The door closed behind Octavia with an almost inaudible click, shutting out the outside world for the first time since that morning. A sigh escaped her lips as she stepped into her bedroom and set the large cello case up against the wall. She’d trained for years to become strong enough to endure the weight of the instrument for long periods of time, but that didn’t necessarily mean that it was easy to carry; it was still so big that most ponies would ask a unicorn friend to help them, or use a small cart to ferry it to and fro.
But not Octavia. She’d carried it—or tried to, at least—ever since it was placed in her possession all those years ago. She didn’t know if it was stubbornness that made her carry it, or if it was pride, or perhaps even a feeling of paranoia; that it’d disappear or be damaged if she didn’t feel the weight of it on her own back.
Shaking her head in exasperation of her own irrational fears, she made her way back to the front door, deposited her saddlebags on the old desk in the hallway and picked up the day’s mail. As with any other day it consisted primarily of bills for various subscriptions, though most of these were for newspapers only.
One envelope, however, caught her interest. It was addressed to herself, of course, with her address and name written in elegant strokes that seemed to come more from a brush than a quill. A smile quickly lit up on her face as she recognized the elegant calligraphy of her mother’s. She placed the other envelopes on the table in the living room, vowing to sort them later, and placed all of her attention on the one in her hooves. She hadn’t heard from her parents in quite a while, so the letter was a welcome surprise.
The letter was already open and had been pulled out of the envelope before she even sat down, violet eyes carefully reading each line with a constant smile on her lips.
Dear Octavia
It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I’m a little disappointed you haven’t written to us yet, but with how busy everything is for you I guess it can’t be helped—you are busy, aren’t you?
Enough about that, though. Things are going well back home. Chime and I painted the living room the other day. I tell you, it was a nightmare to get the paint out of our coats after that! What’s worse was my mane. You wouldn’t believe what a disaster it was. I swear your aunt—you know, Aunt Marble, the hairdresser—would’ve had a fit if she’d seen me…either that or a stroke. Sorry, I wasn’t allowed to write that. Chime is such a killjoy sometimes.
How are things going with you? Finally found a fillyfriend for yourself? A cute little one with a plump rear and velvet mane and tail?
Despite years of getting used to her mother’s teasings, she still found herself taken by surprise at the inquiry; heat blossoming in her cheeks. She shook her head to clear off whatever unnecessary thoughts permeated her mind in that moment. after a few moments of shaking, her mind had been cleaned to a satisfactory level, and she returned to reading.
Turns out I wasn’t allowed to write that either. But more important, Sweety, if you have found somepony, however, please do write. And if you haven’t write anyways. We’d love to hear from you again soon.
With Love
-Ivory Rose & Chime
Faint hints of a blush remained for a few seconds after she had read the letter. She re-read it once more after said blush had receded and felt herself smile even wider than before. Just as her mother said, it had been far too long since she had written to them. Deciding that now would be as good a time as any to write a reply, she brushed away the bills on the coffee table and replaced them with her own set of ink, quill, and parchment.
Biting down on the feathery end of her quill she quickly set to work. Or rather, would have, had she not immediately seized up and found herself unable to formulate a reply. What should she tell them? There hadn’t been a whole lot going on in the way of her fame, now that she thought of it. There had been a few private parties she’d played at, a garden party arranged by the not-so-famous brother of Photo Finish whom she couldn’t even remember the name of—or didn’t want to remember, actually. The guy had been a pompous ass at best that night.
She didn’t really want to tell them about Vinyl and her theory that she was Melodia. If she had to admit it, it was a foolish notion that they could be the same pony. Appearance resemblances aside, they acted so differently from one another that it was almost impossible for them to be the same. One was laid back and casual, saying what came to her mind, so long as it wasn’t directly offensive—she wasn’t completely inept when it came to social situations. That, and she had an easy grin. She smiled often, at least.
The other, Octavia thought with a small frown, was almost her polar opposite. Calm, composed, and very rarely said anything. It was true that she hadn’t really heard Melodia speak all that much, but she had heard enough of her small speeches before and after concerts that she had an idea of her personality. Boisterous would be the last word she used to describe the violinist; she was very much the opposite.
The sound of Octavia tapping her hoof against her chin broke the silence in her apartment, her mind having turned away from Melodia and Vinyl, and instead focused on what to write. After a while she stopped her tapping and lowered the quill into the ink bottle, and started writing.
Dear Ivory Rose and Chime
Thank you for writing, and sorry for not writing in return. I’ll have to plead guilty to not writing, not because I was busy, but simply because I had forgotten about it. Our last exchange of letters happened several weeks ago and I simply forgot about it. My apologies.
In a different note, I haven’t found a fillyfriend for myself—regrettably. Romance isn’t really that important to me at the moment, but I still do miss having somepony to share a bed with. Sleeping only, Mother; not everything has to be about sex you gutter-brain.
Octavia stopped writing for a moment, spitting out the quill to avoid choking on it amidst her chuckles. The words themselves weren’t what made it funny, but Chime’s reaction when Ivory read the letter aloud. It was a short bout of laughter, after which she picked up the quill again and continued writing.
But no, I don’t have a fillyfriend. On the other hand, however, I have made a new friend lately. Her name is Vinyl Scratch. She is very friendly, if a little odd every now and then. I do like her, though, as she somehow makes me smile without even trying.
I’m sure you remember Lyra from my university time. I didn’t talk much with her then, but I did a little. I met Vinyl through her, as I came across her mother during a concert by Melodia Allegrezza, and while I didn’t know who she was to begin with I soon found out. After the concert she led me backstage where she introduced me to Lyra. We talked for a bit before she invited me out to a club—yes, I went to a club. You can tease me about it when I visit next—where she introduced me to Vinyl Scratch.
She was, as I said, kind. The night was definitely fun, and I did enjoy it. The next day we also met up and played together—she’s a musician, too—and I realised that music isn’t just wooden instruments with strings and bows, but can also be made with electronics. Strange, I know, but it was an entertaining day.
Sadly, a friend of hers got hu We ended the day with a trip to a nearby café where we had something called a red salad. I should see if I could get the recipe and give it to you; it’s really good.
I think that’s about all I have to say. I’m looking forward to hearing from you.
Love from your Little Filly
Octavia
She put the quill down and grabbed a small container of very fine sand, sprinkling a small amount over the letter to help it dry quicker. She sneezed after putting the container down, cursing the grains that had managed to get into her nose. Drying the ink with sand was almost the part she hated the most, but it was either that or wait for at least two hours before she was sure that it wasn’t going to smudge when she rolled it together.
Even then it would take about half an hour before she was certain that it was dry enough to be rolled up and sent. She packed her writing gear and put it back where she usually kept it—beside her gramophone—and was about to pick a book to read when a knock on the door interrupted her.
“Wonder who that is,” she murmured to herself and headed for the door. The visitor knocked again as she reached for the door, standing with his hoof in mid-air when she opened it. “Harpo,” she with some surprise, “what are you doing here?”
“Visiting the friend my mom forced on me, of course!” He replied theatrically, holding a hoof to his forehead.
Octavia rolled her eyes playfully. “Oh woe is me. The horrible, horrible pony your mother forced you to befriend; a task you took to with some zeal.”
“It wasn’t that bad, was it?” A somewhat serious expression now adorned Harpo’s face. Playfully serious, that is.
“You wouldn’t leave me alone for two months, Harpo,” Octavia chuckled, retreating back into the living room, indicating for him to follow; which he did. “I was sort of forced to accept you as a friend since you wouldn’t give up. Couldn’t very well let all your good efforts go to waste.” She paused, glancing between the gramophone and the kitchen. “I don’t regret it though,” she concluded with a small smile, and headed for the kitchen. “Want something to drink?”
“You have a La Shatool from 890 A.B?” He called after her, having taken a seat in the couch.
“First of, you’re pronouncing it wrong!” She called back, and fished out a large carton of orange juice, from which she then poured two glasses. “Secondly, you don’t even drink!” She added after putting the carton back in the fridge.
“I know! But it sounds classy to ask for wine!”
“And you, my friend,” she said as she came back into the living room, two glasses of orange juice balanced on her back, “are anything but classy.” She put the glasses onto the table, sitting down beside Harpo and taking one of them; held between her hooves. “So what’s been going on lately? I saw you earlier today, but we didn’t have much time to chat.”
Nodding, Harpo took his own glass and took a significant gulp of it. “I had been visiting my dad; still hates my mom for some weird reason, but eh.” He shrugged. “He never was that great of a guy. Or so she says at least. He’s plenty nice to me, but has a tendency to complain about her being far too good at finding out secrets.” He furrowed his brows. “I don’t think he ever forgave her for finding out that he cheated on her.”
“I don’t imagine he’d be very happy about that,” Octavia mused. “But then again, I’m not surprised that she actually found out. She’s damn good at getting to the heart of just about anything.”
Harpo chuckled. “Yup. She was good at that.” He shuddered. “Too good, actually.”
“She found out about Rollo the teddy bear?” Octavia asked, a teasing smile playing on her lips.
“Worse. She found out I had a crush once… The teasing was horrible. So, so horrible.” He shuddered again, and downed the juice. After a few moments of composing himself from the memory of his ‘traumatic experience’ he turned to Octavia. “So, what about you? Anything interesting happened lately outside of the date with that DJ you were with earlier?”
“That wasn’t a date, you insufferable matchmaker,” Octavia grumbled, though not without a reluctant smile stubbornly pulling at the corner of her lips. “We are simply friends who had agreed to play together, is all.”
“Play what?” He inquired the question seemingly innocent. “Music or Music?”
The resulting punch sent him sprawling across the couch, laughing even as Octavia delivered yet another punch at his exposed sides, winding him. Octavia noticed with some satisfaction that his laughter was much wheezier after that.
“I should have expected that,” he said, still chuckling. “But I couldn’t let the chance pass without taking it.” He rubbed his sides, sitting back up and wincing slightly. “Damn you hit hard. Those martial arts lessons must be paying off.”
“They are,” she replied. “Though my lessons aren’t the only reason, you know—”
“’The Cello and its case are heavy as well.’ I know.”
“You could at least have let me finish my sentence,” she grouched, pouting.
“Never in a million years will I allow you to finish a sentence that is about correcting me!” He announced grandly.
“Not even once?”
“Not once!”
“Thou art evil.”
“Thou art right!”
Octavia sighed good-naturedly, picking up her glass from where she had put it before punching Harpo and took a sip. It was still cold. “What else happened today, then?” She asked after a short pause. “You visited your father, and then?”
“Visited my mom for a lunch, and was found out. I have another crush, she realised. I got teased. Then I threw a donut at her and it got stuck on her horn. I laughed my ass off and then dodged the next three flying donuts.”
“Before she finally hit you?”
“No. Before I ran out of her house and came here.” He laughed then. “You shoulda heard her. The threats she shouted were hilarious.”
“I bet they were. She always had a fondness for slightly crude language, and very strange jokes.” She glanced at Harpo. “I guess that’s where you get it from.”
“Hey. I’m perfectly funny, alright! I’m not weird.”
“Are you sure about that?” Octavia inquired, poking him in the side with a hoof. “Are you absolutely sure?”
He grumbled something unintelligible before sighing and finally conceding. “Perhaps not. After all, I chose to stick with you. That counts for being weird, right?”
“…Touché,” she admitted. “Touché.”