“Mister Sketch, I’d like to see you after class.”
Sketch exhaled before he was even able to process the request. Even though the sentiment had gone unappreciated by himself, Sketch resigned, and instead sat back down, trying to keep the look of annoyance off his face. One by one the students left, leaving Sketch to stare at his hooves until his history teacher trotted to his desk.
“What do you want?”
Mr. Lead laid his hoof on the desk in a firm motion, though not so to add any sound. THe action merely forced Sketch to look him in the eye, lest the hoof take all his attention. “You know I don’t hate you Sketch.”
Sketch blinked. Where the hell did that come from?
“I don’t want to see you fail. A-and not because it’s my job, Mister Sketch.” The way he stuttered somehow released some of the tension Sketch was beginning to feel. It... was subtle, but it must have been choreographed in some way. “But because you’re a child.”
“Ex- excuse me, sir?” The sheer absurdity of the past three seconds jolted Sketch out of all his previous thoughts and exasperations. How long was their conversation, Sketch wondered? Four sentences? Five? The sudden left turn made it feel longer.
“What makes you think of me of the slave driver I am, huh Mister Sketch? The big bad teacher is going to tell you about how you’re doing everything wrong? About how, the only thing you gotta do in life is ‘stick it to the man’, and everything’s going to be hunky-dory? Hmm? Who taught you that? Because it certainly wasn’t your parents, Mister Sketch.”
“What? What are you-”
“Listen, you little brat.”
And at once, the world became silent. Sketch wasn’t sure how Lead managed to do it, but not even the largest train could bear sound in the environment the history teacher had created. Four simple words, bitter in content and not in tone. The dead serious and even cadence of his words thickened the air with its deadpan. But perhaps the most shocking part of this development was that his words were not the least bit threatening. They were just... weird. Weird. That probably wasn’t the best description for it.
“I know how you think, Mister Sketch.” The return to formalities only served to further Sketch’s growing unease. “Had you been in a more vitriol mood, you’d have rebutted with a sarcastic mention how many awful things happen in history because ponies refuse to question authority. And to that, I say...” He finally released Sketch’s desk from his grasp, opting to lift his hoof up and strafe around the muddled unicorn. “You are correct. Cattle do not make the best of heroes.”
“What?”
“But you must understand that rules are placed into a society for a reason. They are protected by forts and moats, heavily loyal servants, and weaponry beyond your comprehension. It is not possible for one to change rules. It requires many. An army, if you will.” Lead glowered at the boy during this part of the speech. “What I’m trying to say, is know your place, Mister Sketch, and don’t stress over the things you have no control over. Don’t break your back trying to change things that cannot undergo change.” A smile broke through Lead’s stern face, the softness contrasting with his hard exterior and previous scorn. “And know who your allies are. As much as you may view me as the bad know-nothing adult, all I wish to do is help you, along with the other teachers. Your parents want what’s best. And your friends do not wish to see you suffer.” After this, Lead trotted back to his desk and began to shuffle with the papers atop it, although he wasn’t actually doing anything of consequence. Sketch kept waiting for him to continue, but there was silence for a long time. Baffled, Sketch stood in a haze, keeping his head level and facing his teacher. Before he got a chance to leave, Lead asked one more thing. “Do you understand?”
His muscles locked up. Through a dry mouth, Sketch confirmed. “Yeah. Yeah.”
Lead looked up from the papers of no importance and sighed, getting up once more. “Sit,” he commanded in that familiar even tone. Sketch obeyed. Walking up with a tired gait, Lead slowly put his hoof on Sketch’s desk once again and leaned on it. “Sketch. What are you doing here?”
“Huh?” Sketch cocked his head and arched his brow. “Because you told me to sit.”
Exasperated, Lead blew air through closed lips. “I meant here, Sketch. At this school. What do you expect to do with the knowledge you’ve gained here?”
“Uhhh.”
“Uhh? That’s all you have?” Lead shook his head. “‘Uhh’ is not good enough. Most students I ask that question to would be able answer immediately. They want to be a physicist. An astronomer. A teacher. A politician. It should be an answer anypony with a cutie mark should already know, and even a few without. Yet here you are, giving me ‘uhh’.”
Sketch shrunk under the sudden down talk. He struggled for a response, but his mind was completely blank. “...Uhhh...”
“You want to be an artist of some sort, right?” Lead tapped the desk impatiently. “That’s what your cutie mark suggests. And you have art next period, correct? Studio art, with Miss Conté? You always seem very excited to get out of here and start that class.”
Suddenly, Sketch found it within himself to speak again. “Yes. I want to be... an artist. That’s... the plan.” Although Trust complicates things...
“Then what are you doing here?” he reiterated.
“I did this for my parents,” Sketch answered honestly. There was no bitterness, no resentment, only tender love. This seemed to surprise Lead, who widened his eyes briefly and reared his head. “I didn’t want them to worry about me becoming this... starving artist, heh. I wanted them to know that I had something to fall back on. They never asked me to do this... I just thought that... that this would be best, but...”
“But that was three years ago, wasn’t it?” Lead asked, hitting the nail right on the head. “And things change.”
Sketch nodded, looking away.
“...Sketch, what I said... about associating yourself with the filth and uneducated? I didn’t mean it.”
Their gazes met, and Sketch felt a twinge in his gut that he couldn’t identify. That smile from before graced Lead’s features once again. “Even adults suffer from their frustration sometimes too.”
“I understand,” Sketch whispered.
“Sure you do,” he laughed, the smile never leaving. “Now get the hell out of my classroom.”
“Where were you?!”
Sketch jumped and accident flung his saddlebag off of his side, a small grip of magic still clinging to the end. Its contents spilled partway over the floor before he was able to gather himself and start cleaning the mess. “Wha- what are you talking about?”
“Yesterday, Mister Sketch!” Miss Conté poked his ribs repeatedly, refusing to give him a break.
“Oh,” he coughed, shifting his eyes. “Uhh, I was sick.” He sniffed a couple of times for effect. The deadpan he received from Miss Conté could have lead all the other pans in the world to grieve its loss.
“Oh don’t give me that, Sketch, I know you don’t get sick at this time of year. You played hooky, didn’t you?”
“Does anyone even call it that anymore?”
“Stop trying to change the subject, Sketch.” She poked him in the ribs again, leading Sketch to tense up in mild discomfort. “What were you thinking, cutting school? You’re lucky I didn’t tell your parents.”
“Look, Miss Conté, I just... a lot of crud happened yesterday, alright? And I was super tired... I just didn’t feel up to it, you know?”
The art teacher looked physically hurt at this, and she put a hoof to her heart. “Even my class?”
“Come on, don’t try to guilt trip me, I know you don’t care that much. Besides it’s not like I can show up for just one class.” Sketch folded his forelegs and gave a deadpan to match her earlier one. She just huffed and stuck her nose in the air, trotting away.
“Fine, whatever. See if I stick my neck in for you ever again.” She stuck her tongue out and blew a raspberry, causing Sketch to flush at the strange looks he got from a couple of the other students. Despite the feign anger, she looked to be in quite a chipper mood today. What’s got her so upbeat?
Sketch rubbed his face with his arm, blowing into it and rolling his eyes as he trudged out the front door of his school. Something about today was just... off. Maybe it was simply because he was getting away with everything. Every irresponsible thing he had done in the past few weeks. Karma?
Or...
Something else.
Something else.
Syntax.
Syntax.
Syntax. Sketch’s hooves shook as his brain skidded to halt. The familiar rust orange mare was leaning on the main gate’s frame in a saucy pose. She was teasing him. That cocky smile. That confident demeanor.
No. No NO NO! Why can’t she just leave me the hell alone?! His legs shook and threatened to give out under the pressure. He could run. He could just run, run straight home, not give her the damned time, just run, just run. Gallop. Sprint. Trot.
He trotted towards her, being pulled by a force he struggled to find but couldn’t see. Why? Why was he doing this? Because he knew. She had a plan B. He couldn’t escape. She’d always find a way. Sketch wasn’t doing himself any favors by running. She’d keep finding him.
So, he decided to play her game.
And he was going to win. Even if it killed him.
Wearing a new face of determination, Sketch stared daggers into Syntax’s eyes, stomping his hooves on the way.
She seemed mildly amused at this, but it did nothing to harm Sketch’s new heavy-hoofed attitude.
“What do you want?”
She remained silent, raising her eyebrow and her sultry smile widening.
“What do you want?” he repeated, poking her in the chest aggressively. “My secrets? My childhood? Information? Do you just want to humiliate me? Or have you devolved into wanting money? Just tell me what you want so I can explain the exact reason why you should FUCK OFF!”
“Dinner.”
Silence.
Sketch had been punctuating his questions by jabbing his hoof into her chest. When she uttered that unusual phrase, he had lost all motor function, leaving his hoof depressed into her fur.
“What?”
“I want dinner. I can pay for myself, kid, I know you’re probably not exactly swimming in it even if your parents are.”
“What?”
“Dinner. I like fried rice and egg.”
“What?”
Syntax’s face showed a sign of frustration, but it was outweighed by her amusement.
“And could you please stop feeling me up?”
Sketch’s eyes trailed from his elbow all the way down his foreleg finally ending at his hoof. He nervously flicked himself away, flushed.
“What?!” he yelled, his vocabulary leaving him long ago.
“I want to have dinner with you Sketch.” She said, this time with finality.
“Why? You can’t expect me to believe you don’t want something out of it!” Sketch yelled, not realizing his volume before it was too late.
“Of course not Sketch.” She sighed in genuine sounding exasperation, though her still smile betrayed her tone. “For it seems that we are at an impasse. I am in no position to harass you any further. And you are in no position shoo me away. So instead of furthering this cosmic level stalemate, how about the both of us... make a deal?”
“A... deal?”
“Once a week, we have dinner. I ask you a question and you decide whether or not to answer. If you do, you ask me something of equal worth and I will do the same. How much value we put into the question will be subjective of course, but the nature of ponies, y’know? This way, I will decidedly stop pestering you, and you can live your weird life the way you see fit. Deal?”
“Why don’t you just stop pestering me?” Sketch hissed. Syntax simply waved him off.
“Come to dinner and you’ll find out.” She grinned, tilting her head to the side. It radiated a warmth that made Sketch feel... kinda weird. Not a bad weird, but definitely not a good one. Still, this seemed like the only solution. Plus he’d get to know why the hell she wouldn’t just... leave.
...
...
...
Also she’s pretty. But that didn't matter.
“Fine.”
“Excellent. Wok, Filly, Wok, ten o’clock.”
Sketch stammered, barely even able to keep his composure. “T...Te-”
“Oh right, you’re still a little boy. Six, then. Does that fit your curfew?
“Ehp-” Sketch’s stomach decided to speak instead of him. Syntax giggled a surprisingly feminine laugh.
“Alright then. Don’t be late.” She rose from the post she was leaning on and sauntered off, flicking her tail.
Sketch was still staring at the space she used to occupy.
“What?”
A closet so empty, it’d bring a moth to tears. Sketch stared at the barren place before him, somewhat straining to see the very few items due in part to the complete lack of wardrobe in it. Of course that was all well and good for a stallion of Sketch’s personality, as he was uninterested in those who necessitated a good ‘first impression’. However, pertaining to Syntax, this was altogether unavoidable. He had to make her happy, or at least non hostile. Every little bit to improve his reputation with her would help.
A lone bowtie, a scarf for winter, and a fedora when he was going through that rebellious phase. Nothing exactly screamed the picture of formality. The bowtie, especially so, was very silly. Polka-dot.
Sketch grumbled, slamming the closet, resolute in not allowing Syntax to get under his skin like this. He shouldn’t care at all really, he had...
Trust.
Trust? Did he ‘have’ her? What constituted as that? Was he really committed to this mare? Why am I even thinking about this. I don’t need to. Trust is her own mare, and I’m my own stallion. Sketch shook his head violently, trying to get something out of his head, or his ears. He didn’t know what it was, but it was annoying and sharp, like a tiny needle. He lurched forward and punched the wall.
His hoof almost effortlessly flew through the wall, bits of drywall falling around his arm. His eyes widened. What just happened?
Slowly, the foreleg limply slipped out, revealing a scuffed hoof and slightly bloody flesh.
Why was he so frustrated?
He didn’t even feel frustrated... or at least he thought he didn’t. Though looking back at it all, that was a bit unbelievable. Any pony in the right mind would be frustrated. Maybe he just wasn't in the right mind. That would explain a few things. He wiped his dirty hoof on the sheets of his bed and swiped the scarf from his closet. Wrapping it around his neck in one swift motion, Sketch decided he needed to stop caring. Or pretending to care.
All of this was going to end soon, he decided. It has to. Because… he's tired. And for the first time he couldn't blame it on insomnia.
“Scarf looks good on you.”
Sketch started, arching his back and jumping onto the tips of his hooves. He felt his fur stand on his back. Trust was sitting behind him, giving him the most alluring smirk. He chuckled uneasily. “You think?”
“I know,” she confided gingerly, drawing on the ground with her hoof. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Yeah.” The thought of lying did cross his mind, but he gave it no attention. “At six, an hour from now.”
“Where?”
“Remember that mare from the party? The one you spoke to? She invited me to dinner.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip. “That's nice…”
Sketch refused to let her get the wrong idea. He scowled at no one and said, “She wants something from me, and I need to know what. Sometimes it feels like she knows about us, somehow. I need to know that you're safe.”
“What are you talking about? I didn't get that impression at all.” It seemed as though Trust had let go of her jealousy, out of simple curiosity. “She seemed super nice.”
“Ha,” he choked wryly. “She’s anything but. I hadn't told you yet, but she tried to blackmail me the other day.”
“What?! And you're having dinner with this mare?” Trust stammered incredulously. “And you think that's a good idea?!”
“I never said I thought it was a good idea.” In fact, objectively, it was a pretty bad one to begin with. “But if she knows about us, then…”
“Then it's all over,” Trust finished, finally feeling the gravity of the situation. “Damn… how can you be so sure?”
“I'm not. That's why I have to play by her rules. For now.”
Trust fidgeted, shaking her head and grumbling. “You better be careful. I don't want to lose you.”
“Well it's not like I'm gonna die or anything.” He chuckled, at first confidently and then nervously. Trust simply cocked an eyebrow incredulously. “But seriously I'll be fine,” he assured.
“If you say so,” she sighed, leaning on the wall beside her. “Hey? One thing?”
“What's up?”
“What does ‘blackmail’ mean?”
“You're gonna come back, right?”
Of course I am.
Sketch had a sour taste in his mouth. As he walked down the stairs, he cursed the fact Syntax was forcing him to waste his time with trust with stupid dinner. He made it down the stairs alright and tried to quickly trot to the door.
“Where you goin’ sport.”
Sketch winced, the lack of a question mark in that sentence making him uneasy. “Dad, hehe...”
His dad hadn't even looked up at him. He simply shuffled the magazine he had been reading, something about formal attire, and cleared his throat.
“I’m going out with some friends.”
His dad looked at him this time, eyeing him up and down. Incredulously, he asked, “Friends, huh? Getting dressed up for your friends?”
Sketch prodded his scarf, grunting a little. He wasn’t sure this counted as ‘getting dressed up’. “It’s cold out.”
“Mhmm. Just make sure you’re back by ten. Also, be... ‘careful’. I’m not paying for no kid.”
Sketch opened his mouth, but as his face flushed, he figured it’d be a better idea to just drop it, and he scurried out the door.
What on earth was happening right now? Sketch had felt like he was moving through water the entire night; nothing really felt real to him. He had met Syntax in front of the restaurant and they wordlessly selected a table together. Sketch was on guard the entire time, but Syntax just had this... soft innocent smile plastered onto her face. And now she sat across from him, her chin resting on her hooves in a manner that of a schoolgirl hopelessly in love. He didn’t want to be the first to speak, the first to go on the offensive.
“You're not the best at courting are you?” she finally said, suppressing a giggle.
Sketch decided to dodge the question. “Are you trying to get yourself arrested? I'm seventeen.”
“Doesn't seem to stop you from playing with that griffin of yours,” she rebutted, leaning back and splaying out her forelegs on the table. Wok, pony, Wok wasn't the fanciest of places, but for canterlot that meant very little. Fancy accommodations and romantic candle lighting still littered the atmosphere. From where she was sitting, the lighting made her face glow warmly, making her visage friendly, inviting. She took great care in making her posture symmetrical, pleasing to the eyes, and sultry.
“Haren? She’s-” Sketch bit his tongue. Two statements in and he already nearly revealed something about his friends. He was about to say she was taken, and it wouldn't take much investigating from a trained eye to tell it was Anthem he was talking about. It was a good thing he caught himself, but if he was going to be this careless he should just give up right now. But... that was out of the question, too much was at stake. He'd just have to be more careful. “not my type,” he finished smoothly. Syntax’s smile tightened, as she obviously knew Sketch successfully hid something from her. This was going to be harder than he thought, and he already assumed it to be quite difficult.
“So,” she began, picking up a drink that Sketch didn't see a waiter drop off and swishing it around. “Should I start or should you?”
“Go ahead,” he allowed, figuring that he's already spent so long on the defensive that he may as well stay on it.
“Okay, Sketch. Why did you skip school?”
Sketch wasn't expecting such a tame question, but then again he was aware of Syntax’s methods. She was going to ask him causal, personal stuff to drop his guard. He just had to be aware of it. “I was tired,” he answered honestly. When she frowned he decided he should elaborate to get a better answer for his question. “I have insomnia. I'm rarely fully rested. So if I'm feeling stressed it gets worse.”
This time her smile returned and she nodded, both very good signs. “I see. That makes sense. It would also explain your clumsiness.”
“I guess,” Sketch agreed unsure whether or not to be offended. For the sake of convenience he decided not to be. “Lately though, it's been coming and going. Like I'm not sure I should be happy or sad. Content or stressed. I'm just...”
“Confused?” Syntax offered. That was almost too good of a word. Like she knew.
“Yeah.” Sketch started at the table, rubbing his elbow. In the corner of his eye he could see Syntax’s smile had gone away as she looked away, forlorn. Startled, he sat up abruptly to get a better look, but when he did Syntax returned to her voluptuous demeanor. Strange. “So I guess it's my turn now... uhhh... Why did you become a reporter?”
Syntax went wide eyed. It seemed as though she hadn't expected a personal question either. She kept her sultry smile, but it seemed she couldn't bring herself to keep eye contact. “Why would you want to know that?”
Sketch felt it was his turn to be a smart-ass. “Ah ah ah. Answer my question first.”
Syntax flipped her hair while grunting, her smile shaking. “I don’t know.”
Sketch blinked. “That’s not... good enough.”
She scowled, still unable to look directly in his eyes. “I don’t know why I became a reporter. It felt right, okay?” Syntax started playing with the napkin at the table. There was a silence. It looked as if a heavy weight was bringing her down. “I enjoyed the click my typewriter makes under my hooves and the smell of fresh paper. I loved the feeling of thousands of ponies reading the truth, the shocking truth, something that they’d talk about for ages, just from some ink on paper, words that I put down. That’s why I became a reporter.”
Sketch blinked once again. Her words were inspiring, but her attitude remained the same. “You don’t like to talk about yourself, huh?”
It was Syntax’s turn to blink. “I don’t matter. The things I write about do.”
“That’s... an awful thing to say.”
“And after all the things I’ve done, you wouldn’t agree with me?” Her grin was piercing.
“Well you agree that you’ve done some shitty things, at least.”
“Like I said... I don’t matter.”
“So anything for a story, huh?”
She started rubbing the table with her hooves. Everything about her was the same, but she started grinding the table with such force that it chipped the wood. Sketch had a small moment of joy, a moment of satisfaction. He was finally getting under her skin, and more importantly, she has a tell. “Don’t lecture me, boy, much less about morals, or should I remind you about how you treat the people around you, you’re parents.”
“Hey! I-” Sketch nearly shouted, stiffening up, but he caught himself. No. I’m not gonna let her do this. He relaxed slowly taking his hooves off the table and resting them at his sides. “I don’t think we need to get vitriolic with this.”
Syntax closed her eyes and hung her head. “Yes. Of course.”
“So... whose turn is it? I’ve lost track.”
Syntax opened her mouth, but cut herself off when the waiter showed up. The alabaster gentlecolt, wearing a nice suit and tie, took out a notepad and pen. His attire made sketch look at his scarf in a slight bit of shame. The waiter cleared his throat. “What will this fine couple be having today, if they are ready?”
Sketch looked away from the waiter, his face getting warmer. “We’re not a-”
“I’ll have the fried rice and egg, and my husband will have... what is it you always get hon, egg drop soup?”
“Buh,” Sketch stammered, but Syntax was too fast.
“Yes, egg drop soup. I’ll have a bloody mary to drink, and he’ll have...” Syntax glared at him, the evil smile she grew becoming even larger. “Orange juice.”
The waiter shuffled a bit, obviously perturbed by the rather immature choice of beverage, but too polite to say anything. “Of course Miss.”
After writing a few things, the waiter trotted off, mumbling something about pants. Syntax gave a tantalizing smirk to Sketch, before he had a chance to say anything. “Why do you have to treat me like a child?”
“Because of your insistence on being treated as an adult,” she answered, swirling her previous drink once again.
“What are you talking about? I never-”
“Oh, please Sketch,” she interrupted, placing a hoof on her cheek, her devious smile turning into something... softer. “It's written all over your face. Tell me, do you have any friends your age?”
“I-” Sketch froze, realizing only then that he really didn't. He only had Trust. “Only... only one. But yeah... all my friends are adults.”
“And that's why. You're going to parties, hanging with people in their midlife, and skipping school because you don't like being a kid. It's hard to take you seriously sometimes.” She resolutely closed her eyes and nodded, before gingerly opening one of them to look at Sketch. “Of course it's a bit admirable that you've somewhat succeeded. I have to remind myself sometimes that you're still a kid. And clearly your friends have forgotten about your age.”
“Huh,” was all Sketch could mutter.
“Your meals.” The waiter pony arrived with a few plates on a rack hovering with faded white magic beside him. He set the food down and the drinks alongside them. “Bloody Mary for the madam and...” He gave Sketch an odd look before adding, “Orange juice for the sir.” He straightened up and bolstered himself, struggling not to give any attention to Sketch and his choice of beverage. “Anything else for the fine couple?”
Sketch didn't miss a beat. “Yeah, do you have a bendy straw or like, a crazy straw or something?”
Syntax abruptly snorted, trying and failing to stifle a laugh. She turned away and blushed, putting her hoof to her mouth. He was pretty that was the first time he had ever seen her blush and it was really quite something. Even the stoic waiter shook with laughter as he tried to regain his composure. “I'll see what I can do, sir.”
As the waiter walked away, Syntax gave Sketch a look... It was hard to describe, it was different than all of her other looks, in a way. The same confident smile, but something about her eyes... “See,” she started, picking up her new, much more alcoholic beverage. “You have a way with adults.”
“Like you?” he blurted out, without much thinking of connotation. He didn’t mean it to sound so flirty.
Her eyes widened for a moment. She took her eyes off of him to stare at her bloody mary, slowly spinning her glass to look at all the perfect imperfections within the glass. “For what it’s worth, Sketch... I hope my story doesn’t completely ruin you.”
“It... means a lot more than you think it does,” he admitted, rubbing his shoulder earnestly. She made that hard-to-describe look again as she looked away. Was she... blushing? Not from embarrassment this time.
“No it doesn’t.”
The food came shortly after. Both of the ponies thanked the waiter. There was a bendy straw in Sketch’s glass.
“I think you’re wrong,” Sketch said as he stared at the straw. “The small things matter. Makes you believe that there’s still some good. Intentions are just as important as the result.”
After that, they ate in silence. Sketch was okay with that.
“How could you have so much tomato?!”
Syntax chuckled under her hoof, struggling to hide her mirth. “Tomatoes are delicious,” she choked between giggles. “How could you not like tomatoes?”
“Hey, hey, I never said that, I love tomatoes. It’s just... too much, you know?” Sketch set down his orange juice, or what was left of it. He had forgotten how the conversation got so lighthearted. So much about nothing.
“You can never have enough tomato.” Syntax went for another swig, but only a cube of ice hit her lips. The drink was gone. A little embarrassed, she set the drink down and looked away, pretending that didn’t happen. She was a little flush. Must be a lightweight.
“Apparently somepony can,” Sketch quipped. He could swear he was getting buzzed by proxy. Everything felt a little looser. He hadn’t drank much, though. Sketch looked at the time, a clock in the far corner of the dining room. 8:00 PM. “Hey... It’s getting late...”
“Hm?” Genuine confusion washed over Syntax. “Oh I suppose so. It’s a school night after all,” she confided with a wink.
“Syntax, I know I wasn’t supposed to... but I had fun.”
Syntax didn’t answer, but gave a very slight nod. “I’ll foot the bill. Run off. I’m excited for next week.”
“Maybe I’ll pay next week.”
“No you won’t.” Syntax chuckled through her hoof once more. “See you later Sketch.”
“See you.”
So that was strange. That was an oddly... pleasant experience. Sketch suspected he was going to have to dodge and weave delicately woven social constructs to avoid revealing too much, but that was... a generally enjoyable time. It was nice, considering. He pranced up his stairs, ignoring his parents. He walked into his room. Trust was asleep in his bed. Of course she was.