//------------------------------// // The Amora Crescendo (Part 1) // Story: Not My Fault // by Daemon McRae //------------------------------// Chapter 14: The Amora Crescendo (Part 1) One of the things about sharing a room with somepony you aren’t sleeping with is that you’re always very aware of exactly how much space they take up on the bed. Namely, despite how much I may appreciate staring at her flanks, Octavia’s rear end takes up so much room when she’s sleeping I’ve woken up more than once thinking I took somepony home last night. So, for the most part, I either stay as far on my side of the bed as possible, or sleep somewhere else. Well, I was. Today is the day we finally go home. FINALLY. So, foregoing making the snarky remark about Octy’s hind end, I roll myself out of bed soon as I wake up (which is far from normal, let me tell you), and trot downstairs for breakfast. We’d been here about a week and a half. They kept coming up with more stuff to fix, but eventually we got a call last night saying to get ready to move tomorrow. I was so stoked I hardly slept. Well, I hardly sleep anyways, at night. I think I got all of two hours. I make my merry way into the living room, and lo and behold, my athlete marefriend is already awake. “Morning, Sunshine,” she whistles, taking a look at me. I must look a mess, but I’m used to it. “I will never understand how you crazy ponies get up so damn early. What is wrong with you athletic types?” I grumble, not having all of my voice back from snoring all night. Yeah, I snore, so what? She flips her hair at me and winks. Hello. “It helps keep us super sexy. Speaking of which, why are you up so early?” “You know, I was going to make a comment about how the whole getting up early thing to stay sexy was totally working, but now you’ve gone and done it.” I trot right past her without looking at her, and fish some cereal out of a cupboard. “Oh, come on. I didn’t mean it like that.” She flies over the countertop, and lands almost on top of me. Her hooves snake around my neck and her muzzle rubs against my ear. “You don’t need sleep to be sexy. The rest of us mere mortals are just trying to keep up.” Her normally sexy voice is like liquid honey with all that sexy husk she’s pouring on. But I’m more than practiced in keeping my cool. “Nice recovery, but nope. I’ve got way too much to do today to let my awesome self be distracted by such-” I quickly forget what I was going to say as her teeth find purchase on my ear, then my neck, as she sucks on my jawline. “Oh, come on.” “That’s what I was thinking.” Her breath on my ear is like hot, musky torture. I gotta have it. “Quicky in the kitchen?” “Oh, no~. I plan on taking my time.” Oh sweet baby Luna. --------- I awake feeling rather refreshed, for the first time in days. It took me by surprise, really. Usually I wake up when Vinyl jumps in bed, or when she starts snoring, or when she kicks. These don’t happen very often, mind you, but enough that I haven’t slept as soundly as I’d like for over a week. My practice was suffering, as well. I even played a few wrong notes the other day. Me! Wait, that sounds a little conceited. But still, I’m very practiced. And how many wrong notes could you possibly expect during warm-up pieces? That was all out of my mind this morning, as I get up and stretch properly. I can never understand how Vinyl goes anywhere and dances and moves so much without stretching first. Her bones are going to run screaming for the hills one of these days. My mind rolls over a little as I ponder where exactly it is Vinyl has gone off to. It’s not like her to not be here when I wake up- she sleeps like a log through basically anything. We’ve proven this. I wish I had that talent. But, as of today, I won’t need it. It will be back to my normal bed, my normal schedule, and my normal Vinyl-free world. As much as I may have grown to not despise her lately, and in fact sort of like being around her, she’s the kind of pony best taken in small doses. You know the type. Either way, I have quite a bit of work to do. Not as much as Vinyl, mind you, but I still have a few things to move. I also have some things in town to take care of, and I am rather excited about the day, overall. Especially sleeping in my own bed. Ah, my bed. I can’t wait to see it again. It may only have been a week, but it was a week I was unprepared for, and thus it dragged on much longer than I believe it had any right to. The first thing I do is put all of my stuff together. Not much, just my cello and my music sheets and some amenities and necessities. I try not to pack too heavy, especially since I take my cello with me everywhere. I really do adore my little Chessie. What? Well, as I was saying, I’m packing up my materials, when I notice some... noises from downstairs. Rather familiar noises, although I couldn’t tell you where I recognize them. At first. All I can hear is shuffling, and some vocalization. It isn’t until I opened the bedroom door that I realize what I’m listening to. Vinyl and Spitfire having sex. Again. Really, I can’t wait to leave. I’m about to close the door when a particular exclamation catches my ear. “No... slower... don’t...” I should just close the door and leave well enough alone. But I know that voice to be Vinyl’s. And, surprisingly, I can almost envision what it is they’re doing. I’d heard her talk like that before, when I... no. No, I am not going to think about that. I am going to close my door and finish packing and ignore it like a polite and sophisticated mare. Eventually. ------- I feel exhausted. Which is totally not fair. I’d gotten this great night’s sleep and I was all ready to pack up my stuff and get going back to my house. But no, my marefriend has to lay me out on the kitchen floor and... you know what? None of your business. But still. That happened. And then she goes off with a smile on her face and flies out the door to work to leave me recovering on the cloudnoleum. The bitch. The sexy, sexy bitch. I decide to try standing, at first, which seems pretty easy. Just put myself on my hooves and balance. I mean, I’ve got four, right? What could go wrong? Ow. Aside from gravity, I mean. So I try again. Successfully this time, I might add. I trot over to a cool, clean countertop and lean on it like a life raft. “Oh countertop, you’re my best friend.” I stroke it gently, still feeling more than a little amorous after... breakfast. Sex and breakfast. Sexfast. Actually, that doesn’t work. We weren’t fast about it at all. I’ll work on it. So I’m trying to come up with a clever way of combining euphemisms for sex and other words for breakfast into something catchy to use later when I hear a noise. A noisy noise. The kind of noisy noisy that sounds... noisy. I turn my head with much effort, and look over at the door to the kitchen, just in time to see what I believe to be the source of the noise scamper away. At least, part of it. I catch a glimpse of one grey hoof disappear around the frame, and a few scattered pieces of what I think is a vase. Wait, what? Was Octavia watching us? That’s kind of hot. NO. BAD Vinyl. Anyway, I figure I should go address the issue before it gets too out of control. Again. So I slowly make my way up to Octy’s room. One. Step. At. A. Time. Oh, hello gravity. -------------- The door slams behind me as I run back into my room. I can’t believe myself at this point. Watching my friends have sex? What is wrong with me? Don’t answer that, brain. I need something to distract myself. Something to drown out the images. All I can see right now is Vinyl and Spitfire, tangled on the floor. Spitfire’s wings stretched out and fully extended as she arches her back. Vinyl’s eyes glazed over. Spitfire’s tail twitching back and forth furiously. Vinyl writhing around. Vinyl moaning, digging her muzzle into Spitfire’s mane. Vinyl screaming for more. Vinyl.... NO. Not again. I won’t let myself be consumed like this again. My eyes dart around the room as I search for some kind, any kind of reprieve. And they land on my cello. Perfect. Nothing is better than expressing emotion and untapped passion than music. Fortunately, I hadn’t packed it all away yet. I trot hurriedly over to the case, but slow my motions as I open it, and pull the instrument out. I pull out an assortment of sheet music, not really paying attention to what songs they are, and lay them out on the bed. Standing myself upright with my instrument, my hoof holding my bow maybe tighter than it should, I study each sheet, looking for just the right notes. Something to play that matches this beat in my heart. Whether it’s from my shameful voyeurism, or the rush back into my room, I won’t think about. But nothing jumps out at me. Nothing sticks. It’s all to slow, too bland. Too... me. It’s all professional, falsely deep music with little effort and a lot of output. Performance pieces, made to please and entertain a crowd who pays top dollar for ponies to not question whether or not they know any better the pieces they’re listening to. My bow twitches on the strings as my hooves grow impatient. Tired of staring down this bland repertoire of notes and bars, my hoofs start playing on their own. Almost, at least. I just start playing, not really paying attention. I turn my attention from the bed and the papers and just hold my head high, playing whatever it is I can think of. There’s no order to my rhythm, no sense of organization or discipline. But there’s something else. Passion. I feel, passionate about what I’m playing. Which isn’t entirely new, I feel the same way when I’m in front of a crowd. But this seems more... fun. I think it’s working. Until I look up and see the door wide open. --------- I’ve only made it halfway up the stairs when I hear Octavia start to play. My first thought is that she’s just doing it to make it sound like she’s been up here the whole time. An old trick, but I can’t fault her for it. At least she won’t be scrambling to keep up the illusion when I open the door. It’s not till I hit the landing that the music itself catches my ear. Yeah, I’ve heard Octavia play before. At the rehearsal and the actual performance for the award show. I know she’s good. But she didn’t play anything like this. It’s all raw emotion and disorganized thought. She’s just playing to play. Which is something I’ve done myself, plenty of times. I reach the door, and toss it open, not bothering to knock. It’s my room too, for now. I glance around the room and find Octavia standing by the bed, her head hung down and her eyes closed, and she’s just going at it. It’s almost crazy. I ant to interrupt her, but I can’t. I can’t move. The music is so primal, so full of need and intensity that I can’t bring myself to interrupt it. And it doesn’t help that all that amorous warmth in my head hasn’t flown away yet. I just stare like I’m hypnotized, and part of me probably is. It’s one thing to recognize an artist by seeing their finished work. Enjoying it, reading or watching or listening to it. It’s another to meet them, to hear them talk about their craft and to see the life in their eyes when they talk about doing what they love. But watching them create? Watching them bring something out of nothing and become nothing more than a conduit through which raw creativity flows into raw, imperfect creation? It’s nothing like you’ve ever seen. They’re nowhere near the pony you know them as, when they create. Sometimes, it’s scary. Sometimes, it’s crazy and fun and inspiring. And sometimes, it’s beautiful. And then she looks at me. ------------- I freeze. My bow drops out of my hand and all of the warmth and crazy passion I had been building up as I play floods my head like a freshly shaken cola, just waiting for someone to crack the can. It’s in that moment that I realize I haven’t done anything to forget the events from only moments ago. Each note, each line, I was reliving them. Refreshing them. Changing them. All I’d thought about while I played was how I felt. How I wanted to feel. What I’d seen. And what about it I wanted to change. And here all of it is just staring at me like I’m some kind of work of art. Vinyl’s eyes shine as her mouth hangs open. I can’t stop staring at her mouth. Those soft lips, as the echo of her voice from mere minutes before loops in my head. There’s nothing funny about it. Nothing amusing, or anecdotal. There’s also nothing hateful, or angry, or vengeful about it. Nothing that I’d built up all those times I’d used her months before. I just... want her. ---------- Her bow drops, and she stares at me for a moment. More than a moment. It feels like forever. She’s staring at me like she plays. Like the song she was just playing hadn’t stopped, except this time she was the instrument. Hungry, wanting, and warm. Hot, even. I don’t move when she puts down her cello, or walks towards me. I don’t move when she stops, moments from my face. I just... want her. --------- I know I shouldn’t. She isn’t mine. It’s not my place. It’s just a fleeting emotion. It will pass. I know I shouldn’t. --------- I should say something. I should move. I have Spitfire. I’ve been down this road with Octavia before. It’s nothing I want. But this time, it’s different. It’s not hate or anger I see in her. I don’t see anything in her eyes that I don’t feel myself. I should move. So, I do. -------- I know I shouldn’t. But, I do. [To Be Continued]