His sweet tenor voice cut through the desert air like an eagle’s screech, only more heart-breakingly melodic. And Big Macintosh knew... he was home.
— Passion In Cider
The desert was a place of extremes. Big Macintosh had expected the still heat of its day but not the bare freezing cold of its night. He had expected the sand and how it really did get into everything but not how harsh the wind could blow it around and bury something left outside in a matter of hours. The air sucked up moisture like a hungry dog yet the scarce rains were never a drizzle but always a downpour.
It wasn’t so bad near Appleloosa itself, of course. The town’s location was chosen carefully but the desert was still everywhere he looked. It was a hard place and the ponies were no different. Most of them were settlers and few, if any, had grown up in such a climate. Still, the desert seemed to have a way of leaving its mark on ponies, and everypony in town was long accustomed to such a life.
Big Mac had grown used to it too. He already had a good appreciation for what Braeburn had achieved, but knowing the desert made those accomplishments even more impressive. It was a different kind of place but he knew there was plenty of beauty to find. There was plenty of ugly, too, and in a place of extremes that meant an abundance of bars and alcohol. Except they weren’t called bars. They were called saloons. Big Mac didn’t know what the difference was and he didn’t much care. As long as they kept serving him cider, they could call themselves whatever they liked.
The cider was good, made by one of the town’s local apple orchards. Big Mac sipped his glass, sure that the pony beside him could tell him which orchard, but Braeburn wasn’t in a talking mood. It was rare, but it happened. Braeburn was a good example of the desert’s contrast. He was the most upbeat and happy fellow you could find, but once he got like this it was hard to imagine he was anything but.
Big Mac wasn’t really a bar, or saloon, kind of pony but Braeburn seemed to be. The stallion certainly fit the part: quiet and sullen with a stare intense enough to make the glass of cider he was looking at nervous. Easy enough to imagine the drops of water around the glass wasn’t because of condensation but because the glass itself was sweating under that gaze.
Braeburn had a habit of heading straight towards the saloon when he was like this and Big Mac made sure to always accompany him. Somepony had to make sure he got home safe after all, and the saloon was a nice enough place. It was a cool reprieve from the outside heat and the ponies inside kept to themselves. Any conversation was as soft and quiet as the lights inside.
They sometimes had live entertainment and this was one of those times. It often helped set the atmosphere and was never intrusive. Sometimes a pony just had to sing it out so the stage was open for anypony to use when they needed it. Big Mac didn’t know if Braeburn ever did and he never asked.
On stage, a mare was singing something about leaving or maybe getting left behind. Her soft murmurs and smoky voice made it hard to tell what she was saying, but she sounded wistful and she had passion inside her, Big Mac noticed.
And passion was the problem with Braeburn and himself. They seemed like two different ponies, but deep inside, they were similar enough. Both of them were passionate. Both of them had something important to them they dedicated themselves to. Sweet Apple Acres was it for him and Appleloosa was Braeburn’s. Problem was when that passion didn’t have anything left to burn for, when what kept you going didn’t need you anymore, when you needed to find something else to dedicate yourself to otherwise you were left nothing but a howling, a wanting for something to fill the emptiness inside you.
He could hear the mare’s words echo in his ears, about walking through stretches of sand and never finding a glimpse of what you were looking for.
Big Mac didn’t regret his choices. The years had been good and Sweet Apple Acres didn’t need Big Mac anymore. To be accurate, neither of his sisters needed him anymore. They wanted their space so Big Mac gave it to them. He received the regular letter talking about what was happening back at the farm and how the seasons had been treating them and he made sure to send one back but it wasn’t the same. They worried about him, he knew, but it wasn’t anything they could solve. This was something he needed to find for himself.
The mare finished singing the last words of her song and closed her eyes, head turned down. Her shadow was softer, more vulnerable in the dim light of the saloon. The piano continued playing the last few notes before it, too, died down. Polite applause echoed in the room and the mare looked up for a small smile before leaving the stage, stepping back to her table. Alone, Big Mac couldn’t help but notice, but it was none of his business.
Appleloosa flourished. It seemed like it was getting bigger every day, more and more ponies he hadn’t seen before popping up, some of them for a visit and some of them to stay. He’d also seen quite a few of them leave. Braeburn had given his all for the town and Big Mac knew there was nothing like watching something you’ve cared for blossom. But he also knew there was nothing like that inevitable time when it didn’t need you anymore, when it could manage on its own.
Big Mac drank the rest of his cider in one go and tapped his hoof twice on the counter next to Braeburn. Time to leave. A flick of the ear was his only acknowledgment but Big Mac got up anyway, taking out a bag of bits to pay for their drinks before going outside.
Sunset in Appleloosa was brilliant, bright reds and oranges scattered on the sky and high clouds, so opposite of its dull in-betweens. Times like this he liked to look the most, watching the sky change and the shadows grow longer. It reminded him of his own times looking out on the farm, something alive and free soaring in his heart, a longing he knew he’d never be able to express in words.
The saloon door swung open and Braeburn appeared to stand beside him, hat low and watching the same thing he was. He didn’t need to say it to Braeburn, though, because Big Mac knew he understood. They watched the sun go down for a while longer before heading home when it wasn’t too dark to find their way.
They didn’t talk about it but they didn’t need to. Nothing needed to be said. They were in similar situations. Neither of them were needed anymore and now they had to find something else they could dedicate themselves to, to give their wholes to until someday, maybe, they could find their rest.
They’d find it, eventually. They were both stallions who needed to be needed. And right now, they could need each other.
Halfway between home, Braeburn kissed him on the lips and he tasted cider on the other’s tongue.