//------------------------------// // Everybody Wins // Story: Different Strokes // by Guy_Incognito //------------------------------// "Everybody Wins." It was dinner now at the Strokes household and Stormy sat eagerly drinking in his surroundings. It wasn’t that he’d never had dinner before. He'd had. And, it wasn’t that he’d never had dinner with his family. He’d also had that. What was abnormal was the dynamic of the dinner table. Everypony got along. This was something that Stormy hadn’t been a part of in a long time. Not since he’d spent his childhood summers in Canterlot. Before his mother had taken ill and passed, and for reasons he didn’t understand at the time -- and still struggled to now -- his father had cut off all ties with his family across the continent and exiled himself and his sons to Manehattan. So it goes. Now, seventeen years later, Stormy felt like a foal in a candy shop. Quietly, but with a whole-hearted smile spread across his face and up the sides of his mouth, Stormy watched the proper Equestrian family unit in action. He noted, for personal reflection that each member of the Strokes household played a role and acted as an appendage to a greater being. Gentle Strokes’ father sat at the head of the table -- the king of a kingdom that his hard work, blood, sweat, and tears had created. In the seat beside him was his beautiful queen and filling the ranks on the sides of the table were his children: his three princes and his single princess. A pony with a bitter and jaded personality -- his father and brother came to mind here -- would see this as an ugly thing. Something to be mocked way up in the holds of their ivory towers. A low brow gathering of the working class and nothing more. Like many times in his life, Stormy was happy to find he didn’t share anything more than blood with his still living family. Also seated at the table tonight, taking up ranks on the borders beside the Strokes family proper, were two guests to the household dinner. The first was Stormy, who even as an outsider had been accepted as a welcomed guest. The other was a colt named Hucklebuck who was a cousin to Gentle Strokes, his brothers and sisters, and nephew to Gentle Strokes’s mother and father. Huck didn’t talk much and when he did it was to ask Stormy a question about his life. This was always followed either with a raucous laugh or a pause to take a sip from his drink, which was whiskey. “How long did you say you were in town for, again?” Huck was asking this to Stormy, who slighted for an answer because, truthfully, he didn’t have one. His plans had followed a simple linear path: get to Dodge Junction (Check) Admit his feelings to the colt he loved (Double check) and win back the heart of that same wonderful stallion (Check and mate). He was ashamed to admit that was as far as he got in his plan. His ticket home was open ended. His classes at Camden had a voluntary attendance. His minions had all the notes he’d miss and he had high enough grades -- amazingly -- that a missed exam wouldn’t make him fail a class. He could be here for as long as it took. “A few days.” Was his answer. Huck gave a curt head nod, then like Stormy had counted him do twenty two times already, he raised his cup to his mouth and drank a little more whiskey. He set his glass down on the table and dropped his head onto his crossed hooves and leaned forward. The look on his face was tough to read for Stormy. He smiled with genuine kindness, but his furrowed brows and flaring teeth seemed offensive. Stormy smiled it off. “And,” Huck began. “Why was it y’all decided to come down to visit?” Well, that was actually a pretty funny story, Huck. You see, as the story went ‘he’ -- as in Stormy -- was actually dating his cousin. Hilarious, right? Yeah, and somehow, in all the drama that came with being romantically attached to the wonderfully adorable farmer, ‘Gent’ had briefly unattached himself from Stormy and decided that farm life was his be all, end all. It only came naturally that Stormy just had to reassure him that he could live much more comfortably as a proudly open and comfortable in his own skin homosexual, than a closet case... This, of course, he didn’t admit out loud. “I invited him,” Gentle Strokes interrupted to Stormy’s great relief. Gentle Strokes, who sat beside Stormy, gave his thigh a soft, relieving, squeeze under the table. This went unnoticed by his family, as did the goofy grin that spread itself across Stormy’s lips. “Yeah, Stormy’s an A+ student at Camden and he needed a little time off.” Gentle Strokes lied. “I told him, since we’re such good friends, he might wanna catch Cherry Fest this year. You know; kick back and relax for a few?” “Well, shit...” Huck chuckled, “I didn’t know you were moonlighting as a tourism pamphlet, Gent.” “Huck!” Gentle Strokes’s mother chided. “How about some restraint for your colourful vocabulary?” “Sorry,” Huck smiled. He turned back towards Stormy, grinned, then chuckled that same low, throaty and guttural sounding three note laugh. “I get a little carried away at times,” Stormy nodded then lowered his eyes onto his plate and poked a fork into his cherrychanga. “Stormy, honey.” Gentle Strokes’ mother spoke again. Her voice was soft and tender, much like he remembered his own mother’s being. Only hers had the slightest hint of southern belle for good measure. “Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?” This seemed like a neutral request; just a simple something to take the edge off, keep the conversation friendly and flowing. It was certainly something he could talk about without risking outing their oldest son as a homosexual. He raised his eyes towards the onlookers, smiled warmly, then spoke. “Well,” he paused to think “I’m from Manehattan...” At this a bright gleam built in Clementine’s -- Gentle Strokes’s younger sister -- eyes. It gave off the impression that it was an interesting subject to her, and suddenly Stormy found himself with a route to take his little life story. “I was born and raised there for all my life. Uh, until I moved to Camden, I guess...” “What’s it like?” Clementine asked with the boldest pair of eyes he’d ever seen a filly wear. She leaned forward in her seat and lowered her head onto her upper hooves for support. “Manehattan?” Stormy smiled at her. “It’s someplace else,” He started. “It takes some getting used too, for tourists. It’s noisy and ponies aren’t quite as polite as other places. But it’s home, you know?” Clementine, the bookworm she was betraying herself to be, gave a content sigh. “I went to Manehattan once.” Gentle Strokes’s father stated. His voice was calm but commanding, and Stormy got the sense that when he spoke it was wise to listen. “It was years and years ago. When I just turned eighteen. Me, and a few friends I had at the time saved up some money for the summer and took a train all the way down.” Around the table, all ponies present sat on the edge of their seats, waiting for the outcome of his story. “It wasn’t really what I thought it would be. It wasn’t bad in any way, I just remember the old picture shows used to make it seem like the city to be for an earth pony with money. I guess we just didn’t have enough.” Heads nodded in response and Gentle Strokes’s mother pet her husband’s shoulder. “The cost of living is a little higher up there,” Stormy said and gave a sympathetic shrug. Gentle Strokes, his mother, father and Clementine nodded. Huck gave a grunt, then glared towards Stormy. “I take it y’all come from money?” It was a rude -- but accurate -- assumption. Stormy nodded softly. “Yeah...” He mumbled towards the floor. Huck smiled like some kind of jackal, a predatory grin the likes of which he’d only ever seen on the faces of colts and fillies who wore their pride and ignorance like a badge of honor. Stormy stared into the eyes of his boyfriend, who smiled back at him. Stormy had to bite his tongue when he felt Gentle Strokes’s hoof rub up his thigh. Huck raised a brow at this but said nothing. “So, Stormy, since you and Gent are such good friends,” he -- Hucklebuck -- began again, leaning his face forwards and carefully studying the younger colt’s features. After a minute he drew his head back and finishing his thought. “You must know this wonderful mare he’s been going on and on about for the past couple of weeks?” Stormy swallowed a lump in his throat. “Um,” He said, rolling his tongue around in his mouth. Stalling for time. He looked to Gentle Strokes, who sucked his teeth and bit his upper lip. He had certainly forgot to mention this to Stormy as something that fell under the parameters of ‘Topics my family will talk about.’ “Yeah...” Stormy licked his lower lip. “I totally know her. She’s... great! No, she’s fantastic! And, we all hang out together; Me, Gent, my roommate Jag, and... of course, her. Whose name is-” He turned back to Gentle Strokes. “...Mocha Roast!” The older colt blurted. A moment of tension came with his admittance. Around the table ponies -- Gentle Strokes family members specifically -- stared from one another. The hoof on Stormy’s thigh pressed so firmly into him now that Stormy was certain there was going to be a welt there the next day. “That’s a lovely name, dear.” Gentle Strokes mother smiled. The pressing on his thigh ceased and Gentle Strokes gave a relieved sigh. “She’s... amazing.” He coughed out the lie like he were choking on a piece of pie gone down the wrong hole. No pony seemed to notice -- with the knowing exception of Stormy -- and he continued, “I’d say she was... probably the best mare that I’ve ever dated.” It would have cut deep into Stormy’s pride to find his boyfriend -- who sat directly beside him, stroking his thigh and brushing his lower left leg against his right one -- using their sole female acquaintance as his beard, but he was loving watching Gentle Strokes squirm in his seat a bit too much. “She’s a really lovely girl.” Stormy added with a grin towards his boyfriend. “She works at this quaint little coffee shop and, I swear you can’t leave them alone for more than five minutes before they’re all baby talk and doe-eyed for each other...” Gentle Strokes, nervous, almost sweating, gave a forced laugh and a much more forced smile. One which to everyone who wasn’t Stormy seemed legitimate, but to Stormy -- who’s thigh he was still petting nervously -- made this charade so very adorable to be a part of. For Stormy, he could live -- for the time being -- with presenting Gentle Strokes as happily content in a heterosexual relationship for as long as he needed. Of course, there was the unspoken promise of making it up to him in a personal, intimate way, that kept him from giving it a second thought. Eventually, the sexual tension was going to have to be dealt with, but Stormy could wait as long as it took if it meant he got a nice reminder of Strokes’ undying affection for him in private sometime later. “How about you, Stormy?” Huck asked, sneering at him. “Do you have a girlfriend too?” For the first time that night, Stormy felt the battle between outing himself and Gentle Strokes, and coming out as what he was in the eyes of everypony present; a raging, flaming, queer, take a back seat and a sort of cocky, malicious emotion take over. He’d had ideas about what Huck was. He’d dealt with ponies like Huck all his life. His father was like Huck. His brother was like Huck. Half the student body at Harrow private school for gifted colts were like Huck. Hells, there were more ponies like Huck in Equestria than he cared to get wrinkles over. Huck didn’t matter. His father didn’t matter. His brother didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the pony sitting beside him anymore. Cliche as it was, as long as he had Gentle Strokes, and vice versa, humoring a colt with an obvious grudge against him was an easy task. “Actually,” Stormy smiled, clearing his throat. “I don’t.” The hoof on his lap raced up to his waist and a sigh of astonished intrigue escaped from the mouths of Gentle Strokes’ mother, father and Clementine. As if somehow the thought of him; a fascinating stranger from Manehattan filled with curious wonder, who kept it private and selfishly hoarded it for himself, was a strange thing. It was Clementine who spoke next. “That just isn’t right.” She sighed wistfully. Her head fell. Stormy noticed, but said nothing. “You’re so... interesting.” If Stormy was anything, it was shocked and awed. Clementine, who he’d pegged as a bookworm on the same page of the same book as his own cousin Twilight Sparkle, seemed almost disappointed hearing him lie that he was without love in his life. A thought; devious and secretive, went through Stormy’s mind. Maybe Clementine was more like her older brother than he suspected; a bright rose growing through the cracked cement of her surroundings. Only time would tell. “I guess,” Stormy began. “I just haven’t found the right girl yet?” He said this and felt awful with himself. He was lying to them. Lying to himself. He was aiding and abetting Gentle Strokes in the least healthy way possible. If he were braver, more forceful and less civic minded, he would have admitted all the things he was keeping secret then and there, if only to ease his troubled mind. But, he’d stare over at Strokes, then his father, mother, cousin, the twins, even Clementine herself, and realize he couldn’t. That wasn’t his decision to make. Dinner continued; questions were asked and answered and Stormy felt no better or worse for selling the lie of Gentle Strokes the heterosexual farm pony from Dodge Junction. Clementine remained on the front line, begging for answers to all the questions about higher education and life outside of small farm towns that she could get, and Stormy was more than happy to answer them. Huck continued to stare with a pair of predator eyes at him. Stormy paid it no ill will. After all, what was the worst that could come from it? *** Dinner was over now and Stormy lay flat on his back atop the fabric of Gentle Strokes’s bed. The older colt sat on the edge tracing ‘S’ shaped patterns in the fur of Stormy’s stomach. This had been them for the last twenty minutes. After sneaking out of doing dishes -- a chore left to the twins who Stormy was told were quite capable -- they’d dashed back into Gentle Strokes’s room under the pretense of Strokes showing Stormy an unfinished painting. They were safe to be themselves here. There was the privacy of a double bolted lock and four inches of reinforced oak separating them from the curious, prying eyes of onlookers and family. Things were quiet between the two; nothing groundbreaking was being said, just murmurs. Stormy would tell Strokes about how pleasant his family was in comparison to his own, and Gentle Strokes would humbly reply with a courteous ‘I know.’. Which meant Stormy just had to spoil the mood by unearthing a thought he'd had in the back of his mind all night. “You know,” he mumbled against his boyfriend's mud brown chest. “You’re going to have to tell them eventually, right?” Gentle Strokes sighed. His hoof withdrew from Stormy’s belly fur and grazed his own chin, where it met it’s symmetrical counterpart. He pulled both hooves up his face, through his mane then fired them in opposite directions. “I know,” Gentle Strokes said plainly. He turned to look at Stormy who found his face a monument to his distress. His eyes were lidded and hung low, his smile half assed and his cheeks were puffed out in anguish. “Its just...” He stopped and it seemed he didn't have much else to say on the matter. “Yeah,” Stormy smiled. He traced his hoof along Gentle Strokes’ back and felt eternal relief when the other colt gave a delightfully pleasing moan in response. “I get it.” “How did... How did you tell your... family?” Stormy leaned forward in the bed. This was a story that he wasn’t entirely convinced Gentle Strokes would love to hear, but, he had asked and Stormy most certainly had the answer. For every ounce of him that didn’t want to admit it, he knew he had too. “I... uh, I didn’t, actually.” Clumsily the words fell out of his mouth like he were stuttering. “They actually kinda... caught me.” “Huh?” Stormy sighed. “After my mom died, my dad didn’t really have time for me or my brother, so he shipped us off to private boarding schools around Manehattan. My brother went to Le’ Joice and I got stuck in Harrow, It’s an... um... all male private school.” Gentle Strokes hummed his acknowledgement of where the conversation was going. “I was fifteen when I started to realize I was kinda... different, you know? I was surrounded by guys and suddenly everything with four legs, an ass and a package was starting to look good to me...” Stormy grunted. This was where the story could either interest or entirely repulse his boyfriend. “I had these feelings for one of my teachers. I know how awful that sounds, and, believe me I regret it now but... well... I came to him, and I tried to tell him how I felt, and... I don’t know what happened, we just ended up being together.” “You... and your teacher?” Gentle Strokes’s facial features contorted into a look of pure disgust; his brows sank into a glare, eyes squinted and his mouth fell flat. “It was a long time ago, Strokes.” Stormy defended. The older colt remained upset. “Oh, come on!” Stormy grunted. “How many mares did you hook up with before we got together? Do you think that bothers me at all?” “Does it?” Stormy bit his lower lip and tried to imagine Gentle Strokes in bed with a member of the opposite sex. Him loving her the same way he loved him. Him on top of her; grunting, panting and moaning her name. Him sharing that intimate dance with somepony who wasn’t him. “No,” he lied. Gentle Strokes huffed. “So, what? You two just got together? Just like that?” Stormy nodded and Gentle Strokes grunted. “How old was he? How old were you?” Pause for Gentle Strokes to slap a hoof against his forehead. “That couldn’t have been legal.” Gentle Strokes, angry, fired his questions in rapid succession and didn’t look like he was going to stop anytime soon. “What were you even thinking?” “You’re taking this kind of... poorly.” “You think?” “It was, like, seven years ago, Strokes. I didn't know what I was doing, alright? I was a stupid kid and all I knew was he... made me feel good about myself. I didn’t have a mom. I barely had a dad. My brother pissed on me any chance he could get and... there he was willing to care the way no one else did.” “Oh, for Celestia’s sake.” Gentle Strokes grunted. “Hey, you asked!” The silence that followed made Stormy cringe. Neither Gentle Strokes, or he, himself, spoke. Instead, they sat and waited for something -- anything -- to happen to break the awful mood. The walls in the house were thick, but not entirely soundproof, which meant when Duke, the dog, barked and the twins laughed, it startled both colts on the bed, who slowly realized how eerie the silence had grown. Gentle Strokes reached his hoof over to Stormy’s shoulder. “... I shouldn’t have yelled.” he said and rubbed Stormy’s shoulder, “I’m sorry.” “S’okay.” Stormy smiled. “I’m sorry too.” Gentle Strokes smiled back. Duke stopped barking. “So... what happened?” It was an earnest question to ask given the build up. “We kept it up for a few months. It was tame, you know? We really, really cared for each other.... then, we just realized how wrong it was. I was sixteen... he was... older.” He noticed Gentle Strokes cringe hearing the word and felt defeated, but continued anyway. “Then... a week after we swore it was over... we, got back together and, uh... then we got caught.” Still cringing, Gentle Strokes waited impatiently for Stormy to continue. “One of the other teachers sort of, may have... found us out.” “Goddess.” Gentle Strokes grumbled. Stormy’s eyes fell to the floor. He cupped his hooves together and hunched his body. He felt small and pathetic. This wasn’t by any stretch a crowning achievement in his life. It was stupid. He was stupid. “I never said I was proud of it...” Stormy said and sighed for what felt like the millionth time in the last hour of his life. “It was total gong show afterwards. He came clean about it, and lost his job. I got kicked out of Harrow.” Stormy sucked his teeth. “But, it wasn’t really until ponies started talking about it at around the watercooler at my dad’s office that he started caring. Suddenly, he was a laughing stock and I was a pariah. He sent me to a therapist for like six months to make sure that ‘I was okay.’.” Stormy paused, licked his lips then sucked his teeth, again. “Which might have been the only nice thing my dad ever did for me in my life...” “Why are you telling me this?” “I don’t know.” Stormy stopped, cocked his face then exhaled a sharp breath of air. “You were bound to find out at some point. I just figured being honest and open was the way to go.” “Hmmm.” Gentle Strokes grunted. “You can tell me something too, if you want?” “I’ve slept with eight mares.” He said. His voice was monotonous and without so much as a hint of instigation to it. This wasn’t a pissing contest to get back at him, this was clearing his conscious. “Most of them were in high school... a few of them were after. All of them were girls who live here, except for Sandy Shore. I slept with her my first week at Camden after a party.” He reached his hooves to grip Stormy’s waist and moved his body sideways, so that he was overtop of him. Slowly, he moved his face down towards Stormy’s, then past it, so that his muzzle brushed fur on the side of Stormy’s neck with each breath. “None of them made me feel like you do.” He kissed Stormy’s neck. “That’s so sweet I almost wanna hurl.” Gentle Strokes pretended not to hear it and continued to kiss his neck. His soft lips nipped past the fur of his collar and onto the silken skin underneath. His hooves ran down the sides of Stormy’s waist until they reached his rear, then squeezed it hard. Stormy, yelped in surprise and sensual enjoyment. Gentle Strokes kicked his legs out and humped his waist against Stormy’s, who did the same. Stormy tilted his face to Gentle Strokes’s and kissed him softly on the mouth. Gentle Strokes kissed him back. This time it wasn’t a knock at the door that startled both colts aware and awake, but the shared knowledge that this couldn’t happen again. They couldn’t possibly manage to get away with a second frolic in the hay in the privacy of Gentle Strokes’s room without turning heads or raising alarms. Just like that the mood was ruined. This was when Stormy came up with a plan. He pushed Gentle Strokes off of him, so that the farmer landed an upset heap on the side of the bed. Stormy sat up and faced his boyfriend. “I’ve got a queen size at my hotel room.” He said with a grin. Gentle Strokes’s grin back was a silly and goofy looking thing. “What do I tell my folks?” “Tell ‘em you’re grabbing a drink with me. Doing some catch up, or whatever. We’ll toss a few back at your favorite bar and you’ll obviously be in no shape to walk home, so I’ll just be the good samaritan who let you sleep it off on the foldout couch in my hotel room.” A quick and amazed chuckle came from Gentle Strokes. “You’ve got this ‘sneaking out after curfew’ thing nailed down, don’t you?” “I’ve been doing this long enough to pick up a few tricks.” “Right.” Gentle Strokes said, slapping his hooves onto his lap. “Drinks at The Great Ball of Fire in an hour, then?” “Yup.” Came his reply. *** Sitting alone in a barstool at a dive bar. This was where Stormy was when the clock struck nine thirty. He was certainly drawing parallels between this night and a night more than half a year gone by in his life when he’d first met the colt he was meeting again tonight. It wasn’t the same bar. It wasn’t even at Camden. Still, the illustrious aura of sad old drunks and the dim mood of the place reminded him for all the right reasons of that night. The idea that somewhere in Equestria, some horrific interior designer was making his living going from town to town and reselling the blueprints of his vision of a perfectly crafted watering hole scared Stormy. He decided to take his mind off of it. An hour and a half ago he’d said goodbye to Strokes -- a quick and simple peck on the cheek in private -- followed by a more formal set of goodbyes and thank yous to the family that had hosted him and given him a free meal, in public. They seemed sad to see him go, but it was late and though he didn’t admit it, he certainly had plans for later he needed to prepare for. The first half hour of his time he’d spent grooming -- an extended shower with a full body scrub to wash the dust off. After that came picking an outfit -- a simple white button up with a black vest over top for style. Now, it was a matter of waiting for the doors to swing open and a very handsome colt to come strolling through and joining him. At nine forty, while he sucked the liquor off the ice cubes in his second drink of the night, and still sat alone, Stormy suspected something was wrong. With a horrible screech, the western themed doors with rusted latches to The Great Ball of Fire swung open. Stormy, excited, lifted his head up and stared across the horseshoe shaped bar to the sight of a member of the Strokes lineage. His face fell flat. Strutting in with a gleeful, drunken kick in his step, was Hucklebuck. Not Gentle Strokes. Two colts entered behind Huck. They stood like ancient marble statues in the courtyard of the royal garden -- chests like barrels of cider, calves like limestone columns and their faces plain and neutral. Their colours were bland and boring; one was beige, the other was black. Their goose stepping across the bar was a curious site and almost scared Stormy. This -- Huck being at the bar that night -- was more than coincidence. Huck’s eyes lit up when they grazed over Stormy’s body. He grinned, then uttered a few words to his companions and broke off from them. They grabbed a booth further away while he walked towards Stormy like he were gracing a red carpet. His steps were excited, his head swayed to and fro, and he had the proudest, most powerfully upsetting smile on his face. “Howdy.” He greeted with unrestrained enthusiasm. He leapt, quite literally, into the seat beside Stormy, then plopped down to his level. “Fancy seein’ you here.” “Evening.” Stormy greeted, tipping his empty glass towards the other colt. Huck, impatient and filled with the same kind of confidence that a thousand frat boys at Camden came equipped to parties where sex, drugs and excitement were mandatory, slapped his hooves on the table in rhythm with the blues music playing softly through jukebox. “I know my handsome face ain’t the one y’all were expecting,” He laughed, swirling in his chair towards Stormy. “But, Gent had to wrap up some last minute family stuff. That boy and burning the midnight oil go together like V.D. and a whore’s snatch.” Stormy chuckled, and Huck laughed with him. “Anyway, he told me to catch you here and letcha know he’d be running along as soon as he could.” “That’s... awfully kind of you.” Stormy replied. “That’s me.” Huck grinned. “A proper gentlecolt.” Stormy smiled back. Huck stared down at Stormy’s empty drink, frowned, then slammed his hoof on the bar. “Tapper, you old decrepit bastard!” He shouted. This drew the eye of the bartender, who, for all intents and purposes, fit the bill of an ‘old decrepit bastard.’; a colt in his later years with a thin, frail, body, greying coat, patchy mane and a squint in his eyes. “How about you get off your lazy ass and fetch us two more of, uh...” Huck stared down at Stormy’s glass. “Whatever it is my amigo here is ailing his wounds with?” Turned towards Stormy. “What are you drinking, out of general inquiry?” “Buck Daniels.” Huck laughed. “What are the odds? That’s my drink too.” Ten o’clock on the nose, and no sign of Gentle Strokes. In his place was a cousin who had just offered to buy him a drink. There were thousands of reasons Stormy could use as excuses to say ‘No’ and patiently wait out the time between now and whenever Gentle Strokes decided to show, but that would have left him in an awkward spot -- especially considering Huck’s current, and presumed presence in the coming hours. So, it seemed, having a drink on Hucklebuck was the lesser of two evils. The drinks came; two square glasses half filled with brown liquid, and Huck raised his with the implications for a proper toast. Stormy complied. Glasses met at the brim, fell to the table and while Stormy sipped from his, Huck swallowed his back without hesitation. The bar fell silent. Stormy stared at Huck but his mind drew blanks on topics of conversations. Huck didn't seem the sort to have any interests outside of what was between a mare's legs and how her backside might look bobbing up and down on his waist. He hardly felt bad admitting he wasn’t overcome with any strong desire to learn more about Hucklebuck. Huck sensed his newfound companion’s growing resentment. “You seem tense?” Stormy took a sip of his drink. “Oh, come on, Stormy.” Huck laughed, loud and throaty, then slapped his hoof against Stormy’s shoulder. “I ain’t so bad once you get to know me.” He leaned in closer to Stormy. Close enough that Stormy could smell the whiskey on his breath and the smoke in his coat. His lips turned upwards and he grinned. “I swear I don’t bite.” Stormy drew back and finished his drink. He tapped his hoof on the bar for another, then again to repay the favour Huck had graciously bestowed on him. Tapper brought a new round of drinks over with a side of beer. “On the house,” Tapper smiled softly. There was a sort of worry in his eyes as he looked on at Huck, who nodded. “Friends of Huck don’t need to pay around here.” Huck shooed him away with a wave from his right hoof. The older colt bowed his head like a butler and trotted to the ends of the bar, away from Huck and his company. “Cheers,” Huck said and smiled. He raised his glass into the air, begging Stormy to join him. “Salute.” Stormy replied and met his glass with his own. The irony that he was sharing a drink with a farmer from Dodge Junction at a dive bar, again, wasn't lost on him. The only difference was this time he wasn't trying to get into said farmer's bed. Suddenly he missed Gentle Strokes. “How long do you think Strokes will be?” Huck smiled -- a devious smile like a foal sneaking his first glance at a mare’s backside -- and shrugged. “I’m sorry your highness,” He mocked taking a bow, “I know peasants like me ain’t exactly the kinda ponies you’d like to rub shoulders with, but you’re gonna have to just settle for a while.” “Hey, hey!” Stormy panicked, “It’s not like that!” Across the bar the two living statues snickered and Stormy felt his face flush. “Ah, hush that fuss.” Huck’s laugh was neither infectious, nor did it inspire feelings of comfort in Stormy. “I’m just dicking around.” Stormy grunted and sipped from his beer. Huck grinned, wildly, and sipped from his. “So, let me ask you something?” Huck’s voice dropped to a serious, harsh whisper as he glared with a stone face into Stormy’s eyes. “You and my cousin are real good friends, right?” Stormy felt his grip on the bottle of Buckweiser tighten. “Yeah...?” “How is it my cousin managed to scoop up some pretty little thing, and a colt who, if I’m being honest, is capable, well adjusted and decent enough looking, like yourself, just can’t find a girl?” “How’s that?” “Well, back at the dinner table, you made it seem like you were lonesome. I’m just trying to piece it together... to ease the mind.” “I... uh...” Stormy stared away from Huck and towards the clock. 10:07 Out of the corner of his eye, Stormy watched the forms of the two ponies who had entered with Huck saunter towards him. Their movements were quick and precise; steps were taken with practiced a calm earned throughout a lifetime of navigating fields of cherry trees. If they had been drinking at all, it didn't seem to affect them in any physical way. “You were saying?” Huck begged. They two strangers, completely silent, had finished crossing the dance floor now. The bottle of Buckweiser in his hoof was shaking, and so was the entire right leg that held it. Ditto for the left. His lower hoof tapped against the barstool. “It’s um...” Stormy, stuttering, swallowed a lump in his throat. Two gargantuan strangers with their bodies built from hard labour and their minds swallowed by indifference, staggered towards him. He could hear them plop down into the bar stools behind him but he didn't have the nerve to turn to face them. Not that it mattered, he could feel their eyes on him. It bothered him that they didn't speak. “I have a theory.” Huck stated abruptly. He slapped his hoof against Stormy's barstool and spun it so they were face to face. “Do you wanna hear it?” Without a word or a whimper, Stormy nodded. “See, as I see it you’re not with a mare because you don’t want to be with a mare.” Huck raised a brow, waiting for Stormy to protest and when he didn't, Huck just chuckled. “I think you’re a queer.” And there it was: payoff to the mounting tension. “Of course, where would a statement like that be without a hypothesis?” It bothered Stormy that Huck knew how to pronounce ‘hypothesis.’. It took at least a fifth grade education to set up a proper science fair exhibit, and if middle school had taught Stormy anything it was that bullies with a fifth grade education had a passionate distaste for colts who liked other colts. “My family is simple. They’re not dumb, they’re simple.” He said this and urged Stormy to follow his train of thought. “Maybe they didn’t see it, or, maybe they just didn’t want to, but sitting at that dinner table, watching Gent stare at you and that awful way y’all stared back at him... I could only imagine something... uncouth happened between you two?” The screech from the bar doors came again, and again Stormy’s spirits lifted. Here came his saving grace; here came Gentle Strokes to put an end to this before it got way out of hoof... ...only for another pair of colossal cherry tree kicking farm ponies to come strutting through the front door. Chairs and barstools became empty as a crowd of drunks shuffled out of the bar like prisoners on a chain gang; their heads hung low. One of the two colts who had entered slammed shut the door when the last drunk had exited. This didn't bode well... “I don’t know what happened between you and my cousin, and, I’ll be brutally honest here, it’ll help me sleep better if I never do. But, I know a pony in love when I see one and you certainly are that for him.” “Strokes isn’t coming, is he?” Huck shook his head ‘No.’. A few of the ponies around him broke their silence by snickering. “Afraid not. See, I was supposed to tie Duke up for the night, but, uh... I guess I forgot.” Huck was beaming now, like this recent revelation was part of a carefully concocted master plan where all the pieces were starting to fall into place. “That dog's fat as a boar, but when he gets a taste of freedom he'll just run for miles. I’d say, if Gent comes at all tonight, it won’t be for another couple of hours and that gives us plenty of time to get to know each other.” “So, this is... what?” Stormy squeaked to Huck. “A threat? Or, are you and your little hate rally just going to take me out back and beat the gay out of me?” Huck laughed. It was loud and raspy and it hurt his ears. “Nah, it ain’t like that.” He stopped laughing and his face fell flat. “I’m giving you a chance here, Stormy. You can walk out of Dodge Junction tonight. You take a train and go back to Manehattan, find your way home to Camden from there and we can all move on with our lives. You find some fruitcake to do indecent things with. Gent finds a nice girl, and you don’t show up to the wedding.” “Everybody wins.” Stormy droned. “I’d say it beats the alternatives.” Huck reminded. “I'd suggest you just keep your mouth shut. Finish your drink and walk out the way y'all came in.” The bodies in the chairs around him laughed. Stormy didn't find it too funny himself. He stayed quiet, kept his eyes low -- away from Huck -- and on his beer. His hooves were still shaking when he raised the bottle to his lips, but they stopped when the bottle was empty. “What if I say no?” He inquired, raising an eyebrow towards Huck tauntingly. “You won’t.” Stormy swallowed a wad of saliva and vile he decided not to spit at Huck’s face. He scratched at his mane until he found the wounds of battles he’d lost against another homophobes in his life. Huck certainly wasn’t his father, but they both existed in the same mental plane of logic and reasoning; Stormy’s father hated his son for being different. Huck hated him for the same reason. In a different word they could probably get together, get drunk and laugh about how much mutual disgust they felt about him and his alternative lifestyle. “You know what I think?” Stormy asked to a confused look from Huck. “I think this is all because you can’t accept what your cousin is.” “And, what exactly is my cousin?” “Gay." Stormy laughed. "You know; a sodomite? A pillow biter! A stallion stuffer, a-” “No!” Huck shouted and slammed his hooves hard on the bar table, shocking Stormy along with half the bar, “He’s just confused!” “He didn’t seem very confused when we were going at it earlier.” “...What?” This question came from one of the ponies beside him. The same one, he noted, who held his head low as he came into the bar that night. Morbid curiosity was what made Stormy wonder why he wondered about the sexual escapades of Gentle Strokes, but right now didn't feel like the perfect time to bring it up. “Your cousin is gay, Huck.” “No. No. No. No!” Huck shouted, “My cousin is straight! He-likes-mares. He's always liked mares!” Stormy just laughed. “Get over it,” Huck’s nostrils flared out and a grunt escaped from his gritting teeth. All around him the ponies he’d amassed as a scare tactic to chase Stormy out of his town were suddenly finding their motivation to rise to the call of duty a pointless task. He was loosing the interest of his crowd and he knew it, same as Stormy did. “You little shit,” Huck growled. “You come into my town. My town! You dig your claws into the lives of my family, fill my cousin’s head up with your liberal, queer-ass bull shit, and you’ve got the balls to tell me to deal with it?” “Pretty much.” Huck smiled; it wasn’t a mean or cruel smile with hidden intentions, it was a simple, friendly smile. He broke it only to launch into a fit of laughter. His head fell backwards and the sound of his raspy, throaty, chuckle filled the otherwise silent bar. This went on for a few minutes until he wound down; his head came forwards, his hooves danced on the bar and he shook his head. “That’s gotta be some pair swinging between your legs,” he mused, “I don’t think I remember when I met a colt with half the backbone you’ve got. I swear... you and me, we’re the unstoppable force and the immovable object meeting up.” Stormy had no idea what he was talking about. “Why... don’t we all just calm down a bit?” This quarry, with modest concern and worry, came from one of the colt’s sitting beside Stormy. Both Stormy, and Huck -- surprised to hear somepony else join the conversation -- turned to face a colt peering at them questioningly; He was younger than the others with softer features and not an ounce of bloodlust present on his face. “Kid’s got a point,” Huck grinned at Stormy. “Why don’t we catch our breath?” Somepony to his side offered Huck a pack of cigarettes and he shook two loose; one for him, and the other he offered to Stormy. “Smoke?” Stormy nodded and plucked the cigarette out of Huck’s clenched hoof. Both colts shared a moment of calm. They sucked cancer and exhaled clouds of arsenic and other poisons. “What am I going to do with you, Stormy?” Huck wasn’t grinning anymore. “Let me go?” Stormy mulled, “Let me run wild in your town while I sleep with your cousin and do all the faggy, fruity things together that we like to do?” Huck seemed impatient. He licked his upper lip, exhaled out of his nose and sucked his teeth. He clicked his tongue, tapped the bar with his hooves and groaned. “You should know,” He said, smiling, “ you did this to yourself.” “Huck, don’t...” Tapper urged, but by then it was too late. What happened next came so fast and so intense that it didn’t register in Stormy's brain for a minute after it happened; Huck’s right upper leg came to life. Veins pulsed, muscles bulged and the hoof that had been cradling an empty beer was swinging it at his face. Maybe it was because he’d been drinking, or maybe it was because he hadn’t expected this outcome, but Stormy hardly blinked as the brown glass cylinder met his forehead. There was a popular misconception about being hit in the face with a bottle of beer. In the movies the prop glass would shatter to form a crude blade with a handle and sharp teeth. In reality, the soft flesh of Stormy's left cheek and the density of his nose weren’t nearly sturdy enough to break glass. It was curious taht the force applied was strong enough to break his nose, but not the bottle, but then again physics had never been something tried to understand. His fall to the floor was fast. The world around him spun like the tail end of a whiskey bender, and the swan song of octaves he’d never hear again filled his ears. His sense of sound remained undamaged; he could hear the loud delighted laughter of ponies and a pair of hooves trot against the floor as they, and the body with it, got closer to him. “Get up,” Huck ordered. Stormy winced when he felt a hoof press against his side. “Get. Up.” Flat on the kitchen floor, holding his bleeding nose shut while he squinted. His father towered over him like a the turbulent goliath he was in private; all four of his hooves planted firmly on the sides of Stormy’s shaken body. “Get up, Stormy.” Stormy -- sixteen years old -- just shook his head. “I said,” His father repeated, leaning his face down to stare his son in the eyes. The look on his face said ‘danger ahead’, but this was nothing new. “Get. Up.” “Go screw yourself with a wine bottle,” Stormy grunted. A quick, swift, movement came from his father; his front right hoof struck his son once again in the face -- knocking his head backwards. He bounced back fast and glared up at his father. “Eat a dick,” Stormy grunted. Hooves -- two of them this time -- crashed on his chest. Ribs shook, muscle tendons snapped in half and Stormy coughed. “Get up!” “Blow me.” Broken. Bruised. Hurt. Stormy was tired of all of this; if his father wanted to take his anger out on him, so be it, but he wasn’t going to jump through hoops for him. His father sighed and shook his head. He walked away from Stormy, sat down in a chair by the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. “How did you end up like this?” He asked. It was rhetorical, since both colts already knew the answer. “Why do you keep making me do this, Stormy?” Stormy lifted himself up and leaned his body against the wall. “Obviously, I like it.” He snarled at his father. “I just love being a screw up! I love having you kick the shit out of me all the time. This time I just figured the way to do it this time was to get booted out of Harrow.” “If you think you’re being funny...” His father warned. “Who’s laughing?” His father said nothing. “What do you think your mother would think of you?” Stormy thought about his mother. How would she take the news that her youngest son had got the boot from a prestigious boarding school for having an illicit homosexual affair with a teacher twice his age? Would she cry? Would it have crushed her heart to find her pure and innocent son had grown up to be a hedonist and a sodomite? Would he even have done it if she wasn’t dead? “He said he loved me.” Stormy grunted. “That’s more than you’ve ever said to me.” “Is that what this is about?” His father asked . “You let him use you like a whore because he said he loves you? Stormy... that’s disgusting!” He didn’t feel disgusting. “What do you want to hear?” Stormy asked, laying his head against the cold stone wall of the kitchen. “I made a mistake, okay? I messed up!” “That’s an understatement.” His father huffed. “Shit happens.” “Yeah...” Stormy’s father said. He took one last drag from the cigarette, then dropped it into a beer bottle on the table, cracked his neck and stood up in his seat. Stormy already knew what came next. “Shit happens.” His father repeated. Each step of his hoof towards his son made the younger colt cringe. A colt could only tolerate so much abuse in one lifetime and that threshold was slowly being reached; he didn’t have to sit down and take this from his father. No pony should. After that everything went black... ...and now he was back in reality. Huck was still standing over him. The colts in the bar were still laughing at him. Gentle Strokes wasn’t coming to burst through the front doors and whisk him away to safety him. Unless through some miracle Huck had a sudden change of heart and decided to let bygones be gone, he only had himself to rely on to get out of this mess. And look how far following his instincts had gotten him so far. “C'mon Huck, let's just leave him alone?” It was the smaller farmer with the soft and gentle face who was coming to his aid. He looked young -- younger than Huck and even Stormy -- and his face was filled with worry. The others with him -- all far older than he was -- snickered and mumbled words that sounded like ‘Queer.’ and ‘Fag.’ under their breaths about him, but he seemed nonplussed. He was different from the crowd and he was as close to a friend as Stormy was likely to have in the bar that night. “All we were supposed to do was scare him.” “Yeah," Huck's voice was cold and soft. "He looks pretty scared to me.” Hooves beat against the hardwood floor and booming laughter came from the crowd. Stormy fought every impulse he had to groan. “I... I can’t do this.” The colt sighed. “This ain’t right.” “Oh, you wanna talk about right and wrong?” Huck’s sudden fascination with morality surprised and intrigued Stormy. Especially considering that he was the one on the floor with what felt like the latest in a long run of broken noses, and Huck was the one who had given it to him. “This holier than thou, pansy assed, queen is what’s wrong with Equestria!” He couldn’t see them, but he could imagine the colts in the bar all nodding their heads in agreement. It was a dull and moot point; whatever Huck used as his argument against Stormy would only inspire confidence in his underlings. Logic and reasoning failed when colts with deeply rooted hatred for things that were different and confusing were involved. “But... he never slighted me. I mean... he ain’t never done nothin’ t’ hurt me.” “Oh, is that right?” Huck asked. “Maybe you’d like to pick him up off the floor and give 'im a hug? Huh? Take him out for a latte? Give him a backrub? Feed ‘im some grapes and read each other some nice poetry?” The crowd laughed again. The colt, whoever he was, dragged his hoof across the floor. “No...” “You sure sound like you do.” “Huck, I... can’t." He whimpered, "Come on, he's had enough...” His voice cracked as he spoke and it sounded like he was starting to cry. Poor guy. “Goddess, you are pathetic!” Huck growled. “Apple don’t fall too far from the tree, does it?” The sound of a hoof slamming into something soft and fleshy, followed by a low pant came from the crowd. The colt -- whoever he was -- whimpered like a dog while ponies around him laughed and beat their hooves on the floor. “Go home, Drought.” Huck sighed. “You don’t belong here.” The colt, Drought, sniffed and his hooves made a soft, almost effeminate ‘Clip-Clop’ as he walked away. So much for someone taking his side in this. “Now... where were we?” The room wasn’t spinning anymore and clear focus had come back to him. More than that, Stormy was seeing red. He touched the floor, lurched his body upright and stood up. Huck turned to face him and Stormy didn’t wait a second to make his next move. He rushed forwards, all four of his hooves moved in perfect harmony with each other as he cleared the distance between himself and Huck. He reared himself upwards, wrapped his front hooves tight around Huck’s chest and neck and kicked off the ground. The most fantastic scientific breakthrough in all of Equestria took place in the bar that night; time slowed down to one tenth of how it normally passed as Huck and Stormy moved as one. They soared through weightlessly, their hooves wrapped tight around the other’s body, Stormy biting hard -- violently -- Huck’s throat and Huck simply startled, being unable to do much else but go with it. Their physical insult to time and physics came to a sudden stop when Huck’s spine crashed against the edge of the billiards table. The pair collapsed onto the ground; Stormy exhausted, and Huck in pain. Huck grabbed at his back and flailed on the floor like a spastic mental patient. Curses and threats came out of his mouth in between the pained moans. Stormy didn’t care. “That’s right!” Stormy shouted. He rolled himself on top of Huck’s body, crushing him under his weight, and pinned him to the floor with his fetlocks. “Who’s laughing now?” Huck snarled and spit at Stormy’s face. Hooves came from all around him and grabbed at every inch of Stormy’s body. They tore out fur and purpled flesh. He was being torn off of Huck’s body and dragged across the floor. He fought, kicking first, then wiggling, squirming, his body. It didn't help. When they dropped him on the floor, the colts formed a cage of legs and bodies around him. He must have looked like a curious sight trying to break away. He tossed and turned, his body twisted and sprawled and he swung his hooves at anything he could reach; thighs, ankles and legs that kicked back harder. “You should'a jus' walked away,” Huck, gasping for breath, roared. “You should'a jus'... taken that train... and left town the way y’all came in.” A hoof kicked him in the face, the skin around his left eye tore open and a small patch of his fur fell onto the floor. Yeah, well, he'd always been too handsome. “You’re going to have to eat through a straw for the rest of your life!” Another hoof caught him between the legs. Whatever. It wasn’t like he was ever going to have kids anyway. “Hold him up,” Stormy spit out something that tasted like copper wiring and looked like a glass of bottom shelf merlot. When it fell onto the floor it splattered against the floor. With enough bleach these stains would probably come out... Two ponies held him up so that he was kneeling on his hind legs and his upper legs were spread out. He held his head low and watched the stain on the hardwood floor grow drop by drop from the leaks in his head. Stormy felt like a martyr. “I’ll give you one more chance,” Huck smiled. His cage had found a key now. The circle opened to form a ‘C’, and Huck stepped in through the gap. Like Stormy he was leaking and, like Stormy, he was staining the floors. Poor Tapper. How much was it going to cost to replace these floorboards? “I want you to beg me to let you go.” he said, grabbing Stormy’s face by his chin and aiming it towards him with both of his hooves. “I want to hear you beg.” “I’m not...” Stormy tried to say but ran out of breath. He coughed again, and when he did the stain on the floor grew a little more. “...I’m not begging you.” Was there a blood stain deductible? Was that sort of thing even covered by insurance? Someone tried to pull his face up by his mane, but it didn’t end up working out and instead that pony had a souvenir to remember the night and Stormy had a new bald spot on the back of his head. “I’ll give you one more chance.” Huck laughed. “Y’all can lick your wounds better alive than dead, I reckon.” “I want...” Stormy mumbled. He choked on his words, but, he wouldn’t cry in front of Huck; that was throwing gasoline on a fire. He bit his lower lip. “I can’t hear you, Stormy.” “I want you to...” The rest came out in a mumble. Huck lowered his face to Stormy’s and pressed his ear right next to Stormy’s mouth. “Come again?” For a colt of only twenty two years, Stormy had made more than his fair share of poor choices and more than that, he’d always paid more than that choice was worth in consequences afterwards. The scars across his body were testament to all the poor choices he’d made in dealing with his father. His ironic jaded view of the sunny side was a testament to his poor life choices. With only a breath between his mouth and Huck’s ear, Stormy decided to add another poor decision to the list. He lunged his face forwards and bit down onto something soft and fleshy; something that made Huck shriek like a foal and his mouth fill with that same copper taste. He tore his head back and took a small part of Huck with him when he did. What he spit out looked like half an ear. The entire crowd recoiled in horror, even Stormy. The grip on his body was released, suddenly he was less important than the pony knelt on the floor, grabbing the gory mess of what used to be his ear and shouting rhetorical curses at the world around him. Stormy ran. There was a good twenty feet of distance between himself, the crowd that had taken up chasing him and the exit to The Great Ball of Fire. He’d never been an athlete, yet still, he knew that it took roughly thirty five seconds to clear that distance at a full speed trot. What lay beyond the exit wasn’t safe -- a half mile of land separated him from the nearest non-biased pony to hopefully come to his defense. If he was lucky some good samaritan might catch the tail end of him being beaten to death and tell the coroner that ‘Yes, indeed; the sack of broken bones, blood and guts had once actually been a living breathing pony.’ Ten feet to the door when he noticed two ponies circle around the long side of the bar and cut him off. The front door was no longer an exit. The hard right he took to avoid them cost him traction; his front right hoof fumbled over his back left hoof and he tumbled onto the floor. His body skidded and a lovely four legged barstool and classic diner style table set broke his fall. At least the coroner was going to have his work cut out for him. Stormy picked himself up off the floor and stared at the approaching firing squad; one pony short of a half dozen colts, all with bodies built like warriors and all with a taste on their tongues for his particular brand of blood. There was no exit now. No saving grace. No Deus Ex Machina was going to burst through the floorboards and scuttle him off to safety. Gracefully, Stormy bowed his head. “I suppose,” He mumbled to the floor, “There’s nothing I can say to change your minds?” He swallowed a lump in his throat that he was sure was coloured scarlet. It still tasted like copper going down. His hooves found his shoulders, where he wiped flakes of dirt and dust back onto the floor, then he craned his neck back and stood proudly defiant. He raised his head just in time to see that it wasn’t Huck who threw the kick that knocked him out, it was somepony whose name he’d probably never know. When it came, it cracked his jaw like a chestnut. The hardwood floors came after that; they cracked when his weight fell on them and the splinters that broke from them tore past his coat and buried themselves into his skin. It would have hurt more if his body wasn’t already numb. The last thing he saw before his vision faded into black was Huck’s smile, and the last thought he had was how terrible the smile on his face looked.