Caramel thought the Iron Pony Competition would be invigorating, that it would release his emotion to adoring fans. Instead, it was a haze-induced blur. Caramel didn't even pay attention to who exactly he was opposing for which event; he just took a task and mastered it to move on to the next. Maybe he would wake up and the competition would actually be tomorrow instead; he just had to make sure he didn't lose to a dream of all things. He was not in the mood to lose, not to anypony.
Hoofball kicking? Just bucked the skin off the damn thing.
Horseshoe throwing? Smashed the stake in the middle with ol' Cheerilee.
Lassoing? Tied the knot, whipped the lasso, and snagged the stupid chicken before the...rope-maker mare?...did.
Hoof wrestling? Just made sure the horseshoes didn't leave any bruises on whatshisface.
Push-ups? Took time, paced the push, and outlasted the taxi pony. What was his name again? Well, whatever it was, it wouldn't be mentioned at the end of the contest.
Barrel hurdling? He just kept grinning the Grin and rocketed through them. Even the penalty he got for “nudging” a barrel (he may or may not have smashed it, he couldn't and didn't want to tell) wasn't enough to keep him from winning.
And that was how it was. The crowd was split between cheering and booing, slowly turning to self-righteous jeering by the end. Whatever. He was done. No matter where they came from, they had all seen what he was and how seriously he took himself. He opted to leave the trophy alone until they left him in the field to be fully taken over by the late summer haze. His horseshoes were absolutely filthy.
“So...heh heh...”, Spike's baritone wavered from the speakers, “now that you've won the competition, how do you feel?”
Like I may have lost the most beautiful thing in my life to something incredibly stupid. You?
“Like a million bits,” he answered.
“SHUT IT, CHEATER!”, somepony from the crowd behind him shouted.
“THOSE SHOES WON THOSE EVENTS, NOT YOU!”
“Goodness me, Ponyville ponies love to shout. My delicate ears, darling...”
“YOU BESTED MY SISTER AT HER TALENT! AT HER TALENT! CAN YOU LIVE WITH THAT?!”
Caramel felt the Grin widen at those words. It had stopped being a real grin a long time ago.
“O-Okay,” continued Spike. “So what do you plan to do now?”
That's a damn good question, Spike. I really have no clue.
“I'll just be here for whenever I'm needed,” he answered.
“OH, CAN IT, YOU BULLY!”
“YOU'RE DISGUSTING!”
“Did he change his hair? I just noticed that, huh...NICE HAIR, YOU LITTLE JERK!”
“YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A HEARTLESS THUG!”
“I must say, that was frightfully unsporting.”
“GO HOME, FREAK!”
That was enough. Caramel turned around to face his former nightmare, brandishing his medals. Only one thing to say seemed anywhere near appropriate to him.
“Oh, you're all just jealous.”
The crowd looked ready to swoop down from the bleachers and prey on him...but they stopped all at once, looking to their left. Then they started cheering rabidly for some reason.
“GO AND SHOW HIM WHO'S BOSS!”
“Thank Celestia yer alright, big brother! Ah...Ah wuz seriously at mah wit's end, you big jerk! You...oh, pony, you look like you haven't missed a meal! Ah'm jus' glad yer back!”
“WELCOME HOME, BIG BROTHER! APPLES FOREVER!”
“NOW YOU'LL GET YOURS, SHOWOFF!”
“TIME FOR A REAL CHAMPION TO STRUT HIS STUFF!”
He looked to the perimeter of the arena: Big Macintosh had cantered up to the hoofball area, looking freshly bathed, well-fed, and...displeased. Like he had any right to look that way. The champions looked to each other wordlessly.
Now you're here?! No explanation, no apology, no “Ah fell down a well an' Ah couldn't git up!” or anything?! And...oh, you have the nerve to just look away!
The loser walked over to stand side-by-side his stud, or who he hoped was still his stud. He smelled freshly-cut flowers from the dirty blonde mane...
“Where the hells have you been?! I've been worried sick!”
Mac said nothing.
“YOU'LL GET YOURS, BRUTE! I MUST SAY!”
“Oh, don't be so dramatic, darling. And don't speak so plainly, it's unbecoming of a gentlepony!”
“RESTART! RESTART! RESTART!”
Restart, restart, restart...that's a nice word. I never thought about it before, but it's a beautiful word, I like it. I want to restart this day...not to mention your entrance!
“Babe, you just disappeared. You weren't on the farm, you weren't in town, and nopony had any idea of what happened! Do you have any idea how much that freaked me--”
“Ah needed a break.”
Off in the distance, Caramel heard the roller coaster careen down to the earth. He felt nauseated, like he was about to wake up but instead was just slammed with adrenaline while his body was still pinned to the void.
“...Well, anyway, thanks for taking the heat off me,” he whispered. “They can really get under a pony's hide when they want to.”
Mac simply stood by him, sunlight glinting off the cheap glasses. They looked goofy on him, now that Caramel thought about it. So that's why the salesponies were so eager to get rid of them...but it was almost just as well, really! Mac looked like an apple-fed accountant, especially with that standoffish pout; he couldn't have asked for a better distraction from the crowd.
“COME ON, LET'S START IT AGAIN ALREADY!”
“THIS COMPETITION ISN'T FINISHED YET!”
“RESTART! RESTART! RESTART!”
Even the scorekeepers were getting ready for a one-on-one, old fashioned contest. It seemed the decision was made for both of them, even as they stood there doing absolutely nothing. Mel had used Mac's prowess as a goal to strive for during his too-short training, so the call for a rival's showdown was only fitting. This was just the final test, or a dream with an understandable twist, nothing more. Just a test, nothing more. Nothing more.
“...So you wanna do this? It would be great to see what you can do.”
Mac snorted. Mel felt his voice start to fail, but he knew his eyes were dry.
“...Why're you being so cold? Why haven't you talked to me at all lately?”
Mac looked to the right to finally meet eyes with his, evergreen and stony. Mel felt very, very itchy.
“Ah'm not happy with you.”
Mel felt his stomach churn. Restart, restart, restart...
“...Okay, so I got hotheaded. I'll do this with you and I'll apologize to them; it'll be fine! We can all be reasonable here.”
It's basically your fault, anyway.
Mac just kept his face forward. This just wasn't like him, not the wild Mac he had learned to love over the year. Maybe the old one was coming back from that “break”? Either way, it didn't change the situation Mac threw at him without a word of warning.
You made me worry; you did this to me. But...was it just an accident this time?
“Stop ignoring me. You're...you're acting like a mare or something; it's not like you.”
Without missing a beat, Mac replied: “Well, if'n Ah'm lovin' you, then Ah might as well be a mare.”
...You don't mean...
“...Did you even read my letter, then?”
Not that I should have needed to write it. You should have just asked me in the first place!
Mac actually sneered at him. The lug beared his teeth and everything. Restart failed.
“Eeyup, Ah did. An' that's 'zactly why Ah'm here.”
Just like that, Mac became a strange red pony to him again. Nothing in that letter was deserving of this; he checked it two dozen times to see that it was good! He recalled each and every word right at that moment, down to the postscript!
Babe, I know you won't talk to me for some reason, but I thought about what you told Junebug. You could have just asked me instead of her, but it doesn't matter now. I really don't know why I like stallions, to be honest. I never thought about it before.
I suppose I was too caught up in dealing with my incomplete talent that I just didn't have time to worry. And when I put it in that light...it seemed about right. You and I have bigger problems than why we like the same sex, and I suspect we always will. Maybe it's unnatural, maybe it'll never be recognized outside of that trend we had for a while, but I really don't care. I love you, and I don't plan to stop loving you.
If it's about kids, then I admit I'm not ready (I'm busy taking care of myself with everything that happened). But if you were just kidding about not being ready for them...I'll listen. If we have to work out something weird, I'll think about it. I'm serious.
Please talk to me,
Caramel
P.S. I heard about what happened to your doll, babe. Are you okay? I can get a replacement if you want, just let me know.
In retrospect, one part of that letter wasn't completely accurate. Well, two: he had already gotten a replacement two weeks ago. It was even much nicer-looking than the old one. But for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to deliver it to the farm. And once Big Mac disappeared altogether...the silly thing ended up sitting on the nightstand in his old room. Eventually, he got tired of passing by it each morning and just trashed it.
“Alright, everypony!”, announced Spike. “It seems we're doing this again, but in classic style with just Caramel and Big Macintosh, two notorious athletes! We'll start with the hoofball kicking once it's set up, so please stay seated!”
Mel felt September's midday sun blazing above him. He suddenly remembered that as soon as the contest was done, the Running of the Leaves would start being organized; the next third of the orchard would soon be due for harvest as well; then the oranges would need to be harvested by wintertime, that would be strange. He felt himself deliberately avoiding looking to the left. So he looked behind him instead, toward the crowd.
“I'm not too happy with you, either.”
Mel heard no response while the arena was cleaned and prepared for another gauntlet of events. Butterflies flew haphazardly in front of his face as he kept thinking of autumn. By the time he had run out of planner items, the stage was set.
“This is the moment I'm sure most ponies have been waiting for!”, bellowed Spike. “All-natural powerhouse Big Mac versus the new and improved Caramel for the true winner of the Iron Pony Trophy. It's a well known fact they're in a relationship, so this could be--”
“KNOCK HIM DEAD, BIG MAC!”
“DON'T LET FEELINGS GET IN THE WAY! HE NEEDS TO KNOW HIS PLACE!”
“O-Oh, my...I don't remember the last Iron Pony Competition being this nasty.”
“GOOOOOOOOO APPLES! B-But you be sure t'play nice now, big brother! You too, Caramel!”
“GET REVENGE FOR MY DAUGHTER, BOY!”
“--interesting...”
No kidding, Spike. I don't even know what's happening anymore.
...Where is our relationship now? I guess you're going to tell me with this.
“Just like before, the contestants may begin when ready.” Spike turned away from the microphone to release a loud, heavy sigh.
Caramel turned to have his hind legs facing the skinless hoofball. He felt the power coiled in his legs constrict and vibrate down to his hooves, the metal shoes enslaved to his command. The strange power astride the crowd's jeers suddenly reminded him of just how inescapable his situation was: he was a horse, Big Mac was his angry-for-no-good-reason boyfriend, and ponies judged him for what he was able to do. He was past the point of no return...and so he bucked the ball with all his strength.
He and Mac had bucked the hoofballs at roughly the same time, tearing through the air like they had been catapulted. Both of their arcs sailed high above the deciduous tree acreage, finally falling down onto...somewhere. The scorekeepers started to fly after them, but Spike called them back. Caramel turned and noticed a thin layer of skin sitting in tatters north of where the second hoofball stood.
“L-Let's just call that a draw,” Spike said to a gaping crowd, which began to moan in inconsistent, disorganized bursts.
Both Mac and Mel snorted and walked to the next event without a word.
The shoe throwing was over before it even started, both contestants whipping their colorful weapons clean through the posts and toward the edge of Sweet Apple Acres. It was at that point the repair crew announced they were leaving the strength meter broken and removing that event from the trials. The boos from the crowd did not seem to dissuade them.
“That's another draw.”
The barrel hurdling was curious in that ponies weren't sure how the bulky farm pony would navigate between them. Caramel offered the suggestion of moving them further apart, which was met with pure derision from the crowd. Big Macintosh said nothing, galloping between the standard setup, of course without a single error. Roars of adulation met him at the finish line, which were answered with the Grin.
With a deep breath, Caramel pressed his hooves into the ground and began weaving through the barrels himself, focusing on accuracy instead of speed. He finished only a split second after his opponent, having not even breathed on the hurdles. He was met with silence.
“U-Um...”, stalled Spike, “The difference is so small that--”
“THAT'S BALONEY! BIG MAC WON AND YOU KNOW IT!”
“GIVE HIM THE POINT, I'M DYING OVER HERE!”
“Darling, please...”
“Um, Spike, sugar? I think you should be a little more picky with these two. Jus' bein' fair is all.”
Caramel finally dared to look at his inscrutable boyfriend, who glared back at him without a trace of remorse.
“...Okay, so just tell me why you're mad at me, please?”, he whispered. “It's not at all like you to be angry when you're winning.”
Or to bore a hole through my heart with your eyes.
Macintosh's glare became bafflingly indignant, eyebrows raised in...disbelief? Spike the Judge kept audibly deliberating what to do. Caramel wished Spike was louder, loud enough to drown out the entire valley if it could be managed.
“...Yer unbelievable. Simply un-bel-iev-a-ble.”
What?! Why would you even...?!
“Huh?”
“Jus' think 'bout it fer once, jus' try. You little traitor.”
Traitor...traitor, traitor, traitor, traitor, traitor. The word ricocheted around his skull, ripped through his body, and left him drenched in cold sweat. He didn't like that word, not at all. He was a traitor. He was a traitor...? How did he betray anypony? What was happening?!
“What the hells are you--”
“We the Judges...I mean, I the Judge declare that Big Macintosh is the winner of the Barrel Hurdling!”
The crowd roared to a smiling champion. Mel was alone...but he supposed he saw this coming. All the signs were there, fragrant and cackling mindlessly at him. His medals felt heavier now. Maybe he was turning over in his sleep?
"Traitor?"
"Eeyup," spat Mac without looking at him.
Traitor...he had thrown that word around his head a few months ago. But he was just struggling to accept who Mac really was. What reason did the pony have to call him that?
"YOU ROCK, MACINTOSH!"
The scandalous pony smiled. Who was the real traitor here?
“...So is this your plan? Upstage me again and run off into town?”
“Mah plan,” whispered Mac darkly, “is t'show everypony jus' who you are. An' Ah know how t'do that jus' dandy. They're already on mah side.”
Mac waved to the crowd, which received him like the adoring public for a prince. Mel was wondering why glasses were necessary for athletics like this...but he now saw they were just to make the insufferable pony look innocent. Mel saw the Grin flash on the stupid lug's face again. He had to stay angry before...before he...
Daddy, it hurts.
“Well then,” he countered, “I guess I'll have to expose you, too.”
The Grin vanished. At least now he had the upper hoof; Mac almost looked scared!
“Whut?”
Let's see...direct? No. Subtle's always best. That's why you're doing it, isn't it?
“...You don't normally chew flowers. You've picked up a new habit.”
As soon as he said it, all his remaining doubt evaporated. Mac snorted, but he expected that.
“If the contestants would please make their way to the lassoing area?!”
Mac and Mel lassoed the chicken simultaneously, making the crowd panic as she turned blue. Mel nickered at her to make her pull away from him, causing Mac's lasso to slacken and loosen its hold...?
“Caramel wins the lassoing event!”
“WHAT WAS THAT?! THAT HAS TO BE--”
“Any sounds made by the contestants are completely legal, especially as a tie breaker,” corrected Spike. “It's trickier than it looks, too; noisemaking can backfire. It's just too bad Big Mac didn't think of that!”
Big Mac grinned. The deviant had loosened the rope to make him look bad, no doubt. Little Mel wasn't worried, though. He just had to take one accusing look at the crowd, focusing on the sun-kissed mane being tossed in the breeze. Mac followed his gaze, looking just as cocky as before...until the brute's clueless mug fell into exactly what he knew it would:
A big, dumb, helpless gape of horror.
So this was real. He wasn't crazy, but instead this was real. He forced breath into his lungs.
What the hells has happened to my life?
Of all the reactions Caramel wanted, this was what he hoped and dreamed wouldn't be the truth. With each step to the next event, he made himself breathe in, breathe out. It was hard to breathe. It was hard to think. If only today were a dream, it wouldn't be so hard to just smile and forget about it. Let it be a dream. Let it be a dream.
But it couldn't be a dream, because dreams knew when to stop...although he still had the weirdest feeling that he might wake up. From what did he need to wake, though? He had won, breathe in, breathe out. The restart failed, but he won anyway. What this dream-contest trying to tell him something?
He had worked so hard for everything he had gotten – all in the name of holding down a damn job – and he ended up using it all to fight against something he didn't even understand. Something that came out of nowhere, something he should have seen coming would never leave him alone now. Breathe in, breathe out. And on top of it all, something else was scraggling at the edge of his mind, trying to escape into the summer haze.
Maybe I'm forgetting something? No, no, that's ridiculous. Maybe there's something to all of this that I just can't think of...? Oh, whatever, whatever! It doesn't change anything! I'll just focus on the game. Breathe, Caramel, breathe.
The push-ups were a nonstop crowd rant featuring Mac and Mel straining on the ground. The former was exaggerating each rep by either doing them very quickly or flexing his muscles as he fell. Mel envisioned Mac thinking that with enough time, he'd find some way to cheat or berate or manipulate or otherwise degrade both of them while the whole crowd was watching. But the latter decided to encourage this instead, keeping his own push-ups simple and undaunted. With enough time, Mac would flop to the ground in need of help, she would call out, and Mac would have to look back while the whole crowd was watching.
One hundred push-ups later, nothing had happened at all. Mac could only try to keep going, and Mel was praying his legs would hold out until the end of the contest. No cheating, no moment of weakness on either side...and so he finally collapsed on the ground.
“Big Macintosh wins the push-up event!”
The crowd cheered. Mel forced himself to get up, each blurred shout from the crowd reminding him of the stakes. He had to at least hold his own, or he couldn't force the opportunity to win his dignity. He had to silence those devilish ponies surrounding him. And those miles away from him.
Above him.
Below him.
Inside his own head.
I hate this I hate this I can't stand it I can't stand you right now you're ruining me again I love you but I can't do this Gods help me...what did I do?! What have I forgotten?!
The Grin flashed from the strange red pony...at last aimed for him and nopony else but him. All his memories of it returned to overwhelm him: the Grin after he was catapulted from a tree; the Grin just before the shoe throwing; the Grin on the first day of trying to figure out his problem; the Grin; the Grin; the Grin...
Breathe in, breathe out.
Caramel realized it was the same every time. Every tooth, every crinkle of Mac's eyes never changed in the slightest. Even when he himself did it, the Grin was always an exact copy of the first, until today. And that was when he realized nothing had changed at all. Not until today.
Breathe in...breathe out...Ba-dum. Ba-dum.
Taking in the obnoxious sight, Caramel felt a tiny, stifling part of him snap in two. He inhaled deeply - down to his diaphragm - as blood rushed to his head. He was done with subtle scheming. He glared murderously at Big Macintosh and stomped, pulverizing the ground beneath him into dust.
The crowd roared with delight, and the Grin broadened.
“You're fucking dead, philanderer.”
The Grin died.
Everything outside the field lost meaning for Caramel. With each tug of the rope with his teeth, with each hay bale he rushed across the arena, his sense of self cracked a little more. At the same time, each tug and rush incited his opponent into a fiercer and fiercer campaign to punish him. And he didn't care.
“GO GET HIM, BIG MAC! SHOW THAT...that...wow, you're really looking angry there. Oh, sheesh, both of you. D-Don't get carried away! It's just a game, remember!”
“Daddy, wat the hulls are you--”
“Sweetie, don't draw attention to yourself...”
He struggled to stay focused on the events themselves, even if it made him lose...but he felt the haze's soothing protection get swallowed with him into a mindless, decadent rage. A rage that his own lover had unknowingly demanded was unleashed and feeding on both of them. And he didn't care.
“B-Big Brother? Caramel? Jus' ease up there! It's all in good fun, after all! Hah hah...Bloom, go find Twilight, wouldja?”
“No need, AJ, I'm here. I know how to stop them if I have to.”
His face twisted in tandem with his opponent's as the arena slowly corrupted into a bloodless battlefield. Who he was, what he had become melted under the searing heat rising from the pretty hellscape, broke with each stomp on the ground. And he didn't care.
“The contestants should remember that this is a clean competition! Keep the horseplay to a-AAAAAAAGHA-OKAYOKAYokayI'llbequietjustdon'tcomethisway!”
He wasn't playing for sport; he wasn't playing to win; he wasn't even playing to prove a point.
“M-My dear, they're going to break each other's bones with roughhousing like that! Is this legal?”
He was playing to finally make that beautiful, horrible bully pay for what he did.
Who cared what the score was? So what if Junebug stayed quiet? And what did it matter if nopony in the town ever though well of him again?! None of that mattered anymore...and it was too late to take any of it back.
Restarts were for losers.
Hoof wrestling was the final event. After Twilight made both of them calm down (a couple buckets of ice cold water to the face), Caramel set the medals down behind him and stood opposite Macintosh around the stump. Here was his chance. He would finally overhaul the shoeless horse and show him that his heart didn't have room for a cheater. Hooves out, fury blazing, and strength funneled in his front right leg sealed his decision. He didn't feel itchy anymore, not even as the crowd started shouting again.
His leg wrapped around the other without a shred of affection. He did have to appreciate the raw power humming in the pony's muscles, coiled from an unfathomably deep source. It was all he could find to praise for a pony like that.
“BREAK THE TIE, BIG MAC! MAKE HIM PAY!”
“Oh, Ah will...”, Mac whispered only to Mel.
“You have no right to say that to me.”
“PUSH THROUGH IT, KEEP GOING! YOU'VE ALMOST GOT IT!”
“Oh, don' Ah now?! After whut you did, Ah reckon Ah can say whut Ah like!”
Caramel stopped holding back and strained against Big Macintosh, bringing their legs back to equilibrium.
“Enlighten me,” he snarled, “just what did I do to earn the title of 'traitor'?”
“DON' GIVE HIM AN INCH, BIG BROTHER!”
“APPLEBLOOM!”
“Don' be an idiot, Caramel Shine. That damn letter is how you earned it!”
“Y-You're making no sense!”, he protested. “All I wrote in that letter is what I thought about...wait. I never told you my last name, how could you possibly--”
“Lemme put it this way,” drawled Mac. “Yer daddy's got a very distinctive name.”
“What?!”, blustered Caramel. “The hells does that have to do with anything?! I mean, the only place I wrote his full name was...”
He faltered, almost letting Big Macintosh win. All he could see was the hatred seething from his stud's eyes, bright and wavering like so many nightmares.
“You have a lot of explainin' t'do.”