Octavia leaned over her baked ziti and took a bite. Of course, the cheese wouldn’t break. It stretched and stretched and stretched, so she bit off a few more of the noodles and tried her chances again. But all she did was reset the process.
Big McIntosh reached over and broke the string with his hoof, then wiped off the bit that had stuck to her chin. Out in public, at a restaurant, a celebrity like her, with cheese on her face. She laughed along with him, then took another sip of her wine. A nice bouquet, paired well with pasta. And she didn’t care.
He didn’t hold it up to the light and swirl it, didn’t savor it for a while before swallowing, didn’t inhale the delicate odor. Just a big slug of it, then wipe the back of a hoof across his mouth. “Pretty good, but I still like cider better,” he said. And she didn’t care.
It had come to this. Never before had she felt so comfortable in her own skin, so detached from what everypony else might think. This was the moment. She’d told him before, and she’d even felt it, for real. But this moment, she knew, not like a little fleeting fact, but an enormous truth that settled over her, wrapped around her like a blanket.
“I love you, Big Mac,” she said.
“I love you, too, Tavi,” he answered. Then he raised his eyebrow as she kept staring. “Somethin’ wrong?”
Octavia shook her head. “No. I just wish you could realize how amazing you are.” She ran her gaze over his strong jaw and broad shoulders. “You’re better than I deserve.”
Like every time she complimented him, he looked down at the table. “Couldn’t be,” he replied. Behind him, she saw some of the regulars about town watching them. She’d learned a few of their names—over by the front door, Lily, Daisy, and Rose enjoying a girls’ night out; near the kitchen, Mr. and Mrs. Cake getting out for a rare date without the kids; at the next table, her friend Rarity giving Sweetie Belle some sort of lesson in etiquette; and at the bar, Lyra and Bon Bon nursing a couple of ornate cocktails. All of them kept glancing over and grinning. Rarity, especially, the same way she’d smiled at him so long ago, at the reception where Octavia had first met him.
“Somepony really ought to record Derpy.” She wouldn’t embarrass him anymore. “I’ve never heard such a soulful harmonica player.”
Big Mac just waved a hoof at her. “I tried barkin’ up that tree. Only a hobby, she says. No amount o’ talkin’ will ever budge her. But she’ll play for friends, ’specially around one o’ the bonfires we have in the town square every few years. And she used to, if I was on break when she swung past the farm on her mail route.”
“Thank you for playing at the festival with me, by the way,” she said. “How did it feel, in front of everypony?” He chewed another bite of eggplant parmigiana and tensed his jaw. Answers never came quickly with him, but time mattered so much less than it used to.
He sucked at a bit of oregano between his front teeth. “Different. Not scary, like stagefright. More that I was puttin’ my heart on display, for all to see, y’know? I don’t know if I liked it.”
“That’s what music is, Big Mac! It takes the raw emotion of the composer and performer, and shines a spotlight right on it.” She propped her chin on a hoof and directed a dreamy smile at the darkening sky outside. “You want the listener to feel exactly like you do. You share your passion with her, give her a little piece of your life.”
When she got her thoughts back into her head, she noticed him staring again. “I love that about you,” he said. “You feel like music is a responsibility, like it’s your duty to bring it to everypony.”
Octavia blushed. “Well… don’t you feel the same way about apples?”
“Eeyup.”
“You know, it’ll get better.”
Big Mac wrinkled his forehead. “Huh?”
“That feeling of baring yourself in front of everypony. The more you do it, the less scary it gets. Then you see that they accept you for it and applaud you for it. I think you could learn to like it.” He didn’t answer. “I hope you’ll consider doing something like that again.”
He gave a half-shrug, and she supposed she’d have to settle for that. For now.
She scooped up her last bite of ziti and snatched the bill away before he could take it. “You think that ice cream cart in the park is still open?”
Octavia leaned against the hillside in her usual spot, playing her usual music and letting the usual twigs and grass collect in her mane. She’d washed off her forehooves in one of the water troughs before coming here, but her rear hooves still had topsoil caked on from her gardening chores. Next to her, Big McIntosh lay with his eyes shut, his dulcimer’s hammers hanging limply from his hooves. She’d close her own eyes, too—she knew the music well enough—but she wanted to watch him. Over the months, she’d learned to anticipate which notes, which chords, which inflections would make him smile, laugh, frown… or settle in a little harder, into the grass, into the couch, into her side.
She grinned as she kept on playing. “What colors do you see?” A lot of blue, she supposed. She’d picked this piece on purpose for that—blue was his favorite.
“Burgundy,” he said as his smile intensified.
“I know that.” Octavia nudged him with a shoulder. “I mean, what else?” Maybe that had surpassed blue as his favorite. He never failed to mention it as her voice’s tone, and he always got that faraway look when he did. When his eyes were open, that is.
He snorted. “Mostly blue.”
Only by occasional coincidence did a piece’s color actually match its theme—the composer had intended this one to evoke a forest scene, for instance. She could compensate a bit by playing in a different key, but still… hit or miss. Full orchestral works gave him so much color that he could reorganize it into whatever scene he chose, or at least she understood it that way.
In any case, it still lent her that spark in her playing to know that he experienced the music in such a personal way, that she could make that much of a connection with an audience. She finished with an impromptu flourish that she guessed he’d call a greenish tan, khaki maybe. “How’s that?”
“Dark red, maybe a purple.” Hm. Missed that one. Still, he gave her the answer she wanted. Normally, he’d just say, “Good.”
“Big Mac, I was thinking.” That got his eyes open. “You didn’t have such a bad time performing at the festival, did you?” He didn’t answer. She’d asked him some form of that question every couple of weeks and gotten a variety of noncommittal responses. But not today.
“I mean it,” Octavia said. “You’ve never really told me. Except for the one time.” She looked over at him and waited while he picked at a few weeds.
He only grunted.
“You told me how it felt that night, but has it gotten any better? Do you think you could play again if we hold another festival in a year or two?” He sighed and gave the kind of smile he might show to a foal who’d asked for the same bedtime story five nights in a row. Still, she waited. If she didn’t have to worry about one thing, it was getting an honest answer.
A few times, he seemed ready to speak, and then he finally met her gaze. “Friends and family. Yeah, I s’pose I could.” The tension in his cheeks said he knew what would come next.
And so she asked. “Do you think you could play for strangers, too?”
“I dunno,” he said immediately.
“You know folk music means a lot to me. And that I started featuring a little in the middle of my concerts.” He nodded slowly. He’d even attended a few, whenever she performed in Canterlot. “I’ve played a lot of the songs you taught me, and the crowds have enjoyed it. Gives them a nice slow-down between the showpieces and mixes up the flavor a bit, y’know?”
He hadn’t done anything more than blink. “I’d like you to come along to one and play the lullaby with me. It’s one of the most beautiful, heartfelt melodies I’ve ever heard, and I think everypony else deserves to hear it, too.”
Big Mac opened his mouth—
“First,” she said, “I want to reassure you. I can’t make you, and it’s the last concert of the season, so I’m not trying to rope you into multiple times. Just once. Try it once and see what you think.”
Already, his smile had turned into a faint scowl. “First,” he echoed, “I trust you not to pull any tricks like that. You didn’t have to say so.”
Octavia’s own timid grin fell. That was a fair point. “I’m sorry.”
“As to the rest… I dunno. I told you that before. I still don’t know if I’m okay with how it felt.” Gently, he touched a hoof to her chin.
“But you didn’t hate it. Even if you weren’t enthusiastic, ponies would love it. Please just—” He sighed and shook his head. She took his hoof in hers, more to get it out from under her chin so she could look down. “I won’t push.”
After a few minutes of listening to the wind rasping through the bulrushes, he sat up straighter. “I’ll think about it.”
“Thank you.”
By now, she’d gotten pretty good at reading time from the sun, especially during these summer months. Not long until dinner. She rolled onto her side and got to her hooves. It wouldn’t feel right to ask him to groom her mane today, not after what she’d already asked of him. But he’d do it anyway.
“When is it?” he asked.
“Three weeks from tomorrow. It’s a three-day booking, but we’d only do the folk music performance on opening night.” She allowed a smile to creep onto the half of her face away from him.
And then she closed her eyes as she felt him picking the debris out of her mane.
Big McIntosh gazed at the tall granite structures all around him. At least the cast iron table reminded him of the cafes at home, but nothing else about this place felt familiar. He’d promised himself he’d give the art museum in Manehattan a chance, if he ever got the opportunity. Mostly because Rarity had proven herself right—and how!—about the music, he figured she deserved the benefit of the doubt. Well, since Octavia was doing the asking, he’d have agreed anyway.
“Do you like the coffee?” Octavia said. She held hers with both hooves and beamed at him over the rim of her cup. Something about her, that black and gray framed by the immaculate scenery behind her—steel and glass, chiseled stone, columns. It fit.
But this coffee… Lots of whipped cream, cinnamon, a couple other powders he couldn’t identify. And it was cold. On purpose. Better than hot coffee in the middle of a summer day, he supposed, but still. “Not bad,” he answered. True enough, but weird.
“If there’s anything else you want to see, our tickets are good for the whole day. I’m glad we got to see the exhibit of landscapes, though.” That same smile adorned her face, the one she got whenever she asked him about the colors he heard. She knew he liked farm scenes, so why not paintings of them? And then quite a few questions about whether it worked in reverse—did he hear music when he looked at the pictures? He endured them all patiently, and no, it didn’t happen that way.
He took another deep breath. Food everywhere, cloth, wood, metal. The city had its own smell. Not bad, just different. And leave it to the big town to have a restaurant right in the museum. Well, outside, but in the museum’s courtyard.
For the umpteenth time, he reached up to adjust his work collar, only to find it absent. No use for it here, so he’d left it at home.
Octavia must have noticed how lost he seemed. He bet she looked the same way on her first trip to Ponyville, but he wouldn’t have paid attention to how she acted at the time, just the black and gray and wonderful colors. As he took another drink, she scrunched up her nose. “Welcome to my world, Big Mac.”
“Yeah…” He glanced around uneasily at all the tall buildings again.
Octavia bent forward over the table and kissed him. She really didn’t mind the whole public thing—he made sure to smile, so he’d look good for her. And on cue, a camera clicked, somewhere on the other side of the fence. He might never get used to that.
“C’mon,” she said, tugging him out of his seat as he gulped down the rest of his coffee. Strange or not, no sense in letting it go to waste. “What else would you like to do today? I know you’re not much for shopping, but there’s so much out there. Go see a play, ride the subway up to the Broncs to take in a Flankees game, I think the Orangers made the hockey playoffs this year. Say, any connection to your relatives here?”
Big Mac rubbed the back of his neck. He never liked discussing the… well, the rich side of the family. “Um… yeah, some distant uncle owns ’em. Never met him, ’cept the one time he flew in for the reunion in his airship. Granny Smith pointed him out to me.”
“Oh! Did you plan to visit with any of them? We could go—”
“Naw,” he said with a flick of his hoof. “I wrote ahead. Gonna meet the ones AJ stayed with tomorrow, for breakfast. Before I head back.” A chill ran down his back. Yeah, tomorrow. After tonight…
She must have seen him tense up. She frowned and curled a foreleg around his. “Why don’t we try Central Park. Ponds, trees, nice big open spaces. I think you’d like it.”
She’d been game when she first visited his farm. No holding back, no gussied-up version of it—only the real thing would do. He couldn’t rightly skip out on this. “Sure, but only for a bit. You wanted the whole farm experience, and I want the whole city experience. Like you said, this is your world. Show me what you want me to know about you.”
“You’re better than I deserve.” She broke into a broad grin, kissed him again, and reached for the tab, but he beat her to it. Not cheap, but he’d better start learning to live like this.
“Couldn’t be.” She always scrunched up her nose when he said that.
“Alright, after Central Park, I’ll show you this great jazz club I know—think of how much Derpy would love it!—then I’ll take you to FAO Horse. Trust me, you’ll have a ton of fun there. Next…”
Chuckling to himself, Big Mac fell into step beside her and followed her out into the busy street.
Looking into the mirror, Big McIntosh straightened his tuxedo jacket and adjusted his bow tie. A perfect match with Octavia’s, he noted with a grin, but he hated having something so tight on his neck. Made it a little hard to breathe.
The concert had gone well so far, with a nice, bright overture full of yellows and oranges, and then a scherzo with just about every color in it. Scherzo. Listen to him—had he really picked up that much of her lingo already?
He’d come backstage at the intermission to get ready, and Octavia kept filing back and forth, out on stage to announce the next act, in to have a hushed conversation with Maestro, grab one of her instruments and go play something herself. He even recognized a few songs he’d taught her, and she returned from a rendition of “Simple Gifts” with a particularly blissful expression on her face. Through his bouts of wishing he’d skipped lunch, he couldn’t help smiling. And before each performer took her turn in the spotlight, that same burgundy voice introducing the pieces, but muffled closer to an orange by the door. He would have expected a curtain…
Burgundy and black and gray. Never before had his world seemed so colorful.
“Alright, Big Mac.” He jumped—he hadn’t even seen her walk up to him. “We’re on next.” She gave him a critical gaze, adjusted his lapels, and licked her hoof to rub something off his cheek. “There.”
“I… I dunno,” he said as his stomach made another twist. “W-we never really practiced.”
She smirked at him and winked. “Well, then you’re the rare soul who’s gotten here without it.”
“Huh?” He knew that look, but her joke had gone way over his head.
When his gape didn’t go away, she finally shook her head. “Nothing. An old gag about a tourist asking how to get to Carneighgie Hall, and the pony answers, ‘Practice, practice, practice!’”
“Oh…” His mouth had gone dry, and the little gap at the edge of the door had never looked so close.
“Besides, what do you call all the time we spent playing by the pond? You know this stuff by heart. Don’t think about it—just play it.” His gaze kept wandering over to the sliver of light lancing through the cracked door, but she took his chin in her hoof and forced him to look her in the eye. “You can do this. They—” she waved a hoof toward the audience “—are not the enemy. They genuinely want to hear what you have to tell them, like… like Apple Bloom, when she asks you for one of your stories.”
His lips in a taut line, Big Mac nodded. For that matter, he’d caught his littlest sister sneaking away from her chores to listen to them on more than one occasion. Out of the corner of his eye, and he’d never say anything to chase her off. So, ignore the audience, as ponies say. Just a private run-through with Tavi, and Apple Bloom happened to overhear it. Or hundreds of Apple Blooms…
She gave him a kiss, then wiped a little smudge of lipstick off his mouth. “C’mon,” she said, angling her head toward the applause coming from the other world on the far side of that door. “Our turn.”
With a heavy gulp, he followed her through, out to the wooden planks of the flooring, into the haze of spotlights. He couldn’t see anything past their glow, just… it almost looked like frost. But as his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see why.
The room, done up in a white or cream color. Carved wood all over the place, above the stage, on the fancy boxes, even with gilding. He’d expected… stone, darkness. Black and gray. And burgundy. But this room, those boxes, balconies, seats… full.
Every space in the concert hall, packed with ponies, taking up the aisles, too. All those faces, all those eyes. But he sang with the Ponytones! Audiences didn’t bother him!
Big Mac shut his eyes and concentrated. Just the sound of her voice. That’s all he needed. Block everything else out but the burgundy.
Nothing.
His legs stiffened, and his breath rasped inside his head. No burgundy. No—no burgundy. What else did he have to hold onto? His ears flattening against his head, he stared hard into the darkness. It had to be there! He couldn’t just turn the colors on and off. It was there, and he knew it, so why couldn’t he find it?
A soft pressure on his shoulder.
“Ready?” said a whisper in his ear.
“M-my hammers.”
“Already out there. With your dulcimer. The stage workers set it up.”
Everything, done for him. They probably thought he’d appreciate it, but… he didn’t get to carry his own instrument? Granny Stone’s instrument. Her—her dulcimer, her song.
A little shove in the ribs, step by step, eyes still closed. The wood and strings, right in front of him now. He could smell them.
“One, two, three, four.” Softly, next to him. Not burgundy.
He was late on his entrance, but his hooves jerked to the right notes automatically. No watching the strings by color or position, only playing like he had hundreds of times now. She was right. All those days, in the orchard, they’d rehearsed enough. Don’t think, just play, she’d said, back when her voice had color. She was right.
On the second verse, she added the words, but he didn’t know if he sang with her. Her violin rang out, in a key she’d chosen for its blue, but none of that, either. Not even her pleasing shade of charcoal—only a featureless black. Featureless, impossible, wrong!
Her bow slid across her violin and soared up to the high notes, once she’d run out of words. He might have added a few of the flourishes he sometimes used. Whatever his hooves felt like doing, he let them have their way.
And he stopped, and applause sounded all around, and a hoof draped over his shoulder.
“Are you okay, Big Mac?”
Octavia’s voice sounded like it came through cotton stuffed in his ears. He stared at her for a second before nodding. With the undone bow tie dangling from his neck, he could finally breathe.
“The audience loved it. You did great!”
He watched her chin carefully, where the words spilled out. A few were red, he guessed.
“You want to go out and chat with the audience or orchestra? Or do you just want to head back to the hotel room and get some sleep? You do have an early carriage to catch tomorrow, and breakfast before.”
As near as he could tell, she was leaning against the wall near him, but the bright light behind her washed it out. Go? The orchestra still had another few things to play after the intermission, didn’t they?
“You don’t look up for a big dinner. I can just reheat some of the leftover spinach souffle, if you want.”
For lack of anything better to do, he nodded again. A little food and some sleep. Maybe he’d feel better in the morning. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so… empty. Empty and raw and—
Octavia waved a hoof in front of his eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”
He blinked and stretched a foreleg around her neck. “Yeah, just—I’m just tired.”
“I don’t wonder. You’ve had a long day.” She kissed him on the cheek and steered him toward the back, through all the parts of the concert hall nopony sees and out the loading dock.
The nearby buildings rose around him like a gorge. Over the top of one, he could just make out a skyscraper he recognized. The back door had actually left them heading in the right direction to go… home.
It didn’t seem right to use that word. Home. The city had its own smells, its own life, its own beauty. But now, after dark… trash in the alleyway, no stars visible overhead, no breeze rustling the trees, no crickets answering each other from the grass.
At least Octavia loved the farm so much. She could live there. It only added a little to her travel when the orchestra went on tour—she didn’t exactly spend that much time at her Canterlot apartment anyway. Wherever she called home, she’d still spend a lot of time away.
Big Mac hugged her closer. On their early dates, she would have chattered away, anything to fill the silence. More often now, she kept quiet. Not talking, that is, but she’d hum something under her breath, in a nice burgundy. As if on cue, she started. He thought he recognized it as one of the solos she’d spent a lot of time practicing the last few months. The one he must have missed—the piece it came from should have come after the folk music performances.
Yeah, a little food and a little sleep. Maybe he’d feel better in the morning.
Big Mac huffed the smell of garbage out of his nostrils and listened to the burgundy. It really was burgundy again.
A subdued good-bye—Octavia would head to Ponyville after the weekend anyway—an uneventful breakfast with the Oranges, a boring coach ride to town, and then the long walk home. Through the woods, with all its sounds and rhythms, then to all the colors of his farm.
It didn’t feel right without burgundy. Or black and gray. Three colors that made the rest mean something. Was that how Rarity saw the world? He’d need to remember to thank her the next time he saw her. Plus, she’d want to know all about his trip.
Through the front door, up the stairs, and he dropped his overnight bag on the floor. He could deal with that later, but he did carefully put his dulcimer away in its drawer. “I’ll show you pictures later, Miss Smarty Pants,” he said, “but I saw it in person this time. I’ll give you the rundown.”
Big Mac droned away, his mouth on automatic. Every so often, he squeezed his eyes shut against the dry sensation. Then he opened his eyes. He remembered getting to the part about going to the jazz club, but… he must have fallen asleep. The sun hung low in the sky.
Consarn it! He hadn’t slept well last night, but no excuse for missing out on chores. Especially not when that meant leaving them all for Applejack to do. He rolled out of bed and put on his work collar in case she’d left any for him, or maybe to get a head start on tomorrow. It felt odd, though, after going a few days without wearing it. Not a good kind of odd.
A soft knock sounded at the door. “Big Mac?”
“That you, AJ? ’S open.”
His sister walked in, still a little damp from her bath. It must’ve been hot today for her to take a second one in the evening. “You alright?” She sat on the bed and watched him. For once, she didn’t jabber on and try to draw him out. She just waited.
“Eeyup,” he finally said. But he’d waited too long to answer—she wouldn’t believe him.
“Didn’t sound like you had much fun.” Applejack rubbed a hoof at her nose, then acted like she found something interesting in the bedspread’s pattern.
Big Mac glanced up at the stack of postcards on his dresser. He’d bought a few at a gift shop in Manehatten but hadn’t unpacked them yet. They’d go in a different stack, though—not the ones that he’d read and hear the burgundy in his head. “I had fun. It was just… different.”
“Well… yeah. That’s city life for you.” She patted her hoof at the same spot on the bedspread and looked up at him. “I mean the concert. I… I heard you talkin’ to the doll.”
Oh. He thought he’d fallen asleep well before getting to that.
And then his face started turning red as he clenched his jaw. “AJ, why you gotta—?”
“I ain’t gonna bug you about it. Just… I’m sorry.” She leaned over to put a hoof on his shoulder. “I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy playin’ on that stage. Can’t say I didn’t expect it.”
Big Mac narrowed his eyes at her. She didn’t mind the occasional gossip, but she drew the line at anything harmful or meddlesome, so at least no need to mistrust her. She wouldn’t blab. But he still couldn’t quite tell what she was getting at. “Huh?”
“Look, I know it might be weird for you. But you can talk to me if you need to. I promise, I only want to help.” After a small shove against his shoulder, she stood to leave.
What did she think she heard? He didn’t like standing in front of that huge audience. Big deal. A lot of ponies didn’t. He just wouldn’t do it again. Problem solved. Singing somepony else’s song with the Ponytones was one thing, but leaving his heart on stage for all to see… he couldn’t.
He couldn’t. Oh, Celestia, he couldn’t.
Big Mac’s breath caught in his throat, and he whipped his head toward the door, but Applejack had already left.
Two days. Two more days, and he’d hear that burgundy voice again. It’d make everything alright. Maybe he’d go sit on the front steps of the post office before dawn tomorrow and try to catch Derpy on her way into work.
The same landmarks, the same ruts in the road. By now, Octavia could nearly predict which way the carriage would bounce and when, especially that one thick tree root just before Ponyville came into view. And as always, her heart quickened with each mile. That rock on the edge of the forest, with the white vein running through it—about ten minutes to go.
She always made sure to take the earliest departure, and at least half the time, that same old mare would give her a knowing smile—the one who’d read her so accurately the very first time she’d made this trip. And there she sat again, grinning back at Octavia.
“Good morning, Miss Magnolia,” Octavia said.
“And to you, dearie,” she replied with a nod. “Off to see your beau again?”
Octavia smiled, then looked back out the window. “Yes, ma’am. I have the next three months off, so I’ll probably visit a lot.”
“Mmhmm.” More trees went by, and then the old oak with the twisted branch. Eight minutes to go. “Still visiting?” the old mare asked.
Octavia didn’t answer right away. Visiting. Big Mac had long since referred to the guest room as her room. Even Applejack had called it that, on occasion. Come to think of it, she hadn’t spent much time with Apple Bloom or Granny Smith. That one, in particular, always seemed to watch her with some sort of suspicion. Narrowed eyes and a stare that lingered a bit. She’d never brought it up with Big Mac, though. She didn’t live there, and she didn’t know if she—
“Something wrong, dearie?”
For a moment, Octavia kept an eye out for the little bridge over the creek. Seven minutes. She shook her head slightly. “No, just… I hope I didn’t ask too much of him. He played at a music festival with me, and I pushed him to try something with a larger audience. I think it was too much for him.” She sighed and leaned her cheek against the glass. “He seemed different when he left the next morning.”
“Oh…” Magnolia tut-tutted and pursed her lips. “Sometimes that’s what a relationship takes: pushing each other to be more than you were. Then knowing when to back away and leave well enough alone. Sounds like you have a good handle on things.”
“You think so?”
Magnolia grinned again. “Take it from somepony who enjoyed sixty-one years of marriage.”
Funny… she’d never mentioned a husband before. But at Octavia’s questioning glance, Magnolia immediately replied, “Gone four years ago. But it’s never over—I still love him.” She rolled her eyes up to the sky.
Octavia patted Magnolia’s hoof. “Thanks.”
She rode the rest of the way in silence, counting down the minutes until her heart leapt at the wheels hitting that tree root and the first buildings on the town’s outskirts coming into view. Ponyville! Her body practically shook, and she strained toward the carriage’s door, just waiting for it to open, and when it finally did… she motioned Magnolia to the exit first, of course. No need to show disrespect in her eagerness.
But when she stepped out, there stood Big Mac on the platform. “Howdy, Miss Magnolia,” he said on his way over, and the old mare nodded back. Octavia took her violin case and overnight bag from the porter, then ran up to him and flung her hooves around his neck. He wrapped one of his own about her. Nice and warm against him, and… Smiling. Smiling but not smiling.
“It’s so good to see you, Big Mac! I know it’s only been a couple of days, but I felt bad about…”
“Eeyup.”
Her heart leapt again. But in a different way.
They walked in silence back to the farm. They always did—she’d watch his ears swivel to catch every fleeting sound and listen in herself to see if she could pick out what had caught his attention. But this was silence. Mile after mile of it.
Big Mac didn’t lead her to the house—straight to the pond where they always played. He’d do that about half the time as well, but something didn’t sit right. Not this time.
Once again, he took his spot on the hillside, closed his eyes, and sniffed at the air. She might as well join in for a little nap before the day got too hot, except she had to do something to work off this tension. She reached over to brush a hoof across his cheek. “Hey, would you mind playing something with me? I need to blow off some steam, and nothing relaxes me quite like that.” With her other hoof, she pulled her instrument case closer and undid the latch.
“I… I’m just not in the mood right now.”
An icy bolt shot up her back. Her hooves trembled, and she fought the tingle in her nose. Propping up on a foreleg, she watched Big Mac, his eyes closed against what he couldn’t say. The corners of his mouth twitched, and he held a breath.
“It’s over, isn’t it?” she said softly. In a bit of a quaver, too, but he probably didn’t hear that. His ears folded back, but he didn’t say anything. “I shouldn’t have pushed you—I won’t ask again, I promise. Please.”
He opened his eyes and bit his lip like a parent would the first time they really had to explain death to a foal.
“Please, I won’t ask you again, ever.” Look at her. If the photographers could see her now… “I promise!”
“I ain’t mad,” he said.
“Then what? What did I do wrong?”
He rolled onto his side and finally met her gaze. “Nothin’.” That intense stare. “Nothin’. You have to believe that. You did nothin’ wrong.”
In her throat, words gathered, but none would come out. Why? Why?
Big Mac let out a heavy sigh. “I stood out on that stage and let everypony see my heart. I… I can’t do that again. For friends or family, yeah, but all those ponies, lookin’ down and seein’ me, the real me. A-and I couldn’t see the colors. I know they were there, but… I couldn’t see ’em. N-not even the burgundy.”
She didn’t wait half a second when he paused. “But I won’t—”
“I know,” he said, holding up a hoof. “That kinda thing’s not for me. But for you… You love doin’ that. You love standin’ under the lights, puttin’ your all into every note you play, and lettin’ perfect strangers see—” he shook his head and swallowed hard “—see what makes you tick, what you love, what gets you to cry, what makes you Octavia. That’s why you love it—because music brings out that truth. You share everything you are with the audience, and without that, music wouldn’t interest you half as much.”
Octavia held a shaky hoof to her mouth. She didn’t realize how much he actually understood about that. Still, it didn’t mean—
“I can’t do that,” Big Mac continued. “For you, for family, friends… The folk music festival was pushin’ it a bit, but I can’t play on tour with you like that.”
She felt like she might float up off the grass. After holding her breath that long, she had to inhale deeply a few times. Not so bad. She could live with that. After all, they’d started out that way. If only her body would stop shaking, but at least none of the nightmares flitting through her mind had come true. “I shouldn’t have prodded. I’m sorry.”
“I know. I said I ain’t mad.” Still, he frowned at the grass. He had more to say. Octavia’s shoulders knotted up again.
Quickly, Big Mac muttered something under his breath. She didn’t quite catch it, but if it was the word she thought she heard, she wouldn’t have ever expected him to use it.
“What would we do? I mean, really, what would we do?” He huffed out a breath and stared up at the clouds. “I can’t go with you, taggin’ along here and there, in a city life that don’t suit me. I… I gotta have dirt, I gotta have chores, my farm, my family. I can’t leave it all for AJ to do.”
She knew that. She already knew. That’s why she—
“And you? Livin’ here one weekend a month?” Big Mac picked a stalk of grass, chewed on it a few times, and let it fall from his mouth. “I know you love the farm, but think of how much longer it’d take to get anywhere on your… your concert tours. And still, one weekend a month…”
Octavia leaned forward on her forelegs. “And three months off in the summer. But no, Big Mac, I-I don’t know.” She shook her head hard. She had to get those horrible thoughts out, the ones that said she should have seen this coming, that she never should have started something she couldn’t finish. And leaving him behind in the wreckage, because she had to visit the farm with the nice stallion who saw pretty colors. “I don’t know. I could just do half the schedule, or none of it, or-or…” Her quavering voice died away.
No way he believed a word of that. Even she didn’t. She shouldn’t have said it, shouldn’t have pushed him, shouldn’t have… She shouldn’t.
He swallowed hard. “Tavi, I once told you somethin’. I said you felt like it was your duty to share your music with everypony, all across Equestria. ’S the truth, and it’d drive you nuts if you gave that up. I won’t do that to you. I won’t let you do that to yourself.”
He was right. Here she sat, next to the stallion she loved more dearly than anything, and she’d never felt so… empty. Hollowed out, her heart, her happiness, just nothing.
“Either I go for a life that ain’t mine and resent leavin’ all this behind”—he waved a hoof at the trees surrounding them—“or I anchor you here and hate myself for keepin’ you from givin’ the world what you think you owe it.”
No tears. She couldn’t even cry. Her throat knotted up until her breath wheezed out.
“Stick it out or call it off—no matter which one I choose, it’ll be the worst mistake I ever made,” he said. He tensed up a foreleg and made to pound it in the dirt, but at the last second, he put it back down gently and let out a sigh. “Only one would be the worst mistake you ever made, though.”
Even if he was wrong about her, even if she quit without a second thought, he’d never forgive himself. She could see him forcing a smile every morning as he wondered what she might have done with her life, if not for him. Her telling him not to worry, that she’d chosen to stay, and him nodding back because he was supposed to. Either way, one harboring regrets, the other suspicions, maybe both. And no amount of reassurance would dispel them. Or spending—she ran a few quick figures in her head—less than a third of each year together. A choice between her love and her music. Not a fair choice for him, not a fair choice for her, and she could rant and rave all she liked about it, but it wouldn’t fix a damned thing.
The emptiness only worsened, but… what had Miss Magnolia said? “It’s never over—I still love him.” She needed to say it. She needed to hear herself say it. “I love you,” she said, more firmly than she would have expected.
“I know. I love you, too, Tavi.” He stretched over to hug her, but she wedged her muzzle in between them, closed her eyes, and kissed him on the mouth. She needed to make that point. After lingering with those warm lips against hers for a gloriously long time, she felt him pull back. “You’re my best friend. That don’t change. Agreed?”
Octavia held back the tears that suddenly decided to come and nodded quickly. “Of course. I would never want that to stop.”
“I hope you’ll still visit. And I hope you’ll still do your folk music festivals.” At the sound of a sniffle, she opened her eyes, but not too quickly. No need to make him feel self-conscious. “And I ’specially hope you’ll still play your fiddle with me, down here, where it’s quiet. Not so many other colors, just the black and gray and burgundy.”
She smiled, but for once, she didn’t laugh when he referred to her voice that way. “Yes to all three,” she said. Her violin case lay there next to her, unlatched for what seemed like hours now. She took out her instrument and plucked one string to make sure it hadn’t gone too far out of tune. “One more time for good measure?”
He nodded, and she played. Right there, on her back in the grass. Not the best position for it, but it didn’t matter. She played the lullaby and sang along, all the while imagining a wash of colors in her mind, until she paused. Not a flurry of them, just a few. Black and gray and burgundy. And red and blond. What about his voice? Green. She decided it would be green.
Octavia picked up again at the last line. “Know I’ll always love you, dear.” As the final note faded, she let it out. She cried quietly, and with a shuddering breath, he held her.
It hadn’t taken them long to walk back to town in the evening light. And neither had spoken along the way. No burgundy. He supposed he’d have to get used to that.
They had ten minutes yet until the last coach left for Canterlot, and they sat on a bench, waiting for the signal to board and staring at the knotted wood of the platform’s worn planks. At the sight of a few blades of grass stuck in her mane, he leaned over to pick them out, but she waved him off, so he returned to waiting. “You don’t have to leave, y’know,” he said. “You just got here.”
She blinked at the ground with her red, swollen eyes. “I-I need to reset. To get everything sorted out in my head, how things are now, how to love you without… without doing anything about it.” Her lips pursed, she looked over at him. “Don’t worry—I’ll come back. In a few weeks, maybe.”
Nodding, he scooted a little closer to her. Her hoof dangled limply by her side, but he didn’t take it. With most other ponies, he’d have considered her words an empty promise, but not Octavia. Not her. “Good. I’ll polish up my dulcimer so it looks real nice for you.”
A sparkle returning to her eye, she smiled. An honest-to-goodness, genuine smile. “I’ll look forward to it. And I’m not going to stop sending you postcards.” Her mouth hung open for a moment. “You’re better than I deserved,” she said.
“No. You deserve so much more, and I’ll make sure you get it.”
He grasped her hoof and held it until the ticket attendant whistled sharply. “Boarding now for Canterlot, last call!”
“I do still love you,” Big Mac whispered. “I always will.” She squeezed his hoof back and opened her mouth again, but no words came. With a sigh, he stood and passed Octavia’s bag and instrument case to the porter. Big Mac pulled her toward him, into one more hug, and he could feel her heart beating against him. But in a matter of seconds, she’d climbed the ladder, taken her seat, and gone. Just a muted wave out the back window, and before long, too far away to see her anymore. Their duet—“in the folk style,” as the fancy Canterlot types liked to phrase it—back to a solo act. With occasional accompaniment, he hoped.
Octavia hadn’t noticed, but when they’d left the house, Applejack had peeked out of the toolshed. By the way she’d gone ashen, his sister could tell from how they’d acted, how they’d walked. She must have. Maybe he’d take her up on that offer of a sympathetic ear. And on his way back, he’d stop by to thank Rarity again for introducing them, if she hadn’t closed for the night. He always did, whenever he had occasion to come to town, and he’d never change his mind about that. His mouth bowed into a smile, but it soon fell.
If Derpy was still awake… He hated to impose, but he was definitely going to knock on her door anyway. She’d understand.
His Tavi, gone, and with her, the promise of black and gray and burgundy every day. But better this way, better for her. Gone, but not for good.
He dragged his leaden hooves along with him as he turned away from the distant mountains and the city built into their rocky slopes.
But not for good.
