The Canterlot weather team had outdone themselves that day. The sun was bright, the clouds were just high enough to provide shade without disrupting the day and a wonderful slight breeze seemed to whisper promises of a great day.
It was the kind of bright and shining day that an optimistic, and likely highly caffeinated, unicorn would burst into song about.
But at the moment, Vinyl Scratch was neither optimistic or highly caffeinated. She was pissed. One whole night of drinking had left her with a hangover; one of the worst ones that she had experienced in recent memory.
And the Sun! The Celestia-damned sun was shining right through a gap in the curtains and into Vinyl’s unshielded eyes. The DJ moaned in pain and turned over, trying to escape that infernal beam of light.
It didn’t work. Vinyl could literally feel that single ray of sunshine shining onto her, heating a square inch of her coat by a few degrees. It was really uncomfortable. Worst part was, her head hurt too badly to use her magic! She couldn’t even get back to sleep!
Vinyl scooted across her bed, trying to get away from the light. “Damn, Sun. Damn day,” she grumbled all the way. “Stupid birds and their damn tweeting. Let DJ go back to sleep tim—Umph!” The DJ’s ramblings were cut short as she crashed into something soft.
Spider webs, she thought to herself. Giant spider trying to eat me. Still better than that sunlight. She nuzzled deeper into the threads. I didn’t know spiders smelled good.
“Vinyl,” said the spider web. “We’re not doing this again are we?”
The DJ shook her head slightly, giggling as Octavia’s mane brushed her muzzle. “Just go with it. It’s cute. And I’m sleepy. And hungover… I think I’m gonna barf.”
“Charming,” deadpanned the cellist.
“But I already feel a lot better. Wanna know why?”
“Why is that, Vinyl?”
“I woke up next to you.”
Octavia giggled. “That was one of the sweetest, most clichéd things I’ve ever heard.”
“Nothing but the big guns for you, Octy baby.”
“Please don’t call me that,” the grey mare protested weakly.
Vinyl chuckled, feeling herself slip back into sleep. She breathed in deeply, taking in a scent that was uniquely Octavia’s. “Tavi?”
“Mmmm?” replied the cellist, clearly succumbing to drowsiness herself.
“Tell me that I’m not dreaming. Last night’s just a blur; please tell me that we’ve actually got a date coming up and I’m not just imagining it.”
“It wasn’t a dream. I remember everything. Including the drinking competition you forced me into. And the ‘dancing’.” Octavia yawned. “I would hit you if it weren’t such a nice morning.”
Vinyl laughed again, wincing as her head throbbed from the sudden exertion. She reached a hoof over and nudged Octavia’s ribs, eliciting a slight squeak. “I remember that part. I didn’t know you could drink that much. You can’t dance though.”
“That wasn’t dancing. That was a group of ponies having a fit. I’ll show you proper dancing one day.”
“Will that be on our second date?” asked Vinyl hopefully.
Octavia considered this for a moment. The words had just come out; she hadn’t really thought of what they would imply. Though I suppose that it only makes sense. After all, a dance is a rather common setting for a date.
“Octy,” said Vinyl, interrupting Octavia flow of thoughts, “why do you think so much?”
The cellist raised an eyebrow. “Is that a bad thing?”
The DJ yawned and scratched at her muzzle. “Yup. Thinking sucks. Sometimes it’s better to just… y’know, go with it.”
Octavia decided not to protest. The morning was too bright and the moment too nice to ruin with an argument. Although the room could do with a bit of a cleaning. The cellist blanched and looked around.
“Vinyl,” she asked. “Is this your home?”
The unicorn answered with a soft snore.
Octavia reached her hoof back and gave Vinyl a weak smack. The DJ jerked upwards before sinking back, overcome by nausea.
Vinyl groaned. “I think that I really am gonna hurl.”
“Please hold it in. Is this your home, Vinyl?”
The DJ groaned and rolled her eyes. She lifted her head slightly and timidly glanced from place to place. It was a bedroom and it was relatively messy, but nowhere near the degree of untidiness of Vinyl’s room.
“I have no memory of this place,” said the unicorn.
Octavia nodded silently.
It’s a rather compromising position to be in someone else’s home. Especially when you can’t remember who that person is or why you’ve woken up in their bedroom. It’s even worse when you can hear somebody approaching said bedroom from the other side of a closed door.
“Vinyl,” said Octavia in a worried and slightly deranged voice, “pick something up. Preferably something heavy.”
“Do I have to get out of bed?”
That earned her a smack.
“Fine, fine,” said Vinyl as she reached over the side of the bed. Her hoof hit something hard and rectangular. “This’ll probably work.”
Octavia had done the same on her own side, and was currently hefting what looked like an empty inkwell.
The door creaked open slowly. Vinyl decided to spare a glance at the object in her hooves. It was a hardcover book, its leather cover lovingly worn down. The most eye-catching detail, however, was the ornamental gold-leaf title. Written, in perfect cursive, were the words ‘Harpo’s Journal.’
Harpo himself burst through the bedroom door, carrying a tray of pancakes and orange juice. “Good morning lovebird—OH SHIT!” The composer ducked back through the door, just as an empty and very heavy inkwell bashed against the wall.
The stallion’s pleading voice sounded from behind the door. “I swear, I didn’t put anything in the pancakes this time!”
Vinyl turned towards a very embarrassed Octavia. She held up Harpo’s journal. “I think this is Harpo’s house.”
The cellist’s ears drooped and she began to slide deeper into the covers. “Well… I’m going to go into hiding for a few days.”
“Was I interrupting?” asked Harpo from behind his own cover. “Because I really don’t want to walk in on something like that. Put your bowtie on the doorknob next time, Octavia. And burn the bed when you’re done. I’ll leave the food out here.”
Each sentence made the cellist burn a brighter shade of pink. Vinyl laughed.
“Hey, Harpbutt!” she called. “Bring the food over here or I’ll read your journal!”
Harpo poked his head into the room. “A journal?” he scoffed. “What makes you think I have a journal?”
Vinyl held up what was clearly marked as ‘Harpo’s Journal.’
“You have no proof,” replied Harpo.
Vinyl tapped the words ‘Harpo’s Journal.’
“There’s no way that’ll hold up in court.”
Vinyl threw Harpo’s Journal at Harpo.
The composer attempted a neat catch, but failed miserably. He rolled his eyes and picked his journal up from the floor. “Anyway,” he said, walking into the room with his tray of pancakes, “I just wanted to make sure that you two aren’t dead.” Harpo unfolded a pair of legs from the tray and placed it before the mares. “And Vinyl, I am rather surprised at you!”
The DJ, who had a forkful of pancakes mid-way to her mouth, froze. “Why? What did I do? Did I kill somepony?”
Harpo shook his head. “No. That, actually, would have been less impressive. You, my dear unicorn, not only got Octavia to loosen up, but you didn’t die of alcohol poisoning!” He beamed proudly. “Go on, eat your pancakes, you deserve them.”
Vinyl grinned and immediately stuffed her face. Of course, she quickly regretted that decision as her nausea nearly made her spit breakfast back out.
Harpo hit Octavia’s leg. “And you! Get your head out of that pillow; it’s not like you killed me! I mean, you almost killed me, but you’ve threatened to do that pretty much every day that I’ve known you! So get up!”
Octavia threw a rather fluffy pillow aside. “Fine. But next time, warn me that I’m going to wake up in a bed that’s not my own!”
“Well,” replied the composer, “excuse me for dragging you and Vinyl, both of who were nearly unconscious, into my home, tucking you into bed, sleeping on my rather uncomfortable couch, and cooking breakfast for you in the morning.”
The cellist smiled slightly. “I forget how kind you can be, Harpo.”
The stallion snorted. “Kind? Of course not! I’m an ‘asshole,’ remember?” He took a sip of Octavia’s orange juice. “I don’t believe in being kind.” Harpo decided that he had made a suitably dramatic appearance. The composer walked back outside.
Vinyl smirked. “He’s a real softy, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is. Though it’s rather obvious why he doesn’t have a marefriend.”
Harpo poked his head back into the room. “I heard that. Oh, and drink your orange juice; you have about two hours to get to the Lighthouse Café. Ta-ta!” He grinned and popped back out.
Vinyl and Octavia simultaneously turned to a clock.
Then they turned towards each other.
There were a few beats of silence.
Both mares dove into their food, draining their glasses and demolishing their pancake stacks.
“Bowtie! Where in Equestria did I leave my bowtie?!”
“My glasses, my glasses! I can’t be seen without my glasses!”
***
One hour and forty-five minutes later, two frazzled mares and a grinning composer walked into the Lighthouse Café. Harpo, as an apparent punishment for not waking up the mares earlier had been forced to carry Octavia’s bass.
He found this highly amusing.
The Café was in full swing. Quite literally, in fact. A few of the less inhibited and slightly more inebriated ponies were up and dancing. The rest were enjoying their meal, having a conversation with the others at their table, or watching the drunken, dancing ponies. There was a general pleasant murmur underneath the swing music.
A brass band was playing on stage, an assortment of multi-colored ponies in multi-colored dress shirts turning in time with the music they played. Even the tuba was swinging; a very difficult feat, considering that the tuba must have weighed just as much as the pony playing it.
Harpo’s grin evaporated. “Come on, come on!” he whispered to Octavia and Vinyl. “We need to get backstage! There’s only fifteen minutes until we have to play!”
Octavia nodded and the three trotted around the side of the stage and to the back. Harpo breathed a sigh of relief.
“There you are!” shouted the Doctor as the three made their way backstage. “Do you not realize how close you are to being late?!”
Vinyl shrugged. “But we’re here.”
“Yes, but—“ the Doctor sputtered, trying to find the right words. “But it’s the thought that counts!”
The DJ chuckled slightly and brushed past the stallion. “Good point, Doc.” Octavia followed, giving the Doctor an apologetic glance as she passed.
The technician facehoofed. “I need a vacation. I’ve never needed one before, but I think I need one now. Maybe I’ll save some kind of alien race; that would be a lot less stressful than working with the lot of you.”
Harpo smiled sympathetically. “At least they’re not making you carry a needlessly large block of wood.” The composer ducked under the bass’s strap, precariously balancing the instrument on his back.
“Harpo,” warned Octavia, “if that bass falls, you will be a needlessly large block of wood.”
“Octavia, that doesn’t even make sense,” protested the composer.
“Test me and it will.”
Harpo, secretly terrified of Octavia’s threat, carefully laid the bass onto its side.
“Ten minutes,” said the Doctor.
A certain feeling fell upon the musicians. It’s difficult to put into words. There was a certain tension in the air, one that was only magnified by the occasional pluck of a bass’s strings. It wasn’t nervousness, nor was it anxiousness. There was definite concentration, but none of the three could have told you what it was they were concentrating on.
Not that it mattered to them. No, the only thing that mattered was their performance.
The swing music came to an end. The Café customers applauded, a few adding in wolf whistles and cheers. Some moments passed as the brass band put away their instruments.
The Doctor waved them onstage.
There were no introductions, no polite applause. The mumble, ever-present during the swing number, seemed to have died down slightly. Even the group of ponies in the back, who had reached the point of laughter that rendered them incapable of doing anything more than clapping like seals, were taking a break from their revelries.
It seemed as though everypony in the Lighthouse Café was watching the musicians take their places.
Octavia looked around. In the back, loaded into a booth was the group. In the center was a couple, a fresh bouquet of roses between them. The ponies sitting near the stage had a more intent look in their eyes; they were there for the music and, by Celestia, they would be blogging about every single performance they heard.
A wry smile shaped the cellist’s lips. This concert was completely different from anything she had ever played before. She tapped her back left hoof twice, balancing herself against her double bass.
It’s so different, she thought to herself, not that that’s a bad thing.
Vinyl took center stage, grabbing the microphone in her magic. Sometime before getting onstage she had taken off her glasses. She surveyed the crowd, locking eyes with anypony she saw looking back. She looked over her shoulder, giving a brief smile to Octavia and Harpo, who sat on the piano bench.
The DJ-turned-singer turned back towards the audience and tapped a beat out on the floor.
Oh, the heart. Beeeeeats. In its. Caaaaage.
The performance had begun.
Harpo took his cue, coaxing a winding tune from his piano. Octavia followed suit, providing more subtle harmonies to the overall song.
Vinyl’s voice soared over all of it. She twitched in beat to the song, bobbing her head and tapping her hoof as she sang, her voice growing in intensity as the song went on.
The Café came back to life. The group in the back resumed their jokes, the couple in the middle went back to glancing at each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking, and those closest to the stage leaned back in their chairs, nodding to the beat and sipping their cappuccinos.
The first song came to a close. The audience applauded politely, a few of them chatting about the performance.
And so the night went. Harpo, Octavia, and Vinyl played about ten songs, and each one seemed to make the crowd warm up to them more and more. A few ponies shouted out requests. Every time that this happened, Vinyl would laugh and shake her head. Then they’d move on to another song. The audience cheered louder and louder as every performance came to a close.
By the last song, that cover of On the Bound that had caused so much trouble just a few days ago, the audience got to their hooves, stamping on the ground, whistling, and quite forgetting that their meal was mostly cold.
Off towards the back, a group of ponies clapped like helpless seals.
And then the gig was over. Octavia was flushed, her hooves aching slightly and her back legs trembling from having to support her full weight. Oh, but she was satisfied. Incredibly so, in fact. This was the culmination of a whole week’s worth of arguments and practice and ill-advised time spent in a nightclub. It had been hectic and amazing, and the cellist didn’t even question when Vinyl told her that she and Harpo would finish cleaning up and the Café had set aside a table for them.
Instead, Octavia clambered down from the stage and tiredly walked to the reserved seat. She didn’t even notice Harpo move backstage, nor that he came back onto the stage with his harp in his hooves.
Vinyl turned back to her microphone, her voice tired and slightly dry from her hour or so of singing. “So, having a good time?” she asked in a far more reasonable tone than she had used at the nightclub.
A firm round of applause greeted her question.
From her place at a table, Octavia ordered a drink, wondering what exactly Vinyl had planned.
“Well, this is going to be the last song.” There was a low groan from the audience. Vinyl chuckled and winked. “But don’t worry, we’ll be back soon. I promise.” She turned to the composer. “You ready Harpo?”
The stallion nodded and Vinyl, as she had done for the past hour, gave the count. “One… Two… One, two, three, four.”
Harpo started off the song, lightly plucking at his harp’s strings. Arpeggiated chords flowed out of the instrument, shaping the music until Vinyl began to sing.
Just for a moment, the moment I saw her, I lost my breath and my lips whispered she is the one.
Octavia blinked. She could swear that the DJ was looking right at her.
The cellist hailed a passing waiter. “Pardon me, but do you have anything stronger than water? I’m currently being serenaded and I feel that a drink is rather appropriate.”
The waiter nodded and politely pointed out the alcohol section of the menu.
And so, Octavia was forced to sit through a song, feeling Vinyl’s soft, smiling eyes constantly turned to her. The cellist was glad when the drinks finally came. I’ve been drinking quite a bit lately, she thought to herself.
Vinyl maintained her serenade, her eyes never leaving the cellist's. A hint of a smile and the barest shadow of a blush colored Vinyl's face.
Octavia took a sip. Then again, it’s not like I’m drinking for no reason. That’s Harpo’s job. And it is a rather sweet gesture; singing for me in front of so many other ponies… Unless she’s not singing for me at all. Oh dear, I’m over-thinking again.
The final song came to an end. Vinyl and Harpo took their final bows and finished cleaning up the stage before joining Octavia at the table.
The DJ was slightly pink, though not all of it came from the heat of the spotlights. “So, Octy,” she said nervously, “what’d ya think?”
Octavia smiled. “I rather enjoyed the venue. It provides a change of pace from the more impersonal concert hall.”
“Well, that’s not what I meant. I was asking about the last song and the… you know what? Never mind. I’m happy so long as you had a good time.”
Harpo rolled his eyes and lightly rapped a hoof against Vinyl’s side.
“Ow!” cried the unicorn. “What the hell was that for?!”
“Well,” said Harpo in a slightly exasperated tone. “You weren’t going to explain yourself otherwise!”
“There’s nothing to explain! Tavi understood it, didn’t you Tavi?” Vinyl turned towards Octavia. “… You did get it, right?”
The cellist nodded, feeling a blush and a smile creep onto her face. “Yes. ‘You are what love is to me,’ isn’t exactly a subtle message.”
Vinyl laughed. “Hey, don’t look at me! Harpo picked out the song; I just wanted to sing something.”
“I think it’s a good song!” complained Harpo. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“And there’s nothing wrong with that,” said Octavia. “It’s just a rather… sentimental song.”
Vinyl threw a hoof around Harpo’s shoulders. “Awwwww, does somepony have wittle feewings?”
The composer shrugged the hoof off. “Well excuse me for trying to help!” he grumbled as he got to his hooves. “I’m going to go outside for a bit. You two had better share a cute moment at least once before I get back!” Harpo walked away, leaving the two mares.
There were a few moments of silence.
“Well, it wasn’t a bad song,” said Vinyl.
“Indeed. It was rather nice, in fact.”
The DJ scratched the back of her head. “This is a lot easier when I can’t hear myself think.”
Octavia smiled in a sort of agreement. The conversation lapsed back into silence.
Right, thought Vinyl, singing, check. Harpo leaves, check… Now what? Seriously, I should have way more experience with this! Why the hell can’t I just get up and do something?!
The cellist stood up and took the seat next to Vinyl.
The DJ stared at Octavia for a moment.
“What?” asked the grey mare. “Is this seat taken?”
“You’re not supposed to make a move. I’m the move maker pony.”
“Well, this seat has a better view of… the door! I enjoy watching ponies walk in and out; you can really catch the… er… essence of Canterlot?”
Vinyl seemed to freeze slightly. Then she smiled warmly and brought Octavia into a tight hug. “Tavi, you’re the most adorable thing ever.”
Octavia blushed. “Well, you and your singing caught me off guard! … That was very sweet of you, Vinyl.”
The DJ laughed softly. “That’s me… super sweet and crap. Just wait until we actually get on a date.”
The cellist smiled and pecked Vinyl’s cheek. “I can’t wait.”
***
Harpo kicked at the ground outside of the Lighthouse Café, sparing glances at the two mares he had left alone. He smiled when he noticed that Octavia had physically changed positions to sit next to Vinyl. And then he sighed.
“This was far too easy,” he said to himself. “I was expecting some kind of resistance. But nooooo; they’re already going on dates.”
He threw another look at the two that had ruined his fun. Octavia kissed Vinyl. Harpo grinned. It’s about time that I did something right.
“Mister Nadermane,” said a rather uptight voice.
Harpo looked up and found himself face to face with Hoity Toity.
The composer nodded. “That’s me. How can I help?” A note of caution had crept into Harpo’s voice; he knew exactly who Hoity Toity was and it was rather suspicious that he would be anywhere near a place like the Lighthouse Café.
The other stallion took on a slightly amused look. “Well, my original intent was to come here bearing a proposition for you and Miss Philharmonica. A job offer.”
“I’m afraid that we would—“
“Have respectfully declined,” finished Hoity Toity. “No, I knew that you wouldn’t take my offer; neither of you has the capacity to imagine not working with Fancy Pants. You, in particular, have heard the rather… unsavory tales regarding myself.”
It wasn’t a question. Harpo nodded anyway.
“Yes,” said the business pony, “I had thought as much. I’m here for a different reason.”
“And what’s that, Mr. Toity?” Harpo glanced back at Octavia and Vinyl. Neither of the mares had noticed; they were too wrapped up with each other.
Hoity Toity took a card from his coat pocket and offered it to Harpo. “I’m here because I will be needed. Quite soon, in fact. Fancy Pants will be calling you to his office. There will be a problem. You will tell Fancy Pants about meeting me here because of how suspicious it may seem. Give him that card.”
Harpo looked down at the scrap of paper. He nearly snorted. “Why should I listen to you? You hold the largest company in the music industry; why are you approaching me if you already have everything you want.”
“Because, Mister Nadermane, I don’t have everything I want. Nopony does. But if you take this card I assure you that both of us, and both of our companies, will serve to benefit.”
Harpo paused for a few minutes, staring into Hoity Toity’s eyes. Then he took the card. “I’ll tell Fancy Pants.”
“Good,” replied Hoity Toity. “Please don’t forget. I’d rather that your anger will be directed to the proper pony. Farewell, Mister Nadermane. My regards to Miss Philharmonica. And congratulations on Syncopated Records’ first actual show.”
“Pardon?” asked Harpo.
“Congratulations, I said,” said the business pony. “Your company has performed its first show and seems to have been a success. Congratulations.”
Harpo nodded and his eyes followed Hoity Toity as the business pony walked down the street.
“Congratulations?” repeated Harpo. “Since when does Hoity Toity give out congratulations?”
A few minutes passed as the composer considered the implications, turning the card over and over again.
Then a new notion popped into Harpo’s mind; one that had been sparked by a slight slip of Hoity Toity’s tongue.
“Syncopated Records?”