//------------------------------//
// Magic 
// Story: Lemon Sorbet 
// by Annuska 
//------------------------------//

	Three-fourths the total amount of hair over one shoulder, one-fourth pulled to the back. Start from the bottom, brush gingerly, move upward. Work tangles out gently, taking care not to tug and knot the hair up worse; lather metal comb with leave-in conditioner for extra help. Pat damp hair between a folded towel, not too rough; blow dry over the towel for faster results without the damage of direct heat, if necessary. Lay one-fourth section of hair over the opposite shoulder, ease out another one-fourth section from the remaining three-fourths. Repeat steps as needed.

Sonata worked her hands through Pinkie’s hair in rhythmic syncopation, transitioning from one task to the next without so much as a cognisant thought. She was familiar with the thickly curly texture of Pinkie’s hair, and it was little different from Adagio’s; in fact, despite the slightly less tame nature of Pinkie’s hair, Sonata found it much easier to work through than Adagio’s ridiculously voluminous tresses.

Not that Sonata was in a place to say much, herself; though mostly pin-straight, save for an ending wave, her own hair was just as full and long— if not longer. (She figured, though, that should Adagio ever straighten her hair, she might have even Sonata beat for length. Like, hair running for miles or something. Totally had her beat.)

“Thanks for helping me with my hair while Maud’s gone, Sona,” Pinkie said as Sonata started on the second portion of hair. “I could’ve done it myself, but it takes foooreeeveeeer!”

Sonata laughed, holding a few curls between her fingers as she reached down for the metal comb. “I help Adagio with hers, like, all the time. Okay, maybe not all the time, but enough times. And each time takes at least half a day, soooo . . . it’s like all the time.”

Pinkie giggled, pulling her legs closer and crossing them beneath her. As silence filled the (rather small) space between them and Sonata returned to her automatic motions, another unconscious act crept upon her; quiet and under her breath at first, a hum barely audible even to herself, until it slowly grew and gained momentum in her voice— and before she could stop herself, she was vocalising formless syllables with no distinctive words.

And it was in the middle of one of these syllables that she caught herself, and the sequence of events that followed were disorientating.

First, she halted herself abruptly, not even allowing herself a chance for her voice to trail off, and panic filled her chest like water rushing over pools at high tide. She had always—okay, almost always—been very careful not to sing around Pinkie, as some sort of unspoken, self-imposed rule, and to think that she had broken that self-imposed rule in a moment of unconscious action was jolting.

It was only when she remembered that both her gem and her magic were gone that the tide ebbed away, leaving in its wake stagnant, murky pools of some emotion she couldn’t name.

Next, she lost her place in her sequence of motions, staring at the back of Pinkie’s head without a clue as to what she was doing, only able to focus on how she must’ve sounded. There wasn’t much that embarrassed Sonata, even in front of her girlfriend, but the loss of her singing voice was a sore subject to begin with; to bring it up through the very act of it was enough to make Sonata’s face burn red.

It didn’t matter that she’d been taking voice lessons, that Pinkie was perhaps the least judgemental person in existence, or that she hadn’t even heard anything grating in her vocalisation; the stagnant staleness remained. It didn’t matter that Pinkie had, multiple times before, led Sonata in song post-voice loss; somehow, leading out herself, and with something as raw as wordless vocalising, bordered on terrifying.

And finally, as silence overtook the melody that had been present moments before, a second voice pushed the silence back – and at the price of an imperfection in her wordless air, Pinkie tilted her head back to smile up at Sonata encouragingly.

Sonata hesitated.

Facing forward again, and pausing to take in a breath, Pinkie reached behind her. She took the brush from Sonata’s hand and set it on the bed, replacing it with her own hand instead as she started again, leading off into a melody begging to be accompanied as a duet.

Timidly, Sonata started up again. Pinkie’s voice grew louder, as if urging Sonata to rise in volume as well, providing a safety net for any shortcomings. Only when Sonata followed did Pinkie let go of her hand, allowing her to return to the task of brushing out Pinkie’s damp hair.

And so she picked up the brush and set to work again, and little by little, she let herself to get lost in the song she and Pinkie harmonised – and when Pinkie’s voice fell into a lull, allowing for Sonata’s to take prominence, Sonata let the panic hit her full force. She let it hit her, but she stood firmly— okay, she stumbled slightly, but regained her balance and stood fast, despite all the anxiety and insecurity telling her to stop and let herself be swept into the negativity.

And after some long seconds of a solo aria, Pinkie joined her again. Sonata allowed Pinkie to lead again, quieting to breathe in deeply, before raising her voice once more – and this time, with slightly less trepidation. As she continued to work through Pinkie’s hair, Sonata’s voice steadied, and they continued the harmonising dance; it was almost akin to the one-on-one voice lessons she’d been gifted, but this felt more organic, more intimate, more . . . comforting, even despite all her worries.

She imagined Pinkie would liken it to learning to ride a bike, or getting used to the taste of chili-flecked chocolate. Not that Pinkie needed to get used to the taste; it was one of her favourite flavour combinations. But Sonata had a little more difficulty adjusting. 

And rather than a bike or spiced chocolate, Sonata thought she herself might liken it to her relationship with Pinkie; something she had rushed headfirst into, forcibly halted, then slowly stumbled back into – with Pinkie’s help. Something she was still learning the ins and outs of, even when it had come so naturally to her before.

And as Sonata pulled the entirety of Pinkie’s hair back after she had finished the last portion of it, they both ended their song in near-perfect unionism, save for an unsure note from Sonata.

“Soooo?” Pinkie asked expectantly.

“It’s still sorta damp,” Sonata answered, pulling her fingers through the detangled strands of Pinkie’s hair. “It’ll fluff right back up once it dries.”

“Not my hair, silly!” Pinkie shook her head, turning around to face Sonata and hanging her legs off the side of the bed. “The singing!”

Sonata pushed the assortment of hair products and tools aside, sitting next to Pinkie. She swung her feet for a moment before conceding an answer. “It’s still a little hard,” she admitted. “Even at Rarity’s, it’s hard to really get into it. Like . . .” Sonata hesitated, searching for a sensible way to describe it. Descriptive metaphors didn’t come to her as easily as they seemed to come to her girlfriend.

“Like when you’re in a car that you can’t get to start without turning the key in the ignition at least, like, five times first?”

Sonata laughed. “Like your car?”

“The engine turns over on the third try when I’m really lucky.” Pinkie grinned, but the grin faded quickly. “It just doesn’t ever wanna do that with my friends in the car. Or my girlfriend. Good thing we don’t need it often!”

Sonata sighed, looking down at her lap. “I don’t really need my singing without the magic, either.”

“Maaaaybeee not,” Pinkie said slowly, reaching over for Sonata’s hand. “But there’s lots of things you don’t need in life that make life more enjoyable when you have them. Like, I probably don’t need to eat so many pancakes for breakfast, but breakfast wouldn’t be as fun if I didn’t!”

“And you probably don’t need so many cans of whipped cream in your refrigerator,” Sonata added, giggling. “But it would be kind of weird if I were to open it one day and you didn’t have a shelf full of them.” She paused. “Actually, that would be like, really weird.”

“Right?!” Pinkie looked at Sonata with wide eyes. “What kind of world would that even be?! Definitely not a fun one!” Pinkie shook her head and let out a sigh. She brushed her fingers against Sonata’s palm before grasping onto her hand and speaking again, more softly. “And you feel a lot better when you sing, don’t you?”

“I used to,” Sonata said quietly.

Rather than reply immediately, Pinkie continued to look at Sonata – as if awaiting further explanation – and Sonata exhaled softly, using her free hand to rub her temple. Pinkie really liked to discuss feelings – and though Sonata didn’t hate it by any stretch, and even found it to be relieving at times, it still didn’t come to her easily.

“Like, I super appreciate you guys helping us – we all do – but it’s still so . . . not like how it used to be.” Sonata held onto Pinkie’s hand tighter and sighed. “I . . . think too much about it, ‘cause I feel like I can’t just do it any more. Then I get all self-conscious. And I . . . don’t even let myself try.”

“You were doing it without thinking about it earlier,” Pinkie said softly.

“I guess I was,” Sonata conceded, finding a small smile. “And . . . it did feel nice when we were singing together. It always does, but like, when I wasn’t thinking too much about it . . . it felt like . . .”

“Magic?” Pinkie offered, grinning widely.

“Yeah.” Sonata’s smile grew slowly.

She turned her head to kiss Pinkie’s cheek, and before she could pull away, Pinkie caught her with a kiss on the lips, holding her there momentarily until tilting her forehead against Sonata’s and drawing a giggle out of her. After a moment, Pinkie pulled back, and Sonata followed her motions like Pinkie was the moon pulling back the ocean tide, leaning against her girlfriend and resting her head on her shoulder without a care for Pinkie’s still-damp hair. 

“Like magic.”