of pity in her voice. “I am so sorry. When Frederic starts out nice is usually when he gives his worst. Softens you up before sticking the knife in. Doesn’t help that he’s never really liked you.”
“No? Why not?” you ask.
“It’s that he... well, it’s tough to explain,” she says. “He knew about my feelings for you, as all the band members did. Of course, Harpo and Beauty Brass didn’t mind, or rather simply didn’t care, but Frederic didn’t like it.”
“I see...” you say, voice trailing off.
“Something wrong?” she asks.
“Well, it’s just that...” You rub a hoof behind your neck. “Did you and Frederic...?”
“Wha- oh! No. Never. Never considered it,” she says quickly. “We were both a bit concerned when Harpo and Beauty started going out, but it turned out just fine. The subject was brought up once, as a joke, but that’s it.”
You give Octavia a look of suspicion. When she raises an eyebrow in confusion, you smile.
“Well, his loss,” you say.
Octavia chuckles. “Not really. We would’ve been horrible to each other.” She releases a little breath as she finishes. Looking to you again, she simply walks up and puts her hooves around you in a warm hug, resting her chin on your shoulder. You’re surprised for a moment, but reach our hooves around her to return the gesture.
Funny to think that this, a simple hug, would have scared you to think of doing with her before today. The two of you still don’t have the whole story of what happened last night, but you don’t really care. While the journey may not be the destination, the destination here is just fine. However, the moment you share goes as soon as it came when Octavia pulls away.
Keeping her hooves on your shoulders, she says, “I’m feeling a bit hungry. Care for an early dinner?” She dips her head slightly to look at you with stern eyes, even though her mouth is still in a smile. “And don’t say anything about money.”
You think of all you had to eat today. Sure, your breakfast was massive, but that was hours ago. You could definitely find room for a meal by now if Octavia wanted to eat.
“Sure. Any place you want to go out to?” you ask.
“Actually, we just came back. I’d like it if we just ordered in,” she says.
“Room service, it is. Is there a menu anywhere?” You turn your head and see a folded up laminated leaflet by the phone. Picking it up and reading the front, you see the words ‘Kitchen Specialties, delivered right to your room!’
“We’ll probably be one of the first dinner orders they get this evening,” Octavia says.
“Probably means we won’t have to wait as long. What do you usually get?” you ask.
“Today’s not been a day for the usual,” she says. “Let me see what else they have.”
She takes the other end of the leaflet and the two of you hold it together, looking it over. The first column lists their appetizers and drinks, the middle boasts their soups and sandwiches, and their main courses are a column by themselves at the end.
They have all the classic appetizers: mozzarella sticks, jalapeño poppers, onion rings, and such. Sandwiches ranging from the simple toasted cheese to clubs you had never heard nor considered. Soups were basic affair; tomato, cream of mushroom, what have you. Their main courses are what you’re eyeing. Some nice buttery spinach rolls sound pretty nice. Or maybe- ooh! Mixed vegetables in rice!
Underneath in tiny print, you see ‘Call to ask for our alternative options.’
You knew what that meant. Meat.
Well, you suppose griffons or minotaurs or something might stay here, but it still bugs you to think about.
You look over to Octavia. “Decided yet?”
She makes a non-committal hum as she shakes her head. “You?”
“Debating between two choices,” you say. “Did you want an appetizer?”
“Well... I’ve never had mozzarella sticks before. Are they good?”
“Depends on who makes them. Never had them taste the same from two different places.”
“But in general, what are they like?”
“Like fried cheese. Pretty much what it is is the best description for it,” you say. “Kind of greasy, gooey, and not good for you in the least.”
“I’ll take an order, then.” She looks over the menu again. “And... I think I’ll just have the portobello cap sandwich. No lettuce. What are you having?”
“Just the rice with vegetables,” you answer. Picking up the phone, you dial the number on the front of the leaflet. After a couple of rings, a somewhat rugged voice on the other end answers, various hissing and the sounds of other ponies in the background.
“H’llo, Room Service. Whot c’n I do fer ya’?” asks the pony on the other line.
“Oh, hello. I’d like to place an order.”
“Roight then, yer callin’ from room 213, ya?”
“Yes, that’s correct.” They must have some sort of caller identification system down there. Makes sense so that not any room can call a prank order for another room.
“Okay, what c’n I get fer ya’?”
“Well, for starters, we’d like an order of mozzarella sticks,” you say. “Then I’d like an order of your vegetables with rice along with a portobello cap sandwich.” You look over to see Octavia waving a hoof and mouthing something. “O-Oh, and no lettuce on the sandwich, please. Sorry.”
“So that’s a mozzarella sticks, veggies ‘n rice, and a portobello san’wich with no lettuce for room 213. Any drinks or dessert fer ya’ t’night?”
“Oh, uh, no dessert, but...” You turn to Octavia and mouth out the word Drinks?
She thinks for a moment before mouthing back, Sweet tea.
“We’ll have a sweet tea and...” You look at the drinks list on the menu. “An unsweet tea,” you decide.
“The total ‘ill be eight bits.” You hear the flipping of pages in a book on the other end. “Is this, er... Alright?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Okay then, it’ll be ‘bout fifteen minutes fer the cheese sticks and forty minutes fer everythin’ else. We’ll send it up soon as it’s done.”
“Great. Thank you.”
“Yer welcome. Have a good evenin’!”
With that, there’s a click on the other end. You put down the phone and turn to Octavia.
“Fifteen minutes for the appetizer and forty minutes for the main course.”
“Forty minutes?” Octavia asks, a bit surprised. “For vegetables, rice, and a sandwich?”
“Maybe we weren’t the only ones ordering early?” you suggest. “At least the mozzarella stick will be here soon.”
“True. So tell me,” she begins, sitting up on the bed again. “I’m a bit curious. What places in Canterlot sell mozzarella sticks? I’ve always heard that they were a bit of a...” She waves her hoof around, searching for the right phrase.
“Not a food you’d expect in such a city?” you ask. Octavia rolls her eyes, albeit with a smile, and nods. “Some diners here and there. There are actually a lot of things in Canterlot you wouldn’t expect. I think the nobles are a bit embarrassed by it, truth be told.”
“Really now?” she asks.
“For all the opera houses and theatres Canterlot boasts, there are a fair share of other venues. For instance, there’s a nightclub in the east, plays techno and dubstep all night long,” you explain. “I’ve never been, but I’ve passed by it a couple times. Rumor has it that Princess Luna herself had visited the place before.”
“You don't say...” Octavia inquires, smirking from the juicy gossip.
“Yep. And did you know, on the south side of Canterlot, there’s an honest-to-goodness arcade?” you ask, walking over to sit next to her on the bed.
“No...” she breathes out.
“It’s pretty well hidden, but it’s there. A good number of fillies and colts are there after school. I only saw it because of its grand opening signs near a pawn shop I frequent for my shot glass collection.”
“I can’t believe it. I’ve always heard that video games were just so... juvenile! How would they be in Canterlot of such places?”
“Times change, Octavia. I’ve seen many social norms fluctuate in my time as a waiter, hearing bits of conversation and overlooking interaction.” Her eyes look toward you very interested. “Expectations come and go, different dresses and suits, even the conversational etiquette. When I was starting out, I used to hear ponies start a talk by mentioning the weather all the time. Now I barely hear it at all, save for a few old faces.”
“I knew that times change. That much is obvious, but... I guess I never really guessed by how much so quickly.” She shakes her head. “I’ve always just been sort of a shut in, doing the same thing with my ensemble, day in and day out. All our showings and performances, basically textbook.”
“Well, some things just don’t go out of style, I guess,” you say, wrapping a hoof around her shoulder.
She giggles at your clichéd response. “I mean I find it a little scary. Not the passing times, but the fact that I’ve been so blind to all of the changes that have happened around me.” She leans a bit of her weight against you. “Tell me more...”
=======
The two of you continue to chat, mostly with you telling her all about Canterlot, the city she’s lived in all her life. Libraries she’s never visited, restaurants she’s never been to, various bars, coffeehouses, and clubs. Every place you mention is a new place Octavia wanted to visit when you got back.
Your dinner came and went. Octavia tried mozzarella sticks for the first time and found them interesting. Also, it was adorable when the cheese stretched out from her lips on her first bite. She tried to pull at it only to have it stretch more.
Your vegetables and rice were fairly bland, but you can’t say you expected much from hotel fair. Octavia seemed to enjoy her sandwich and you took the opportunity to mention a local sandwich shop near your apartment. Another plan for a visit was made.
The dishes were put aside and the two of you simply lay together on the bed, leaning against each other, sharing warmth and stories. Octavia still hung on your every word.
“And so that’s how I found out where the palace orders their catering equipment from. A little specialty shop two towns over,” you conclude.
“I never would have guessed. I always sort of thought they had their own way of making their dishes and silverware,” she says. You simply shake your head.
“You want to visit there now, don’t you?” you ask.
She lets out a slightly exasperated breath. “Yes. Yes I do.”
As you try to think of another amusing story about somewhere in or relevant to Canterlot, you feel Octavia sit up. You look up to her and see that her content expression is now bereft.
“I’m afraid it’s time...” she says as she steps off the bed.
“Time? Time for what?” you ask.
She sighs in response to your question. “I’ve put it off for too long today,” she says, opening the closet.
You realize what she means. “You know... you don’t have to if you don’t want,” you offer.
“I’m afraid I do,” she replies, her tone gradually dropping. She reaches in and pulls out the all too familiar instrumental case.
No more words are exchanged as you watch her bring it to the foot of the bed. She opens it up and pulls out her bow and rosin. With nearly mechanical movement, she applies the rosin to her bow the way it’s been programmed into her body for years and years before setting it back down.
All you can do is watch as she lifts her cello out of its case. Sheet music lay underneath where it laid, but she doesn’t take it. She probably already knows it all by heart, unfortunately. Many hours to hammer it into her mind. Many more to get it considered perfect by those who may never be satisfied.
She plucks a string sullenly, reaching up to the pegs to adjust it before plucking again and moving onto the next one. You’re surprised that she can tune her strings in one try like that, but then you realize how much practice it must have taken for her to be able to do that. When all four have been tuned, she stands her cello up and runs her bow across each string. She gives a tiny nod, confirming that they’re all still correct.
She moves to in front of the bed, cello and bow with her. You almost feel a little sorry for her... until she stands up.
Her stance is straight. Her head is held high. Her charcoal mane flies back before flowing down as she takes a deep breath. Her eyes open and show not her original morose expression from before, but instead shine with something else. Even in this small hotel room, the only eyes to see her being yours, she stands by her cello and music the way she always does. With the same enchanting pride that enraptured you every time you’ve seen her perform, but never have you had the privilege of seeing it so close.
You feel yourself silently gasp at her display. Standing proud and tall, so cool and calculated with such grace as she brings the bow to the strings again. She looks at you, your wonderment on full display, and she had not even played a note.
At that moment, you understand. What you see is not because of her never ending strive to be perfect or her relentless practicing. Rather her graceful poise, her radiant elegance that now shines from her gray fur is all because of who she is. You’ve always thought, but never before now did Octavia look so beautiful.
She smiles, then begins to play...
~~~~~~~
Your throat burns as the hard liquor goes down. Bringing the bottle back down, Octavia returns from the bathroom where you had recently exited yourself. Her hoof reaches for the bottle again. When she takes it you look down to your hoof. It takes a few tries to be able to focus on it.
The two of you had been going back and forth like this, taking turns taking drinks. You were worried about Octavia and didn’t just want to leave her alone with the bottle. She had made the offer to share and you figured what you drink, she wouldn’t be able to. It was a plan that made more sense the more you got into it.
She tilts her head up with the bottle, same as you have. As she does, you ask, “Oc-... Octavia? Are you okay?”
Finishing her gulp, she sighs and says, “You’ve asked that... six times now.”
“And you shtill haven’t answered,” you reply.
“Did you just shlur?” she asks before realizing she just did herself. “Oh, Chelestia dammit.”
“Are we... are we drunk, Octavia?” you ask.
“Yeah,” she replies. She looks at the bottle the two of you had been drinking from. She squints her eyes at the level of liquid still inside. It’s about half-empty. With a sigh, she picks up the cap and screws it on. “I think that... that’s enough.”
“Aren’t drunk ponies supposhed to... you know... not have enough?”
“You were just askin’ me if I were okay!” she exclaims. “Believe me, I’ve had exshper... expe... I’ve done this before,” she stutters.
“I’ve... I’ve never been drunk like thish before,” you say. “Feels weird.”
“How so?”
You look in front of you, your view swaying in front of your eyes. “Like... blurry.”
Octavia chuckles. “Yeah...”
A moment of silence passes, save for the sounds of the busy city outside. A few muffled honks and thousands of hoofsteps do little to help fill the void between you.
“Octavia?” you ask.
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
“Or, for-...” She puts her face in her hooves. “Why d’you keep asking that?”
“Because you don’t sheem okay,” you say, leaning towards her a little bit. Either out of worry or just to keep your balance.
“What makesh you... say that?”
“You just drank half a bottle’a whiskey.”
She grumbles a bit at your answer, looking down at the offending bottle itself. “Ponies... need to get drunk every now and again.”
“Only if they’re not okay,” you reply. “So if you need to get drunk then you’re not okay.”
Letting out a frustrated sigh, she leans down to put the bottle of whiskey on the floor. She nearly falls forward onto the floor herself, but manages to save herself, if only to fall backward onto the bed instead.
“I’m not okay...” she murmurs.
“Why... why’s that?” you ask.
Her eyes drift lazily towards your general direction. She blinks a few times before getting them to focus on you. The two of you stare at eachother, you swaying a little and her flat on her back.
“Little things...” she says, turning away.
“You shaid that b’fore,” you say.
“A lotta little things.”
“Tell me,” you say. She looks back at you as you lay down on your stomach. Your wings unfold and lay at your sides as the blanket feels cool against your fur. Now down at Octavia’s level you try to look at her with a pleading look.
“Pleashe?”
She cracks a smirk. “You’re cute when you’re wasted...” Her remark makes you feel even more warmth in your cheeks. She raises a hoof toward you, seemingly trying to reach your face. After a couple tiny grunts from her trying to extend her foreleg, you reach with our own hoof and hold hers. She seems happy enough with it as she adjusts her grasp comfortably.
Then, as the moments pass, the room seems to become silent. Even the noise from outside is forgotten as you begin to realize what you are doing, even in your completely alcohol filled brain.
You’re holding Octavia’s hoof.
Even in your stupor, you feel a bit of rising panic. Should you let go? Why was she reaching toward you? Why did she call you cute? She seems okay with it, at least. She’s just laying there, smiling, looking at your conjoined hooves.
Her hoof feels so soft. There is a definite feel of fine grooming, her fur like fine velvet. The years of her music come through as you sense an intense potential strength in her grasp, built from playing her cello.
Her purple eyes look up to meet yours.
“...Cute?” you ask. She just nods. You smile.
“And you’re really nice, too. Always ready to sherve somepony a drink with a smile.”
“That’sh just my job,” you say.
“And you’re good at it. Not to mention just how obs-... obser... how much you notice things,” she continues. “Nothing gets by you. It’s incredible.”
“Thanks,” you say, cheeks growing steadily warmer still.
“And you work hard... even if it’s just bein’ a waiter, you work so hard...”
“It’s not that big offa deal,” you say with a shrug.
“But it is,” she says, turning towards her whole body towards you. “You work and you’re shuch a gentlepony, and...” She trails off before just shaking her head with another chuckle.
“And what?” you ask, curiosity and pride replacing the earlier panic you were feeling.
“And...” she begins, “...you are so much better than...” Her voice steadily loses its joyfulness and is replaced with a sour tone. “...any of my shtupid bandmates.”
“What?” you ask, concern suddenly topping the list of emotions you were feeling tonight.
She sighs. “My bandmatesh are just... terrible.” She stretches her body so her head is facing up towards the wall. “They always fight. They always whine and moan about shtupid stuff. They always pick fights with each other and me and I would just wish that they’d pull out whatever sticks got lodged up their flanks and act like decent ponies.”
“What do you mean?”
She rolls completely over, burying her face in the mattress. Her voice is muffled, but she continues. “We didn’t used t’ be like this...” she says. “We used t’ be friends. We didn’t try to tease each other or make each other angry for no reason. We wouldn’t yell at each other at practice. Yell at each other for not practicin’ enough. Yell at each other for gettin’ a note they thought we got wrong, but we actually got right because they try t’ think they know everything.”
You try to think of something to say when suddenly her hoof pounds against the mattress. “They don’ even care ‘bout the music anymore!” she exclaims. “All the group is to any of ‘em is jusht a fancy position to brag about. They’re here jusht cause they wanna be famous in Canterlot...” She brings her head up with a groan. “Our music changed us. It’s made us horrible ponies...”
“B-But...” You scoot closer to Octavia, holding her hoof still. “I don’t think you’re a terrible pony...”
“You haven’t sheen me out of performances,” she says. “I scream and cry and throw tantrums just like the rest of them. We’re all just awful away from the public view...”
“You’re not awful,” you say. “I followed you here from Canterlot, drinking all along the way, and you were a perfect mare.” She turns her head towards you, her eyes beginning to look red. “You never screamed or cried. You laughed. You made me laugh. I had a great time with you tonight.”
You reach with your other foreleg to hold her hoof in both of yours.
“Octavia, I dunno what you do when I’m not there...” You tighten your hold on her hoof. “But when I shee you, you’re not any of those things you think.”
A smile begins to grow on Octavia’s face again.
“You’re a fantashtic mare, Octavia...” you say, giving her hoof a little pat.
Suddenly, she sits up again, giving your hooves a little tug with the one you’re holding. Taking this as a symbol to get up as well, you take one hoof back to press against the mattress to pick yourself up.
“Thank you,” she says. “That means a lot.”
“Any time,” you reply.
She leans forward, pushing her chest against yours and laying her chin against your shoulder. She brings her other hoof around to your back in an awkward sort of drunken embrace; half hugging, half using you to stay upright. Still, you couldn’t complain as you reach around with your free hoof to her back as well.
“You’re a wonderful shtallion,” she mumbles before breathing a yawn through her nose. The yawn is infectious as you suddenly feel yourself yawning as well.
“Getting tired?” you ask.
“Mm-hmm...” she murmurs.
You pat her back as you look up at the clock. It’s definitely way later than either of you probably stay up. You start to pull away from her.
“I think I’ll be getting ready to get back to Canterlot, then,” you say.
“What? Back to Canterlot?” she asks. “But you’re completely sloshed! You can’t fly back like this!”
“Well... what else can I do?” you ask.
A moment passes before she answers.
“...Stay,” she says, leaning back herself and looking straight into your eyes.
“What?” you ask.
“Stay with me.” She takes both her hooves and brings them up to drape them over your shoulders. “I had such a great time with you... Please. Stay with me tonight.”
“I...” You couldn’t believe she’s asking this of you. The answer is obvious, even in your drunk mind. “...would love to.”
She smiles again as she pulls you closer for another hug. However, all she does is throw both of you off balance and you both fall over onto the pillows, you on top of her. Both of you land with an ‘oof!’. As you realise what happened, you both begin to giggle as you slide off of her, down to her side.
The two of you lay together, both her forelegs around you and one of your forelegs around her. You simple stare into those beautiful purple eyes as they stare back. Every now and again, you feel the urge to blink. Every time you do, it becomes a little harder to open your eyelids again. You can see the same happening with Octavia.
Eventually, your eyelids remain closed. Her warmth is still there and you can still feel it even as you begin to drift...
~~~~~~
As the memory fades, the music ends and her bow drops to her side.
“Why do you like me?” she asks suddenly.
“What?”
“I said why do you like me?” she repeats. “I told you why I like you. You’re friendly, take pride in your work, try to please everypony...” She shakes her head. “So why would somepony like you be interested in me?”
Is she seriously asking this? She’s more successful, more famous, and more talented than you could ever hope to be and she’s wondering how you could be interested in her?
“Octavia...” you begin, “I like you because...” You shake your head as you try to find the right words. “Well, because you’re beautiful, for starters.”
She lets out a little pfft at your reply. “Beauty isn’t that hard to come by in Canterlot,” she says.
“No, no, not like that,” you say. She raises an eyebrow. “N-Not to say you're not beautiful like that, it’s just... you have a different kind of beauty as well.”
“A different kind?”
“All those ponies in Canterlot... So much make-up. So many suits or dresses. They dye their manes, starve themselves, all in an effort to fit some sort of higher opinion.” You lift a hoof towards her. “You don’t have that problem. You don’t starve yourself and you wear what’s only necessary. A bowtie, a little mascara, but that’s it. It shows who you are.”
“But the bowtie is just ensemble uniform,” she says.
“Does anypony else wear theirs out of performances?”
“Well... no. They usually take them off the first chance they get.”
“Exactly,” you say. The words just seem to be sliding out of your mouth, straight from your heart. “And it shows in your performance. You said yourself that the band was just a bragging right to your bandmates. It’s why I don’t have the same feelings for Beauty Brass or, I don’t know, Frederic.” Octavia snickers. “That’s how much you put yourself in your music. You said I take pride in my work, and I see the same with you.” You stretch out both hooves in her direction for emphasis. “Standing proud by your cello. Your pride doesn’t come from wealth or business, but from who you are. Your abilities. Your music.”
“What does this have to do with beauty?” she asks. You get up off the bed and start walking towards her.
“Everything,” you say as you slowly approach her. “Other mares in Canterlot use their money to try and be beautiful. Their pride are their businesses or their connections. But you...” You sit on your haunches in front of her and reach your hoof up to hers still holding her bow. “Your beauty is natural. It doesn’t come from money or power. It just comes from you. Your pride, your ambition, your dreams. And to me...”
You raise your other foreleg to hold her hoof in both of yours, just like last night.
“...That makes you the most beautiful mare in Canterlot.”
She blinks a couple times as your words set in. Slowly, she sits down herself. Her hoof holding her cello very carefully leans it down until it lays on the floor. Reaching over, she takes the bow from the hoof you’re holding and sets it beside the cello. She takes the hoof you’re holding out of your grasp and places it on your shoulder while bringing her other hoof around to the back of your head. Her smile widens until it’s as big as can be.
“Thank you...” she whispers before pulling you forward, pressing your lips against hers.