“….And then she’s like, ‘Record, I’ve already told you that the assignment was due today.’” Record was talking to Octave, mimicking his History teacher at school. It had been a little over a half an hour since they had left The Singing Cat, and the two of them had wandered into Canterlot’s Celestial Square. The plaza was a large, public space that usually held outdoor events for tourists. It was the kind of place where vendors, shop owners, and food carts sell low-quality goods at high prices. Anyone who grew up in the capital knows that it was an expensive tourist trap, where ponies from out of the city could take pictures of a famous location. But on some days of the year, the public space was often used for holidays; during Hearth’s Warming Eve, they would decorate a giant, seasonal tree in the square, or for the Summer Sun Celebration, where the prince himself would ceremonially raise the sun in public.
There was no reason for either Octave nor Record to be there. In fact, neither of them realized exactly where they were. The two of them had been going back and forth telling jokes and stories, as well as sharing their opinions, for several minutes.
Record continued with his story, “And so I said, ‘What are ya talking about? Your syllabus said it’s due tomorrow,’ I even showed her the paper. But she’s all like, ‘Weren’t you here last week? I’ve already said that it was a misprint.’ I tried telling her that I was sick that week, and that nopony said anything about it. So do you know what she did?” Octave shook his head, “She gave me an ‘F’. Why? She knew I wasn’t there when she changed the date. It’s so unfair! It’s like she’s out to get me.”
“Sounds an awful lot like my old music teacher,” Octave commented, “Though not as unpredictable, Ms. Trill was always unfair to me. Why, I remember during one piano lesson, I told her that I had been trying out the cello for almost a month and that I was pretty good at it. Do you know what she said? She gave me a lecture on how difficult it is to play a string instrument, and ‘Oh how I was too young to learn to play something like that’, and that I ought to stick with the piano. Don’t you just hate it when adults think that we’re too incompetent, or not talented enough, or don’t know enough to be taken seriously? Just because we aren’t twenty-five, doesn’t mean we can’t understand anything for ourselves.”
“Ugh, I know, brony! I mean, just because we’re younger than them, doesn’t mean that all of us are stupid.”
“Exactly!” Octave exclaimed, “At last, someone who actually gets it!”
Record nodded, “Yeah, same here.” Octave stopped for a moment to take a look at where they were. “Hey, how long have we’ve been walkin’?”
Octave looked up as well, quickly realizing wherein Canterlot they were. “I must say, it’s been quite some time since we left the house... I just didn’t notice until now.”
“Yeah,” Record glanced around, before something in the middle of the square. “Hey, what’s this?” Octave followed his date to what he was looking at. At first, the cellist felt confusion, for he was quite sure that he’s never seen a stand-up piano in the middle of the square before. Especially when this same piano had words written in chalk across the front, reading: “Play me.”
“What is a… piano doing out here for?” Octave asked, walking around the piano, looking for any signs of an owner. In which, he couldn’t find anything, no name, no label; just a stand-up piano in the middle of the square.
“Hey, Octie,” Record called him, sitting down on the bench that stood in front of the instrument, “Come sit with me.”
Octave obeyed. He sat down beside to the DJ, unsure as to what his friend had in mind.
“You mind playing me something?” Record asked. “After all, I made some music for ya, so maybe now you can repay me with a favor.”
“Play you what?” Octave raised an eyebrow. “You know that I don’t know anything outside of classical music, right?”
“T-That’s the thing,” Record said, his cheeks turning pink. “I was thinking… You happen to know how to play anything… uh…”
“Yes?”
“…. Do you happen to know how to play Horseshopin?”
Octave was taken completely off guard by this. It wasn’t because he didn’t know how to play any of Horseshopin’s music, nor had he not been asked by anypony to play one of the composer’s nocturnes. What was surprising to him was that Record, the DJ, the blasting-through-his-headphones techno, remixed, dubstep Record, had asked him if he knew Horeshopin! “Uh… I know only two… why?”
“W-Would you mind playing some for me?” Record asked, his cheeks now turned bright scarlet. “I mean, there’s a free piano here, and nopony is asking us to leave so… how about it? Would ya play some for me?”
“You want me to play a classical piece?” the gray earth pony questioned. “I thought you didn’t like anything classical?”
Record turned away, and with a low voice, said: “Oct, can I tell ya something?” His date responded with a nod, so he stated: “The truth is, I don’t listen to techno all the time. There’s some stuff that I listen to, every now and then… I know I’m a DJ, and I do like using a turntable, and remixing music to make it sound better, but… I sometimes listen to other kinds of music, just to make me relax.”
“Relax? What do you mean?”
“Look, I don’t always admit this. So don’t tell anyone else at school - I don’t want them ta think I’m a nerd. Hey, don’t look at me like that, just hear me out, okay?” The unicorn took a deep breath, “It’s kind of a guilty pleasure, really. Truth is, dude… Whenever I feel depressed or looking for inspiration… I, uh…”
“Well, spit it out,” Octave said.
“I listen to some Horseshopin,” Record muttered. “There! I said it! I sometimes listen to classical music too!”
Octave’s jaw dropped, “I’m sorry, did I hear that right?” the cellist said, “Are you saying that a DJ like yourself actually has some… culture!?”
Record lifted his purple shades, glaring at him. “Hey, a DJ can’t live on remixes alone. Nopony can. Look, I’m not as obsessed as you are when it comes to this stuff. And some of the stuff those guys have written isn’t all that good, but when they got it right, they really got it right.”
Octave blinked, “Wow, Record, I never imagined hearing something like that coming from you. Not only that… but I agree.”
Record tilted his head to the side, “Huh?”
“To tell you the truth, from somepony who does play classical music from different time periods, there are some pieces that even I find completely dreary. Even Moztrot (rest her soul), I’ve often found, has written some unbelievably dull pieces. I often found myself bored out of my mind playing some of them because they lacked emotion.”
“Yeah, I think I get what you’re saying,” the DJ nodded, “I’m not sure if it’s the same with ya, but have you ever found a song that the guy who made it somehow knows what you’re going through?”
“Would you clarify that?”
“I mean…” Record turned to the piano keys, “Whenever I listen to Horseshopin... Agh, I don’t know how to describe this... It’s like she knew what I’m going through. Ya know? Whenever I had a rough day at school, or if mom gets angry for some reason, I just listen to some of that piano music and it makes me relax.”
Octave nodded, “I believe I understand. But is Horseshopin the only composer you listen to?”
“Only her… and Vifilli… and some Moztrot… and Tchaicoltsky… and Beethooven… and that one bit from Strotvinsky.”
“Strotvinsky? Really?” Octave blinked, “Which one?”
“You know that one song, The Rite of Spring?” Record admitted.
“You know it’s a ballet, not a song,” Octave corrected him.
“Whatever,” the unicorn waved a hoof dismissively. “I like it, I get inspiration for my music by listening to that.”
“You do?”
“Duh, I mean, have ya heard it lately? It’s got rhythms within rhythms, and beats within beats; it’s every DJ’s dream to make something like that.”
For a moment, the couple sat there in awkward silence until Octave broke it by asking: “You said for me to play some Horseshopin, correct?”
“Uh… yeah,” Record nodded. “Would you mind playing some for me?”
Octave thought for a moment what to play when he decided on a piece, he smiled at Record. “Very well, for you, then,” he took a deep breath, put his hooves on the keys, and began to play. Somehow, when he played the dreamlike piano music, it was almost as if instrument played itself. The street and window lights cast both lights, and shadow off of the buildings, the street, and the piano, while Record reflected the music perfectly. He didn’t notice the crowd that was gathering around them. How could he, with those ruby eyes to look at?
In fact, even when he finished it, the applause he received seemed to his ears rather muted.