“Pinkie!”
“Pinkie!”
Most ponies would have been scared by a loud voice of indignation so close to their ear, but Pinkie Pie wasn’t most ponies. She calmly put down her crayon, smiled, and looked up to see Rarity peering down at her handiwork with a look of dismay and horror.
“Heya, Rarity!” She spun the invitation around, in case Rarity couldn’t read well upside-down. “I’ve been making a few changes to the invitation draft for the Masquerade, because your original was really good but you forgot to tell everypony about all the awesome things we had prepared for the party and if they didn’t know those things were happening then maybe they wouldn’t want to come?”
She’d wanted to say more than that, but a white hoof against her lips cut her off as she drew breath. She settled for frowning instead, and watched as Rarity took a moment to compose her features, her eyes closing, her breaths slowing, her lips pulling into a thin line before being torn apart by the quick flick of her tongue sweeping around once, twice, and returning.
“That was the proof copy of the invitation, Pinkie,” Rarity said, her voice soft and controlled, but only just. Pinkie wanted to respond, but the hoof was still in her way. “I’d put a lot of effort into making it just right. It was to be sent out to the copyists this afternoon. Do you really think I would have left out such important information if I didn’t think it would be right to do so?”
Pinkie thought for a moment. If she said yes, it would sound like she was saying that she didn’t think Rarity knew what she was doing and that would be rude. But she would be lying if she said no. She honestly did think Rarity was making a mistake by not writing about all the important things on the invitation. Besides, she’d left this awfully large bit of white space at the bottom before the second pretty, swirly thing with all the leaves on it and it just looked like it needed to be filled.
“Pinkie, darling, I know this isn’t the kind of invitation you would send, but this is a grand Masquerade, not a foal’s birthday party.” Rarity bit her lip, taking another deep breath. “Not that I don’t appreciate your enthusiasm and your style, dear, but there is a proper way to do these things. And it certainly isn’t to add some details on in crayon.”
“What’s wrong with crayons?” Pinkie asked as the hoof dropped from her lips back to the table, and Rarity slouched into the chair across from her. “I’ve always used them in my invitations. I think they give them a more sincere tone. You know, warm and friendly.”
Sighing and shaking her head, Rarity closed her eyes and raised her hoof once more—this time, to her own head, as she rubbed her temple in slow, heavy circles. It was some time before she spoke.
“I know how important it is to be warm and friendly, dear,” she said, slowly, as if she weren’t quite sure of the words. Pinkie watched as her lips traced their outlines carefully, carrying the gentle, fragile syllables into the air. “But you forget that, sometimes, ponies may seek comfort in tradition? In formality? That sometimes ponies prefer things done the old-fashioned way? This is going to be the greatest party Ponyville has ever had the delight of playing host to—don't give me that look, dear, you said it yourself—and if we're going to pull this off we need to find just the right delicate balance between those "silly, fancy not-parties" I enjoy and your more carefree endeavours.
“I guess what I’m trying to say, darling, is that crayon might not be the best tool for making our invitations look proper.”
Proper. It was a silly word, Pinkie thought, because it meant “the way things were meant to be.” But how could something be anything other than what it was meant to be? No, proper wasn’t a useful word. She would much rather be “fun” or “entertaining”. Those words meant something: specifically, that whatever it was they were describing made somepony smile. And surely that was better than being proper?
And if that invitation hadn’t been meant to have details written on in crayon, then surely it wouldn’t have had so much silly, empty space at the bottom that left just the right amount of room to write in?
Rarity was studying the invitation now, carefully, floating it before her eyes in a pale blue glow. Her lips moved gently as she thought, muttering words without a voice to carry them beyond her thoughts. And all of a sudden, Pinkie Pie felt a very real ache in her chest, just where she could feel her heart thumping, and she had to look away. It felt just a little bit like doubt, and she wasn't sure if it was she or Rarity who was doubting. What was there to doubt?
“My invitations aren’t proper?” she asked, her eyes cast down at the floor. She hadn’t meant to say that aloud; she hadn’t even realised she was thinking it. And why did her chest still hurt?
The gentle rustle of falling paper, the quiet creak of a chair, the echoing crack of hooves on polished floor. Soon enough, white arms were draped around her neck, holding her gently.
“I didn’t mean it like that, darling.” It was the softest of whispers, barely more than a breath, but Pinkie felt herself trying to flinch away from it. “I love you. You know that, right?”
Pinkie nodded. Everything felt funny, as if the world were somehow no longer connected to her, as if she had secluded herself away inside her body like a rabbit hiding in a warren. It made her frightened, truly frightened, the way she had been when she thought her friends no longer wanted her, and there was nothing to laugh at to make the fear go away.
Maybe dating Rarity hadn’t been the best idea.
No! That couldn’t have been it. Where had that thought even come from? She’d been dating Rarity for months now, and had known her for years, and they were in love. Dating Rarity was the best idea Pinkie had ever had (even if it was really Rarity who’d had it) and that wasn’t going to change because of a silly invitation to a masquerade.
“Pinkie, dear?” Rarity was nuzzling at her neck, softly, her arms caressing her shoulders and her back. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
“I know you are, Rarity,” she replied. Her voice was cracking a little. She thought she could feel the dull pressure of tears threatening to form, and the ache still wasn't gone from her chest. “I just… Can I have a little time to think? Alone?”
She looked up again, then, to see Rarity’s shining eyes looking down at her, caring and compassionate. There was some pain there, too, an uncertainty in her eyes that Pinkie thought must have been reflected in her own. Rarity nodded and, after a moment’s hesitation, leaned down to press her lips softly against Pinkie’s. Pinkie’s eyes drifted shut and her chin reached upwards, all by themselves, and it wasn’t until Rarity pulled back that