Syncopation

by Terrasora


The Mistake

“I’m sorry — I’m so, so sorry.”

“Shhh Tavi. It’s okay.”

Octavia shook her head, tears still streaming from her face. Vinyl stroked her marefriend’s mane, made her shushing noises, trying to reassure the cellist.

“It’s not okay,” sobbed Octavia. “It was stupid. Such a stupid, stupid mistake! I—I should have known better; I should have controlled myself.”

The DJ held the cellist, adjusting the pillow they rested against. Vinyl couldn’t remember the last time she had tried to comfort anypony. She looked around Octavia’s room, looking for something, anything, that could cheer up the cellist.

Octavia sobbed into her marefriend’s coat.

“It’s okay Tavi, it’s okay. You were very brave. Nopony will say you weren’t.”

Her words fell on deaf ears.

“I’m sorry, Vinyl. I’m so, so sorry.”

Vinyl ran a hoof through a curtain of charcoal. “It’s alright, Tavi. It’s alright.”

***

“How is she?” asked Harpo. All of Syncopated Records, sans-cellist, had gathered in Fancy Pants’s home. A black cloud hung over the room. Fancy Pants’s alcohol collection was untouched.

“Asleep,” responded the DJ. “It took a long time.” She flopped into an empty seat right next to Harpo.

The Doctor nodded. “That’s only proper.”

A few more nods from various other ponies. Then silence. A couple of the ponies looked around the room. A few stared at a single point on the ground.

“Now what?” asked Fleur de Lis in a steady voice. The other turned to look at her. “We can’t simply mope around, we have to do something.”

“The problem is,” said Fancy Pants, “I don’t know what we can do.”

“There’s always something,” asserted the Doctor.

The businesspony rounded on the technician. “Of course there’s something! That statement doesn’t help unless we know what that something actually is!”

The Doctor, to his credit, didn’t even flinch. He simply nodded, conceding the point.

Fancy Pants rubbed at his temples. “Forgive me, Doctor. That was uncalled for. I apologize.”

“No damage done. And there was plenty calling for it, Fancy Pants. I’d be utterly surprised if you hadn’t gone on a slight tirade. Slightly worried, too.” The brown stallion flashed a reassuring grin.

Fancy Pants returned a weak smile. He looked up towards the ceiling and blew out a steady breath. “Let’s get our facts straight,” he said, mostly for his own benefit. “One: It’ll definitely be in the papers sometime this week. Snap Shot and Quick Quill were right there. Not tomorrow; it’s too late for that. Perhaps the day after tomorrow, if Blueblood exerts his influence again.” The businesspony looked around for confirmation.

There were tired nods from every head.

“Two,” continued Fancy Pants, “Octavia will be at the center of all of this. We have to protect her from the media.” He turned towards his wife. “I’ll take care of that this time Celestia knows you’ve interacted with them long enough.” Fleur de Lis nuzzled him appreciatively.

“Three,” said the businesspony, breaking the nuzzle, “this is not a good thing. Not for anypony in this room. And four, it really is quite late and today was quite… eventful. I’d suggest that we retire. We’ll meet again in the morning, after we’ve had some more time to think. Good night, everypony.”

The other disbursed amid muttered ‘good nights.’

“I’ll walk you home,” said Harpo to Vinyl.

“Not too out of your way, is it?”

“A bit,” admitted the composer, “but I’d rather not leave somepony to walk home in the dark alone.”

Vinyl pushed Harpo playfully. “Who says chivalry’s dead?”

“Oh, it’s dead,” responded the stallion by habit, “and you mares killed it.”

The DJ gave a half-smile, shoving Harpo again, this time without the playfulness. The two walked out into the streets. The sun had set, the streetlamps were alight.

“How was she?” asked the composer.

Vinyl kicked at a loose bit of litter. “Bad, Harpo. Crying. At least until she fell asleep.”

The stallion nodded. “And she’s at your place?”

“Yeah. It was the closest place—”

“To Marcato and Legato’s home,” finished the composer. “Yes, I know.”

The DJ kicked the piece of litter, first with one hoof and then the other. She’d made the trek between her home and Fancy Pants’s home dozens of time before. She had the route memorized.

“I hope that wasn’t too abrupt,” said Harpo. “It’s just been—”

“A tiring day,” finished the DJ. “Yes, I know.”

The composer smile wryly. “Exactly.”

Silence fell between the two again. Vinyl played with her piece of litter. They turned a corner.

“You know,” said Harpo, “I’ve known Octavia for years at this point.”

Vinyl looked up at the composer, tilting her head slightly.

“Yup,” continued the composer, “upwards of four years at this point. I have never once seen her cry. In fact, I haven’t even heard rumors of her crying.” Harpo smiled down at the DJ. “And yet, here you are, about a week after meeting Octavia for the first time, and she fell asleep after crying in your hooves.”

Vinyl snorted. “That’s not a good thing. Octy crying could never be a good thing.”

Harpo nudged the DJ, laughing slightly. “I hope you two never change.”

They had arrived. The pair exchanged goodbyes. Vinyl climbed the stairs into her apartment building, Harpo trotted off towards his own home.

The cellist was still sleeping, but it was a fitful sleep. Even as Vinyl watched, Octavia kicked out with a backhoof, sending an unfortunate pillow flying across the already untidy room. The DJ sighed.

Well, at least she’s still asleep.

She climbed into bed, pulling the sheets around her.

Luna’s Night, it’s cold. Heater’s broken… again. At least, that’s what Vinyl told herself as she carefully snuggled closer to the twitching cellist. Octavia drew a slightly deeper breath as the DJ wrapped a hesitant hoof around her. Vinyl pulled her closer, trying to find a comfortable position. Octavia’s head rested against Vinyl’s chest. The DJ nestled her head in Octavia’s mane, completely comfortable as strands of hair threatened to tickle her nose.

Vinyl kissed the top of Octavia’s head. “Sleep tight, beautiful. Don’t worry about something stupid getting in your way. Not while I’m here.”

The cellist murmured something incomprehensible, her breathing settling into a steady pace as the night wore on.

***

“DON’T YOU EVER SPEAK ABOUT HER LIKE THAT AGAIN!” Octavia’s voice tore through the room, overpowering the musicians and the idle chatter. She looked down at the cerulean mare, watching even as a pink, hoof-shaped welt appeared on Ms. Scratch’s cheek.

If she had cared to check, Octavia would have seen her hoof gain the same pink tinge. But she didn’t. She didn’t even feel the stinging in her hoof. She didn’t notice the flash of a camera or the blue pegasus flitting from place to place.

“You… you hit me,” said the mare incredulously.

“Octavia!” cried an indistinct voice. The cellist heard it as little more than a buzzing.

The enraged mare rounded on Vinyl’s father. “You have no idea,” she yelled, “no idea how difficult she’s had to work, how difficult she has worked ever since you two kicked her out of her own home!”

The stallion was cowering, a strand of his mane fell across his face. His magic flared reflexively, brushing the strand back into place.

Octavia brought her hoof back. “You care more about your mane than you do about your daughter!” Something caught her hoof before she could bring it down.

“Octavia! Octavia dear, listen to me!” Another buzzing, higher pitched, right by the cellist’s ear. It didn’t matter, not when these creatures, these pretenders to the titles of Mother and Father stood before her.

“I’ll press charges!” threatened the cerulean mare.

Octavia tried to charge forward, but found herself held tight. A grey stallion forced himself into the cellist’s line of sight. He threw his hooves around Octavia.

“Octavia,” said Legato, standing behind Marcato, “my dear, sweet, Octavia. Please stop.”

The cellist blinked, a haze of anger slowly ebbing away. The scene changed.

Octavia watched Vinyl. The DJ was shaking, trembling as her mother and father approached. The elder pair said something. Something terrible, condescending, pompous. Neither of them noticed how terrible they were, how they suggested that their daughter was nothing more than a way back to the Canterlot elite.

A dark shape watched from a silent corner.

Vinyl just sat there, trying to shrug everything off. The shaking intensified. The world snapped into vivid detail.

“Manehattan was such a terribly uncouth place,” the cerulean mare was saying, “your Father and I are so relieved that you finally got your act together.”

“Admittedly,” interjected the stallion, “we were not expecting such an unrefined job as a musician, but at least you’re doing something, right?”

The two guffawed.

The dark shape shifted its head.

“Honestly,” continued Vinyl’s mother, “we figured that we’d never hear from you again after you left the house. Why did you never send a letter?”

“I—” Vinyl’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat, then continued in a hoarse whisper, “I didn’t leave, you forced me out.”

“Well, what would you expect, darling?” replied the mare, unabated. “You were pursuing such an unrefined interest. Your ‘dubtrot’ or whatever it is. How else were we supposed to react when you refused to listen to us?”

“There was no alternative,” affirmed the stallion.

“No alternative!” continued the mare. “There was nothing else we could do. It was our duty as parents to punish you. We expected you to come crawling back to us anyway.”

Vinyl slammed her drink down onto the table, getting to her hooves and marching towards her parents. “Your duty? No alternative? What the fuck is wrong with your heads?! What kind of fucked up minds do ya have to think dat anything ya’ve done would make me wanna go back after I’d left?!” The DJ’s voice grew louder as she speak. Ponies were turning to see the disturbance.

The dark shape continued to watch.

“Fuck you two,” continued Vinyl through gritted teeth. “Ya ain’t worth shit. Ya don’ deserve ta be my parents. Ya don’ deserve nothin’. Now get the hell away from me before I do somethin’ that I really regret.” The DJ turned sharply and made her way back to her table.

“How dare you speak to your Mother and Father like that?” hissed the mare. “Get back here!”

Vinyl sat down and pointedly took a drink.

The cerulean mare marched over. “You drunk. You conniving little idiot. How dare you be anything but grateful for what your Father and I have done for you?”

The DJ was trembling again. But this was a different kind of trembling.

“Look at me!” continued the mare. “You have to respect me! Look at me you junkie! You whore! You—”

Octavia felt herself snap. A blind rage washed over her. Her hoof darted out faster than she could think, catching the mare on the cheek.

“DON’T YOU EVER SPEAK ABOUT HER LIKE THAT AGAIN!”

***

Octavia woke with a start. She could feel a few stray tears dotting her cheeks.

“Hey now,” came Vinyl’s voice. She wiped away the tears with a hoof. “No crying. You never want to wake up crying. Everything should be started with a smile. Fleur de Lis loves saying that.”

The cellist held onto the DJ’s hoof. “Vinyl…”

“I know. I know.” She draped a hoof over Octavia. “But first a smile. Wanna give me a smile?”

“No.” Octavia most firmly did not want to give her a smile.

“Just a tiny one? Doesn’t have to be a grin. A smirk? A half-smile? One of those sad smiles?”

The cellist shook her head.

Vinyl pouted slightly and kissed Octavia. “I’m sorry Tavi.”

“Why?” asked the cellist quietly.

“What kind of marefriend am I if I can’t even make my marefriend smile?”

Octavia felt a fresh batch of tears threaten to spill over.

Vinyl kissed her again. “No! None of that. Or I swear to Celestia, I’ll kiss you until you can’t do anything but smile.”

The cellist’s lips curled up against her will.

“See?” said the DJ. “Amazing.” Kiss. “Beautiful.” Kiss. “Perfect.” Kiss.

“Get off of me,” said Octavia with a laugh, placing a hoof on Vinyl’s chest.

“C’mon gorgeous,” replied the DJ, “pucker up.” She made obnoxious kissing motions with her lips.

Octavia relented, planting a kiss on Vinyl. The cellist laid her head against her marefriend. The room was still dark. “Vinyl?” she asked.

“Yes Octobutt?”

The cellist made a mental note to punish Vinyl. “What time is it?”

“‘Bout two in the morning.”

“T—two? What are you still doing awake?”

Vinyl knit her eyebrows together. “Making sure you don’t wake up alone. Go back to sleep.”

The cellist looked into her marefriend’s eyes. They were slightly bloodshot, slightly discolored bags had begun to form. “Vinyl, please don’t push yourself. Not for my sake.”

“Don’t worry Octy. I’ll be heading off to sleep right when you do.”

***

“Are you still awake?” asked Fleur de Lis. “It’s almost two o’clock.”

Fancy Pants sat in his lounge, wrapped in a robe with a cup of hot chocolate before him. “We made such a mistake today Fleur,” he said, “and I have no idea how to fix it.”

“Weren’t you the one who told everypony to get some sleep? Something about getting enough rest to solve this problem?”

“Sleep is for the weak.”

“No, sleep is for the week. Which includes today. Finish your hot chocolate and come to bed.”

Fancy Pants sighed and threw back the last gulp of his drink. “It was getting cold anyway.” Fleur smiled and kissed him on the cheek. They left the lounge, climbing the staircase that led to their bedroom.

“We played right into his hooves, Fleur.”

“Blueblood’s?”

“Who else?”

“Perhaps. But we’ve been in worse situations. Admittedly, not much worse, but worse nonetheless.”

Fancy Pants seemed lost in his thoughts. “Media, threat of being sued, other businessponies, the fallout damage to our reputation.”

“There were other ponies there. They can attest to how horrible Vinyl’s parents were being.”

“Did you ever catch their names?”

“No, and if I knew them I would promptly cast those words out of our household.” Fleur laid down on the bed, crossing her hooves. “Honestly, the nerve, the absolute nerve, of those ponies.”

“Horrid,” agreed Fancy Pants.

“But nothing we can’t handle.”

“But nothing we can’t handle. Come hell or high water, we’ll find a way to weather this storm.”